She would go forward to her joy with a freer heart if she gave herself
time to discharge, by acknowledgment and thanks, the great debt she
owed to her old and faithful friend, Symon, Bishop of Worcester.
She sent for her steward.
"Zachary," she said, "Sir Hugh has ridden on before. I follow by the
short way through the forest, and shall not return to-night. Bid them
saddle my white palfrey, Icon. I shall be ready to start within an
hour. But first I must despatch to Worcester, a packet of importance.
Bid two of the men, who rode with us from Worcester, prepare to mount
and return thither. If they start in an hour's time, they can be well
on their way, and make a safe lodging, before nightfall."
She passed into the library, laid the cross before her on the table,
and began her letter to the Bishop.
Straight from her hand to his, that letter went; straight from her
heart to his, that letter spoke; and Symon's comfort in it, lies
largely in the knowledge that she was alone when she wrote it, alone
when she sealed it, and that none in this world, saving they two, will
ever know exactly what the woman, whom he had loved so purely and
served so faithfully, said to him in this letter.
Bare facts, however, may be given.
She told him, as briefly as might be, of that morning's great
experience; of Hugh's return, and noble self-effacement; of the clear
light she had received, and the decision to which she had come; and of
how she was now going forward, with a free heart, to her great
happiness.
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