The funeral took place on the following morning, on a very disagreeable day, with sleet and rain and wind; and the family vault and monuments were in a churchyard which lay fully exposed to the blasts from the east, with great yews overshadowing it and sepulchral figures by Chantrey and Nollekens and Roubiliac, looking grim and grey in the foggy air. The late duke had many sincere mourners, for he had inspired many warm friendships in his own world, and respect and regard in all classes. Moreover, the large number of persons who in various ways were connected with, or dependent on, the Duke of Otterbourne could not but view with terror the advent to that title of the small, frail, hectic little man, who had so cynical a smile in his pale eyes and so shocking a reputation in the country. Gossip, too, had not spared that lovely lady in her graceful crape garments, and the beautiful little boys, whose rosy cheeks were a little less bright than usual, as she led them under the darkling yews and the sombre, weird sculptures of the tombs. The people assembled there, especially the tenantry, peasantry, and servants, all felt that the reign of kindness, straightforwardness, and dignity was over, and that the future before them was one clouded and threatening. “His new Grace do look a mighty poor chap,” said one old laborer to another. “And they do say as his blood’s all brandy, and none o’ the young ’uns is his own.” “Hold yer gab, Garge, or they’ll hev ye in the lockup,” said his more prudent spouse. But what the old man said audibly many there present thought. The ceremony was dreary and tedious; Jack and Gerry were cold and frightened, and everyone else was bored; the clergy alone were, as usual, in all their swelling glory and fussy supremacy, headed by the late duke’s brother, Augustus Orme, who was Bishop of Dunwich and Waton-on-the-Naze.