Great Britain -- History -- Henry VIII, 1509-1547 -- Fiction
She turned and went out without a word.
* * * * *
Ralph found the interview with the Abbess even more difficult than he
had expected.
Once her face twitched with tears; but she drove them back bravely and
faced him again.
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Torridon, that you intend to take your
sister away?”
Ralph bowed.
“And that Dame Martha has asked to be released?”
Again he bowed.
“Are you not afraid, sir, to do such work?”
Ralph smiled bitterly.
“I am not, Reverend Mother,” he said. “I know too much.”
“From whom?”
“Oh! not from your nuns,” he said sharply, “they of course know nothing,
or at least will tell me nothing. It was from Dr. Layton.”
“And what did Dr. Layton tell you?”
“I can hardly tell you that, Reverend Mother; it is not fit for your
ears.”
She looked at him steadily.
“And you believe it?”
Ralph smiled.
“That makes no difference,” he said. “I am acting by his Grace’s
orders.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Then may our Lord have mercy on you!” she said.
She turned to where the gold cope gleamed over the chair, with the mitre
and censer lying on its folds.
“And those too?” she asked.
“Those too,” said Ralph.
She turned towards the door without a word.
“There are the fees as well,” remarked Ralph. “We can arrange those this
evening, Reverend Mother.”
The little stiff figure turned and waited at the door. “And at what time
will you dine, sir?”
“Immediately,” said Ralph.
* * * * *
He was served at dinner with the same courtesy as before; but the lay
sister’s eyes were red, and her hands shook as she shifted the plates.
Neither spoke a word till towards the end of the meal.
“Where is my man?” asked Ralph, who had not seen him since he had gone
out with the Abbess a couple of hours before.
The sister shook her head.
“Where is the Reverend Mother?”
Again she shook her head.
Ralph enquired the hour of Vespers, and when he had learnt it, took his
cap and went out to look for Mr. Morris. He went first to the little
dark outhouse, and peered in over the bottom half of the door, but there
was no sign of him there. He could see a horse standing in a stall
opposite, and tried to make out the second horse that he knew was there;
but it was too dark, and he turned away.
It was a warm October afternoon as he went out through the gatehouse,
still and bright, with the mellow smell of dying leaves in the air; the
fields stretched away beyond the road into the blue distance as he went
along, and were backed by the thinning woods, still ruddy with the last
flames of autumn. Overhead the blue sky, washed with recent rains,
arched itself in a great transparent vault, and a stream of birds
crossed it from east to west.
He went round the corner of the convent buildings and turned up into a
meadow beside a thick privet hedge that divided it from the garden, and
as he moved along he heard a low humming noise sounding from the other
side.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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