The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XL

THE HEART OF A NUN

Hugh and Mo­ra passed to­geth­er through the great hall, along the ar­moury, down the wind­ing stair and so out in­to the gar­dens.

The Knight led the way across the lawn and through the rose gar­den, to­ward the yew hedge and the bowl­ing-​green.

Old Deb­bie, look­ing from her case­ment, thought them beau­ti­ful be­yond words as she watched them cross the lawn--she in white and gold, he in white and sil­ver; his dark head tow­er­ing above her fair one, though she was un­com­mon tall. And, falling up­on her knees, old Deb­bie prayed to the An­gel Gabriel that she might live to hold in her arms, and rock to sleep up­on her bo­som, sweet babes, both fair and dark: “Fair lit­tle maids,” she said, “and fine, dark boys,” ex­plain­ing to Gabriel that which she thought would be most fit.

Mean­while Hugh and Mo­ra, walk­ing a yard apart--all un­con­scious of these fam­ily plans, be­ing so anx­ious­ly made for them at an up­per case­ment--bent their tall heads and passed un­der the arch in the yew hedge, crossed the bowl­ing-​green, and en­tered the ar­bour of the gold­en ros­es.

Hugh led the way; yet Mo­ra glad­ly fol­lowed. The Bish­op's pres­ence seemed to abide here, in com­fort and pro­tec­tion.

All signs of the ear­ly repast were gone from the rus­tic ta­ble.

Mo­ra took her seat there where in the ear­ly morn­ing she had sat; while Hugh, not know­ing he did so, passed in­to the Bish­op's place.

The sun shone through the gold­en ros­es, hang­ing in clus­ters over the en­trance.

The sense of the Bish­op's pres­ence so strong­ly per­vad­ed the place, that al­most at once Mo­ra felt con­strained to speak of him.

“Hugh,” she said, “very ear­ly this morn­ing, long be­fore you were awake, the Bish­op and I broke our fast, in this ar­bour, to­geth­er.”

The Knight smiled.

“I knew that,” he said. “In his own char­ac­ter­is­tic way the Bish­op told it me. 'My son,' he said, 'you have re­versed the sa­cred para­ble. In your case it was the bride-​groom who, this morn­ing, slum­bered and slept.' 'True, my lord,' said I. 'But there were no fool­ish vir­gins about.' 'Nay, ver­ily!' replied the Bish­op. 'The two vir­gins awake at that hour were pre-​em­inent­ly wise: the one, mak­ing as the sun rose most gold­en pats of but­ter and crusty rolls; the oth­er, ris­ing ear­ly to par­take of them with ap­petite. Tru­ly there were no fool­ish vir­gins about. There was but one fool­ish prelate.'”

She, who so late­ly had been Pri­oress of the White Ladies, flushed with in­dig­na­tion at the words.

“Where­fore said he so?” she in­quired, severe­ly. “He, who is al­ways wis­er than the wis­est.”

Hugh not­ed the height­ened colour and the ready protest.

“Per­haps,” he sug­gest­ed, speak­ing slow­ly, as if choos­ing his words with care, “the Bish­op's head, be­ing so wise, re­vealed to him, in him­self, a cer­tain fool­ish­ness of heart.”

Mo­ra struck the ta­ble with her hand.

“Nay then, ver­ily!” she cried. “Head and heart alike are wise; and--un­like oth­er men--the Bish­op's head rules his heart.”

“And a most no­ble heart,”, the Knight said, with calm­ness; nei­ther winc­ing at the blow up­on the ta­ble, nor at the “un­like oth­er men,” flung out in chal­lenge.

Then, fold­ing his arms up­on the ta­ble, and look­ing search­ing­ly in­to the face of his bride: “Tell me,” he said, “dur­ing all these years, has this friend­ship with Symon of Worces­ter meant much to thee?”

Some­thing in his tone ar­rest­ed Mo­ra. She an­swered, with an equal earnest­ness: “Yes, Hugh. It has done more for me than can well be told. It has kept liv­ing and grow­ing in me much that would oth­er­wise have been stunt­ed or dead; an ev­er fresh flow of thought, where, but for him, would have been a stag­nant pool. My sad heart might have grown bit­ter, my na­ture too aus­tere, par­tic­ular­ly when ad­vance­ment to high of­fice brought with it an in­evitable lone­li­ness, had it not been for the in­ter­est and charm of his vis­its and mis­sives; his con­stant gifts and kind­ness. There is about him a light-​heart­ed gai­ety, a whim­si­cal hu­mour, a joy in life, which can­not fail to wake re­spon­sive glad­ness in any heart with which he comes in con­tact. And min­gled with his shrewd wis­dom, his wide knowl­edge of men and mat­ters, there is ev­er a ten­der char­ity, which thinks no evil, al­ways be­liev­ing in good and hop­ing for the best; a love which nev­er fails; a kind­ness which makes one ashamed of har­bour­ing hard or re­venge­ful thoughts.”

Hugh made no re­ply. He sat with his eyes fixed up­on the beau­ti­ful face be­fore him, now glow­ing with en­thu­si­asm. He wait­ed for some­thing more. And present­ly it came.

“Al­so,” said Mo­ra, slow­ly: “a very pre­cious mem­ory of my ear­ly days at Court, when as a young maid­en I at­tend­ed on the Queen, was kept alive by a re­mark­able like­ness in the Bish­op to one who was, as I learned this morn­ing for the first time, ac­tu­al­ly near of kin to him. Do you re­mem­ber, Hugh, long years ago, that I spoke to you of Fa­ther Ger­vaise?”

“I do re­mem­ber,” said the Knight.

She leaned her el­bows on the ta­ble, framed her face in her hands, and looked straight in­to his eyes.

“Fa­ther Ger­vaise was more to me than I then told you, Hugh.”

“What was he to thee, Mo­ra?”

“He was the Ide­al of my girl­hood. For a time, I thought of him by day, I dreamed of him by night. No word of his have I ev­er for­got­ten. Many of his say­ings and pre­cepts have in­flu­enced, and still deeply in­flu­ence, my whole life. In fact, Hugh, I loved Fa­ther Ger­vaise; not as a wom­an loves a man--ah, no! But, rather, as a nun loves her Lord.”

“I see,” said the Knight. “But you were not then a nun, Mo­ra.”

“No, I was not then a nun. But I have been a nun since then; and that is how I can best de­scribe my love for the Queen's Con­fes­sor.”

“Long af­ter,” said the Knight, “you were be­trothed to me?”

“Yes, Hugh.”

“How did you love me, Mo­ra?”

Across the rus­tic ta­ble they looked full in­to each oth­er's eyes. Tragedy, stalk­ing around that rose-​cov­ered ar­bour, drew very near, and they knew it. Al­most, his grim shad­ow came be­tween them and the sun­shine.

Then the Knight smiled; and with that smile rushed back the flood-​tide of re­mem­brance; re­mem­brance of all which their young love had meant, of the sweet promise it had held.

His eyes still hold­ing hers, she smiled al­so.

The gold­en ros­es clus­ter­ing in the en­trance swayed and nod­ded in the sun­light, as a gen­tly ris­ing breeze fanned them to and fro.

“Dear Knight,” she said, soft­ly, a wist­ful ten­der­ness in her voice, “I sup­pose I loved you, as a girl loves the man who has won her.”

“Mo­ra,” said Hugh, “I have some­thing to tell thee.”

“I lis­ten,” she said.

“My wife--so whol­ly, so com­plete­ly, do I love thee, that I would not con­scious­ly keep any­thing from thee. So deeply do I love thee, that I would soon­er any wrong or sin of mine were known to thee and by thee for­giv­en, than that thou shouldest think me one whit bet­ter than I am.”

He paused.

Her eyes were ten­der and com­pas­sion­ate. Of­ten she had lis­tened, with a pa­tient heart of char­ity, to the te­dious, mor­bid, self-​cen­tred con­fes­sions of kneel­ing nuns, who watched with anx­ious eyes for the sign which would mean that they might clutch at the hem of her robe and press it to their lips in to­ken that they were for­giv­en.

But she had had no ex­pe­ri­ence of the sins of men. What had the “splen­did Knight” up­on his con­science, which must now be told her, in this sun­ny ar­bour, on the morn­ing of their bridal day?

Her heart throbbed painful­ly. Alas, it was still the heart of a nun. It would not be con­trolled. Must she hear wild tales of wicked­ness and shame, of which she would but part­ly un­der­stand the mean­ing?

Oh, for the calm of the Clois­ter! Oh, for the shel­tered pu­ri­ty of her qui­et cell!

Yet his eyes, still meet­ing hers, were clear and fear­less.

“I lis­ten,” she said.

“Mo­ra, not long ago a won­drous tale was told me of a man's great love for thee--a man, no­bler than I, in that he mas­tered all self­ish de­sires; a love high­er than mine, in that it put thy wel­fare, in all things, first. Hear­ing this tale, I failed both my­self and thee, for I said: 'I pray heav­en that, if she come to me, she may nev­er know that she once won the love of so great­ly bet­ter a man than I.' But, since I clasped thy hand in mine, and the Bish­op, lay­ing his on ei­ther side, gave thee to be my wife, I have known there would be no peace for me if I feared to trust thee with this knowl­edge, be­cause that the man who loved thee was a bet­ter man than the man who, by God's mer­cy and our La­dy's grace, has won thee.”

As the Knight spoke thus, the grey eyes fixed on his face grew wide with won­der; soft, with a great com­punc­tion; yet, at the cor­ners, shewed a lit­tle crin­kle in which the Bish­op would in­stant­ly have recog­nised the sign of ap­proach­ing mer­ri­ment.

Was this then a sam­ple of the un­known sins of men? Noth­ing here, sure­ly, to cause the least throb of ap­pre­hen­sion, even to the heart of a nun! But what strange tale had reached the ears of this most dear and loy­al Knight? She leaned a lit­tle near­er to him, speak­ing in a tone which was mu­sic to his heart.

“Dear Knight of mine,” she said, “no tale of a man's love for me can have been a true one. Yet am I glad that, deem­ing it true, and feel­ing as it was your first im­pulse to feel, you now tell me quite frankly what you felt, thus putting from your­self all sense of wrong, while giv­ing me the chance to say to you, that none more no­ble than this faith­ful Knight can have loved me; for, sav­ing a few Court pages, most­ly popin­jays, and Humphry of Cam­forth, of whom the less said the bet­ter, no oth­er man hath loved me.”

More kind­ly she looked on him than she yet had looked. She leaned across the ta­ble.

By reach­ing out his arms he could have caught her love­ly face be­tween his hands.

Her eyes were mer­ry. Her lips smiled.

Great­ly tempt­ed was the Knight to agree that, sav­ing him­self, and Humphry of Cam­forth, of whom the less said the bet­ter, none save Court popin­jays had loved her. Yet in his heart he knew that ev­er be­tween them would be this fact of his knowl­edge of the love of Fa­ther Ger­vaise for her, and of the no­ble re­nun­ci­ation in­spired by that love. He had no in­ten­tion of be­tray­ing the Bish­op; but Mo­ra's own ex­pla­na­tion, mak­ing it quite clear that she would not be like­ly to sus­pect the iden­ti­ty of the Bish­op with his sup­posed cousin, Fa­ther Ger­vaise, seemed to the Knight to re­move the one pos­si­ble rea­son for con­ceal­ment. He was will­ing to risk present loss, rather than im­per­il fu­ture peace.

With an ef­fort which made his voice al­most stern: “The tale was a true one,” he said.

She drew back, re­gard­ing him with grave eyes, her hands fold­ed be­fore her.

“Tell me the tale,” she said, “and I will pro­nounce up­on its truth.”

“Years ago, Mo­ra, when you were a young maid­en at the Court, at­tend­ing on the Queen, you were most deeply loved by one who knew he could nev­er ask you in mar­riage. That be­ing so, so no­ble was his na­ture and so un­selfish his love, that he would not give him­self the de­light of see­ing you, nor the en­joy­ment of your friend­ship, lest, be­ing so strong a thing, his love--even though un­ex­pressed--should reach and stir your heart to a re­sponse which, might hin­der you from feel­ing free to give your­self, when a man who could of­fer all sought to win you. There­fore, Mo­ra, he left the Court, he left the coun­try. He went to for­eign lands. He thought not of him­self. He de­sired for you the full com­ple­tion which comes by means of wed­ded love. He feared to hin­der this. So he went.”

Her face still ex­pressed in­cred­ulous as­ton­ish­ment.

“His name?” she de­mand­ed, await­ing the an­swer with part­ed lips, and wide­ly-​open eyes.

“Fa­ther Ger­vaise,” said the Knight.

He saw her slow­ly whiten, till scarce a ves­tige of colour re­mained.

For some min­utes she spoke no word; both sat silent, Hugh rue­ful­ly fac­ing his risks, and in­clined to re­pent of his hon­esty.

At length: “And who told you this tale,” she said; “this tale of the love of Fa­ther Ger­vaise for a young maid, half his age?”

“Symon of Worces­ter told it me, three nights ago.”

“How came the Bish­op to know so strange and so se­cret a thing? And know­ing it, how came he to tell it to you?”

“He had it from Fa­ther Ger­vaise him­self. He told it to me, be­cause his re­mem­brance of the sac­ri­fice made so long ago in or­der that the full com­ple­tion of wife­hood and moth­er­hood might be thine, had al­ways in­clined him to a wist­ful re­gret over thy choice of the monas­tic life, with its re­sul­tant celiba­cy; lead­ing him, from the first, to es­pouse and fur­ther my cause. In wed­ding us to-​day, me­thinks the Bish­op felt he was at last se­cur­ing the con­sum­ma­tion of the no­ble re­nun­ci­ation made so long ago by Fa­ther Ger­vaise.”

With a grow­ing dread at his heart, Hugh watched the in­creas­ing pal­lor of her face, the hard line of the lips which, but a few mo­ments be­fore, had part­ed in such gen­tle sweet­ness.

“Alas!” he ex­claimed, “I should not have told thee! With my clum­sy de­sire to keep noth­ing from thee, I have spoilt an hour which else might have been so per­fect.”

“You did well to tell me, dear Knight of mine,” she said, a rip­ple of ten­der­ness pass­ing across her stern face, as swift­ly and gen­tly as the breeze stirs a corn­field. “Nor is there any­thing in this world so per­fect as the truth. If the truth opened an abyss which plunged me in­to hell, I would soon­er know it, than at­tempt to en­ter Par­adise across the flim­sy fab­ric of a lie!”

Her voice, as she ut­tered these words, had in it the ring which was wont to pet­ri­fy wrong-​do­ers of the fee­bler kind among her nuns.

“Dear Knight, had the Bish­op not fore­stalled me when he named his pal­frey, tru­ly I might have found a fine new name for you! But now, I pray you of your kind­ness, leave me alone with my fall­en im­age for a lit­tle space, that I may gath­er up the frag­ments and give them de­cent buri­al.”

With which her courage broke. She stretched her clasped hands across the ta­ble and laid her head up­on her arms.

De­spair seized the Knight as he stood help­less, look­ing down up­on that proud head laid low.

He longed to lay his hand up­on the gold­en soft­ness of her hair.

But her shoul­ders shook with a hard, tear­less sob, and the Knight fled from the ar­bour.

As he paced the lawn, on which the Bish­op had prom­enad­ed the evening be­fore, Hugh cursed his rash­ness in speak­ing; yet knew, in the heart of his heart, that he could not have done oth­er­wise. Mo­ra's words con­cern­ing truth, gave him a back­ground of com­fort. Even so had he ev­er him­self felt. But would it prove that his hon­esty had in­deed shat­tered his chances of hap­pi­ness, and hers?

A new name? . . . What might it be? . . . What the mis­chief, had the Bish­op named his pal­frey? . . . She­ba? Nay, that was the ass! Solomon? Nay, that was the mare! Yet--how came a mare to be named Solomon?

In his dis­turbed men­tal state it ir­ri­tat­ed him un­rea­son­ably that a mare should be called af­ter a king with sev­en hun­dred wives! Then he re­mem­bered “black, but come­ly,” and ar­rived at the right name, Shu­lamite. Of course! Not Solomon but Shu­lamite. He had read that love-​po­em of the un­named East­ern shep­herd, with the Rab­bi in the moun­tain fast­ness. The Rab­bi had point­ed out that the word used in that de­scrip­tion sig­ni­fied “sun­burned.” The love­ly Shu­lamite maid­en, ex­posed to the East­ern sun while tend­ing her kids and keep­ing the vine­yards, had tanned a rud­dy brown, be­side which the daugh­ters of Jerusalem, en­closed in King Solomon's scent­ed harem, looked pale as wilt­ing lilies. Re­mem­ber­ing the glossy coat of the black mare, Hugh won­dered, with a mo­men­tary sense of mer­ri­ment, whether the Bish­op sup­posed the maid­en of the “Song of Songs” to have been an Ethiopi­an.

Then he re­mem­bered “Iconok­lastes.” Yes, sure­ly! The pal­frey was Iconok­lastes. Now where­fore gave the Bish­op such a name to his white pal­frey?

Strid­ing blind­ly about the lawn, of a sud­den the Knight stepped full on to a flow­er-​bed. At once he seemed to hear the Bish­op's gen­tle voice: “I named him Iconok­lastes be­cause he tram­pled to ru­in some flow­er-​beds on which I spent much time and care, and of which I was in­or­di­nate­ly fond.”

Ah! . . . That was it! The de­stroy­er of fair bloom and blos­som, of buds of promise; of the love­li­ness of a tend­ed gar­den. . . . Was this then what he seemed to Mo­ra? He, who had forced her to yield to the in­sis­tence of his love? . . . In her chaste Con­vent cell, she could have re­mained true to this Ide­al love of her girl­hood: and, now that she knew it to have been called forth by love, could have re­ceived, men­tal­ly, its full fruition. Al­so, in time she might have dis­cov­ered the iden­ti­ty of the Bish­op with Fa­ther Ger­vaise, and long years of per­fect friend­ship might have proved a so­lace to their sun­dered hearts, had not he--the tram­pler up­on flow­er-​beds--rude­ly in­ter­vened.

And yet--Mo­ra had been be­trothed to him, her love had been his, long af­ter Fa­ther Ger­vaise had left the land.

How could he win her back to be once more as she was when they part­ed on the cas­tle bat­tle­ments eight years be­fore?

How could he free him­self, and her, from these in­tan­gi­ble, ec­cle­si­as­ti­cal en­tan­gle­ments?

He was re­mind­ed of his dif­fi­cul­ties when he tried to walk dis­guised in the dress of the White Ladies, and found his stride im­ped­ed by those trail­ing gar­ments. He re­mem­bered the re­lief of wrench­ing them off, and step­ping clear.

Why not now take the short, quick road to mas­tery?

But in­stant­ly that love which seeketh not its own, the strange new sense so re­cent­ly awak­ened in him, laid its calm touch up­on his throb­bing heart. Un­til that mo­ment in the crypt the day be­fore, he had loved Mo­ra for his own de­light, sought her for his own joy. Now, he knew that he could take no hap­pi­ness at the cost of one pang to her.

“She must be taught not to shud­der,” cried the mas­ter­ful­ness which was his by na­ture.

“She must be giv­en no cause to shud­der,” amend­ed this new, loy­al ten­der­ness, which now ruled his ev­ery thought of her.

Present­ly, re­turn­ing to the ar­bour, he found her seat­ed, her el­bows on the ta­ble, her chin cupped in her hands.

She had been weep­ing; yet her smile of wel­come, as he en­tered, held a qual­ity he had scarce ex­pect­ed.

He spoke straight to the point. It seemed the on­ly way to step clear of im­mesh­ing tram­mels.

“Mo­ra, it cuts me to the heart that, in striv­ing to be hon­est with you, I have all un­wit­ting­ly tram­pled up­on those flow­er-​beds in which you long had tend­ed fair blos­soms of mem­ory. Al­so I fear this knowl­edge of a no­bler love, makes it hard for you to con­tem­plate life linked to a love which seems to you less able for self-​sac­ri­fice.”

She gazed at him, wide-​eyed, in sheer amaze­ment.

“Dear Knight,” she said, “true, I am dis­il­lu­sioned, but not in aught that con­cerns you. You tram­pled on no flow­er-​beds of mine. My shat­tered idol is the im­age of one whom I, with deep­est rev­er­ence, loved, as a nun might love her Guardian An­gel. To learn that he loved me as a man loves a wom­an, and that he had to flee be­fore that love, lest it should harm me and him­self, changes the hal­lowed mem­ory of years. This morn­ing, three names stood to me for all that is high­est, no­blest, best: Fa­ther Ger­vaise, Symon of Worces­ter, and Hugh d'Ar­gent. Now, the Bish­op and your­self alone are left. Fail me not, Hugh, or I shall be bereft in­deed.”

The Knight laughed, joy­ous­ly. The re­lief at his heart de­mand­ed that much vent. “Then, if I failed thee, Mo­ra, there would be but the Bish­op?”

“There would be but the Bish­op.”

“I will not fail thee, my belovèd. And I fear I must have put the mat­ter clum­si­ly, con­cern­ing Fa­ther Ger­vaise. As the Bish­op told it to me, there was naught that was not no­ble. It seemed to me it should be sweet to the heart of a wom­an to be so loved.”

“Hush,” she said, stern­ly. “You know not the heart of a nun.”

He did not rea­son fur­ther. It was enough for him to know that the shat­tered im­age she had buried was not the ide­al of his love and hers, or the hope of fu­ture hap­pi­ness to­geth­er.

“Time flies, dear Heart,” he said. “May I speak to thee of im­me­di­ate plans?”

“I lis­ten,” she an­swered.

Hugh stood in the en­trance, among the yel­low ros­es, lean­ing against the door­post, his arms fold­ed on his breast, his feet crossed.

At once she was re­mind­ed of the scene in her cell, when he had tak­en up that at­ti­tude while still garbed as a nun, and she had said: “I know you for a man,” and, in her heart had added: “And a stronger man, sure­ly, than Mary Seraphine's Cousin Wil­fred!”

“We ride on to-​day,” said the Knight, “if you feel able for a few hours in the sad­dle, to the next stage in our jour­ney. It is a hos­tel in the for­est; a poor kind of place, I fear; but there is one good room where you can be made com­fort­able, with Mis­tress Deb­orah. I shall sleep on the hay, with­out, amongst my men. Some must keep guard all night. We ride through wild parts to reach our des­ti­na­tion.”

He paused. He could not hold on to the mat­ter of fact tones in which he had start­ed. When he spoke again, his voice was low and very ten­der.

“Mo­ra, I am tak­ing thee first to thine own home; to the place where, long years ago, we loved and part­ed. There, all is as it was. Thy peo­ple who loved thee and had fled, have been found and brought back. Sev­en days of jour­ney­ing should bring us there. I have sent men on be­fore, to ar­range for each night's lodg­ing, and make sure that all is right. Ar­rived at thine own cas­tle, Mo­ra, we shall be with­in three hours' ride of mine--that home to which I hope to bring thee. Un­til we en­ter there, my wife, al­though this morn­ing most tru­ly wed, we will count our­selves but be­trothed. Once in thy home, it shall be left to thine own choice to come to mine when and how thou wilt. The step now tak­en--that of leav­ing the Clois­ter and com­ing to me--had per­force to be done quick­ly, if done at all. But, now it is safe­ly ac­com­plished, there is no fur­ther need for haste. The wings of my swift de­sire shall be dipt to suit thine in­cli­na­tion.”

Hugh paused, look­ing up­on her with a half-​wist­ful smile. She made no an­swer; so present­ly he con­tin­ued.

“I have planned that, each day, Mis­tress Deb­orah, with the bag­gage and a good es­cort, shall go by the most di­rect route, and the best road. Thus thou and I will be free to ride as we will, vis­it­ing places we have known of old and which it may please thee to see again. To-​day we can ride out by Ke­nil­worth, and so on our first stage north­ward. Mar­tin will take Mis­tress Deb­orah on a pil­lion be­hind him. Should she weary of trav­el­ling so, she can have a seat in the cart with the bag­gage. But they tell me she trav­els brave­ly on horse­back. We will send them on ahead of us, and on ar­rival all will be in readi­ness for thee. If this weath­er holds, we shall ride each day through a world of sun­shine and beau­ty; and each day's close, my wife, will find us one day near­er home. Does this please thee? Have I thought of all?”

Ris­ing, she came and stood be­side him in the en­trance to the ar­bour.

A gold­en rose, dip­ping from above, rest­ed against her hair.

Her eyes were soft with tears.

“So per­fect­ly have you thought and planned, dear faith­ful Knight, that I think our blessèd La­dy must have guid­ed you. As we ride out in­to the sun­shine, I shall grow used to the great world once more; and you will have pa­tience and will teach me things I have per­haps for­got.”

She hes­itat­ed; half put out her hands; but his not meet­ing them, fold­ed them on her breast.

“Hugh, it seems hard that I should clip your splen­did wings; but--oh, Hugh! Think you the heart of a nun can ev­er be­come again as the heart of oth­er wom­en?”

“Heav­en for­bid!” said the Knight, fer­vent­ly, think­ing of Eleanor and Al­fri­da.

And, as leav­ing the ar­bour they walked to­geth­er over the lawn, she smiled, re­mem­ber­ing, how that morn­ing the Bish­op had an­swered the same ques­tion in pre­cise­ly the same words. What­ev­er Fa­ther Ger­vaise might have said, the Bish­op and the Knight were agreed!

Yet she wished, some­what wist­ful­ly, that this most dear and loy­al Knight had tak­en her hands when she held them out.

She would have liked to feel the strong clasp of his up­on them.

Pos­si­bly our La­dy, who knoweth the heart of a wom­an, had guid­ed the Knight in this mat­ter al­so.