He still kindly looked away from Sister Claire, and began to speak of resignation under sorrows, and those other commonplaces which wait upon human misery. His voice sounded far away to Sister Claire. It seemed to come from a great distance,—beyond the convent wall, with its wealth of roses; beyond the fields and the vineyards, where the shadows lay long in the declining sun. After a long, long while, some faint words escaped her. She tried to speak calmly, but her words were half-sobbed out:—
“I am glad—more glad than I can say—that Monsieur de Bourmont is not, as I thought, guilty of my brother’s blood. But I think it is right he should know the mistake—the cruel mistake I was under. Tell him so, I beg of you; and tell him also that I ask his pardon for ever suspecting him of such a thing.”
“I will see him and repeat to him every word you ask me,” replied the abbé.
Then they both rose, and involuntarily walked down the flagged path toward the door. Sister Claire was struggling with her agitation, but she was conquering it. Presently she spoke again.
“When I left Holyrood—suddenly, Monsieur l’Abbé, you may remember—I wrote a few lines of farewell to Monsieur de Bourmont. I did not tell him why I left,—he does not know to this day.”
The old abbé knew well enough what her incoherent words meant; he supplied the meaning without the least trouble. When, at last, he felt it was safe to look at Sister Claire, he began to believe that, after all, nothing could be better than what was. De Bourmont had done heroic things, and Sister Claire would do things equally heroic.
“Remember, my child,” he said, “the believer who puts his hand to the plough—”
“Let him not look back,” continued Sister Claire, in a thrilling voice. “Much better—much better to go on. Say to Monsieur de Bourmont that I hope he will be happy; and I shall not be—unhappy.”
“‘Tell him so, I beg of you.’”