With his friends, Richard and Matilda, Annys continued the same frank
intercourse, entirely ignorant of what had taken place between them.
Yet there were others besides Richard Meryl who had eyes to read
Matilda's secret. Some there were that thought it a pity to see the
unselfish devotion of a lifetime go so ill rewarded. For it was a
question how the Westels could have lived had it not been that young
Meryl had worked their tiny tenure of land, and rendered service in
their stead, giving his lord two days' ploughing for himself and two
for them, and in the same way doubling his days of sowing and reaping,
digging and carting, that the women might keep their modest holding.
In this Matilda had given him such help as had been in her power;
nevertheless to her and hers he had been father, son, brother, lover,
and day laborer, all in one. Others there were that, holding Matilda to
be the ideal poor priest's wife, saw in it the hand of God.
Among those that read Matilda's heart was her cousin, Rose Westel, she
whose mother had thrown herself in her despair into the moat of Ely
Castle. She had never encountered the poor priest. She was not fond of
long, sanctimonious faces. It was just like Matilda, she thought, to
fall in love with a russet cloth saint.
As Rose was about to start off one afternoon to her favorite haunt in
the woods, where she could indulge in her day-dreams and for a brief
space at least forget a reality that she hated, her grandmother stopped
her.
"Why dost not stay at home and read the Scriptures with us?" she asked.
The girl turned and laughed merrily. "Oh, grandmother, for shame! Hast
not said again and again that I am selfish and tread ever upon the
feelings of others? And wouldst now have me interfere with Matilda and
her devoted priest? Nay, then, 'twould be too cruel to come between
them when they make such beautiful love over their 'Thus saith the
Lords,' and their 'Holy, Holy, Holies.'"
Matilda sprang up with cheeks all aflame and fled into the house,
vowing that she would never forgive her, never, never. But the old dame
only chuckled slyly, in a manner that took away all the sting from the
harsh words that she flung after Rose.
"Get thee gone, thou hussy! Get thee gone! Thou art fit only for saucy
flings and idle noonings. Get thee gone before thy cousin's head is
filled with the nonsense that is in thine empty pate!"
And when the girl had gone, she kept mumbling to herself with twinkling
eyes, "_The hussy!_ To take a priest and maid at Holy Scriptures and
call it love-making!"
During the lesson that followed, Matilda for the first time was a dull
pupil. Her grandmother, for a wonder, did not chide her for being so
careless. Her sharp eyes had read the cause of the girl's confusion.
"Art tired, dear Matilda?" asked Annys kindly, seeing her hesitate over
a simple word. "Thou art not thy usual quick self to-day."
For answer the girl burst into tears and sped quickly away.
"Heed not the lass," began the old woman, "she is not herself to-day.
It seems that she and Richard have had a falling out, for after all
these years that he has wooed her, she will have none of him. Yet he is
a likely-looking chap, too, and I have scraped and pinched and at last
laid by enough to pay the fine."
"What! Matilda not wed Richard!" exclaimed Annys, astounded. "It's
impossible! Sure, 'tis but some lover's quarrel that soon will be
made up. Or else," he suggested, "belike she cares not to leave her
grandmother."
Now who can tell what arouses the humors of old folk? Surely a smooth
enough word, and kindly enough meant, yet the old woman sprang up
with a red spot on either cheek, and cried harshly, "Hoity-toity,
hoity-toity, Sir Poor Priest, indeed, indeed! And what should such a
fine wench do but marry, quotha! Nay, nay, let not such foolish maggots
get into the child's head."
Annys could not bring himself to believe that Matilda had refused to
wed Richard Meryl. The two friends were as good as married in his eyes,
for he could not think of one without the other. Surely some foolish
lovers' quarrel must be at the bottom of it. So he took leave of the
old woman and sought out Richard, bent upon being a peacemaker, and
bringing the two together again.
He found his friend in the fields, up to his knees in a trench which he
was digging. Richard laughed.
"How came you to think we were lovers?" he asked. He spoke carelessly,
but the veins over his forehead stood out like whip-cords and his
great fists circled the spade handle so that the knuckles shone like
polished wood.
"Dost mean to tell me thou hast no idea of wedding Matilda Westel?"
asked Annys, in astonishment.
Richard shrugged his huge shoulders. "Nay, there is a clear field for
thee, hast thou the mind to."
"Why, man, no sweeter woman draws breath."
The other drew a long breath between his clenched teeth.
"So says every swain of his sweetheart."
The words were indifferent, but the thick handle of the spade snapped
in two.
Annys looked at it in surprise.
"'Twas cracked yestere'en," stammered Meryl, hastily looking down on it
in some confusion.
For an instant the two men looked steadily into each other's eyes.
"I wot not how it is with thee," at last began Annys, gravely. "I had
given my life that thou didst love the maid. I never looked on her
sweet, gentle face that I did not see it in fancy bending over thy
child's cradle. She was so wholly thine to me, that until this very day
I wist not how dear she was to me."
His friend grasped his hand. "Ay, Robert Annys, I cannot deceive thee.
I had thought rather to see any other man dead than that he should
possess her. Yet she loves thee, and the power to make her happy hath
passed from me to thee. Only," he added, with a touch of sternness in
his face, "only see that thou dost make her happy."
"Happy!" he said, "she will be happy if indeed it is as thou sayst and
I can make her so. But I am bewildered. I cannot understand it that
she should love me, and with thee before her. Thou art better favored
than I, thou art younger and stronger. It cannot be; nay, there is some
mistake."
"I tell thee there is no mistake. She loves thee."
"Did she tell you so?"
"Yea, that she did."
Then a hundred little scenes rushed back to him, her eyes fastened on
his face, her interest in his work, her eager greeting on his return,
all lived again for him for a brief moment. And now he knew.
"I am still dazed," he said. "I can scarce credit it, but I think it is
true."
Then the thought of his friend's grief came to him.
"Ah, would that this had not come to thee, Richard, my lad. Would I
could undo what I have wrought, even that I had never seen thee both."
"Nay, nay, say not that!" broke out Meryl, with strong pain in his
voice. "Nay, it is worth all to have called thee friend. Sure there is
a tie between man and man that may be stronger than that between man
and maid."
"Ah well," sighed Annys, laying one hand tenderly on the young man's
shoulder, "mayhap 'tis the Cross thou must bear for Christ's sake. For
surely with such a woman by my side, it will be given me to prove that
a wedded priest need not be taken up with worldly matters and thoughts
of the flesh. Indeed, I shall be perfected in the work of the Lord.
With her help I shall be a more useful servant to my people, a kindlier
comforter and a wiser adviser. Indeed, I promise thee that she will be
to me as a direct gift from God."