One other was healed that day,—a man whose fingers were bent into his hand so that he could not straighten them nor work at his trade.
There was a great Mass and high devotion at Silver Cross. There were offerings for at once lining with fine stone the grotto of Our Lady of the Rose, for providing a fair, wide basin for the well, for a glorious image.
Earth, water and air seemed servants to bear the news. The hum of it was like wild bees through Wander vale. Middle Forest listened at sunset to Father Edmund. “True—true, my children! We have preached and wrought, scourging forth evil! This country wins a new name. From accursed, it becomes blessed!” The river heard and the bridge and Saint Leofric’s Mount and the Friary and Prior Hugh. The bells of Saint Ethelred rang and of the Carmelites and the Poor Clares. The castle of Montjoy heard. Somerville Hall heard, and the house of Master Eustace Bettany.
The ruined farm heard,—but so dull and trouble-bent were David and Margery that they cared not. Little things only could get into Margery’s mind, and a little thing was turning there. Joan, the helper-woman, slept in a loft that was reached by an outside stair. Margery had swimming in the head and feared this stair and rarely went to loft. But this day Joan might be anywhere, but could not be found at hand. Margery climbed the stair and peered about. Very blank up here, with flock bed and ancient chest and some hanging things. But in the window under the thatch, in the sunshine of a mild day, stood the tiny rose tree that Joan had brought with her under her cloak when she came to the ruined farm two months since. She said she brought it because she loved it, and she begged an earthern jar and put in rich soil and planted afresh that which she had taken from such a jar in order to bring it so great a distance,—in short from the great port town twenty leagues away. Now, at the ruined farm, she must have nourished it well and kept it warm, for it was green and leafy. Margery, going over to admire it, set herself to turn the jar that she might better see. The jar fell and broke. The earth heaped itself on the floor, the stem and leaves were bruised. “Alack!” cried Margery and hurried down stairs, for she thought she heard Joan. Though in form she was the mistress it was not so essentially. She explained volubly when, in another hour, there confronted her Joan with a shard of the jar in her hand. She would remember the loft and the little rose tree, but the news of miracles at Silver Cross, brought by a straying shepherd, whistled through like wind over grass that when the stir was gone forgot.
The March sunset flared splendid. The dusk fell like violets. The stars, advancing, were taper flames and an angel vast as all mankind held each. The moon would not rise till late. “Come, oh, come, come, Rose of Heaven!” So the monk Richard Englefield in his dark cell.
He must sleep, he would sleep, he would trust, not clamor nor force. He slept, he waked; she was there, she appeared to him. “Rose of Heaven, Rose of Heaven—Voice of Heaven, Blessed One—My Lady!”
She was there to confirm him in worship, to say, “Well done, thus far!” to say, “Pray thou—praise thou—live thou, humble, obedient, shedding holiness on Silver Cross!”
“Wilt thou come again?”
The voice that was music said, “Live in memory and live in hoping! But now, Richard, farewell!”
Darkness where had been light. The kneeling monk stretched his arms, strained his eyes, but there was darkness. He heard no movement, but she was not there! Empty cell, and a black cloud across the moon!