LOYALTY holding Brigid silent concerning certain matters between her and the Lady Isabel, we, owing none, may well probe somewhat further, though doubtless the manner of the happening is already patent to you.
Isabel had found discovery exceeding unpleasant to her mind. A hidden good disclosed may irk men somewhat, a hidden evil disclosed will irk them very surely. Isabel brooked it not at all. Anger possessed her soul. Hereafter she would ever see reproach in the girl’s eyes, read condemnation in her very silence. So unpleasant a state of things was assuredly not to be suffered. Nor was it discovery alone that displeased her. Conscience pricking tardily showed her that night’s work as very ill. Compunction in a manner was present with her, yet no true sorrow. Desirous of forgetting it she was willing to profit by what knowledge it had brought her. Yet forgetfulness were impossible with Brigid’s eyes to remind her of it.
Her spirit rebelled at the thought. She would have all men see in her the perfection she desired them to perceive. An’ she could not lull Brigid’s mind to a like forgetfulness, wake once more in her the full homage she believed ever to have received of her, she desired her presence no longer. There was the matter very plainly. It lay wholly between her and the girl. The warfare—for such after a manner it became—had place in private. It was of brief duration. To outward seeming Isabel was the victor, yet to my thinking it was Brigid who had triumphed, since never for an instant had Isabel’s will gained the mastery over hers.
A faint whisper of evil, very subtly set afloat, caused the court to look askance at her. Some few cried, “I cannot believe it,” yet rather in false piety than as true statement of disbelief. Certainly the evil remained unproven, since none sought to prove it, caring little in the matter. As for Brigid, the whisper was too faint to gain her ears. Later it grew somewhat louder, when she was beyond its reach. Then it was left to Mary Chester to defend her, which she did right royally.
In the small hours of the morning Brigid rode away, the sun not far above the horizon, the dew yet heavy on the grass. Pippo, his arms full of flowers he had culled for her from the garden, was at the postern gate to watch her depart.
“God keep you,” he said as she took his flower burden from him. Peregrine using the salutation at times he now used it himself, though shyly.
“God keep you too, Pippo,” she said, smiling her thanks for his gift.
Anon, turning in her saddle, she waved her hand to him. Mary Chester’s friendship, and Pippo’s bright face were her pleasantest memories of the life she was leaving. Here, too, were the child’s flowers in her arms. Thus she rode away to Sangdieu, as we have seen.
Isabel rejoiced at her departure, felt herself free for the matter she had in hand. Throwing aside all thought of a certain night that June, she yet retained in part the memory of the words then given her.