She was gone.

The rain poured in the grave.

The procession of black, with its umbrellas glistening, turned away.

The cemetery was deserted under the drenching cold rain.
Paul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with drinks.
His father sat in the kitchen with Mrs.Morel's relatives, "superior" people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'd tried to do everything he could for her--everything.

He had striven all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach himself with.