“My dear Hugh! Surely not!”
“I should not have thought you would have wished to gratify idle curiosity. Under the circumstances we cannot keep it too much to ourselves,” said Hugh, unable to bear the thought of meeting the eyes of all the village.
“I should like everyone to come who wishes it,” said Arthur.
“It was for your sake I spoke,” said Hugh.
“I? I shall not mind! There are so many who—who—I am sure Mr Crofton will excuse me now,” he added abruptly, as he got up and went away.
“You forget,” said Hugh, “how public all this has become. We shall have newspaper reporters and all the tag-rag of Oxley.”
“It cannot be helped,” said his mother, “and you should not put it into Arthur’s head to mind it.”
“He will not care,” said Hugh; “why should he? He will have plenty of sympathy from them all.”
“He will not care, indeed,” said James, indignantly.
James was wrong. When Arthur saw lane and churchyard and church itself filled with those who had loved Mysie the sense of sympathy struck no discordant note, just as the blue unclouded sky and the happy sunlight did not mock his sorrow, but seemed only a fitting tribute to her happy life. Arthur felt a sense of friendly fellow-feeling, as if the love and the flowers and the sunlight were part of the brightness he could hardly feel to be gone for ever; but he could not have described afterwards one tearful face, one flowery wreath—perhaps he hardly distinguished one word in the solemn service, which yet he felt to be right and fitting, and which did soothe him with a sense of union with Mysie, and of the existence of a support of which he might one day take hold.