"You will think that in all this I have also forgotten you, child. Far
from it. Listen now. You cannot of course go to High March. You would
not be happy there, nor am I in a position to make you happy. No, no;
you shall stay here with the good nuns, and be useful to them, and
happy with them. You shall learn to serve God, so that in time you may
become a nun yourself. You know my thoughts about monks, that I do not
like them. But nuns are quite otherwise. Our Lord Jesus was served by
two women, of whom Mary was assuredly a nun, and Martha a religious
woman equally, probably of the begging order--a sister of Saint Clare,
or of the order of Mount Carmel. The point is, I believe, still in
doubt. So you see that you have excellent examples before you to
persevere. When I have put my affairs in train at High March I will
come and see you; and as you are my wife, if any trouble should come
about you, any sickness, or threatening from without, or any private
grief, send me word, and I will never fail you. Moreover, have no
doubts of my fidelity: I am a gentleman, Isoult, as you know. And
indeed such pranks are not to my taste."
He stopped talking, but not patting the girl's shoulder. It was almost
more than she could endure. At first her blank and sheer dismay had
been almost comical; she had looked at him as if he was mad, or
talking gibberish. The even flow of his reasoning went on, and with it
a high satisfaction in all his plans patent even to her cloudy
intellect; gradually thus the truth dawned upon her, and as he
continued she lost the sense of his spoken thoughts in the mad cross-
tides of her own unuttered. Now her crying instinct was for rescue at
all costs, at any hazard. Prayers, entreaties, cravings for reprieve
thronged unvoiced and not to be voiced through every fibre of her
body. Could he not spare her? Could he not? If she could turn suddenly
upon him, clasp his knees, worm herself between his arms, put her
face--wet, shaking, tremulous, but ah, Lord! how full of love--near to
his! If she could! She could not; shame froze her, choked not speech
only but act; she was dumb through and through--a dumb animal.
"Well, Isoult, what do you say?" he asked in his cheerful voice. He
could hardly hear her answer, it came so low.
"I will do thy pleasure, lord," she murmured.
He stooped and kissed her forehead, not noticing how she shook.
"Good child," he said, "good child! I am more than satisfied with you,
and hope that I may have proved as pleasant a traveller as I have
found you to be. My salute must be for good-night and farewell,
Isoult, for to-morrow morning I shall be gone before you have turned
your side in bed. That is where you should be now, my dear. Your head
is very hot--a sign that you are tired. Forget not what I have said to
you in anything; forget not to trust me. They will show you your bed.
Good-bye, Isoult."