The young ladies retired obediently. No sooner had the door closed on them than Lady Margery said, with a mixture of perplexity and eagerness,—
"Pray you, sweet Madam, give us to wit your meaning. It seems me you see further into this matter than either my Lord or I."
"'Tis little enough I see," added her husband. "Verily, I counted it rare good fortune for the lass. Here is a good man, that loveth her, and offers her jointure of sixty pound by the year—"
"For thee, Madge," resumed her mother calmly, "thou always wert a bat, as I have aforetime told thee. As to Jack here, men be rarely aught else where women be concerned. Let the maid be, dear hearts. I tell you, she has well said."
"But what doth it all mean?" asked Lord Marnell, impatiently.
"I go not about to tell Annis' secrets—more in especial when she hath not confided them to me," replied the Lady Idonia drily. "Only this I say to you both—withered hearts make the best nuns, and the worst wives. God, not you, hath made a nun of Annis. Let her obey His voice."
"Dear heart, I would ne'er think to hinder it!" returned her father, in a voice of much regret. "But what means your Ladyship? How gat she her heart withered, poor wretch?"
"The babe that shall cry for the moon is commonly disappointed, Jack. I do but tell thee, Agnes Marston will never wed with any—and it were to his hurt an' she so did. Aye, and to her own belike. Enough said."
Nor was another word on that subject to be extracted from the Dowager. But Master Rotherham received a kindly dismissal, and it was generally understood from that hour that Agnes was to be a nun. Should this strike the reader as a strange thing, it must be remembered that the Lollard views on the subject of monasticism were scarcely at all in advance of the Roman, and that the time had not come when any woman who did not wish to be a wife could be otherwise than a nun. There did exist the rare phenomenon of an old bachelor; but an old maid, out of the cloister, was unknown before the Reformation.
The same evening, when she came up to her chamber, which Agnes shared with her, Lady Idonia sat down by the window, and remained there for a time, looking out upon the summer night. Agnes, who usually helped her to undress, was bidden to "hie her abed, and tarry not." She obeyed; but the old lady sat still, long after Agnes was asleep, or at any rate seemed to be so. Each of the two was under the impression that she knew the other's train of thought, and had kept her own a profound secret. In truth, the thoughts of Agnes were much better understood by the Dowager than the reverse. Quarter after quarter of an hour dripped heavily from the water-clock in the corner, yet the Lady Idonia sat still in the carved oaken chair. And,