As the prayer drew to a close, the sounds of trampling and scuffling feet bore witness that Watty Witherspail and his assistants were carrying the coffin down the stair. Soon the company rose to follow it, and trooping out, arranged themselves behind the hearse, which, horrid with nodding plumes and gold and black panelling, drew away from the door to make room for them.
Just as they were about to move off, to the amazement of the company and the few onlookers who, notwithstanding the weather, stood around to represent the commonalty, Miss Horn herself, solitary, in a long black cloak and somewhat awful bonnet, issued, and made her way through the mourners until she stood immediately behind the hearse, by the side of Mr Cairns, the parish minister. The next moment, Watty Witherspail, who had his station at the further side of the hearse, arriving somehow at a knowledge of the apparition, came round by the horses’ heads, and with a look of positive alarm at the glaring infringement of time-honoured customs, addressed her in half whispered tones expostulatory:
“Ye’ll never be thinkin’ o’ gauin’ yersel’, mem!” he said.
“What for no, Watty, I wad like to ken,” growled Miss Horn from the vaulted depths of her bonnet.
“The like was never hard tell o’!” returned Watty, with the dismay of an orthodox undertaker, righteously jealous of all innovation.
“It’ll be to tell o’ hencefurth,” rejoined Miss Horn, who in her risen anger spoke aloud, caring nothing who heard her. “Daur ye preshume, Watty Witherspail,” she went on, “for no rizzon but that I gae you the job, an’ unnertook to pay ye for ’t—an’ that far abune its market value,—daur ye preshume, I say, to dictate to me what I’m to du an’ what I’m no to du anent the maitter in han’? Think ye I hae been a mither to the puir yoong thing for sae mony a year to lat her gang awa’ her lane at the last wi’ the likes o’ you for company!”
“Hoot, mem! there’s the minister at yer elbuck.”
“I tell ye, ye’re but a wheen rouch men-fowk! There’s no a wuman amon’ ye to haud things dacent, ’cep I gang mysel’. I’m no beggin’ the minister’s pardon aither. I’ll gang. I maun see my puir Grizel till her last bed.”
“I dread it may be too much for your feelings, Miss Horn,” said the minister, who being an ambitious young man of lowly origin, and very shy of the ridiculous, did not in the least wish her company.
“Feelin’s!” exclaimed Miss Horn, in a tone of indignant repudiation; “I’m gauin’ to du what’s richt. I s’ gang, and gien ye dinna like my company, Mr Cairns, ye can gang hame, an’ I s’ gang withoot ye. Gien she sud happen to be luikin doon, she sanna see me wantin’ at the last o’ her. But I s’ mak’ no wark aboot it. I s’ no putt mysel’ ower forret.”