Englefield moved off into deep forest toward the ruined farm. It was Success. It was of a piece with breaking free from Priory. Maybe there were gods who said, “Thou touchedst nadir, now we let thee rise!” Maybe it was the Will, so fulfilled and potent that it became magician. Trust far enough, and the bird comes flying! But not trust like that at Silver Cross—no!
Deep wood, beech and ash and oak, very silent, very lonely. At last it thinned and he saw through trees an old, small, ruinous farmhouse, broken, neglected, haunted maybe. He made out a man slowly working in a field. A grey horse grazed, a cock crew, but there seemed no dog to bark.
He drew back under trees, found a bed of leaf and moss and threw himself down. He was tired, tired! Body was tired but not spirit. That should not flag. No, no! said the will. But sleep—it was necessary to sleep.
He did so for a time, but then he waked clearly and suddenly. Where he had been in dreams he did not know, nor where in the deep realm behind dreams. But there had been large and happy stillness, full ocean and serene sky. Whence—whence? From heaven, and had he mounted there, the True Ones pitying? From heaven’s opposite? Then again had come upon him that rapture that befell at Silver Cross—three nights’ rapture—rapture at the feet of a harlot of harlots! Evil had been the rapture through and through, that had seemed so heavenly glorious, heavenly sweet! Never to have guessed—never to have known—to have been incapable of knowledge! True and false alike to him, hideousness and beauty alike, he who had thought he knew beauty! Incapable—incapable. That had seemed Success—oh, high Success!
The sun rode high and streamed in warmly. He found shadow and lay upon his face, arms outstretched along the earth, hands breaking twigs with which the ground was strewn.
This part of earth looked full to sun, then glided from strongest vision, then took it obliquely, beginning to think of cool, dark rest from it, filled with memories. At three by country dials he heard a horse brushing through the forest and presently saw Bettany with merchant’s pack strapped before him, not a pack large and noticeable, but sufficing to show that the House of Bettany attended to business and was not too proud to attend in person.
At four by dial Richard Englefield stood under the oak in good hosen, shoon, shirt and doublet, with cap, with cloak, with leather belt and knife, with leather purse and silver in it and hidden in bosom pocket woollen purse with gold. Gaunt he was as any wolf, and overcast with pallour, needing days of sun and air to bring him back to what he was a year ago in Silver Cross, or further back to the gold-brown master smith not unknown in cities and in princes’ courts. Just that smith would never come back. This smith had himself been laid upon a Vulcan’s anvil. The fire showed, the hammer showed.
Thomas Bettany said, “Monk not again because of them hereabouts?”
“Not so. Because of myself.”