Richard Englefield the goldsmith had seen many a great rood in England and France and Italy. He had seen poor carving, rude and struggling thought and unskilful hand, hardly attaining to truth, hardly to strength, hardly to beauty. But beauty and strength and truth had been longed for. This carving, this rood, showed him no such thing. “Not the way it is done, but the dream is wrong.” It grew faintly horrible to him.
The long winter days, the knees upon stone. “O God, O God! Where is light, where is meaning? In me is wold and thicket and bog and the stars put out!”
Only the picture stayed with him, made somehow significance, somehow warmth. Now it paled and now it glowed.
He ate little, slept little. He crucified his body. Like the insistent sweet ringing of a bell, forever, forever, Silver Cross suggested, suggested. Surely, in some sort, heaven should descend! He was earning it. He began to have visions, but they were pale, confused, forms without significance or with the significance hidden. They said naught that might lift the Abbey of Silver Cross to a height that should equal Saint Leofric’s mount.
Twelfth night—Candlemas Day—Lent in sight—and Saint Leofric blazing high! Not that only, but Middle Forest beginning to manifest holiness and uncloak sin. Father Edmund of Saint Ethelred had no vision but the vision of a rod for the wicked. But he had a preaching power! He stood upon the steps of town cross and his white heat turned the icicles to water. The sinner, Morgen Fay, was fled,—none knew whither. They said likely to London town. They sacked her house, they drummed the old woman and the youth, her servants, out of town. Both sides of river and up Wander vale, enthusiasm gathered light in eyes, red in cheeks. There began to be prophets and religious dancers. In Middle Forest High Street appeared a band of flagellants. The air was taking fire. “Now, now or never!” said Prior Matthew.
The ruined farm, that had been small and poor even before fire had half destroyed it, stood gaunt, blackened, sunk in loneliness behind winter forest through which few walked. Margery and David, blear-eyed and simple, living in the part that held together, found the helper-woman, Joan, strong but moody, now ready to laugh at a little thing and now dark as a tempest over the wood that shut out the world. Somerville the master had said, “Take her!” They had obeyed, and if they speculated it was sluggishly.
Past the holly copse stretched land of Silver Cross, woodland with a woodman’s path through. Somerville came by this. He talked with Joan or with Morgen Fay under the hollies where the berries were so red and the leaves so glossy and barbed. She said vehemently, “No!” and she said, “No!” and “No!” again, but more dully, pettishly.
“It’s sin. I’ve done much, but I haven’t done that!”