It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral. He had them
drawn up by Gradman in his office--only blood relations, and no flowers.
Six carriages were ordered. The Will would be read afterward at the
house.
He arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. At a quarter
past old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his hat. He and
Soames stood in the drawing-room waiting. At half-past eleven the
carriages drew up in a long row. But no one else appeared. Gradman said:
"It surprises me, Mr. Soames. I posted them myself."
"I don't know," said Soames; "he'd lost touch with the family." Soames
had often noticed in old days how much more neighbourly his family were
to the dead than to the living. But, now, the way they had flocked to
Fleur's wedding and abstained from Timothy's funeral, seemed to show
some vital change. There might, of course, be another reason; for Soames
felt that if he had not known the contents of Timothy's Will, he might
have stayed away himself through delicacy. Timothy had left a lot of
money, with nobody in particular to leave it to. They mightn't like to
seem to expect something.
At twelve o'clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in the
first carriage under glass. Then Soames alone; then Gradman alone;
then Cook and Smither together. They started at a walk, but were soon
trotting under a bright sky. At the entrance to Highgate Cemetery they
were delayed by service in the Chapel. Soames would have liked to stay
outside in the sunshine. He didn't believe a word of it; on the other
hand, it was a form of insurance which could not safely be neglected, in
case there might be something in it after all.
They walked up two and two--he and Gradman, Cook and Smither--to the
family vault. It was not very distinguished for the funeral of the last
old Forsyte.
He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the Bayswater Road
with a certain glow in his heart. He had a surprise in pickle for the
old chap who had served the Forsytes four-and-fifty years-a treat that
was entirely his doing. How well he remembered saying to Timothy the
day--after Aunt Hester's funeral: "Well; Uncle Timothy, there's Gradman.
He's taken a lot of trouble for the family. What do you say to leaving
him five thousand?" and his surprise, seeing the difficulty there had
been in getting Timothy to leave anything, when Timothy had nodded.
And now the old chap would be as pleased as Punch, for Mrs. Gradman, he
knew, had a weak heart, and their son had lost a leg in the War. It
was extraordinarily gratifying to Soames to have left him five thousand
pounds of Timothy's money. They sat down together in the little
drawing-room, whose walls--like a vision of heaven--were sky-blue and
gold with every picture-frame unnaturally bright, and every speck
of dust removed from every piece of furniture, to read that little
masterpiece--the Will of Timothy. With his back to the light in Aunt
Hester's chair, Soames faced Gradman with his face to the light, on Aunt
Ann's sofa; and, crossing his legs, began: