Hereward, the Last of the English by Charles Kingsley (i am reading a book .TXT) 📖

But more. The virtues of St. Waltheof were too great not to turn themselves, or be turned, to some practical use. So if not in the days of Ingulf, at least in those of Abbot Joffrid who came after him, St. Waltheof began, says Peter of Blois, to work wonderful deeds. “The blind received their sight, the deaf their hearing, the lame their power of walking, and the dumb their power of speech; while each day troops innumerable of other sick persons were arriving by every road, as to the very fountain of their safety, ... and by the offerings of the pilgrims who came flocking in from every part, the revenues of the monastery were increased in no small degree.”

Only one wicked Norman monk of St. Alban’s, Audwin by name, dared to dispute the sanctity of the martyr, calling him a wicked traitor who had met with his deserts. In vain did Abbot Joffrid, himself a Norman from St. Evroult, expostulate with the inconvenient blasphemer. He launched out into invective beyond measure; till on the spot, in presence of the said father, he was seized with such a stomach-ache, that he went home to St. Alban’s, and died in a few days; after which all went well with Crowland, and the Norman monks who worked the English martyr to get money out of the English whom they had enslaved.

And yet,—so strangely mingled for good and evil are the works of men,—that lying brotherhood of Crowland set up, in those very days, for pure love of learning and of teaching learning, a little school of letters in a poor town hard by, which became, under their auspices, the University of Cambridge.

So the bells of Crowland were restored, more melodious than ever; and Richard of Rulos doubtless had his share in their restoration. And that day they were ringing with a will, and for a good reason; for that day had come the news, that Henry Plantagenet was crowned king of England.

“‘Lord,’” said the good old knight, “‘now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ This day, at last, he sees an English king head the English people.”

“God grant,” said the old lady, “that he may be such a lord to England as thou hast been to Bourne.”

“If he will be,—and better far will he be, by God’s grace, from what I hear of him, than ever I have been,—he must learn that which I learnt from thee,—to understand these Englishmen, and know what stout and trusty prudhommes they are all, down to the meanest serf, when once one can humor their sturdy independent tempers.”

“And he must learn, too, the lesson which thou didst teach me, when I would have had thee, in the pride of youth, put on the magic armor of my ancestors, and win me fame in every tournament and battle-field. Blessed be the day when Richard of Rulos said to me, ‘If others dare to be men of war, I dare more; for I dare to be a man of peace. Have patience with me, and I will win for thee and for myself a renown more lasting, before God and man, than ever was won with lance!’ Do you remember those words, Richard mine?”

The old man leant his head upon his hands. “It may be that not those words, but the deeds which God has caused to follow them, may, by Christ’s merits, bring us a short purgatory and a long heaven.”

“Amen. Only whatever grief we may endure in the next life for our sins, may we endure it as we have the griefs of this life, hand in hand.”

“Amen, Torfrida. There is one thing more to do before we die. The tomb in Crowland. Ever since the fire blackened it, it has seemed to me too poor and mean to cover the dust which once held two such noble souls. Let us send over to Normandy for fair white stone of Caen, and let carve a tomb worthy of thy grandparents.”

“And what shall we write thereon?”

“What but that which is there already? ‘Here lies the last of the English.’”

“Not so. We will write,—‘Here lies the last of the old English.’ But upon thy tomb, when thy time comes, the monks of Crowland shall write,—‘Here lies the first of the new English; who, by the inspiration of God, began to drain the Fens.’”