This hope was strongly with her as she walked.
"Lighten my darkness! Lead me in a plain path!" was the cry of her
bewildered soul.
It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider. First: the
question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence;
thus making himself a party to her deception. Secondly: the position
in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent,
owing to that deception. But, for the moment the first issue was so
infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second
into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a
question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh's
attitude in the matter should be settled.
She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her: that she
hastened toward possible help.
She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey
walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees
beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries
from the mountain which towered behind it. From a deep cleft in this
rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the
chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern,
hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight,
and glorious bunches of purpling heather.
Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit. The door stood ajar.
Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked.
Pages:
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416