Silver Cross. Mary Johnston

bright blue eyes. “I am changing what I can change, reverend father.”

      “Ha! Let us hope it,” said the Prior. “Well, and what makes most ado just now in Middle Forest?”

      “Reverend father, the miracles across the river.”

      Prior Matthew bit his nail. “That is as I supposed. It mounts and mounts.—I would get from you, too, the cry after that burst of wonders!—But there is the vesper bell. Go into church, my son! afterwards I will talk with you in the garden.”

      The church at Westforest was not like the church of Silver Cross. That was great, this was small. That had starry windows of rich glass, that had tombs of lords and ladies, that had the great altar picture. This was plain and cold of aspect. Yet was there an altar painting, and now sunlight and candle light showed it for what it was—copy, done half as large, of the Silver Cross great picture. The Lady of Heaven lifted a rich Italian face, rose toward heaven, toward God the Father and God the Son, with a rich, Italian beauty, nobly done by the great Italian, her painter—rose with love and majesty, with memory of sorrow and of earth-stain falling away, fading, falling, with height of joy opening; rose with bliss and power, who yet understood, who knew children’s crying and would answer; rose from world’s woe, from the dust, to heaven. She was heaven, the Rose of Heaven. Yet had she been painted in Italy from mortal woman. Queen of Heaven, but with framework of likeness to earthly faces. “Like Isabel—like Isabel!” at this moment Montjoy cried to himself, in the church of Silver Cross.

      In the small grey church at Westforest young Thomas Bettany had place where he might well and plainly view the smaller picture, but well copied from the first and greater. Light beat against draperies pure red and pure blue and upon form and face, rising from darkness into glory. He looked worshipfully, and he felt worship.

      But when vespers were done, and the Prior kept him alone with him walking in the garden, John Cobb not here, only Prior Matthew and Thomas Bettany pacing between the blue flags and the rose trees, he burst out suddenly, very young and very bold. “Reverend father, did ever you see Morgen Fay?”

      “God forbid! No!”

      “She is much like yonder picture.”

      “What picture?—Not the altar picture!”

      “Of course this is holy and heavenly—and she is only faery—”

      “ ‘Faery!’—She is an accursed woman!”

      The Prior stood still, his hand upon the espaliered pear tree against the south wall. His thin face, his tall thin figure grew extraordinarily alive. “Do you never tell that fancy!” His voice had a fearful sternness. “Do you never tell that fancy to any living wight!”

      Thomas Bettany himself was afraid of it. “Jesu knows I would not do Our Lady disrespect!”

      “It will be heinous disrespect if you say that that sinner hath her face—”

      Bettany carefully made distinctions. “I meant not like Her—but like the woman the painter must have used just for hint of form and face! Once I saw a monk painting on a missal border where it said ‘Rose of Sharon.’ But he had in a cup beside him which he looked often upon a rose from the garden.”

      “Well, speak not of such things!” said the Prior impatiently. “The generality understands them not. They think not that things are but lifted or lowered, set in light or in darkness. You but hurt yourself!”

      “That is true enough!” thought the merchant’s son.

      They paced the walk to a stone bench set before fruit trees whose shadow was now long upon the grass. The Prior, head sunk in cowl, was thinking. He sat down, the young man standing before him. “The miracles—”

      Bettany set sail upon that story. Last week a woman had received her sight. Three days ago a man for years bedridden had walked. Yesterday had come a shipmaster carrying his daughter in his arms. “Praise! Praise!” shouted the people. It was like a Great Fair for numbers, at Saint Leofric’s! At times bridge was thick with folk.

      And then midway in his recital to which he was warming, which he was now colouring rightly, Prior Matthew, with a sudden start and jerk, returned to the picture and had from him promise not to let pass his lips to any other that sinful fancy.

      He promised, seeing himself that facts were not always for shouting.

      Morgen Fay who was merchant and sold herself, who had great beauty and dark eyes, and who wore those reds and blues, might be picked—or one like her might be picked—a common rose out of common garden, and a painter might take her for line and feature and hue and sublimate all—and yet the Rosa Mystica, the God Bride and Mother, be never hurt, be never the worse for that, where she looked from high heaven, pitying all and helping who would be helped—pitying, perchance, Morgen Fay!