Before any one thought of this place, she would
perhaps have gone; and though when she began Vanno's letter she had not
decided where to go, before she finished her mind was made up. The one
spot in which she could endure to live out the rest of her life was the
Convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake.
"I ought never to have come away," she said. Yet not at the price of
twice this suffering--if she could suffer more--would she blot out from
her soul the experience life had given her. Maybe, she thought, the blow
that shattered her love-story and her happiness was a punishment for
weakness in longing for the world. Yet if it were a punishment she was
ready to kiss the rod, since she might hold forever the memory of Vanno
and his love.
She fastened up her letter to him lest she should be tempted to add
other words to those which might on second reading seem cold. God knew
if she were cold! But Vanno might suffer less if he believed her so.
By and by, when something like calmness came to her again, she began
another letter. It was to Reverend Mother at the convent. The last time
Mary wrote she had told of her engagement, and her happiness. Reverend
Mother had written back, forgiving and understanding her long silence--a
loving letter, rejoicing in her joy; and it was in Mary's writing case
at this moment, for she had intended to keep it always. But she could
not have borne the pain of rereading it now, over the dead body of her
happiness. She wrote quickly, not pausing between words and sentences,
as in writing to Vanno.
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