James was silent. Hugh’s resolve was exactly what he had always counselled him to make, yet he could not help thinking of Violante’s look of joy at seeing him, and wondering whether that light was quenched in her soft eyes for ever.
In the meantime, Arthur had not taken his solitary walk without a purpose. However far Hugh might be right in supposing that he allowed his feelings to drift as they would, he was becoming conscious that there was some cowardice in shrinking from anything that could excite them. He must stand by Mysie’s grave—and he must stand there alone; for on Sunday he had not dared to lift his eyes as he walked down the path. She was buried in a corner of the churchyard where it was especially green and still close by the wall of the Rectory garden, over which a bright pink almond-tree was visible. Snowdrops and violets were thrusting their heads through the short turf between the graves, and were blooming in sweet abundance round the white cross that marked where she lay, while several half-faded wreaths were placed above them. There was nothing here to make Arthur nervous,—he wondered why he had stayed away so long. He was full of grief, yet something of the peaceful spirit of the past came shining back into his heart as he knelt there in the spring sunshine, and kissed the letters of Mysie’s name. It was better, he thought, than being far away. He had risen to his feet, and was still dreamily gazing, when he heard a startled step at his side, and, turning, saw Florence Venning, bright, tall, and blooming, with a basket of flowers in her hand.
“Flossy!”
“Oh, I did not see you—I—I’ll go!” said Flossy, crimson with the sense of intrusion.
“No, don’t go. I am very glad to see you,” he said, as he took her hand and held it, while they looked down at the grave together.
“Did you put these?” he said, touching the wreaths.
“Only this cross. The school-girls bring them on Sunday,” faltered Flossy, as she bent down and showed how the frame of the cross was made to hold water, which she now replenished from a little jug she had brought with her. Arthur, with a look of entreaty, and with trembling inapt fingers took the flowers and began to place them in the cross. Poor fellow, he did it very badly; but she refrained from helping him, and let him put the last snowdrop in himself.
“Flossy,” he said, suddenly, “if I were lying there, and she were left, do you think she could have—have endured to live?”
“Yes, Arthur,” Flossy said, in her full tones, which vibrated with intense feeling, “I think she could. I think she would have found a good life somehow; like—like a robin in the snow,” as one fluttered down beside them. “She was so clear and real—I think she would.”
Arthur had sat down on a broad, flat stone near, still gazing at the flowers.