There was a pause. The buglers stepped forward. The Last Post blared out, setting echoes off among the trees. They blew like violent, ill-regulated toys—as if jerked by a strong spring. Mary thought of the cuckoo clock they used to have in the nursery when they were children, which always burst out of the door late—a few seconds after the hour. In the silence there was one explosive cough. A train whistled. Rooks cawed. A dog barked. A car went past along the road with a raucous screech. Nothing was silent except the black crowd. They waited for the Bishop to give the silence its end. To Mary’s impatience, it seemed that he dawdled, as Richard had sometimes priggishly dawdled over nursery grace, knowing that she wanted to get down from the table. At last he turned. It was over.

They sang “God save our gracious King.”

And now Lily took Father’s arm and approached the Cross. Ramsbotham followed, awkwardly carrying the wreath. The Bishop, surrounded by the choir, had barely made his retreat from the scene.

It was a coup d’état, as Mary saw it. She heard somebody murmur: “Old Mr. Vernon,” and another, “t’old Squire.” Lily had done the trick. She had produced Father at the service and vindicated his honour and the honour of the Hall before the village. She had asserted his claim to be chief mourner. Here he was. Nobody made any protest, although a voice audibly asked: “Who’s t’old maan?” Father shuffled up to the step of the Cross. Lily turned to Ram’s B, who handed her the wreath. She gave it to Father, and Mary thought he would promptly drop it. But no, he rose to the occasion. He managed to hook his fingers round the wreath for an instant, crushing the lilies, and advance one pace, before he half laid, half dropped it on the Cross before the tablet bearing his son’s name. Then he stood still for a moment, facing the Cross, perhaps uncertain what to do next. It was understood that he was praying. Father’s ponderousness had had its usual effect upon his audience. They were impressed. Mary, with a vaguely protective instinct, had followed the three of them out from the crowd. She was conscious of Eric and Anne just behind her. She didn’t know whether she wanted to sink through the earth or merely to laugh. Then Father turned. She stood aside, anxious not to lead the procession. She took her place on his left, Lily on his right. Eric and Anne had executed a sort of flanking movement. They confronted the crowd, and Father looked up and slowly round from face to face as he lurched and shuffled forward. Mary felt rather than heard the admiring comments:

“Isn’t he wonderful?”

“He must be a great age.”

“Ee, look!”

“He can walk without a stick, and all!”