THE Lady Abbess of Sangdieu, having heard vespers, was about to return to her own chamber, when word was brought her that one Mistress Brigid Carlisle was in the parlour seeking audience of her.

“My niece!” said the Abbess surprised, and startled for the moment from her customary equability of bearing.

“Even so, Reverend Mother,” replied the nun. “She has ridden hence it would seem from some distance, attended but by a couple of serving men.”

“Ah!” quoth the Abbess pondering. Then briefly, “Tell my niece I will be with her presently.” Thereupon the nun withdrew.

A handsome old lady was this Abbess of Sangdieu; a rigid disciplinarian, stern, yet with no small strain of tenderness in her heart when you had found your way to it. Exceeding just, methinks she carried her sternness further towards herself than towards those over whom she had the rule. Of high rank, and very well-bred in courtesy that virtue extended itself throughout her domain; flowing naturally from the head it permeated those under her. Also, and this grace is by no means as common as some men would have us believe, she possessed humour. Descending to the parlour she found Brigid therein, white-faced and travel worn.

“Well, child,” she said, giving her cheek to be kissed, “and what brings you here?”

“The desire for sanctuary,” said Brigid very weary.

“Ha!” The old lady glanced sharply at her, read fatigue in every feature. Hospitality stirred quick within her. “First you must eat,” she said. “Your story, for I see you have one, will keep. I will hear it anon.”

Ringing a handbell, which was answered by a lay sister, she ordered food and wine to be brought. While waiting for its coming she put a question.

“How came you hither?”

“On horseback,” replied Brigid. “The two men who rode with me are housing in the village. They will return at daybreak.”

“Ah,” mused the Lady Abbess. And a silence fell on the parlour.

A pleasant place it was, long and narrow, redolent of the cleanly smell of beeswax. The floor, very polished, bespoke good work with that material on the part of the lay sisters. Three windows looked on to the garden. Roses climbing round them nodded crimson and yellow heads towards the room, their scent mingling with the smell of the beeswax. At one end was an open hearth, above which, on the wall, hung a white Figure on an ebony cross. A couple of pictures, some half-dozen chairs, and a deal table much scrubbed, made up the furniture. Bare enough truly, yet breathing an atmosphere of homeliness and peace. Brigid found in it a very haven of rest. Her tensioned nerves began to relax.

The lay sister appearing with a tray the Abbess roused herself to briskness. “Come, child, you must eat. Your face is as white as a kerchief. I would fain see a little colour in your cheeks.”

While Brigid plied her knife and fork, she fell to studying her breviary, judging, and rightly, the girl would fare better deeming herself unwatched. Nevertheless her eyes were not wholly occupied with the book. What she saw in Brigid’s face caused her some perplexity, though her manner gave no inkling of it. It was seldom the Lady Abbess’s way to speak of what she saw; never on the instant. This gave time for seeing further, for weighing and for judging accurately. Thoughts surprised by another before they have come to full purpose have a way of taking sudden flight. Fearful of capture they fly on approach, and thereby good may be lost. The meal ended she laid the book aside.

“Now,” she said, speaking cheerfully, “canst tell me thy story? Thy face is somewhat less like a washed-out dish-cloth.”

“The Lady Isabel desires my services no longer,” replied Brigid briefly.

“Indeed!” The Abbess’s tone was somewhat grim. “And for what reason doth she no longer require them?”

“I have displeased her.”

“Ah!” The old Abbess bent eagle eyes upon the girl. “And is her displeasure just?”

“I trow not,” said Brigid very low.

“Tell me,” said the Abbess briefly.

Brigid looked towards the windows. Through them, in the quiet garden, she saw two nuns walking. Beyond lay a yew hedge; beyond that again a low line of hills, blue against the sky. A thrush was singing in an elm tree.

“Tell me,” repeated the Abbess.

“Madam, the story in its entirety is hers, not mine. I saw that which she desired not that I should see; I heard that which she desired not that I should hear. She was my mistress. For three years I received kindness at her hands. Therefore, for the telling, what I have said must suffice.”

The Abbess nodded. Her mouth took on a line of grim approval. She liked loyalty.

“Good; it shall suffice. And now what do you propose?”

“To remain here.” Brigid’s voice was steady, though her face flushed.

“Ah! And in what capacity?”

“Madam, as nun.”

The old Abbess looked up verily surprised. “Hoity toity, child; a nun is not made in a moment. ’Tis a question of vocation.”

“I seek mine.”

The Abbess pondered. “The desire is sudden.”

“When God has a door to open methinks He can throw it wide on the moment an’ He will. ’Tis every whit as simple to His power as a piecemeal opening.”

The Abbess chuckled inwardly. She found in her niece’s character something very akin to her own. Yet she replied gravely enough. “’Tis true; yet must we be sure ’tis God’s Hand on the door and not our own.”

“That,” quoth Brigid very calmly, “may later be judged by you and the novice mistress.”

Again the Abbess smiled, this time openly. “You go apace, child. We have not yet decided to accept you for your postulancy. True, from the world’s standpoint, you have no permission to ask save mine, since your parents are dead,—God rest their souls. Well, well, we must see. My Lord Cardinal Falconieri proposes honouring the Minster with a visit some ten days hence. We will have his opinion on the matter. Till then certainly thou must bide here. Thou lookest as if the quiet of our house will stand thee in no ill stead.” Then rising, “Come with me,” she said. “I will take thee to thy chamber.”

She led the way along cool passages, up wide oak stairs. Opening a door she entered a room facing west. The sun, not yet fully waning, poured through the window. It lay golden along the floor and on the white-washed walls. Brigid looked around her. Here was the same peace, the same homeliness she had found in the parlour below.

“You are very good to me, Madam,” she said, her voice faintly a-tremble.

“Tut, child. Art thou not my own kin? Yet wert thou the veriest stranger I must needs give thee shelter, since thereby I might be entertaining an angel unawares. Not that I find thee exceeding like to one. I know thee and thy madcap ways over well for that mistake. Mind, child, no word of this thy purpose to any save myself. Now I will send Sister Bona to see that thou hast all necessaries. Haste thee to thy couch, child; thou art sadly weary. Christ have thee in His keeping.” This time she offered not her own cheek for salute, but kissed the girl on the forehead. Then she left her.

On her departure Brigid crossed to the window, stood awhile looking out, yet with unseeing eyes.