The group that gathered in that sunny corner, fragrant with the sweetness of violets, was a very small one. Sir Arthur and Christina, Rupert Mernside, Lady Cicely, Dr. Fergusson, and Elizabeth—these were the six mourners who followed Margaret to her last resting-place, and as Christina's eyes wandered round the little group, she felt that she knew upon which of the six the beautiful woman's death had fallen as the most heavy blow.
Her heart contracted when her fleeting glance rested for a second on Rupert's stricken face; and she glanced away again quickly, feeling that to look into his face, meant also to look into his stricken soul, and that she had no right to read so much of the inmost being of another human creature. Cicely had insisted upon coming to Graystone for the funeral.
"Although I never knew your sister," she said to Sir Arthur, "I want to do this one small thing, to show how much I reverenced her. Christina has told me of her, and I know how beautiful she was, body and soul."
Thus it came about that Cicely sat next to Denis Fergusson in the tiny village church, where the first part of the funeral service was said, stood next to Fergusson beside the grave by the sunny wall, and, when all was over, moved away down the steep churchyard path, by Fergusson's side.
He looked down at her tiny form with a delicious sense of having a right at least, in this moment, to protect and watch over her, and, as they went out of the lych-gate, she turned to him with a grateful look in her eyes.
"Thank you for taking care of me," she said, with that pretty impulsiveness that constituted one of her greatest charms. "I am glad I came to-day—even though—it has made me remember——" she hesitated, and Fergusson saw that her eyes swam with tears.
They were walking slowly along the upland road, in the wake of the rest of the party, and Fergusson slackened his pace a little, to give her time to recover her composure, whilst he said gently:—
"I understand. I quite understand."
"I think you are a very understanding person," she answered, the falter in her voice making his heart contract with an almost unbearable longing to comfort her. "I—have not heard—that service we have just heard, since it was said—over—John—my husband. It has made me remember—that day—and all it meant to me."
Fergusson looked away from her sweet face, aquiver with emotion, out across the wide moorland, where the larks sang in the sunshine, to the far line of blue hills, then he said slowly—