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Transcriber’s Note
In this text version of “Silver Cross”, words in italics are markedwith _underscores_, and words in small capitals are shown in UPPER CASE.
Variant spelling is retained, a very few changes have been made tostandardize punctuation and spelling.
SILVER CROSS
SILVER CROSS
_By_
MARY JOHNSTON
BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1922
_Copyright, 1922_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published March, 1922
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
SILVER CROSS
CHAPTER I
Henry the Seventh sat upon the throne.
The town of Middle Forest had long since pushed the forest from allsides. Its streets, forked as lightning, ran up to the castle anddown to the river. The river here was near its mouth, and wide. Thebridge that crossed it had many arches. Below the bridge quite largecraft, white and brown and dull red, sailed or dropping sail, came toanchor. Answering to hour and weather the water spread carnation, gold,sapphire, jade, opal, lead and ebony. Now it slept glassy, and now windmade of it a fretful, ridged thing. The note of the town was a bleachedgrey, but with strong splashes of red and umber. A sharp, steep hillupheld the castle that was of middle size and importance, built by thelords Montjoy and held now by William of that name.
Behind the town a downward sloping wood tied the castle hill to fieldsand meadows. The small river Wander ran by these on its way to jointhe greater stream. Up the Wander, two leagues or so, in a fertilevale couched the Abbey of Silver Cross. Materially speaking, a knotof stone houses for monks--Cistercians, White Monks--a stately stonehouse for God and his Son and Mary; near-by a quite unstately hamlet,timber, daub and thatch, grown haphazard by church and cloister; manyscore broad acres, wood and field, stream and pasture, mill, forge,weirs, and a tenant roll of goodly length,--such was Silver Cross. Sofar as physical possessions went what in this region Montjoy did nothold Silver Cross did and what the two did not hold Middle Forest hadmanaged to wrest from them in Henry Sixth’s time. Silver Cross had,too, immaterial possessions. But once she had been wealthier here thanshe was now. That time had been even with a time of material poverty.Now she had goods, but she did not have so much sanctity. Yet therewere values still, marked with that other world’s seal; it is uselessto doubt that.
The thorn in Silver Cross’ flesh was not now Montjoy nor Middle Forest,with both of whom she had for years lived in amity. The thorn wasthe Friary of Saint Leofric--Dominican--across the river from MiddleForest, but tied to it by the bridge, holding its lands well away fromMontjoy and Silver Cross, but rival nevertheless, with an eye to king’sfavour, cardinal’s favour, and bidding latterly, with a distinctness,for popular favour. That was the wretched, irritating thorn, likely toproduce inflammation! Prior Hugh of Saint Leofric--ah, the ambitiousone!
Silver Cross possessed in a splendid _loculus_ the span-long silvercross that the lips of Saint Willebrod, the martyr, had kissed afterhead and trunk were parted. In ancient times it had worked manymiracles, but in this modern day the miraculous was grown drowsy.Saint Leofric had the bones of Saint Leofric,--all, that is, save theright hand and arm. That is, once and for ages these had lacked. Butnow--this very Easter--the missing members had been found: miraculouslypointed out, miraculously found! There had been long pause in workingmiracles, but now Saint Leofric was working them again. Middle Foresttalked more of Saint Leofric who was, as it were, a foreigner, beingacross the river, lord of nothing on this side--than it talked ofSilver Cross that was its own. Not alone Middle Forest, but all thisslice of England. Silver Cross found the mounting bruit discordant, avery peacock scream. Silver Cross slurred the fresh miracles of SaintLeofric and detested Prior Hugh. Silver Cross’s own abbot, Abbot Mark,said that Apollyon made somewhere a market.
The river lay stretched and still, red with the sunset, deep blue wherethe blue summer sky yet abided. “Like the Blessed Virgin’s robe andcloak!” said Morgen Fay. “The bridge is her gemmed girdle.”
Morgen Fay’s house was a river-side one, built up sheer indeed from theriver so that one might take welcomes, flung toys, from passing boats.Morgen Fay took them, leaning from her window. Her voice floated downin return; sometimes she flung a flower. She had a garden, large asa kerchief, beside the house, hidden almost by a jut of the old townwall. Here she gathered the flowers she flung. Sometimes he who hadbeen in the boat came again, walking, to her door that was discreet,in the shadow of the wall. But he only gained entry if he were somehowfriend of a friend. And all alike must be _armiger_, or at least notthe least in the burgher world. And, logically, only those of theseentered who could be friends and pay. Would you have love for nothing?She had an answer always ready to that. “I must live!”
The sunset spread. There was more red than blue. “She is so closewrapped in her mantle that you can hardly see the heavenly blue core ofher.--Oh, Mother and Mother and Mother--where are we and what are we?”
Morgen Fay went into her garden. Company was coming for supper. Bestbreak a few more flowers. The flowers were June flowers, roses andyellow lilies, larkspur and pinks. They had the sunset hues. The ownerof the garden broke them, tall herself as the lilies, white and vermeillike the roses.
The sunset died out and the river stretched first pearl and then leadand then ebony.
Morgen Fay had a little oaken room where boards were laid upon trestlesand covered with a fringed cloth, and dishes and flasks and gobletsset upon this. An old woman, large but light upon her feet, spread thetable, Morgen helping. The old woman’s son kept the street door. He wasa lazy lout but obedient, strong, too, of his fists and with a voicethat could summon, if need were, not the dead but the watch. His namewas Anthony, the old woman’s Ailsa, and Morgen Fay had known them sinceshe was a young child. Now they were in her employ.
Said Ailsa, “’Tis Somerville’s company?”
“Yes. You know that. How many candles? You’d best bring three more.”
“Yes, I will. Is that the gown you’re going to wear?”
“Yes. It’s my best.”
“It’s not the one you like the best--so ’t isn’t your best after all,is it? You don’t like Somerville as well as you did last Lady Day.”
“What does it matter if I like him or don’t like him?”
“Oh, you won’t keep him if you don’t like him! He’ll go as others havegone. ‘Keep!’ Lord! With most of blessed women it’s the other way’round!”
She brought the candles. “Do you like Master Bettany?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s richer than the knight--just as he’s younger. I say thatSomerville’s holding a light for his own house’s sacking!”
“I say that I am tired. I like neither man nor woman, I nor thou.”
“Are you cold? Will you have a little fire? Here, take wine!”
“Joy from wine is falseness like the rest. Give it to me!”
Morgen drank. “I’ll have just time to put on the other dress if youthink it sets me better.”
She went and put it on, returning to the oak room. Ailsa regardedresults with eyes of a friendly critic. “It does! Montjoy knows howto choose--learned it, I reckon, in France!” She stood with her handson her hips. She, too, had taken wine and now she loosed tongue,regarding all the time the younger woman with a selfish and unselfishaffection, submitting to the wonder of her, but standing up for theright by prescription of half-ruling the wonder. Morgen had a voice
offrankincense and music with a drop of clear oil. Ailsa had more of theoil and a humbler music. “Say you ‘Falseness?’ Say you ‘Coldness?’ Sayyou ‘Darkness!’ You’re a bright fool, Morgen-live-by-the-river!”
“Granted I am a fool,” said Morgen, and kneeled on the window seat.
The older woman’s voice rose. “Doesn’t fire warm you, and good sweetsack? Don’t you lie soft? Don’t you have jewels and gold work and silkof Cyprus? Don’t gentlemen and rich merchants come for your stroking?Haven’t you got a garden where you can walk and a tight house, and apearl net for your hair, and a velvet shoe? Doesn’t Montjoy protect youfor old time’s sake--even though now the fool goes off after religion?Religion! Don’t you go to Mass and give candles--wax ones--anddoesn’t Father Edwin, your cousin, make all safe for you in thatquarter? Oh, the Saints! There’s king’s power, and there’s priest’spower, and there’s woman’s power! World slurs you and world lovesyou, Morgen and Morgen! Go to! Fie on you! Shorten your long face!Where’s falseness--anything to speak of, that is? Where’s coldness anddarkness? The world’s been a good world to you, mistress, ever sinceyou danced at the Great Fair here, and Warham House saw you and tookyou and taught you! A pretty good world!”
“As worlds go--poor, dumb things! Yes, I say they are poor, dumbthings! Light the candles!”
The large woman drew close the curtains over the window that gave uponthe street and lighted the candles. There was wood laid within thefireplace. She regarded this. “It’s a cool June--and, Our Lady! we seemto need mirth here to-night! Fire and wine--wine and fire!”
She left the room for the kitchen, and returning with a flaming brand,struck it amid the cold wood. All took fire. “Better, isn’t it? I hearcompany’s footfall!”
The company thought the oak room shining to-night. They thought MorgenFay fair and joyous. Sir Robert Somerville was yet in love,--none ofher old loves went wholly out of love. But he was not so fathoms deepin love as once he had been. He had left the miser stage and now he wasat the expansive, willing to feed pride by showing his easy wealth.He moved a tall man of forty-odd, with a quick, odd grimacing face,not unpleasing. He had a decisive voice and more gesture than was thecountry’s custom. With him came a guest in his house to whom he wishedto show the oak casket and the gem it contained, a cousin from theother side of England, Sir Humphrey Somerville, to wit,--and MasterThomas Bettany, son and heir of the richest merchant in Middle Forest.They kissed Morgen Fay who put on magic and welcomed them. It was asthough the river outside, that had been lead to ebony, ran now throughfaint silver back to rose.
There was a settle by the fire and Morgen sat here, and by her SirRobert, and Sir Humphrey opposite, and Master Bettany in a poorer chairin front of the flames. Master Bettany was the youngest there,--agreat, blond boy with blue eyes of daring, with enormous desire foradventure, experience, plots and mysteries. Salt and sugar must beelaborately planned for, approached with a delicate, shivering sense ofdanger, of play and play again and something to risk, or truly life wasnot sugared nor salted! He was for islands said to be danger-circledand with a witch for queen! He was likewise modest and kind-hearted,and as he could not devise evil, the evil he believed in was highlyartificial. Sir Humphrey Somerville was as large for man as Ailsa wasfor women. He had brown hair and a beak of a nose and the eyes of awag, but behind the waggery something formidable in his face.
Such as they were, they had a merry evening, when the food was broughtand the wine was poured; and Morgen, too, turned merry, though, asever, she kept measure, for that was the way she ruled.