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 beloved. 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.
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