When the note reached Matilda, telling of his decision to become a
Benedictine monk, and imploring her to forget him and to wed Richard
Meryl, who was far worthier of her than he, her tears flowed, not at
her own loss, for that she had long since schooled herself to bear, but
at the people's loss in their leader.
Robert Annys, her Robert Annys, a Benedictine! Impossible! How often in
the sweet days of their companionship had he railed bitterly against
those so-called Christians that buried their noses in ponderous tomes
of Meditations on the Future Life, while Satan grimly did his work on
the life going on about him. How his impatience had flashed out against
those that shut their eyes to Christ's true mission in the world, and
continued in the even tenor of their way within the sheltered cloister,
while without the cold north winds blew, and crops failed, and sheep
died by the hundred, and gaunt men looked into each other's eyes and
saw there, not hope and good-fellowship, but only hunger and despair
and a thirst for vengeance. What answer would such have ready--he
used to say--at the Tribunal of the Great Judge, when asked after the
workers of the world? Would their answers differ any from that made by
baron or bailiff, the same miserable palliation that trembled on the
lips of guilty Cain?
Robert Annys, her Robert Annys, a Benedictine! He who had always
translated religion into helpfulness, had he, then, after all, lowered
his colors and aligned himself with the good but impotent dreamers
of the earth? Now she regretted that her pride had let him go from
her without one plea for Piers. That would not have been a plea for
herself. And perhaps she could have saved him this defeat. Yet she
comforted herself with the thought that it could not last. Some
day--she hoped before he would take the vows of his order--some day,
amid the peace and calm of the cloisters, the voice of the down-trodden
people, his once-beloved, ever-beloved people, would reach him, and he
would fling off the cowl, to place himself again at their head.
For indeed their need of him was great. As the time drew near for the
march on to Blackheath, it was impossible to restrain their impatience.
Everywhere slumbered fires that needed but a puff to burst into
instant flame. Here it was a quarrel of long standing with an abbey
for the right to grind one's own corn; there it was the insolence of a
poll-tax collector; again it was a bailiff seeking a runaway serf: any
pretext served to fan the smouldering embers. Matilda was too loyal a
pupil of Robert Annys not to watch anxiously the constantly increasing
outbursts of violence. She knew how much depended on the orderliness
and self-control of those who were to demand their freedom of their
King.
During these days she prayed much, and pored for long hours at a time
over her Bible. Whatever unhappiness her love for Robert Annys had
caused her, at least it had brought her the joy of reading for herself
in the Wonderful Book. It was everything to her, her one beloved
companion, for now she lived utterly alone. Her grandmother was no
more. When Rose went from her, she became a helpless paralytic, only
speaking a minute before her death, when she uttered some wild curses
in which two generations of de Leauforts--uncle and nephew--were
strangely blended. Meryl had not yet returned from his mission. Matilda
lived in a blessed companionship with her Saviour, sharing in every
act of His life, letting every precious word that had fallen from
His lips sink deeply into her heart. It was a marvellous experience,
which broadened and developed her receptive nature. She burned with a
passionate desire to make His Presence real to those about her. She
resolved to take up that part of Robert's work--the bringing of the
Gospel to the people. There could be no greater service on earth, and
there was comfort in the consciousness of continuing _his_ work. She
was sure the people needed no other guidance than the Bible in their
hands. For what knew the untutored peasant girl of history, of the
slow, painful steps by which Christianity was won for the world? of the
contamination in the very forces that it conquered? She knew only the
beautiful simplicity of Christ's mandates, and felt a growing horror
for the intricacies of ritualistic worship. What knew she of Donations
of Constantine, of the slow, steady growth of the temporal dominions of
the Papacy? She filled her heart to overflowing with His words of peace
and charity, and gazed with growing scorn at the bickerings and warfare
waged by the Head of Holy Church.
She knew that in Rome there stood the Church of St. Peter's. It had
twenty-nine steps leading up to its doors. When you go up or down,
if you say a prayer, you shall have seven years' pardon for every
step. Inside there are seven principal altars. At each of these you
can obtain seven years' pardon. At the high altar pardon is given for
twenty years. If you time your visit between Maunday and Lammas, you
obtain fourteen thousand years' pardon. What could this all mean to
her? What knew she of the need to encourage pilgrimages to Rome, to
fasten the eyes of the world upon it? What knew she of the magnificent
statesmanship that could hold the Holy City in the imagination of
all--believer and pagan alike--glorious, impregnable, supreme?
She knew only that Jesus granted absolution through much suffering
and great faith, a real change of heart. A small detail which, in the
calculation of the shrewd Pope, had been relegated to comparative
unimportance.
So, in the same way, she looked about her on the condition of the
serfs, and saw nothing of the slow upbuilding of the feudal system, of
the service that once had meaning, but only the apostolic equality of
all men and the nobility of labor.
All men were created in the image of God, and she wanted to see all men
free and equal. Nevertheless, she had a horror of violence. She was
fearful of the spectre of the wild beast that stalked ever behind the
noble purposes of the Uprising.
Once she encountered some men riotously returning from the sacking of
the house of the collector of the latest poll-tax. Some staggered under
the weight of the valuables which they had carried off, while others
staggered under the strong wines which they had poured down their
throats. Her quick indignation was aroused.
"Thieves! Robbers! Despoilers! How can ye so bring disgrace on the
Great Society!"