The may was budding into bloom, and Dom Silvius came riding Goldspur way
again, thinking of the many things that may occupy the mind of a man who
keeps both eyes fixed upon the affairs of the “house.” Silvius’s soul
felt very comfortable within him that morning. The bloom was setting
well upon the orchard trees, such a sea of foam that the autumn should
be red with fruit. Word had come from the shepherds in the pasture lands
that hardly a lamb had been lost that spring. There was little sickness
anywhere, but few poor to need alms, and no shortage of dues from the
tenants. Dom Silvius made it his business to know of all these things,
even though they might not concern his authority. He was like a child
and a miser in his joy and carefulness in working for the wealth and
honour of his Abbey.
So Dom Silvius came to the beech wood above Goldspur, and followed the
main ride, talking to himself like a happy starling, for he rode alone
that morning. And he would lean forward and fondle his nag’s ears, for
the beast was provided by one of the tenants, and Dom Silvius loved the
horse because he had not to feed him.
“A little more roundly, my good Dobbin,” he prattled. “But beware of
worldliness, for the sake of my dignity; we must not bump like a butcher
to market. What will Sancta Denise say to us this morning? The child
should not set herself alone here like a white dove for any hawk to
swoop at. _Mea culpa_, but the girl has hair like dead beech leaves
touched by the sun, saving, Dobbin, that the leaves have no glitter of
gold. And what eyes! God bless us, but we may hope for miracles. And if
the folk flock to be healed, they shall lodge in the Abbey, and surely
their gratitude will make us rich.”
The almoner sobered himself however when he turned aside by the white
stone that marked the path leading to the hermitage. The woodlands might
have eyes and ears, and it would not be seemly for a man of Silvius’s
age and estate to be overheard babbling like a lover who must talk even
though it be only to his horse. So he rode very demurely into Denise’s
glade, with his chin on his chest, and his lips moving as though he said
a prayer for every furlong.
The door of Denise’s cell was shut, nor could Dom Silvius see her
stirring in her garden. “Perhaps she is abroad,” thought he, “or maybe
she is at her prayers,” so he rode up quietly, dismounted, and looped
his bridle over the post of the wicket gate. Then he went in and up the
path, and was about to knock softly, when the door opened under his very
hand, and Silvius saw a figure in grey standing upon the threshold.
Dom Silvius dropped his eyes suddenly as though he blamed himself for
being surprised into staring at a woman’s face.
“The grace of Our Lady to you, Sister,” he said. “I was in doubt whether
I should find you at home or no.”
Now Silvius was not a shred embarrassed, though he pretended to a kind
of saintly coyness. He had his eyes on the sandalled feet that showed
under the hem of the grey gown. They were very comely feet, with the
brown straps of the sandals contrasting with the nut brown of the skin,
and Dom Silvius was thinking how different these feet were with their
arched insteps and straight toes from the gouty and behumped members
that shuffled and progressed in the Abbey cloisters. Yet in looking at
Denise’s feet the almoner missed the first shadows of a tragedy.
Denise stood very still, her hood drawn forward, one hand holding the
edge of the door. The face under the hood expressed nothing, if despair
be nothing more than a pale, mute mask. Yet the eyes that looked at the
monk were the eyes of one whose blood was full of a spiritual fever.
“It is Dom Silvius?” she asked at last, and her voice sounded steady and
even tame.
Silvius folded his hands together, and raised his eyes to the level of
Denise’s knees.
“You may remember, my Sister, how I said that I might ride this way
again.”
She was silent, as though absorbed by some memory that pervaded all her
consciousness. Silvius’s eyes climbed a little higher and rested upon
her bosom.
“We did not agree then, Sancta Denise. It may be that you still love the
life in the wilderness. The winter is past with us, for which God be
thanked; you will have summer here, and the woods are pleasant in
summer. Perhaps you have your birds to feed. The fruit promises well. I
am never one for importunities.”
He spoke like a man who had rushed too quickly towards the point aimed
at, and who covered up his retreat with irrelevancies. For Dom Silvius
felt that his wisdom had slipped for the once, and that he should have
begun with a digression. Women like love tokens hidden in a posy of
flowers, and passion pledged in a song. But Denise’s directness saved
Silvius from tracking her whims through a maze.
“Your words have been with me,” she said.
Her voice surprised him, so much so that he looked up sharply into her
face. The hood was drawn, but an immovable mute pallor, a kind of
deadness, struck on Silvius’s eyes like the whiteness of a whitened
wall.
“I am not unthankful for that, Sister.”
“And you are of the same mind?”
“What God and the Church offer is ever an offer,” he said, dropping his
eyes again, and finding his intuition in touch with something that was
invisible, and yet to be felt.
He heard Denise draw her breath in deeply.
“Sometimes we seem wise, sometimes foolish,” she said. “Life teaches the
heart many things. You offer me some such place as this to lodge in? And
that I shall be alone?”
Silvius threw aside vague conjectures, to seize the prize he had long
coveted.
“It is a sweet place,” said he. “With a garden, and fruit trees, and a
croft below it. The garden has a good quick hedge all about it. As to
the flesh, your soul shall be as Solomon’s lily, Sanctissima. We have no
ritual for those whose eyes see into Paradise.”
So as the great purple cloud shadows drifted over the young green of the
beech wood, and the sun shone forth with moments of gold, Dom Silvius
warmed with his own words, and in his kindling never so much as saw that
Denise listened like one who struggled against some inward anguish. What
light and shade were there over her own soul as Silvius put his visions
into his voice? The monk thought her calm and sensible, a little cold
perhaps, but then the snow of her chastity would make her that. Silvius
was no coarse colourist, no noisy twanger of strings. There should be
mysticism, aloofness, a play of pearly light about such a part. His
exultation burnt delicate flattery. For Silvius knew that many sacred
souls loved their sanctity as a gay quean loves her clothes. How many
Magdalenes were there who dreamt of being seen while they washed the
feet of God and the Saints! And Silvius wished to lead this child of the
Miraculous Heart so that she should walk in a path of his own
conceiving, a sweet saint who should draw the country, aye far
countrysides, as the moon draws the sea. The coming of Denise to the
bounds of Battle should be as the coming of the Bride to the Church of
God. It should be a pageant, and a poem. For in those days pageantry
preached to the people, and through the eyes the heart was persuaded.
Denise heard him, like one very weary, one who listens because there is
no escape. And in good season Silvius had the wit to see that he had
pressed wine enough for the day. Denise had given him her promise, and
he took his leave of her with sweetness, and all reverence, putting
himself beneath her, and speaking of her wishes as commands.
“Would their most blessed Sister take up her new cell soon?”
Denise leant her weight against the door, feeling that if she were not
rid of Silvius she would drop at his feet and weep.
“Before the moon is full,” she answered.
And the monk mounted his horse, and rode away like one who has received
a pallium, dreaming miraculous dreams, and beholding innumerable
pilgrims, peasant and prince, knight and lady, riding and journeying
towards Senlac over hill and dale.
As for Denise she stood at the door of her cell long after Silvius had
left her, as though she lacked even the power to move. What help was
there, what other means should she devise? This cell of stone had become
a den of evil dreams for her; the tenderness and mystery had fled. She
had no heart to live there any longer, no heart to meet those who had
knelt to her before this thing had happened.