“You understand that?” he asked.
“I suppose I do,” said Beatrice slowly.
Ralph made a slight impatient movement.
“No—wait,” said the girl, “I do understand. If I cannot trust you, I had better never have known you. I do understand that I can trust you; though I cannot understand how you can do such work.”
She raised her eyes slowly to his; and Ralph as he looked into them saw that she was perfectly sincere, and speaking without bitterness.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “I could not have taken that from any but you; but I know that you are true, and mean no more nor less than your words. You do trust me?”
“Why, yes,” said the girl; and smiled at him as he took her in his arms.
When she had gone again Ralph had a difficult quarter of an hour.
He knew that she trusted him, but was it not simply because she did not know? He sat and pondered the talk he had had with Cromwell and the Archbishop. Neither had expressly said that what was wanted was adverse testimony against the Religious Houses; but that, Ralph knew very well, was what was asked of him. They had talked a great deal about the corruptions that the Visitors would no doubt find, and Cranmer had told a story or two, with an appearance of great distress, of scandalous cases that had come under his own notice. Cromwell too had pointed out that such corruptions did incalculable evil; and that an immoral monk did far more harm in a countryside than his holy brethren could do of good. Both had said a word too about the luxury and riches to be found in the houses of those who professed poverty, and of the injury done to Christ’s holy religion by such insincere pretences.