Not on a May but on a June morning—five days in fact after his supper at the house of Morgen Fay—Master Thomas Bettany found himself some miles up the Wander, and with him, riding the gray mare, a bale of sample cloths strapped to saddle, John Cobb the apprentice, with whom, when he did not think to be stiff, he was upon the best of terms. He was up the Wander upon business for his father, that rich merchant who would one day leave him house and gear and trade. Then would he himself, Thomas Bettany, be Middle Forest merchant,—who wanted only to sail for the New World that one Columbus had recently discovered!

He rode absorbed in discontent. Finally he again took up speech with John Cobb.

“It’s a dull life! I wish something would happen—anything!”

“There be the miracles.”

“I haven’t any hand in them. You can’t be interested unless you’re doing something yourself.—I’d rather be a robber than just trotting from shop and trotting back again.—Hist, John! What’s behind yon tree?”

“Where?”

“There! A big, black man! Two—four, five! Draw your weapon, man!”

John struck hand to the dirk at his waist. His eyes enlarged, his lips clapped shut. Then, “They bain’t but little fir trees!—You’re grinning!—Your pranking and mystery-playing’ll break you one day!”

“I wish it had been Robin Hood—”

They rode through the wood. It was a bright morn after rain. The trees showered them with diamonds, the world smelled like a pomander box. When they were out from the trees and amid tilled land every blade of springing grain carried jewels. Far up in a light blue sky a lark was singing.

“By’re lady!” said John Cobb. “If I were taken up by Somerville and went to sup with Morgen Fay, I’d not be saying life was dull!”

“He nor no one else has ‘taken me up.’ His uncle married my father’s cousin. Bettany’s a name that has sounded well since long time. My father helped him, too, with monies—but that’s nothing either!—Somerville and I are friends.”

“Like you and me?”

“No!—His being ‘Sir Robert’ and older doesn’t make any difference.”

He was superbly sure of that and rode with his blond head up like a youthful, adventurous king. “As for Morgen Fay, I’d think more of her if I hadn’t seen last Candlemas—you know whom!”

“That’s Mistress Cecily. She’s a fair one! But I don’t believe she’s pricked your heart much either. You’re just for the New World and men and adventure. It would make me proud though to sup with Morgen Fay.”

“Oh, you’ll never, my poor John! I tell you what she’s like. She’s like something you see in poetry. But Cecily walked in first, into my keep and hold. Besides, I wouldn’t interfere with Robert.”

“Robert!” John Cobb could but admire, while Master Thomas Bettany tossed his clear whistle up to the lark singing.

So many birds were singing! The two were now riding by the Wander, through Westforest land. Mounting a little hill they saw below them monastery walls and roofs, not a large place, set among trees by the water’s side. Some of the old forest held here.

Their business was with Westforest. The house of Bettany sold Silver Cross and Westforest woollen cloth for monks’ gowns. Presently they were at the gate. The porter opened to them, and the stable Brother took their horses, and a third Brother carried them to the guest house where they were set in a room. All was very grave and in order. Master Thomas Bettany at the window heard bells and saw the monks pacing two by two. He had never before been to Westforest. Saint Ethelred in Middle Forest was his church. Neither with any sufficiency did he know Silver Cross. He had been five times perhaps, when there was festival, in the great church. Only this year was his father using him thus in business.

The monk reappeared and had them to the refectory where they were served with ale and bread and cheese. Thence they went to a business-like room where met them Brother Oswald, steward and purchaser for the Priory. He gave Master Thomas Bettany good greeting, and John Cobb a shorter one. John Cobb opened the bale of cloths.

Business advanced. A Brother appeared to do duty as steward’s clerk. Thomas Bettany turned into merchant not unshrewd. He did things with his might, when he could be brought to do them at all. Now he pictured and bargained and was not behind Brother Oswald in ability.

The hour and more of marketing passed. Brother Oswald, straightening himself from the table at last, paid his compliment. “No manner of doubt, my son, but that you be merchant, son of merchant!”

“If Westforest be not content—”

“Oh, we are content.”

“—and I have here,” said the younger Bettany, “the fine white wool—”

“That is for reverend father the Prior to see. Let your man take it up and we will go to the parlour.”

They crossed the cloister to a large, well-windowed room that gave upon walled garden. On a bench without sat a monk with book and rosary, and he would get audience for them with reverend father. Presently the inner door opened and Prior Matthew stood before them. Thomas Bettany and John Cobb kneeled for his blessing, and when that was had John Cobb spread the table with lengths of fine white cloth. The Prior chose, nor was long about it. The Abbot of Silver Cross loved finery, dressing much like a lord of this world. But Prior Matthew scorned all that and kept near in apparel to ancient simplicities.

Selection made, orders given and taken, the Prior leaned back in his seat. His deep-set eyes surveyed the younger Bettany. “I know your father for a sensible man. I have heard that you are a wild youth, a will-o’-the-wisp, ready for God knoweth what plots and pranks!”

If Thomas inwardly recognised large portion of himself he could outwardly but lift deprecating, 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!