But, even then, his own true heart made answer. He had loosed her because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to wish to stand free. And he had gone alone, because never would he force a woman to come with him against her will. His very strength was safeguard to her weakness.
Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress's letter. He lifted his head and held out his hand.
The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash.
He paused. Those eyes implored. That outstretched hand demanded.
"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop. "I may not give it you, because it mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow, changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as you may not have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs.
Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly flake away. Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey ashes.
Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words with a stroke.
"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water,
I would risk the curse!"
"I know you would, my son," said the Bishop, "and, by our Lady's crown, I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in blessing. But—listen, Hugh. In asking what you asked, you scarce know what you did. You need not say 'yea,' nor 'nay,' but I incline to think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey, another by the embroidering of a pomegranate. There are women of finer mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed. But of this we may be sure: whosoever she be, the Prioress knows her, and knew of whom she wrote when she sent you that message. She has the entire confidence of all in the Nunnery. I verily believe she knows them better than does their confessor—a saintly old man, but dim.
"Now, listen to me. I said you knew not what you asked. Hugh, my lad, if you had won your betrothed away, you would have had much to learn and much to unlearn. Believe me, I know women, as only a priest of many years' standing can know them. Women are either bad or good. The bad are bad below man's understanding, because their badness is not leavened by one grain of honour; a fact the worst of men will ever fail to grasp. The good are good above man's comprehension, because their perfect purity of heart causeth the spirit ever to triumph over the flesh; and their love-instinct is the instinct of self-sacrifice. Every true woman is a Madonna in the home, or fain would be, if her man would let her. To such a woman, each promise of a child is an Annunciation; our Lady's awe and wonder, whisper again in the temple of her inner being; for her love has deified the man she loves; and, it seems to her, a child of his and hers must be a holy babe, born into the world to help redeem it. And so it would be, could she but have her way. But too often the man fails to understand, and so spoils the perfect plan. And she to whom love means self-sacrifice, sacrifices all—even her noblest ideals—sooner than fail a call upon her love. Yet I say again, could the Madonna instinct have had full sway, the world would have been redeemed ere now to holiness, to happiness, to health.