Thomas Bettany, who had owned a young, clean, gay heart, perceived that the world had taken plague.
He wandered. He would not go home, nor yet to the debtor’s house. Rain held off, but the sky was covered, the light green, the air still and hot. He went down to the river. The bridge,—there were pilgrims upon it, a double line of them, chanting, coming from Saint Leofric. To-morrow they would go to Silver Cross, and Holy Well would heal one at least, maybe two or three.
It made no difference what the monk of Silver Cross had cried nor what Morgen Fay. Was healing then within one’s own mind and heart? Was there the Holy Well?
Thomas Bettany went down the watersteps, found boatmen and their craft and hired a row-boat for an hour. He would row himself. “Storm coming, master!” “Aye.” “If it were Friday now, it might put out fire, and that would be sore pity! Saint Christopher knoweth the boats on this river that have rowed to Morgen Fay’s house! Well, it used to be a fair sight, her window and her garden, and all the time she was witch and devil’s paramour! They do say Montjoy will walk barefoot to Canterbury because in old times he was her fere!”
Bettany rowed away. “She is a human being. Say it, and I think that you say all.”
River, river, and houses standing up, and on the other side willows. “River, I wish you would drown fire. Fire is good where it should be, but at times it acheth to be drowned. And then again water acheth for the fire.”
He rowed with long, slow strokes. Houses went by under the dull sky and they seemed to look with menace. “That only can truly help that hath not been truly harmed. That, too, I see,” said Thomas Bettany, “in a flash.”
A house by an old wall, brooding to it. Small houses and small garden. The garden was turned wilderness. He caught colours that might be flowers, but the weeds were thick and high. A window—and casement slowly turning outward. All the garden trim, but shrouded in mist, the houses shrouded in autumn mist, the river—and Morgen Fay looking out.
Rowing away fast from that he shot up river and then to the other side, and beneath willows shipped oars and sat head on hands, thinking first how all impossible it was, and then, very wretchedly of Somerville.
Sky darkened still further. With a long sigh, he took up his oars and rowed slowly back to the bridge. Going up the water steps he had it now in mind to ride, storm over, to Somerville Hall. It did not need, for in High Street he came upon Somerville on his big bay horse. Somerville saw him and waited until he crossed to bridle. “Aye, Thomas?”