In answer to his master’s question, Dorset said that the late housekeeper was laid out in her own room; that orders had already been given for a plain, respectable funeral, which was fixed for the next day. And Dorset hoped that Mr. Lyon approved of what he had done.
“Quite so. You have saved me so much trouble, that I almost think my presence here might have been dispensed with,” said Alexander.
“If you please, sir, I only wrote to you to ask what should be done with Miss Drusilla, seeing that this would no longer be a proper home for her,” said the old man.
“True; I must think about that after the funeral. Of course she can’t leave the house while her mother’s corpse remains in it,” said Alexander, musingly.
And he mused so long that he forgot the presence of Dorset, until he happened to look up and see the old man still standing respectfully waiting orders.
“Oh!—you may go now,” he then said.
And the old servant bowed and retired.
The next day at noon the funeral took place. The clergyman’s widow was carried to her grave in the cemetery attached to the church to which she belonged.
Drusilla, the sole mourner, rode in a coach with Alexander. Her head, heavy with sorrow, rested on his shoulder, and his arm encircled her waist. She never thought whether this was right or wrong. She was borne down with grief, and she leaned upon him who was her only earthly support and comfort.
She had never even thought of putting herself into “decent mourning” for her lost mother. She was still wearing black for old Mrs. Lyon, and so she really needed no new outfit, except the black crape bonnet and heavy crape veil; and these the forethought of the women servants had provided her with.