He asked
questions every day, and begged the abbot himself to send word to the
Lady Goda asking her to ride over to the abbey. The abbot smiled,
nodded, and seemed to promise; but if the message was ever sent, it
elicited no answer, and after a time, as Gilbert grew steadily better,
not even a messenger came from Stoke Regis to ask about him. Now
Gilbert had worshipped his mother as a sort of superior being, and,
like his father, had deceived himself with the belief that she was
devoted to him; so that, as time went on, and he was utterly neglected
by her, the conviction was forced upon him that something terrible and
unforeseen had happened. Yet the abbot would tell him nothing, nor the
brothers who tended him; to the best of their knowledge, they said, the
Lady of Stoke was well.
"Before long," Gilbert would answer, "I shall be able to go home and
see for myself."
And at this the abbot smiled and nodded, and began to talk of the
weather, which was hot.
But to-day, since he had been allowed to leave his room, Gilbert was
determined to force an explanation. It lacked yet an hour of midday and
dinner-time when the abbot came sauntering along the cloister, followed
at a respectful distance by a couple of monks, who walked side by side
with downcast eyes and hands hidden in their sleeves, their cord
girdles bobbing and swinging rhythmically as they walked. As he came up
to Gilbert, the nursing brother rose and hid his hands in his grey
woollen sleeves.
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