CHAPTER XI
The monk Richard awoke, he knew not why. He woke widely, collectedly,his forces drawn to a point of expectation. “Awake, awake! Look!”seemed to echo in his soul that had suddenly grown quiet. When he hadslept his cell was flooded by the moon. Still there was her silverlight. He sat up. He was with absoluteness aware of a presence in thecell. Never before, in his pale visions, had he had this sense ofstartling, of reality,--not at Westforest, not here at Silver Cross. Heknew that there was a being in his cell. Neither could he nor did hedoubt it. A voice spoke to him, and it was golden-sweet and rich andwonderful. “Richard!”
He turned himself. Light that was not moonlight, though it blended withthe moonlight, and in it, _real_, the Blessed among women!
Could he doubt? It was the great picture come alive! Could he doubt?She spoke--and he had not uttered that dart of thought. “Not that thatpainter could see me as I am in glory--but knowing that thou lovest meso, I come to thee so! I come to thee as thou canst see me, Richard!”
She was _real_, she was not tinted air. _Real_--oh, _real_! Softplaying light was about her feet, her form, her head, her outspread andglorious dark hair. Her eyes were books, her mouth upland meadows offlowers; the blue and red of her dress, her mantle, trembled and wasalive. Life went out of her toward him, his life leaped to meet it.Life at last, _life_! _life_! He sprang from his pallet, he kneeled inhis monk’s robe. He put his forehead to the stone.
The voice came again--oh, the voice! “Richard, list to me!”
All heaven was speaking to him and filling him--him, him who had beenso unhappy!--with joy and power.
“Thou hast loved me well, and so thou hast drawn me, servant Richard,knight Richard, my poet Richard! I love all places--but now I love thisplace well and would do it good.”
He found daring to speak. “Star of me--Bringer of me into full being--”
“Thou canst not know all the counsel of heaven. I will come again,renewing thy joy. But now hearken what thou art to do, unquestioning,as thou lovest me! The morn comes. When rings the bell for lauds, whenthy brethren flock into church, haste thou, haste! Stand before them.Cry, thou that lovest me. ‘This night hath the Blessed among womenappeared to me, Richard Englefield!’ And she saith, ‘Speak to all ofSilver Cross, and say thou for me, Of old I loved this place, and Iwill love it again, for I see it returning to its first strength andworship!’ Say thou, ‘I will give it room again in men’s minds. I willreturn and show a thing whereby multitudes shall be healed and gloryshall come!’”
There was pause, then “Be thou he, Richard, who loveth me well, throughwhom I shall speak! Morn cometh. The bell begins to ring.”
The soft, the playing light withdrew. He felt her still--oh,_real_!--then in the darkness, into it, behind it as it were, she wasgone. He knew that she was gone into utter light.
But here was vacancy, faint moonbeams, a cell of shadows. But thecomfort and the passion and the splendour were in his heart, his veins,his blood, in the potent cells of his body! With power, with success,they summoned the brain to do them service. He believed like a child,and he was the impassioned lover.
He felt more than man. A great lightness and gaiety, a rest uponpromise, held him one moment, and the next a longing, an agony,--andall was huge and resonant, deep, wide and high; and all was fine andsmall and subtle and profoundly at home! Time and space had radicallychanged for him.
He was yet kneeling when the bell for lauds began to ring. Rising, hesaw through the window the setting moon,--then he was gone.
The candles were lighted. It was not Abbot Mark’s wont to be seatedthere, in Abbot’s stall, for lauds. But he was here, picked out by thelight. The hollow of the church was all dark; the choir, the rangedmonks, thinly dyed with amber. When he passed the tomb of the Lady ofMontjoy he thought that a warmer light laved it, touching the stonealmost to life. But the great picture--ah, the great picture! He liftedto it light-filled eyes. She was there--she was in heaven--she hadstood in his cell. His being was in her hands; he lay with the Babe inher arms.
He would give her message rightly! It seemed almost that the churchwaited for it, the windows where the dawn was bringing faint, faintcolours. A great wave of feeling swept him, affection and pity forSilver Cross. Once it had been saintly and a light for all wanderers.Dear would it be, dear and rich and sweet if it all could come again,the old, simple power!
With that he heard his own voice, as it were the voice of another,lifted but profound, too, a deep, a rushing music, since what he hadto tell was heaven’s music. The Abbot summoned him to stand upon thestep, lifted high above Silver Cross monks. He gave forth her words,and the world seemed to him an altar, and the candles suns, and he felthimself that he spoke like a strong angel.
There were ejaculations, cries of praise, snatches of prayers. TheAbbot kneeled--the sub-prior--all! The picture seemed to glow, to bendforward, to bless. In the faces of the simpler monks sat pure awe andbelief. Some wept. There were two or three ecstatic faces. Those whohad been lazy or proud or sensual or lying showed to his thinkingsmitten. He had not liked them, but now they were like poor faultychildren to him, to be loved still, so brimming was his power!
Brother Norbert, whom certainly he had not liked, cried aloud, “NowSilver Cross shines again--shines brighter than the bones of SaintLeofric!”
Brother Norbert, too, stepped into the deep-throbbing inner Paradise.While there arose a cry of “Praise Our Lady!”--while the Abbot kneeledbefore her image--while, as though she had said “Sing!” the churchfilled with singing, Brother Richard knew bliss. The dawn was in thewindows, the great sun struck through, there was golden day. But histhought was, “Will she come to-night?”
The day was on him, and it was unsupportable, with the fervour, withthe talking, with the restlessness of the Abbey-fold. He had longing togo to his old workroom, to light the furnace, to take up work. But thathad been long forbidden. It was March. Lay Brothers and tenants wereplowing Abbey fields. He would have worked with them, but again wasforbidden. But he had at least permission to go forth under open sky.He might walk in orchard or garden. Silence was enjoined. He felt nosorrow as to that; silence was needed to talk with Heaven.
The March day was bright, sunny, still, not cold. Two Abbey men werepruning the fruit trees. Richard Englefield signed that he would help.He worked for hours and the work was welcome. He must steady himselfin order to feel again and again and steadily--in order to know everystrange flower and divine essential thread!
Long day went slow-footed by, and yet were its moments gems andblossoms. He did not reason, he did not think; he only knew strangebliss and strange pain and expected both to continue.
Vespers--the picture--the Magnificat. Exalted as he was he knew thatthere was exaltation about him, in the church. Did he care to bring itbefore his mind he would have agreed that by now tidings of so greatimport must have gone here, gone there. No more than incense or musicor light could it be kept at the starting point! Presently it would befar and near.
Prior Matthew of Westforest sat next the Abbot’s stall. That was to beexpected, Silver Cross and Westforest being mother and daughter. Thehollow of the church showed clusters of folk from Wander side. That,too, was to be looked for. The Lord of Montjoy stood beside the tomb ofIsabel; often he came to Silver Cross, and it was not to be wondered atthat he was here to-day, summoned doubtless by Abbot Mark. Montjoy’sdark face showed exaltation. It glowed; you would have said there waspersonal triumph. Richard Englefield felt for Montjoy sudden kinshipand liking.
What faces were turned to him, what looks were cast upon him, whatwatchings, what judgments, hopes, he knew not. After the first habitualsweep of the eye, after the first movement of spirit toward Montjoy, hewas the picture’s.
The church grew wide as earth. The chanting went up long coloured lanesto heaven’s gate. The setting sun sang, and the rising moon sang, andthe stars, as through the dusk they strode nearer.
It was night. He was alone in his cell. Again he
slept. He waked andknew that he was in her presence.
Softened glory, diminished that he might see her as he could see her.Her red and her blue, her form, her face, her voice--kneeling, hetrembled with his joy as with a burden too great to bear. It was asocean wave to a babe. Vast, crested, it curved above him. His lifemight go--he cared not for that, if on the other side of life he mightstill adore!
The voice! “Richard! Say thou for me to Silver Cross, ‘Go by theorchard, go by the hill where feed the sheep. Go to where shines a firtree against the steep hill. Beside it you will find fallen earth and alittle cave made bare, and in the stone over the cave my name. Let theAbbot of Silver Cross and the holiest among you enter. There shall youfind a little well of clear water, and by token beside it a rose. Thewell hath been blessed by me and by all the host of heaven. Make you ofthe grot a chapel. Set my image there; make it a place that I may love.Make for the well a pool, and whosoever drinks of it and whosoeverbathes therein, if he have faith he shall be completely healed, be heill either of body or estate!’”
The music fell, then rose again. “That is my task for thee, Richard!That is the errand thou wilt do for me.”
The voice ceased. He thought that the light began to go away, her formto dim. He cried aloud, fear pushing him to wild utterance. “I will doit! But wilt thou come again? I may not live unless thou wilt come!”
There seemed pause, then said the voice like the balm of the world.“I will come once again--and perhaps thereafter, so thou servest mefirmly!” And, as he bowed his head, as tears of sweetness, of exquisiterest in her word, rushed to his eyes, she was gone. Darkness--and againthrough the window the declining moon, and immediately the bell for thedawn office.