Apparently the Abbot did not resent this bold speech; indeed, Emlyn’s apt illustration seemed to please him. Only he corrected her gently, saying—
“Not Satan, but Satan’s Lord.” Then he paused a while, looked round the chamber to see that the doors were shut and make sure that they were alone, and went on, “Emlyn Stower, you have great wits and courage—more than any woman that I know. Also you have knowledge both of the world and of what lies beyond it, being what superstitious fools call a witch, but I, a prophetess or a seer. These things come to you with your blood, I suppose, seeing that your mother was of a gypsy tribe and your father a high-bred Spanish gentleman, very learned and clever, though a pestilent heretic, for which cause he fled for his life from Spain.”
“To find his dark death in England. The Holy Inquisition is patent and has a long arm. If I remember right, also it was this business of the heresy of my father that first brought you to Blossholme, where, after his vanishing and the public burning of that book of his, you so greatly prospered.”
“You are always right, Emlyn, and therefore I need not tell you further that we had been old enemies in Spain, which is why I was chosen to hunt him down and how you come to know certain things.”
She nodded, and he went on—
“So much for the heretic father—now for the gypsy mother. She died, by her own hand it is said, to escape the punishment of the law.”
“No need to beat about the bush, Abbot; let’s have truth between old friends. You mean, to escape being burnt by you as a witch, because she had the letters which were not burned and threatened to use them—as I do.”
“Why rake up such tales, Emlyn?” he interposed blandly. “At least she died, but not until she had taught you all she knew. The rest of the history is short. You fell in love with old yeoman Bolle’s son, or said you did—that same great, silly Thomas who is now a lay-brother at the Abbey——”
“Or said I did,” she repeated. “At least he fell in love with me, and perhaps I wished an honest man to protect me, who in those days was young and fair. Moreover, he was not silly then. That came upon him after he fell into your hands. Oh! have done with it,” she went on, in a voice of suppressed passion. “The witch’s fair daughter was the Church’s ward, and you ruled the Abbot of that time, and he forced me into marriage with old Peter Stower, as his third wife. I cursed him, and he died, as I warned him that he would, and I bore a child, and it died. Then with what was left to me I took refuge with Sir John Foterell, who ever was my friend, and became foster-mother to his daughter, the only creature, save one, that I have loved in this wide, wicked world. That’s all the story; and now what more do you want of me, Clement Maldonado—evil-gifted one?”
“Emlyn, I want what I always wanted and you always refused—your help, your partnership. I mean the partnership of that brain of yours—the help of the knowledge that you have—no more. At Cranwell Towers you called down evil on me. Take off that ban, for I’ll speak truth, it weighs heavy on my mind. Let us bury the past; let us clasp hands and be friends. You have the true vision. Do you remember that when you thought Cicely dead, you said that her seed should rise up against me, and now it seems that it will be so.”