The words of the service sounded with
mournful reverberations through the chill echoes of an unwarmed and almost
empty church; and then the little sister, sleeping peacefully enough after
her one short year of storm, was carried to the last abode of silence. Then
followed an old man's voice, sounding strangely thin in the open air, the
straining of cords, the sweating and hard breathing and shuffling of men,
the grating of oak on a grave-bottom, the updrawing of the ropes that had
lowered the coffin. Genuine grief accompanied the obsequies of Joan
Tregenza, and her uncle's sorrow touched even men to visible grief and
sympathy; but there was no heart to break for the heart which had itself
come so near to breaking, there was no mighty wellspring of love to be
choked with tears for one who had herself loved so much. A feeling, hidden
in some minds, expressed by others, latent in all, pervaded that throng;
and there was not one among those present, save Thomas Chirgwin, but felt
that Providence, harsh till now, had dealt kindly by Joan in dealing death
to her.
Upon the flowerless, shiny coffin-lid a staring plate of white metal
gleamed up at the world above like an eye and met the gaze of the mourners,
as each in turn, with Mrs. Tregenza first, peered down into Joan's grave
before departing. After which all went away; the children were shut out of
the churchyard; the old clergyman disappeared to the vestry; a young florid
man, with pale hair, tightened his leather belt, turned up his sleeves,
watched a grand pair of biceps roll up as he crooked his elbows, then,
taking a spade, set to work upon the wet mound he had dug from the earth
the day before to clear those few square feet of space below.
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