My lady did not cry, Mrs. Medlicott said.  She was quite composed; very still, very silent.  She put aside everything that savoured of mere business:  sent people to Mr. Horner for that.  But she was proudly alive to every possible form which might do honour to the last of her race.

In those days, expresses were slow things, and forms still slower.  Before my lady’s directions could reach Vienna, my lord was buried.  There was some talk (so Mrs. Medlicott said) about taking the body up, and bringing him to Hanbury.  But his executors,—­connections on the Ludlow side,—­demurred to this.  If he were removed to England, he must be carried on to Scotland, and interred with his Monkshaven forefathers.  My lady, deeply hurt, withdrew from the discussion, before it degenerated to an unseemly contest.  But all the more, for this understood mortification of my lady’s, did the whole village and estate of Hanbury assume every outward sign of mourning.  The church bells tolled morning and evening.  The church itself was draped in black inside.  Hatchments were placed everywhere, where hatchments could be put.  All the tenantry spoke in hushed voices for more than a week, scarcely daring to observe that all flesh, even that of an Earl Ludlow, and the last of the Hanburys, was but grass after all.  The very Fighting Lion closed its front door, front shutters it had none, and those who needed drink stole in at the back, and were silent and maudlin over their cups, instead of riotous and noisy.  Miss Galindo’s eyes were swollen up with crying, and she told me, with a fresh burst of tears, that even hump-backed Sally had been found sobbing over her Bible, and using a pocket-handkerchief for the first time in her life; her aprons having hitherto stood her in the necessary stead, but not being sufficiently in accordance with etiquette to be used when mourning over an earl’s premature decease.

If it was this way out of the Hall, “you might work it by the rule of three,” as Miss Galindo used to say, and judge what it was in the Hall.  We none of us spoke but in a whisper:  we tried not to eat; and indeed the shock had been so really great, and we did really care so much for my lady, that for some days we had but little appetite.  But after that, I fear our sympathy grew weaker, while our flesh grew stronger.  But we still spoke low, and our hearts ached whenever we thought of my lady sitting there alone in the darkened room, with the light ever falling on that one solemn page.

We wished, O how I wished that she would see Mr. Gray!  But Adams said, she thought my lady ought to have a bishop come to see her.  Still no one had authority enough to send for one.