They crossed the cloister to a large, well-windowed room that gave upon walled garden. On a bench without sat a monk with book and rosary, and he would get audience for them with reverend father. Presently the inner door opened and Prior Matthew stood before them. Thomas Bettany and John Cobb kneeled for his blessing, and when that was had John Cobb spread the table with lengths of fine white cloth. The Prior chose, nor was long about it. The Abbot of Silver Cross loved finery, dressing much like a lord of this world. But Prior Matthew scorned all that and kept near in apparel to ancient simplicities.
Selection made, orders given and taken, the Prior leaned back in his seat. His deep-set eyes surveyed the younger Bettany. “I know your father for a sensible man. I have heard that you are a wild youth, a will-o’-the-wisp, ready for God knoweth what plots and pranks!”
If Thomas inwardly recognised large portion of himself he could outwardly but lift deprecating, bright blue eyes. “I am changing what I can change, reverend father.”
“Ha! Let us hope it,” said the Prior. “Well, and what makes most ado just now in Middle Forest?”
“Reverend father, the miracles across the river.”
Prior Matthew bit his nail. “That is as I supposed. It mounts and mounts.—I would get from you, too, the cry after that burst of wonders!—But there is the vesper bell. Go into church, my son! afterwards I will talk with you in the garden.”
The church at Westforest was not like the church of Silver Cross. That was great, this was small. That had starry windows of rich glass, that had tombs of lords and ladies, that had the great altar picture. This was plain and cold of aspect. Yet was there an altar painting, and now sunlight and candle light showed it for what it was,—copy, done half as large, of the Silver Cross great picture. The Lady of Heaven lifted a rich Italian face, rose toward heaven, toward God the Father and God the Son, with a rich, Italian beauty, nobly done by the great Italian, her painter,—rose with love and majesty, with memory of sorrow and of earth-stain falling away, fading, falling, with height of joy opening; rose with bliss and power, who yet understood, who knew children’s crying and would answer; rose from world’s woe, from the dust, to heaven. She was heaven, the Rose of Heaven. Yet had she been painted in Italy from mortal woman. Queen of Heaven, but with framework of likeness to earthly faces. “Like Isabel—like Isabel!” at this moment Montjoy cried to himself, in the church of Silver Cross.
In the small grey church at Westforest young Thomas Bettany had place where he might well and plainly view the smaller picture, but well copied from the first and greater. Light beat against draperies pure red and pure blue and upon form and face, rising from darkness into glory. He looked worshipfully, and he felt worship.
But when vespers were done, and the Prior kept him alone with him walking in the garden, John Cobb not here, only Prior Matthew and Thomas Bettany pacing between the blue flags and the rose trees, he burst out suddenly, very young and very bold. “Reverend father, did ever you see Morgen Fay?”