“Come in, Mr. Torridon; there will be lights immediately.”
In half an hour Ralph found himself at supper in the guest-parlour; a bright fire crackled on the hearth, a couple of candles burned on the table, and a pair of old darned green curtains hung across the low window.
The Abbess came in when he had finished, dismissed the lay-sister who had waited on him, and sat down herself.
“You shall see your sister to-morrow, Mr. Torridon,” she said, “it is a little late now. I have sent the boy up to the village for your servant; he can sleep in this room if you wish. I fear we have no room for more.”
Ralph watched her as she talked. She was very old, with hanging cheeks, and solemn little short-sighted eyes, for she peered at him now and again across the candles. Her upper lip was covered with a slight growth of dark hair. She seemed strangely harmless; and Ralph had another prick of compunction as he thought of the news he had to give her on the morrow. He wondered how much she knew.
“We are so glad it is you, Mr. Torridon, that have come to visit us. We feared it might be Dr. Layton; we have heard sad stories of him.”
Ralph hardened his heart.
“He has only done his duty, Reverend Mother,” he said.
“Oh! but you cannot have heard,” exclaimed the old lady. “He has robbed several of our houses we hear—even the altar itself. And he has turned away some of our nuns.”