Charles and let his eyes wander over the little white
gravestones that ran almost into the dark wall of St. Dreot Woods as
though they were trying to hide themselves. "Wish the frost 'ud
break--ground'll be as hard as nails." The soil fell, thump, thump
upon the coffin. Rooks cawed in the trees; the bell tolled its
cracked note. The Rev. Charles was crammed down with the soil by the
eager spades of the sexton and his friend, who were cold and wanted
a drink.
Maggie, meanwhile, watched the final disappearance of her father
with an ever-growing remorse. Ever since her declaration to her
uncle during their walk yesterday this new picture of her father had
grown before her eyes. She had already forgotten many, many things
that might now have made her resentful or at least critical. She saw
him as a figure most disastrously misunderstood. Without any
sentimentality in her vision she saw him lonely, proud, reserved,
longing for her sympathy which she denied him. His greed for money
she saw suddenly as a determination that his daughter should not be
left in want. All those years he had striven and his apparent
harshness, sharpness, unkindness had been that he might pursue his
great object.
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