“Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there is anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?”
They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they were watching together by Israel Kafka’s side. She recognised them and a strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What matter where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he loved her, and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, indeed? Was she not herself? She smiled unconsciously.
“I see it pleases you,” he said tenderly. “Let it be as you wish. What name will you choose for your dear self?”
She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was past. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in the long time that had passed since his awakening.
“Did you ever—in your long travels—hear the name Unorna?” she asked with a smile and a little hesitation.
“Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word—it means ‘she of February.’ It has a pretty sound—half familiar to me. I wonder where I have heard it.”
“Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in February.”
CHAPTER XXV
After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister Paul turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, polished shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a continuous series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the vestments of the church. At the back of these high presses rose half way to the spring of the vault.