“Sister,” said he. “Perhaps the man was poor. We grudge nothing to those who are blessed with poverty. But an offering should always be made, even though it be but the half of an apple. God loves not niggardliness, my sister, and I would not have our good Lord, St. Martin, offended.” Denise could not see Silvius because of the closed door, but there was something in his voice that made her see him as a sharp-faced, shrewd, insinuating figure hiding covetousness under the cloak of humility. “I asked for nothing, Father,” she said. Silvius’s face was very cunning. “True, my Sister, we do not barter with our own souls. But there are the poor to be remembered, the fabric of the church, the glory of St. Martin. There is no shame in holding out the hand for these.” Denise’s hands were fastening her tunic. And in the darkness of the cell she seemed to understand suddenly, as one comes by the understanding of the deeper things of life in the midst of some great sorrow, the reason of their eagerness to win her to the Abbey. The realisation of it was like the discovery of simony and self-seeking in the character of one beloved. She stood motionless, staring at the door beyond which Silvius listened. And the day seemed bitter and sordid to her after the night of Aymery’s vigil. “Such things as I receive,” she said, “shall be laid before the altar,” and from that moment she felt that she hated Silvius because she had seen the motives that moved his soul. “That is well, Sister,” he answered her. “St. Martin is generous to all who give.” The almoner went away grumbling to himself, disgusted as any Jew that a man who had benefited should have left nothing in return. “The woman needs more shrewdness,” he thought. “Nor have we had any marvel from her yet to open the people’s hearts, and purses. God grant that we have not made an indifferent bargain. We are losing rental, and giving food and gear,” and he returned in a temper, and thought mercenary thoughts all through Matins in the Abbey Church. For to Silvius his “house” was a great treasure-chest to be guarded, and enriched. Denise was glad when Silvius had gone, and though she strove to put the sneering suspicions from her, they remained like dead trees, white and ugly in the green of a living wood. To count the money in the alms-box, to clutch at the offering, with the prayer hardly gone from the mouth! It was not in her soul to suffer such a traffic. The day seemed very grey to her, though the sun was shining, because of that other thing that haunted her more than the thought of Dom Silvius’s keenness. She felt more and more that the virtue had gone out of her, and that the Lord of the Abbey would have no miracles to bring him treasure. If this thing were to mature, what then would follow? She shut the eyes of her soul to it, and tried to think of that night in May as but the memory of an evil dream. CHAPTER XIX