Hugh’s jauntiness collapsed, but Brother Raphe continued to gaze at him with bland innocence. ‘I see what you mean, sir. You mean I’m not being quite candid with you, and you’re right. The truth is, I owe my bruises to a woman. This fellow—he is her lover, it would seem—came suddenly upon me when I was talking with the wench, and promptly accused me of having debauched her.’
‘And you denied it?’
‘I denied it,’ agreed Hugh. ‘It was true,’ he added, turning his face away, hot with shame, ‘but I denied it.’
‘Well, well . . .’ said Brother Raphe mildly. And after an unhappy silence he went on: ‘Since I am not confessing you, I must crave pardon for my importunity. Sins of the flesh are grievous, my son, but Holy Church in her wisdom does not always hold them mortal. That you have toyed with the happiness of a woman far beneath you in station is a graver matter, a breach of trust. But let us speak of that another time, as between penitent and priest. First I will finish your story for you.’
Hugh’s face was still averted, and he made no answer.
‘In my fancy,’ said Brother Raphe, ‘it runs somewhat in this fashion. You, for the woman’s protection, deny the charge; but she, being a less ready liar, or for some darker reason of her own, betrays herself. And so you come home with a bruised face, and confide, however reluctantly, in a too inquisitive friend. Is my conjecture a good one?’
‘It is so near the truth,’ said Hugh, ‘that I begin to think you a wizard.’
‘God forbid!’ said Brother Raphe. ‘See,’ he cried, with a smile, ‘you’ve frightened my dove away.’ He sat up in his chair and peered round in search of the bird. But the effort was too much for him. He sank back again, a little wearily; and at the same moment the dove returned, alighting on the dazzling greensward, just beyond the shadow of the arbour.
‘You’re not feeling ill, sir?’ asked Hugh, in some concern.
Brother Raphe, opening his eyes, smiled reassurance. ‘A little drowsy, that’s all.’
‘Then I’ll leave you.’
Brother Raphe lifted a hand as though in benediction. The dove fluttered into the air, circled twice, and came to rest on the uplifted hand. From its beak dangled a marigold, at sight of which the old man smiled with sudden amused pleasure. ‘That’s a pretty thought, brother,’ said he. ‘And now, by your leave, I’ll take my siesta, so God be with you till I wake.’ He lowered his hand gently, and the companioning dove, dipping and curving and rising at last in flight, bore its bright flower into the sunlight and was lost to his view.