XXV
Robert Annys had been at the Abbey of St. Dunstan for six months only, and he was still going through his novitiate, when he received the signal distinction of being appointed the chronicler of the Abbey. It was a position of great trust, and never before in the history of the monastery had it been given to a mere novitiate. To Annys there was a profound inspiration in taking up a task that had been handed down from generation to generation through an unbroken line of chroniclers of whom the Abbey was justly proud. Well he knew that the world owed a great debt to those patient, industrious monks in every land, who faithfully set down the doings of those that lived in the world. Surely if it had been left to those that spent their lives in the midst of the fray, it had never been done—not alone from lack of time, but from lack of clerkly knowledge as well. Right glad he was to take up the task done by that Gildas who had painted in fiery colors the misery of the Britons when the Romans departed; by the venerable Bede, father of Catholic history; by Ingulphus, Abbot of Croyland; by William of Malmesbury, "the Great Chronicler," fountain-head of English history, chronicler of the monastery of Malmesbury, who grew so to love his work that he refused to give it up to become Abbot of the monastery.
The great book into which the Chronicle of St. Dunstan was entered was treated with the greatest possible veneration. It lay in a conspicuous place in the scriptorium, and no one but the chronicler was permitted to make entries in it. When any great piece of news was brought to the monastery that seemed worth recording, the person giving the information wrote out his version of the story on a loose piece of parchment and slipped his communication into the book of annals for the authorized compiler to make use of in any way that seemed best to him after due examination of the evidence.
There came a day in June, a wonderful day when Nature put forth at once all her attractions in one burst of rapture after the long, hard winter. The garden in the close was one mass of brilliant color, and the air was overpoweringly languorous with the sweet fragrance. Annys went to his daily task reluctantly, so ardently did Nature woo him to remain outdoors. As he stood for a moment hesitating on the threshold of the scriptorium, the words of the poet Chaucer came to him:—
"Whan that the month of May
Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing,
And that the flowres ginnen for to spring,
Farwell my booke, and my devotion."