She knew what he meant--found it as William Blake-Gordon's wife--and something like a faintness stole over her spirit.
"Circumstances worked against it," she meekly breathed. "I am content to believe that the life I have embraced is the best for me; the one appointed by God."
How little did she think that almost close upon that minute, she should encounter him--her whilom lover! Not feeling inclined to return at once to the Nunnery, and knowing that there was yet a small space of time before dinner, she continued her way alone up the secluded road towards the church. When just abreast of the sacred edifice a lady and gentleman approached on horseback, having apparently ridden from Stilborough. She recognized them too late to turn or retreat: it was William Blake-Gordon and Miss Mountsorrel.
Miss Mountsorrel checked her horse impulsively; he could but do the same. The young lady spoke.
"Mary! is it you? How strange that we should meet you! I thought you never came beyond the convent walls."
"Did you? I go out where and when I please. Are you well, Agatha?"
"Are you well?--that is the chief question," returned Miss Mountsorrel, with a great deal of concern and sympathy in her tone. "You do not look so."
Just then Mary undoubtedly did not. Emotion had turned her as pale as death. Happening to catch sight of the countenance of Mr. Blake-Gordon, she saw that his face was, if possible, whiter than her own. A strangely yearning, imploring look went out to her from his eyes--but what it meant, she knew not.
"I shall come and see you some day, Mary, if I may," said Miss Mountsorrel.
"Certainly you may."