"I think she has that which will not let her die"-- a saying that puzzled the Prioress at this time.
Emlyn was right.

Cicely did not die.

On the contrary, she grew strong and well in her body, though it was long before her mind recovered.
Indeed, she glided about the place like a ghost in her black mourning robe, for now she no longer doubted that Christopher was dead, and she, the wife of a week, widowed as well as orphaned.
Then in her utter desolation came comfort; a light broke on the darkness of her soul like the moon above a tortured midnight sea.

She was no longer quite alone; the murdered Christopher had left his image with her.

If she lived a child would be born to him, and therefore she would surely live.