He would give her message rightly! It seemed almost that the church waited for it, the windows where the dawn was bringing faint, faint colours. A great wave of feeling swept him, affection and pity for Silver 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 had to tell was heaven’s music. The Abbot summoned him to stand upon the step, 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 felt himself that he spoke like a strong angel.
There were ejaculations, cries of praise, snatches of prayers. The Abbot kneeled—the sub-prior—all! The picture seemed to glow, to bend forward, to bless. In the faces of the simpler monks sat pure awe and belief. Some wept. There were two or three ecstatic faces. Those who had been lazy or proud or sensual or lying showed to his thinking smitten. He had not liked them, but now they were like poor faulty children to him, to be loved still, so brimming was his power!
Brother Norbert, whom certainly he had not liked, cried aloud, “Now Silver Cross shines again—shines brighter than the bones of Saint Leofric!”
Brother Norbert, too, stepped into the deep-throbbing inner Paradise. While there arose a cry of “Praise Our Lady!”—while the Abbot kneeled before her image—while, as though she had said “Sing!” the church filled with singing, Brother Richard knew bliss. The dawn was in the windows, the great sun struck through, there was golden day. But his thought was, “Will she come to-night?”
The day was on him, and it was unsupportable, with the fervour, with the talking, with the restlessness of the Abbey-fold. He had longing to go to his old workroom, to light the furnace, to take up work. But that had been long forbidden. It was March. Lay Brothers and tenants were plowing Abbey fields. He would have worked with them, but again was forbidden. But he had at least permission to go forth under open sky. He might walk in orchard or garden. Silence was enjoined. He felt no sorrow as to that; silence was needed to talk with Heaven.
The March day was bright, sunny, still, not cold. Two Abbey men were pruning the fruit trees. Richard Englefield signed that he would help. He worked for hours and the work was welcome. He must steady himself in order to feel again and again and steadily—in order to know every strange flower and divine essential thread!
Long day went slow-footed by, and yet were its moments gems and blossoms. He did not reason, he did not think; he only knew strange bliss and strange pain and expected both to continue.
Vespers—the picture— the Magnificat. Exalted as he was he knew that there was exaltation about him, in the church. Did he care to bring it before his mind he would have agreed that by now tidings of so great import must have gone here, gone there. No more than incense or music or light could it be kept at the starting point! Presently it would be far and near.
Prior Matthew of Westforest sat next the Abbot’s stall. That was to be expected, Silver Cross and Westforest being mother and daughter. The hollow 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 of Isabel; often he came to Silver Cross, and it was not to be wondered at that he was here to-day, summoned doubtless by Abbot Mark. Montjoy’s dark face showed exaltation. It glowed; you would have said there was personal triumph. Richard Englefield felt for Montjoy sudden kinship and liking.