“There is needed one more appearance. Question has arisen as to Saint Willebrod—if he rests still or if actively he aids! There are some who are devoted to him. Once more then!”
“Oh, I will not!”
His bright eyes dwelt upon her, all the lights played in his odd face. “Why not, Morgen? Be good-natured! I nor none am doing badly by you.”
“What do you get from this?”
“The old debatable land—and a piece that was not debatable. I love land! And I get playgoer’s enjoyment, watching from a good, quiet seat—and comfort that we’re all fruit just pleasantly specked and wasp-eaten—and some mirth from Montjoy’s ecstacy. So be good! What! There are houses by Thames in London. You may have a garden still—plant your rose tree there.”
It was high May weather. As once before Thomas Bettany had errand up the Wander,—merchant errand of account-to-be-paid. This time it was with Oak Tree Grange beyond Silver Cross. He rode in the May tide and with him rode John Cobb, and they had done the errand. Oak Tree Grange lay out of the world, and now they were on a cart track, nothing more.
Young Bettany rode light and happy on his big grey horse. May world was a fair world, fair, sweet, gay, kind! He whistled clear and strong. “I swear I saw God sitting on yon cloud!”
Said John Cobb, “I’m going to Silver Cross to get this old scar taken off my face.”
“Silver Cross. I don’t know.”
They were riding by a wood, old, uncut, dim. “This is Somerville’s land now! He always claimed it, and now the Abbey allows it.”