“How long have I been here?” she asked.
The Mother began to reckon, counting her beads, one for every day—for in such places time slips by—but long before she had finished Emlyn replied quickly—
“Cranwell Towers was burned three weeks yesternight.”
Then Cicely remembered, and with a bitter groan turned her face to the wall, while the Mother reproached Emlyn, saying she had killed her.
“I think not,” answered the nurse in a low voice. “I think she has that which will not let her die”—a saying that puzzled the Prioress at this time.
Emlyn was right. Cicely did not die. On the contrary, she grew strong and well in her body, though it was long before her mind recovered. Indeed, she glided about the place like a ghost in her black mourning robe, for now she no longer doubted that Christopher was dead, and she, the wife of a week, widowed as well as orphaned.
Then in her utter desolation came comfort; a light broke on the darkness of her soul like the moon above a tortured midnight sea. She was no longer quite alone; the murdered Christopher had left his image with her. If she lived a child would be born to him, and therefore she would surely live. One evening, on her knees, she whispered her secret to the Prioress Matilda, whereat the old nun blushed like a girl, yet, after a moment’s silent prayer, laid a thin hand upon her head in blessing.
“The Lord Abbot declares that your marriage was no true marriage, my daughter, though why I do not understand, since the man was he whom your heart chose, and you were wed to him by an ordained priest before God’s altar and in presence of the congregation.”
“I care not what he says,” answered Cicely in a stubborn voice. “If I am not a true wife, then no woman ever was.”
“Dear daughter,” answered Mother Matilda, “it is not for us unlearned women to question the wisdom of a holy Abbot who doubtless is inspired from on high.”