Sometimes she walked
thirteenth, with twelve before, and twelve behind her.
She had at first inclined on this day, after her strenuous time with the
Bishop, followed by the hour's ride upon Icon, not to go to Vespers.
Then her heart failed her, and she went. On these two afternoons--this
and the morrow--Hugh would still be in the crypt. She should not so much
as glance toward the pillar at the foot of the winding stairway leading
to the clerestory; yet it would be sweet to feel him to be standing there
as she passed; sweet to know that he heard the same sounds as fell upon
her ear.
To-day, and again on the morrow, she might yield to this yearning for the
comfort of his nearness; but never again, for Hugh would not return.
She had wondered whether she dared ask him, by the Bishop, on a given
date once a year to attend High Mass in the Cathedral, so that she might
know him to be under the same roof, worshipping, at the same moment, the
same blessed manifestation of the Divine Presence.
But almost at once she had dismissed the desire, realising that comfort
such as this, could be comfort but to the heart of a woman, more likely
torment to a man. Also that should his fancy incline him to seek
companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage
to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness.
Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress
walked alone with her sadness.
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