Only here was the first
demur. Her looks did not recover with her health. She remained with
a much-seamed neck, and a terrible scar across each cheek, on one
side purple, and her eyebrows were entirely gone.
She seemed to have forgotten the matter while she was entirely in the
infirmary, with no companion but Sister Avice, and occasionally a lay
sister, who came to help; but the first time she went down the turret
stair into the cloister--a beautiful succession of arches round a
green court--she met a novice and a girl about her own age; the elder
gave a little scream at the sight and ran away.
The other hung back. "Mary, come hither," said Sister Avice. "This
is Grisell Dacre, who hath suffered so much. Wilt thou not come and
kiss and welcome her?"
Mary came forward rather reluctantly, but Grisell drew up her head
within, "Oh, if you had liefer not!" and turned her back on the girl.
Sister Avice followed as Grisell walked away as fast as her weakness
allowed, and found her sitting breathless at the third step on the
stairs.
"Oh, no--go away--don't bring her. Every one will hate me," sobbed
the poor child.
Avice could only gather her into her arms, though embraces were
against the strict rule of Benedictine nuns, and soothe and coax her
to believe that by one at least she was not hated.
"I had forgotten," said Grisell. "I saw myself once at Amesbury! but
my face was not well then.
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