Chapter XX

On Monday John attended the Funeral, driving out to Kerr's Arbour in the dog-cart, in company of Mr. Kellar, the Cauldstanes solicitor and notary, who had heard, possibly through Mrs. Govan, that the big black sojer-man from London was "somehow conneckit wi' the family at Kerr's."

Khaki predominated, for the General commanding at the P---- Depot attended with his _aide-de-camp_, and the officers of the Fourth and Fifth Squadrons of the Tweedburgh Light Horse officiated as pall-bearers at the burial of their Chief.... In the company of the handful of troopers detailed to act as escort, John Hazel remained near the door of the chapel throughout the Requiem Mass. Declining with obstinate shakes of the head Whishaw's hoarse-whispered invitations that he should "tak' a move up and sit wi' the family" in the parallel rows of benches close-packed by County friends and tenants, and a relative here and there.... Red Cross uniforms were worn by many among the women,--nor was wanting the khaki of the L.L.W.S.L. If the green eyes of Trixie Lady Wastwood picked out among the troopers on the benches near the west door, her fellow-traveller of two days previously--John remained ignorant of the fact.

Bolt upright against the plastered wall left of the chapel door, his great height lifting him above the heads of the congregation, his hawk-vision showed him through an unfamiliar, glittering haziness--the long coffin covered with the Union Jack, on its black-draped trestles, with its single wreath of violets, gathered and placed there that morning by the daughter's loving hand....

An old-type long brass-scabbarded R.H.A. sword with the heavy-fringed sash of faded crimson, rested on the Red, White and Blue, with the soldier's medals and decorations.... The Burmese War Medal of 1826, the four-barred Crimean medal with its faded blue yellow-edged ribbon, the medal of the Indian Mutiny, ribbon white and scarlet; the Turkish Order of the Medjidie with its star and crimson circle, the Maltese Cross of the C.B., the K.C.V.O., the Belgian Order of Leopold; and the eight-pointed, red-enamelled gold Cross of the Pontifical Order of St. Gregory....

Two figures kneeling on _prie-dieux_ on the right of the coffin nearest the gate in the Communion-rail, drew and held the black hawk-eyes from the beginning of the Rite to its close. A tall brown-haired man in khaki, and a woman in deepest mourning, tall also, and bending like a palm in tempest under her shrouding black crape veil. When the fragrant incense rose at the chant of the Responsory:

"_Libera me Domine, de morte æterna._"

When the Kyrie Eleison wailed out, and the Paternoster filled the silence; when the priest circled the bier, asperging the feet, the middle and the head of the corpse with the consecrated Water; when the prayer of Hope and Faith ended with the intoned "Amen" and Yaill rose to his feet and stepped to the head of the coffin--John Hazel got up too from the back-bench, where he was sitting: glowering, reluctant but driven on by a Force he could not but obey....

That unseen hand that had thrust down his head when he entered the presence of Katharine had him again in its resistless grip.... He went up the little aisle between the packed benches, moving with long, noiseless strides, and took his place opposite Yaill. Had he been asked why he did this, he would have mumbled that it had seemed only the decent thing to lend a hand, and yet the impulse, rendered into words, would have been capable of a nobler interpretation:

"_Thou hast here no son to bear thee to thy tomb. Therefore, let me render thee this service, whom, never having heard thy voice or touched thy living hand,--I, by the oath of my forefather, nevertheless am bound to serve. And after thee those that are thine, as long as life remains to me!_"

The muttered word of command was drowned by the harmonium. The troopers detailed as bearers clanked up the aisle, Yaill's hand steadying the coffin as they lifted it--John Hazel taking upon his shoulders his full share of its weight. Seeing the words, "Because thou hast no son," written in letters of golden fire upon the frescoed stone walls, in violet and orange and fiery crimson across the face of the rose-window in the ogive over the West door, as the escort formed in file at the head of the procession and passed out by a side-exit, heralding the bearer of the Crucifix with its child-borne lights, the chanting choir, the tall young officer with the black-craped regimental Standard, and--carried by five tall Light Horsemen and one taller infantryman--its pall borne by officers of the Fourth and Fifth Squadrons--the coffin of their dead Chief....

So they bore him to the little private burial-place at the foot of the wood-shagged hill that rose behind Kerr's Arbour, touched by the long shadow of its Tower when the sun moved towards the south....

Before the steps leading to the gate of the open vault, the escort of troopers halted and turned inwards, making a lane for the dead man to pass through, as they rested on arms reversed. The coffin was lowered, again asperged by the celebrating priest and incensed with the words:

"_Eco sum resurréctio et vita, qui credit in Me etiam--si mórtuus fuerit vivet...._"

During the singing of the Canticle Edward Yaill led forward Katharine Forbis. John Hazel, standing in rank with the bearers, caught full view of her death-white, tear-drenched face. Something wrenched at his heart as the priest assisting offered her a silver shell of sacred earth, and she scattered some upon the lid of the coffin--from which the Union Jack with the sword and decorations were now removed. Yaill followed suit: some old friends and Mrs. Bell and the lawyer, Mr. Kellar, pressed forward to take part in this significant act. But Katharine's eyes beckoned and Hazel's answered. He held his palm; she poured from the silver shell--and the soil from the Mount of Olives streamed between his fingers in a thin brown stream, dulling the purple petals of the violets....

And then, moving slowly under the weight of the burden, came the slow descent of the steps leading into the vault, where--to the solemn company of the departed--ranged upon rock-hewn shelves in their modern oak or old-world lead, or antique granite coffins,--Philip, last Forbis of the male line save Julian,--supposing Julian yet to be numbered amongst the living,--was joined with the solemn blessing of his Church.

John Hazel's stern black eyes met Yaill's grey ones, as in unison with others they lent their strength to place the heavy coffin on the stone shelf appointed for its repose. When it slid to its place, their glances again encountered. Yaill was livid and spent and panting, for the effort had taxed him. But he gave back the other's look with cold composure, brushing a little dust from his ringed sleeve. Then, only delaying to replace upon the coffin its wreath of violets--he mounted the moss-grown steps--following the celebrant--and drew Katharine's cold hand once more within his arm.

"Attention! Present! ... Slope arms!"

As the ponderous door of the vault was shut and locked, the sharp voice of the commander of the escort broke the awed silence. The trumpeter sounded the Last Post--and three times the ringing crash of the volley startled to flight the rooks of the home-wood and the jackdaws of the Tower. As the small procession of friends, mourners and clergy returned from the burial-ground to the slow recital of the _De Profundis_, Yaill thought bitterly:

"Out of the depths I have cried, and no One has heard me. Yet, what had I done amiss?"

The County, with genuine regret tinging its discreetly-conventional condolences, rolled away in its landau-limousines or open cars. The officiating priests,--Father Haddon of the parish church at Birkleas,--the Father Superior of the Benedictine Monastery,--his guest the Jesuit from Farm Place, and Father Inghame,--pleaded an engagement to early dinner at Scraeside. The cars that had brought the General and his aide, and one or two elderly County magnates, remained outside the courtyard railings; their owners having stayed to lunch, as did the officers of the Tweedburgh Light Horse. At the board, Yaill did the honours, aided by Mr. Kellar, the Mistress of Kerr's not being present. A strange, ungenial banquet, crowning a strange, sorrowful day, that,--like how many others that had preceded it,--seemed to the host to be woven of the stuff of dreams. Only the rosy Kellar and one or two of the juniors grew merry over the Forbis port, while John Hazel,--who had shortly declined all hospitable offers of refreshment, rode back to Cauldstanes on Alec Govan's rickety "Sunray,"--thinking of the eyes that had silently bidden him participate in the final rite that only the nearest share.

The reading of the Will in the dead man's library followed the departure of the guests. There were a few personal legacies to friends and pensioners. Kerr's Arbour, with its eleven-hundred acres of moss-hag and moorland, its few productive farms and its neglected coverts, would, did Julian live, be Julian's, with reversion to Katharine and her heirs.

Over that windfall of £8000, rosy Mr. Kellar chuckled, or would have, had the solemnity of the occasion allowed. It would apply at this juncture to pay outstanding debts of Captain Mark's,--who had been something of a spendthrift--patch up yawning holes in the rent-roll, where the master of Kerr's Arbour had foregone the rents of such tenants as had volunteered for military service--pay the expenses of the funeral,--and swell with the balance remaining the tale of odd thousands, that, with her mother's little fortune,--would, if invested in four per cent War Bonds--provide Miss Forbis with an income approximating to £700 a year.

"This is a sad day, Colonel Yaill--a sad black day for a' of us!" said the lawyer, as Whishaw helped him into his shaggy overcoat. "But Gude be thanked! the warst o't is ower. We're looking to yoursel' now, an' to Miss Forbis, to bring back life and happiness to Kerr's. Ye'll be blessed in your pairtner--" the good man was sorely henpecked--"a sonsy, sweet body that can be relied on neither to stick nor fling! Not but housekeeping in these times is a trial an' a hertbreik. Mrs. Kellar is sore put to it by the scarceness o' sugar an' fat. She made ninety-eight punds of blackberry-an'-apple jam for the Expeditionary Arrmy last September--an' some clever billie put her up to the eking out the sugar wi' saut. I fand mysel' sadly the warse for having tasted it by accident, an' Toch!--if the lads at the Front get muckle o' that stuff intil them, I tell her she'll be fechtin' on the side o' the Huns. Here comes the meir an' cairt. Is there no one wanting a cast to Cauldstanes? ... Put in the black bag, Erchie Whishaw, no' in the well to be overlooked, but juist between my feet. And Gude-bye again to ye, Colonel Yaill, and an auld freend's love to Miss Forbis! This has been a black sair day for a' of us ... but thanks be to Providence! we're at the end o't!" ...

Yaill thought as the gravel of the courtyard shirred under the wheels of the retreating dog-cart, "More black, more sore than the good man dreams! And my part in it is not yet finished. Old Webster never conjured up a grimmer tragedy. For at ten o'clock I lend a hand to bury Katharine's father. Upon the stroke of three I stab the daughter to the heart. And having killed her love for me--at four--possibly earlier--I say Farewell to God's Forget--unlucky Edward Yaill!"