The messenger who had brought the packet of letters—for there were others besides that of Tyndale's—would stay the night, of course, and Miles determined to ride back with him to London, for he was anxious to see his friend once more before he left England. So, by daybreak, the little party were in their saddles—Cicely and Margery standing in the porch to bid Miles farewell.
He found the scholarly priest bending over his books in the little turret-room, and the two friends eagerly grasped hands, and then silently looked into each other's eyes to see what change time had made in them since they last met.
"You have grown in knowledge, my friend," said Tyndale, with a closer clasp on the hand.
"Yes," said Miles, with something of a sigh.
"All growth must be through pain and disappointment of some sort," remarked Tyndale. "I used to think when I was at Sodbury Hall that if I could only be in a fair way to set about my life's work I should be fully content, and now—"
"But tell me—you have not failed in this endeavour?" said Sir Miles, in an anxious tone.
"Nay, nay, I have not failed. I have not put my hand to this Gospel plough to look back and regret it. Nay, nay, but the ploughing is hard sometimes; still, I have worked on," and, as he spoke, he took out of an oak-chest a goodly pile of clearly-written sheets of manuscript.
The sight of them filled Miles with joy. "They are beautiful," he said, in a tone of eager appreciation, as he took them in his hand, and ran his eye over the clearly-written pages. "Oh, I would that they could be printed here in London," he added.
But Tyndale shook his head. "It would not do," he said; "your most magnificent Cardinal has set his heart, I hear, on reforming the Church, but he would not approve of its being done in this way. He would cut down some of its abuses that he might fasten the power of the Pope more securely round our necks. That is not the reformation we desire, Sir Miles."
"No, indeed; but the Cardinal would not object so much to the Scriptures being given to the people if—"
"My friend the Cardinal knows that if once the people can read the Scriptures for themselves, there will be an end of his luxury, pomp, and power; and think you such a vain, conceited prelate as this Wolsey would be willing to yield these delights? Nay, nay, my friend, I must carry my treasure across the seas, to be beyond the power of this man, and that with as little delay as possible; for it has come to my knowledge of late that he has many spies in his service."
"But there is nothing in the New Testament half so bitter against the abuses and hypocrisy of the Church as there is in the books of Erasmus, and the Cardinal commends them to the notice of all his friends. I read 'The Praise of Folly' and the 'Colloquies' because the Cardinal told me I ought to do so," said Sir Miles, eagerly.
"Yes, yes; it is the fashion to read Erasmus, and abuse the monks just now. But to read the New Testament is to lead the soul of man to God Himself, without the intervention of priest or penance, and that is why all priests will hate it at first, for it cuts at the root of all their pretensions. Erasmus has done good service; he has been pulling clown the Church by his 'Praise of Folly;' but by means of his New Testament he has taught some of us to see that there must be building up as well as pulling down. Having cleared away the rubbish, we must see that we build on a firm foundation, even on the Word of God, for the future, and not as it has been in the past. I want to see such a reformation here as they are having in Germany under the monk Luther," concluded Tyndale.
"We want an English Reformation," said Miles, seriously; "but whether it would be wiser to take the German for our pattern I know not yet. God will show us the way, doubtless, as we go on," said Miles.
But Tyndale shook his head at his friend's caution, although he did not openly dissent from it. It was, however, his turn to listen to his friend's troubles and disappointments now, for Miles was deeply disappointed that his tenants were so slow to adopt improvements in the building of their houses and barns, and the cultivation of the land.
"They are all willing enough to grow corn, and turn the sheep off the land, but they must do it as their fathers did generations ago. They do not believe in digging deeply into the soil, and working on the land during the winter for the sake of getting a better harvest the next summer. The old English sports have always held their own in our part of the country, and it is hard to persuade our peasants that the winter is not to be wholly given to sport when the weather does not make it quite impossible."
"Old customs die hard," said Tyndale, but the matter was of small interest to him, and he wondered how Sir Miles could interest himself in such small things as these.
But Sir Miles was not slow to see that his troubles could not touch his student friend, and so he wisely left off complaining, and they both turned with eagerness to discuss their plans for the printing of the New Testament; for Sir Miles had brought a sum of money with him, which he insisted should be his share in the venture; and as Tyndale had set his heart upon going to Hamburg first, it was settled that as soon as a ship was known to be going to that port from London, Monmouth should secure a passage for him, that he might start on his journey without delay.
SIR MILES PATON went to Greenwich, after his visit to "The Golden Fleece," for he had letters and messages from his wife for her mother, father, and sisters, and he wanted Sir Harry Guildford to let him take back one of his younger daughters to spend the summer with Cicely, for it was not deemed prudent that she should visit her home for a year or two. By-and-bye, when the whole affair of her having renounced a conventual life had been forgotten, she would be able to come as Lady Paton with little difficulty, but to come just now might bring her father into trouble with the Queen.
So after some discussion, it was arranged that Maud should ride back with Sir Miles, to see her sister as a happy wife and mistress, instead of a nun, as they had thought at one time that she would be.
Whether the story of Cicely's death was fully believed by the Queen, Sir Harry did not know. She had treated him with some coolness since that time, but had never mentioned Cicely's name; and, of course, it would have been a breach of all etiquette for him to bring it forward—even if she had been killed in the streets of Oxford—as the sisters of the Convent reported she was.
He did not pay a very long visit to his father-in-law; but after arranging to meet Maud on a certain day at the pier at Westminster, he went there by boat, for he wanted to see some of his friends in the household of the Cardinal; and he also desired to see the Cardinal himself, if it was possible, and apologise in person for having to quit his service so suddenly.
It was pleasant to be in the stir and bustle of life in London once more; and for a day or two Sir Miles was quite content to be back in his old quarters, and among his old friends, especially as the Cardinal received him so cordially.
But after a few days, he began to grow weary of the talk about the war with France, and the efforts the Cardinal was making to incline the King towards a policy of peace—not that he openly advocated this to the King or to any one else—but his secretaries knew what was intended, and why the increased supply of corn, needed from the Low Countries, always seemed a source of vexation to their master.
This question of the corn supply did interest him for a little while, and he resolved to spare no pains to get as much as he could off his land, for he heard on all aides that corn was fetching such a high price now, that he thought he might induce some of his neighbours to give up the sheep farming and return to the old system.
At last the day arrived when he was to meet Maud Guildford and her father. He took Maud to stay for the night with Dame Monmouth, at "The Golden Fleece," that they might start on their journey at daybreak. He also wanted to hear whether Master Tyndale had sailed for Hamburg.
It was a still greater pleasure when, after a rather wearisome journey of several days, Paton Hall was reached, and his darling wife came out with his sister to meet them.
It was the happiest homecoming he ever remembered, and the meeting of Maud and Cicely was very pleasant to witness, and quite repaid him for all the additional trouble caused by bringing a young girl such a long journey.
The summer of that year, 1524, was a busy one on the Paton estate; and the blacksmith, Diccon, and his men, were at the forge from morning till night, making new implements, or repairing old ones; for the energy of Sir Miles seemed to have entered into his tenants, and the village workpeople too, for all alike seemed eager to make the utmost of the land that had been brought into cultivation once more.
The fence round the "Haugh," that had kept off the village sheep and cows from grazing, had been taken down, and this alone had evoked such a burst of thankfulness from the peasants, that in their gratitude they promised to do anything and everything their master desired, and then drank themselves helpless at the village alehouse, as they felt bound to do, being Englishmen.
As much of the pasture-land as could be sown with wheat, rye, and barley, was brought into cultivation again, and the sheep still further reduced in number, by being transferred to the villagers, as they could buy them with their labour. Several farms had been let on the old rental to the old tenants or their sons—Miles stipulating that the old people should be provided for by the young farmer, if the hard life of the woods had made them incapable of work for themselves.
There had to be a good deal of self-denial on the part of the people as well as their master, for their life in the woods had brought on habits of laziness and shiftlessness that was not easy to break through, especially among the young men and women; and to these the daily recurring round of toil in the fields, or in building the cottages or barns, grew irksome, and they sometimes felt tempted to go off to the woods,—with its plenty one day, and starvation for a week afterwards,—rather than this steady, plodding work that, as yet, brought them no result beyond regular, frugal meals and a shelter.
But when the harvest time came, and one neighbour could tell another that his land had produced more than ever it did in the old days, there was universal rejoicing, and Sir Miles felt repaid for all his trouble in the altered appearance of everything and everybody around him.
It may be that some of them thought that with a plentiful harvest they might spend most of the winter in the old sports again, but, if they did, they were quickly undeceived; for, at the Harvest Home supper, when master and men sat down together, he told them frankly that they must work on the land, or on the finishing of their houses and barns during the winter, and in the bad weather come to the weaving-house, which was just being finished, close to his own kitchen door.
Then he explained that the wool he had in store had been sent to be cleaned, and would be returned to him almost immediately; and the women and girls must learn to spin this on their wheels, and a Flemish weaver was coming to stay during the winter to teach them the art and craft of weaving this thread into cloth, which they were in great need of, to make new doublets, and petticoats, and bed coverings.
A few of the younger men shook their heads vigorously at each other over this proposal, but Sir Miles had an unanswerable argument to meet all their objections. If they did not like the conditions upon which alone he would grant them the use of his land as tenants, they could leave it. But he had been so convinced that half the poverty and wretchedness of the poor had been brought about by their own thriftless habits that he was determined to alter this on his land. He, or she, who was able to work, and would not, should not eat, whether winter or summer. So the choice lay before them now, and they must decide within the next seven days whether they would stay and pledge themselves to work at least six hours every day during the winter, or give up their houses to those who would gladly accept such conditions to escape from the life of a thief or beggar.
They knew only too well that there were plenty waiting to take their place if they should fail to satisfy their master; but they were not disposed to rebel or think the conditions hard when they heard that six hours a day would only be required of them for work, and that the rest of the time they might do as they pleased; and so, before the seven days expired, everyone had pledged himself to work the required time each day, or ask leave to give additional labour one day for extra time for sport another.
Miles had also formed another project, but he did not venture to speak of this just now, for he saw more and more the need of caution, and so he did not say a word about wishing them to learn to read, though this was the next innovation he intended to introduce.
Margery and Cicely, too, had their plans about this, and they had already bought all the hornbooks a pedlar carried in his pack, and had asked him to bring some more the next time he came that way, for they had made up their minds to teach some of the girls of the village to read, as well as their own house-servants, in readiness for the time when the New Testament should be printed and sent over from the Continent.
Sir Miles had received one letter from Master William Tyndale, who was still working at his translation, with the help of his assistant, the monk who had left the priory at Greenwich. He was useful in many ways, he wrote, and a cheerful companion, who would be of still greater service when the sheets were being printed. He intended to go to Wittenberg to see Luther, and perhaps he would get the printing done there; but he had not settled upon this point just now. Sir Miles was greatly cheered by this letter, for Tyndale wrote altogether more hopefully of the final success of his project, about which he seemed to be in grave doubt when he went away. The letter had been some months reaching him, but was none the less welcome on that account.
This, and the success that had crowned his efforts for the benefit of his own people, made Miles almost a boy again in his light-hearted gladness, and, instead of sending his steward to buy the plenishings of salt and other household commodities at Oxford Fair, he proposed to go himself, of course taking servants with him, and sumpter mules to carry the baggage that he hoped to bring back.
Staid man that he had grown since the day when he joined in the fight of "Grecians" against "Trojans," he was still young enough to feel elated, and join the rushing students as they tore about the fair-ground from one point to another, and still using the same old battle-cry of "A Grecian! a Grecian!" But he noticed that there were fewer now to take up the answering shout, and the few "Trojans" had to bear the jokes and jibes now without retaliating with sticks and cudgels as before.
Sir Miles smiled and nodded, and gave liberally to every begging student that he met; for had he not begged in the streets of Oxford himself, to eke out the little he could earn by his translation.
There was a certain delight in elbowing his way through the crowd from point to point, before he began the serious business of making his purchases of the various pedlars and hucksters, when he was touched on the shoulder by a pedlar, whom he recognised at once as having been to Paton Hall twice during the previous summer with his pack.
"Ah! I have seen you before," he said, by way of greeting.
The man bowed. "You are Sir Miles Paton, of Paton Hall," he said.
"Yes, what then?" said Miles, somewhat impatiently.
"I have been entrusted with a package to deliver to you from one Master Humphrey Monmouth, a merchant of London."
"A package for me?" said Sir Miles. "I suppose my wife hath sent to him for naperies for the household?"
"Nay, it is not naperies, but books," whispered the man; and then he said, in a still lower tone, "it is a dangerous cargo, master, and I would that you took it off my hands without delay," and, as he spoke, the man lifted the corner of a bale of cloth on his mule's back, and disclosed a square package. "It comes from beyond sea," said the man, "and must in no wise be opened here in the fair. Will you call a servant to convey it to a place of safety? I have brought it straight from London with my cloth."
"Give it to me," said Sir Miles; "I am going to see a friend, and will take it with me." The parcel was both heavy and bulky, but it was securely fastened out of the sight of prying eyes, and it was the usual thing to see parcels carried from the fair.
So Miles hurried with his treasure to the rooms of Master Clark, and together they unfastened it. The sight made them almost speechless for joy at first, for there were three copies of the Gospels of St. Matthew and St. Mark, printed in clear English type.
Of course it had come from Master William Tyndale, and was the first-fruits of his labours in the translation of the whole Testament.
It had been printed at Hamburg, and sent across the sea to "The Sign of the Golden Fleece," and Master Monmouth had sent on these three copies and a letter he had received from Tyndale, telling him how he had fared, and asking for some money that had been left in the charge of the merchant when he left London.
But the letter was almost overlooked for the present in the delight of seeing and reading the actual words of the Lord Jesus Christ plainly printed in English. Although the two friends had talked of this again and again, yet now that it was really before them, it seemed almost too wonderful to be realised.
"The coming of the New Testament of Master Erasmus was as the dawn of a new day to England, though it was in Greek; but this—this English Gospel, that every matron and maiden can read for herself, is the sun in its noon-day splendour for our Merry England," said Master Clark, and he actually hugged the book to his breast as he spoke.
Sir Miles kissed it as reverently as he used to kiss the crucifix at his mother's knee; and then, having yielded to the first feelings of joy, the two men each sat down with a copy of the book, and began to read it critically and carefully—for both were able to do this, being excellent Greek and Latin scholars; and as they read they could only wonder the more at the purity of the diction, and the excellence of the grand, yet simple Saxon language that had been used by the translator to make the Word of God known to his readers.
Of course after this the fair had lost its charms for Sir Miles, and he was only eager to complete his purchases, and carry home his treasure for his wife and sister to see.
One of the three copies he gave to Master Clark, but bade him be careful to whom he showed it, for as yet it was by no means certain how the Cardinal would take this matter; and so, until the whole of the New Testament was received in England, it would be the duty of all to keep the matter to themselves, lest the translator should be hindered in his work.
As soon as the plenishings could be got together, Sir Miles set out on his return, and reached home several days before his wife and sister expected him.
THE sight of the Gospels printed in English, made Margery Paton more eager than ever to teach some of the girls and boys of the village to read. There had been a school at the Monastery, where one or two of the monks undertook the task of teaching those who liked to come and learn; but it was closed when the tenants left their holdings, and the brethren did not seem disposed to re-open it again, although Sir Miles and his wife had both asked if it could not be done, now that so many had returned.
It may have been that the monks thought their school might only be turned against them, if this new learning spread much further. At any rate they declined to move in the matter, and so Mistress Margery Paton undertook the task, and by the end of that winter of 1524-5, nearly a dozen of the elder boys and girls were able to read from the New Testament for themselves. Margery wanted to lend one of the copies her brother had brought from Oxford, among her scholars, that they might take it home and read it to their parents. But her brother thought it would not do to press this part of their work too rapidly. It was enough to teach them to understand what they themselves read, and to make them see that it was a book whose teaching must be put into practice in their every day life.
And Margery tried to show them what to choose, and what to reject from the Mass book, which was used at the Monastery, and by the Church all over the land.
Altogether it was a very busy season, both indoors and out; for when the weather permitted, there was work on the land to be done, to bring more into cultivation; and when this could not be done, there was work on the houses,—strengthening the walls with baulks of timber to support a properly thatched roof, and make the whole wind and water tight in the face of any storm. Then there was the weaving for those who had the aptitude for this work. The craftsman, who had been sent over from Ghent by the Cardinal's agent, was a man who could build a loom as well as use one; and having brought one with him for a pattern, he soon set the men to work to fashion the frames of others, that more workmen might be employed in weaving, when they had once mastered the difficulties of learning.
The Cardinal himself took a great interest in this experiment, and had offered to bear the cost of the trial if it should prove a failure; for the workman from Flanders asked a high rate of remuneration, being a skilful workman.
But before the close of the winter, Sir Miles felt assured that the attempt would prove very successful in the course of another year; and that, from doing their own shearing, they would be able to carry through every process in the manufacture of the cloth, and without actual waste either; for the learners' efforts, if not fit for clothing, could be used for bed-covering for the old and feeble.
So, here in the heart of England, was a self-dependent, self-supporting little colony of working folk, trying to better their condition by using the means close at hand; and if More's Utopia was not realised, as Sir Miles often felt it was not by a very long way, still, he thought he had set the feet of these people on the first rung of the ladder towards its attainment, and he could scarcely hope to do more, and must not attempt too much at once.
The following summer proved a terrible one for the nation at large. Pestilence and famine stalked through the land, as the inevitable result of the policy of the landlords. Corn had to be brought from the Continent, and sold for almost fabulous prices, so great was the demand for it, and so short was the supply.
This state of things forced Miles to take a step he never dreamed of doing when he set about bringing the land into cultivation again.
The news that they had had a plentiful harvest, brought them customers for more rye and wheat than they could possibly spare, so that at last he had to refuse to sell a peck of wheat, even for its weight in gold, for fear his own tenants should want it before the next harvest came round.
Then came rumours of a deadly sickness, known as "the Black Death." Some said it had been brought over from France by some of the troops who had returned from the war. But, however it came, it spread with awful rapidity through the length and breadth of the land. The poor creatures, who had been driven from their holdings to find shelter in the woods, were its first victims; for hunger and exposure had enfeebled them, and they died at the first touch of the plague. In their selfish panic to escape, their companions left them to lie unburied, and thus spread the contagion through the air tenfold, so that towns and villages were almost depopulated in the course of a few weeks.
In the midst of the sickness Cicely's first baby was born, but mother and child were unaffected by the sickness around, which was in part due to the fact that in his anxiety to keep out all contamination, Sir Miles had banished rushes from the floors of the house, and even the arras was pulled down from the walls of the chamber where Lady Paton lay when her baby came. This was one of the secondary causes; but the chief was doubtless the fact that Cicely had learned to trust in the loving care of God, who ruled her life and that of her husband too.
"For your sake I hope the sickness will not come near me," she said to him one day; "but if it should, I know it will be because our Father in heaven sees that you can work for Him better without me than with me."
"Hush, hush, my darling," said Miles imploringly; and when he was compelled to go out among the plague-stricken people, he would not go near the room where his wife and child lay, until he had changed his clothes and washed himself, in a fashion that few Englishmen did at that time.
By the time the pestilence was over, so many rules as to cleanliness had been adopted at Paton Hall and the surrounding village, that it was scarcely likely that master or peasants would ever quite relapse into the old state of dirt and accumulated filth again, especially when it became known that they had lost fewer people from the pestilence than any other place of a similar population.
They were just recovering from the panic caused by the plague, and had gathered in another plentiful harvest, when Sir Miles received a letter from London, that made him decide to go there later in the year.
Of course Lady Paton and Mistress Margery were taken into the confidence of Sir Miles as to his journey to London, just before Christmas; but the servants and tenants supposed that their master was going to have a little junketing at Court, for they knew the position that Lady Paton's father held, and they were not surprised that their master should go to visit his relatives at Greenwich, or that their mistress should stay at home, seeing she had a young baby to care for.
So Sir Miles and one trusty servant went to London, and took up their quarters at "The Sign of the Golden Fleece."
Here Sir Miles learned that the King had gone to spend his Christmas at Eltham, and so it would be useless to go to Greenwich; and he decided that Thames Street would suit best, for the business that had brought him to London, which, his servant learned, was to watch for the arrival of corn ships from the Low Country.
Sir Miles found the neighbourhood of Thames Street much more cheerful than any other part of the city, although his servant rather despised this neighbourhood of wharves and ships.
His master left him free to do as he liked, and as the curate of All Hallows in Honey Lane seemed to be sufficient attendance for his master, the servant left these two to themselves.
And so at last they were left to welcome the grandest cargo that had ever reached the English shores. The merchants and captains who had brought over this carefully-hidden store of English New Testaments were glad enough to get them out of their hands; and Sir Miles, and the rector and curate of All Hallows, were ready enough to do the work of actual labourers, and lift and haul the heavy packages, until all were stored in a place of safety.
A few parcels of napery had been put up at "The Golden Fleece" for him to take home; but the strong mules that had been bought to carry back his London purchases, carried New Testaments for the most part, and these were to be hidden in a secure hiding-place in his own house, until it should be seen what the authorities were likely to do when some of the copies were sold in the open market, as it was intended they should be. A good many London merchants were ready to take copies to sell privately among friends; for some of these who had been educated at Colet's school were heartily tired of the Church and its teaching as they knew it, and ready to risk something for the sake of a purer faith and worship. Many were not without hope that the King and Cardinal, too, would also favour the new departure. But whatever hopes were based on the Cardinal's remaining neutral—at least in this "Quarrel of Friars," that was bound to follow, sooner or later,—were very quickly dashed.
It had been arranged with Master Garrett, the curate of Honey Lane, that as soon as he had disposed of some of the books in London, he should take a parcel of them to Oxford, and also send a trusty messenger with some to Cambridge. The secret was therefore obliged to be entrusted to several people, and, as might have been expected, the Cardinal's spies soon scented it, and then went in search of the treasure. They managed to trace it to Master Garrett's house, but by that time he was at Oxford, and most of the books either securely hidden, or in the hands of those who would value such a treasure. There were, however, enough found for a bonfire to be made of them, and the Cardinal read enough to fill him with rage and disappointment, especially when he heard that the poison, as he chose to consider it, had been taken to Oxford—his own Oxford, where he had spared no pains to secure that learned and enlightened men should be gathered to teach in the halls of his own college.
No time was lost in sending the necessary authority to seize all who were known to be favourers of this onslaught upon the authority of the Church; and it may be imagined what the Cardinal's feelings were when he heard that Master Clark, John Fryth, and eight others of his own college had been arrested, and New Testaments found in their possession. Magdalen, Corpus Christi, and St. Mary's, all furnished a contingent to this noble army; but he heard to his chagrin that his own college had been a hot-bed of heresy for a long time. This filled the Cardinal with such rage that all were thrown into prison and treated with the utmost rigour. Sir Miles Paton heard of it, and rode in hot haste from Woodstock, hoping and believing he would be able to arouse a public display of feeling on behalf of the prisoners, such as he had seen that May-day at Westminster, so that the authorities would be compelled to release them.
But alas, his words only aroused little interest. A few shrugged their shoulders, and said they were very sorry; but public protest, such as an illegal tax would have raised, was out of the question.
He was almost heart-broken as he went about from one to the other, trying to enlist their sympathy, for he saw in this apathy of the people themselves, a sure precursor of the persecution of those who would dare to do the right in the face of King and Cardinal.
In vain he told them that the balance of English liberties trembled, and if the scale went down on the wrong side now—if they would not speak up for God and conscience now—so surely would they lose that civil liberty,—that right for which they had contended again and again in recent years.
But he might as well have preached to the dead. At the time of trial two only of the prisoners were released, and the rest sent back to their foul prison, where, in a few months, evil smells and want of food did their deadly work, and four of them died, Clark among the number.
Strong as he was, the Cardinal did not dare to go further in his persecution, even of priests, until he saw what the temper of the people at large was likely to be. He knew as well as his old secretary, that if the voice of the people made itself heard, he dare not persecute the servants of God; but they suffered these men to die in the prison without protest, and for a generation English liberty, civil and religious, was lost, and England passed through such a reign of terror under her despots as has not been equalled in Europe since, not even by that better known terror that desolated France a hundred years ago. She knew not the time of her visitation; she refused to listen to the voice of those who would have led her into the path of peace, liberty, and progress. She chose darkness rather than light, and only through the mighty struggles and sore sufferings of a few of her heroic children in after years, could she regain the treasure she allowed to slip through her nerveless fingers in this fateful year, 1526.
Sir Miles Paton returned to his home after his unavailing efforts to befriend the prisoners, almost wishing that his own work on earth was done. But he remembered there were those at home who would need his care more than ever now, and for their sakes he resolved to be cautious and keep his Testaments hidden for the present. He could guide his household and his tenants on the law of the new learning and the new commandment given by Christ, and with this he must be content for the present, he decided. And although the monks only half-believed in Sir Miles and Lady Paton being true to the Church, they could prove nothing against them, and Sir Miles was allowed to carry on his work at Woodstock until brighter days dawned.
Wolsey may have thought, when the last of these silent martyrs died in his pestiferous dungeons at Oxford, that he had made an end of this unauthorised attempt to circulate the Word of God, and reform the Church. If he did, he soon had cause to know that he was mistaken.
This fountain of the water of life,—the Word of God,—being once opened, could never again be closed. God's Holy Spirit had inspired Tyndale to devote his life to the perfecting of the translation of the Scriptures, and though he was hunted from city to city on the Continent,—where alone he could get his New Testaments printed,—still he always contrived to carry his treasure with him.
Edition after edition, thus revised and rendered into clearer English, was poured into the various ports of the kingdom; and though some of them fell into the hands of the Cardinal's spies, and were publicly burned, these burnings served to arouse the desire of the people to know more of this condemned book. And so the numerous copies that escaped the vigilance of the Cardinal's agents were eagerly sought for, and found their way into many a quiet English home, both in London and the country.
In this way the seed of the Word was sown broadcast through the land, and brought forth fruit in the hearts and lives of many who counted not their lives dear to them, but for the truth and liberty of the Gospel were ready to suffer for the sake of conscience, and the true English Reformation, of which Tyndale's New Testament was the corner stone.
Meanwhile social and political changes were slowly developing in a fashion that must have been bewildering to an onlooker, and many may have doubted whether England was being ruled by God or by Satan at that particular juncture. But we, looking back to this dark page of English history, can see that an all-wise Providence controlled and guided tyrant and victim alike, although it may have seemed that God had forgotten His people for a time.
ONE evening in the early spring of 1536, a party of travellers rode through the fields of St. Martin towards Westminster. There was a lady riding on a pillion behind her husband, and several men and maid servants, with one or two children mounted in a similar fashion, besides a couple of mules laden with stores and baggage for the whole party.
Passengers hurrying homeward to London or Westminster in the pleasant dusk of the evening glanced at the wayfarers; and one or two of these, seeing that the travellers were undoubtedly well-to-do country folk, who probably knew nothing of the dangers of the streets and suburbs of the city, with kindly solicitude for the children, called to suggest that they should hurry to their hostelry without delay. For swarms of desperate beggars crept out of their lurking places at sunset, to rob unwary travellers who had not been fortunate enough to gain a place of refuge before the rogues set upon them; and this party would fall an easy prey to a large gang of these roughs, thought the passers by.
The gentleman nodded pleasantly in acknowledgment of the warning. "Oh, I know the ways of the town, and the poor wretches who are a terror to all honest men," he said reassuringly to his wife. "I did not live with the great cardinal, in the palace yonder, without knowing something of the perils of the streets of London. Be content, sweetheart, we are close to our hostelry now; and to-morrow I hope we shall all be safely lodged under your father's roof at Greenwich."
It was more than ten years since Lady Paton had seen her old home in the royal town; and although her father and sister had been to visit her more than once, Lady Guildford had never been able to travel so far, and an unconquerable longing to see her mother once more had driven Lady Paton to face all the perils and discomforts of the journey from Woodstock, that she might bring her two elder children to see their grandmother, and the dear home and noble Park where so many of her happy days had been spent.
It had not been deemed advisable that she should visit Greenwich while Queen Catherine held her Court there; but since she had been compelled to leave her husband's roof, and men were ordered to speak of her as the dowager Princess of Wales, and she was no longer Queen, it was thought that Lady Paton's wish to visit her old home might now be gratified, without risk of danger either to herself or her friends. Thoughts of the terrible dangers she had incurred through her marriage were pressing upon the lady now as she jolted along on her pillion, and made her cling to her husband involuntarily for protection, not so much from the thieves and beggars of the road, as from that sense of intangible danger that had crept over her for the last hour or two.
Sir Miles bade his servants quicken their pace as he noticed how people were running to gain the shelter of the city gates before it grew dark; and he muttered under his breath, "things must have gone from bad to worse since I was here last."
It was with a feeling of intense relief that Sir Miles at length helped his wife down from her pillion at the door of the inn near Westminster Stairs; for the cry of "Watch! Watch!" in a tone of terrible distress, proclaimed that some unfortunate traveller had been set upon by the thieves, and at no great distance either.
Sir Miles hurried his party into the shelter of the house, where rooms had been secured for their accommodation; and it was not long before Lady Paton and her children were sound asleep in their beds; while Sir Miles went to have a chat with his host, and learn the latest news of the town, and about public affairs in general.
But to his surprise the landlord did not seem disposed to talk about anything, or express an opinion on any matter he might mention. To all his questions and suggestions about this or that, the man simply shook his head in an owl-like fashion, and muttered, "It may be as you say, sir; but it is not for the likes of me to talk about the King and my Lord Privy Seal. He has made it plain to all men that it is by the King's grace that we live and earn enough to pay taxes; and more than that no man dare covet."
Sir Miles looked at the inn-keeper curiously; but the man looked stolidly solemn, as though he was speaking what was his own settled belief in the matter.
"Were you not mine host of this inn ten or a dozen years ago, when the great Cardinal lived close by, in the Palace of Whitehall or York House?"
The mask of stolidity seemed to break-up for a minute, as he said in answer to this question, "I thought I had seen your face before, sir. You were one of my Lord Cardinal's gentlemen, I trow."
"Yes! I think I knew him better than most," said Sir Miles, with a sigh of regret for his dead master. "He was a great man, take him for all in all," he added.
"Come this way, sir," said the man, with a suspicious look round at his other customers; and he led the way to his own especial little room, the door of which he carefully locked as soon as they had entered. "I believe I may trust you, sir," said the landlord; "and it will be a relief to speak without fearing that my Lord Privy Seal's spies will report what I have said, if I should make a slip."
Sir Miles wondered for a minute whether the inn-keeper was mad; but he reflected that they were not far from help if he was, so he sat down to listen to what the man had to say.
"If you have been living in the country secure among your own people, and know nought of what things are like in London, I should advise you to go back with all the speed you can, for it is not safe for you to be abroad among my Lord's spies."
"Spies!" repeated Sir Miles. And then he suddenly remembered that Wolsey was not above employing this un-English means of attaining his ends; but as he listened to the inn-keeper's account of what was the known practice of the present Lord Privy Seal, Thomas Cromwell, who practically ruled the kingdom as Wolsey had done, he was almost aghast; for it seemed that no man's life or liberty were safe if they stood in the way of this man's plans, which were to make the king such an absolute ruler, that neither the Law nor the Church should stand in the way of his power.
As the inn-keeper went on with his story of how one and another had been arrested and tortured, Sir Miles reflected with bitterness that his late master, the Cardinal, whose memory he revered, had first planted this seed. Wolsey had never ceased to teach other men, and, to the last, inculcate in his own acts, the doctrine that men only held their property at the will of the king, and that if he chose to recall it, he had a perfect right to do so. Wolsey had carried this doctrine into practice, too, by handing over to the king his palace of Whitehall, or York House, and Hampton Court—all the wealth in fact that he had gathered. Aye, surely the last words of the Cardinal were true; for if he had only served God by service to the people of England, instead of devoting all his great powers to the aggrandisement of the king, and the curtailment of English liberty, how much better it would have been for himself, and for the nation.
Painful as it was to listen to such a recital, Sir Miles could not but be thankful for the warning, for it seemed that an incautious word or joke might land him in prison, especially if it seemed to have any bearing on the king's supremacy in matters of faith and religious belief. So he went to his chamber feeling considerably saddened by his talk, but he was too tired with his wearisome journey to keep awake very long; and before he awoke the next morning, Lady Paton and the children were talking of all the wonderful things they were going to see and do when they reached the royal town of Greenwich.
There was no time or opportunity to indulge in gloomy thoughts this bright spring morning, for early as Sir Miles and his party were astir, they could see from their windows that boats and barges were already afloat on the river, and several gay parties of pleasure-seekers had started for Greenwich, or for the cherry gardens that were near, although no promise of cherries were to be seen yet.
"Oh, make haste! make haste!" exclaimed Muriel to her little sister. "There will not be a boat left for us, to go and see our granddame, if you are not quicker. Let us go, mother, now at once," she implored, as she saw another party put off from the shore.
Lady Paton smiled, although she was almost as impatient as her children to be on the river once more, and nearing her old home.
"We must have breakfast first," said their father, "and Bunce has not ridden forth more than an hour to tell the Greenwich folk that we are coming."
Sir Miles would have liked to take the old folks by surprise, not announcing that they were likely to pay them a visit, but Lady Paton thought it would be better to send on a messenger, lest her father should be in attendance on the Court elsewhere; in which case her mother, or whoever was left in charge of the old home, might be prepared for them. And so, having secured a boat and sufficient rowers, Sir Miles insisted that they should have a good meal before starting on their next journey.
Fashions did not change very frequently in those days; but when they got into their boat about ten o'clock, and were fairly afloat, Lady Paton was startled to see that she and her children were attracting the attention of other ladies; and after a time she discovered that the fashion in ladies' dress had changed since she left home.
The morning was unusually warm for the time of year, and the two little girls had thrown aside their mufflers, and sat, with bared necks, while her own was scarcely less exposed when she loosened her cloak. But she saw that, although the occupants of other boats had likewise doffed their outer garments, their gowns were close-fitting, and reaching to the throat, or almost to the throat, and everyone had a neat, trim appearance, that rendered them conspicuous in their elegant, but old-fashioned garments. "We must put our cloaks on again," she whispered to her husband, glancing at the occupants of another boat close at hand.
"Aye, aye; I ought to have told you. I heard last night that the new Queen has brought in a new fashion. Queen Anne Boleyn brought other notions from the French Court, as well as what she deemed the right of every man to read the Bible in a language he can understand."
"Then this change of fashion in dress is part of the 'Reformation,' as father called it in his last letter. It is a long time since that came, Miles. I hope no trouble has befallen them, that we have not heard tidings of them for so long."
"Keep up a good heart, Cicely; we shall soon know all about them," said her husband, cheerfully; and remembering his host's warning, he would not encourage any talk about the Reformation, for fear some passing breeze should bear their words to other boats, or that the boatmen he had engaged to row them down the stream were also in the pay of some of Master Cromwell's agents, as spies, to pick up any stray evidence of disloyalty to the king.
Lady Paton felt very little inclination to discuss public affairs just now, for her heart was full at the old familiar sight of the river, with its boats and barges, and the pleasant gardens of the citizens sloping down to the bank of the stream; many a one with its own private boat, moored to the steps leading down to the water, and some already manned by the liveried rowers, waiting for the company to appear.
To the children the scene was delightful, and they were in no hurry to reach Greenwich, however anxious their mother was to see her old home once more. There were many reasons why Lady Paton should be anxious, for she was going among old friends,—and how would they receive her? Would they regard her marriage as unlawful, and meet her coldly and distantly? Or would they ignore the past, now that the reformed faith had been sanctioned by Parliament, and it was no longer a penal offence to possess and read a New Testament?
How would these changes, which had all come about while she had been living quietly at Woodstock, affect her now that she was venturing into the great world once more? It was not herself alone either that would be affected, for her mother would be terribly pained if their old friends should refuse to receive her. There was her husband, too, and the children. And as they drew nearer to the stately Palace of Placentia, standing among its green lawns and gardens on the river bank, she almost wished she had not ventured on the hazardous journey, but had been content to let her husband come alone, as he had first proposed to do.
She looked up into his face with a wistful gaze, as they drew near the landing-stage at Greenwich, and he, surmising something of what she was thinking, passed his arm tenderly round her, and bade the servants in attendance take care of the children, for Sir Miles knew by the way in which his wife was trembling that she would need all his care and attention for the next few minutes. No word was spoken between husband and wife, but Lady Paton felt strengthened and comforted, able to bear this revisiting of old scenes and old friends; and with a silent thanksgiving to God for this human love and friendship with which He had blessed her, she smiled through her tears as the boat bumped against the steps leading up from the water, and almost at the same moment she caught sight of her mother and father waiting to receive her just above.
"Be calm, be calm, Cicely," whispered Sir Miles, and the next minute he had lifted her out of the boat, and placed her in her father's arms; and then turned to receive the children from the servants, and hand them on to waiting friends.
The welcome thus awaiting her reassured Lady Paton, and she kissed her mother, amid smiles and tears, when her father led her to where Lady Guildford was waiting to receive her.
As soon as the whole party had landed, Sir Harry Guildford hurried them away from the throng of waiting loungers, who had gathered to see the boat come in. "Not a word, mind, until we reach home," he had whispered to Cicely, as he led her to her mother, and so it was almost in silence that the little party met and walked through the well-remembered streets of the town. An air of subdued gaiety, touched with dignity and royal splendour, seemed to pervade the atmosphere—at least to Lady Paton—and the silence did not depress her, for it gave her time to recognise and once more enjoy the sense of being at home.
Scarcely a word was spoken as they walked through the streets and market-place, where the butchers' stalls stood, with their well-remembered display of meat, and the 'prentice lads bawling,—"Here's pork, a halfpenny a pound; beef, young and tender, halfpenny a pound; and mutton from the King's own sheep for three-farthings. Now then, who'll buy, buy, buy, buy?"
But they stopped their calling when they saw Sir Harry and the ladies, and doffed their caps, wondering what could have brought the gentlefolks that way.
In reality Cicely had expressed a wish to go through the market-place, but before she left it for the more aristocratic quarter of the town where her father lived, she turned a startled look upon her mother, as her eyes fell upon a blank, grassy space, where she knew the market Cross had always stood.
"Where has the old stone Cross gone?" she asked.
"It was removed some time ago by order of the Parliament," answered Lady Guildford in a stolid tone; she expressed no opinion as to it being a good or a bad thing that it had been taken away, but Cicely noticed that one old woman set down her basket near the centre, where the old Cross used to stand, and furtively take out her beads to count as she lifted her eyes, as she had done every market-day since she was a girl.
"Poor old creature! she misses the Cross," said Cicely, in a pitying tone, as her husband joined her, and looked towards the empty basket.
"Aye, we may be thankful that God has given us the right to read His Word without fear in these days, but the taking away the old symbols, which was all the people had to help them, will be a sore trial to many, I perceive," he said.
"But, Miles, how often I have heard you say that these crosses were traps and snares, leading the people to idolatry!"
Sir Miles nodded. "It is true, too true," he said, "and yet the removal of them will cause pain and bitterness, and, it may be, anger and enmity against the new light and knowledge that the reading of God's Word will certainly bring to those who learn to love and read it for themselves."
"Better leave talking of these matters until we reach home," whispered Lady Guildford, warningly. "We do not talk in the streets now," she added, in answer to her daughter's look of amazement, "it has ceased to be the fashion," and they walked some distance in silence.
Sir Miles, of course, understood Lady Guildford's caution, and he resolved to tell his wife, as soon as he could, that she must be upon her guard—but it would be safer to gain the shelter of her old home before a word of this matter was explained.
"Shall I see the new Queen?" asked Cicely, after a minute's silence, and forgetting her mother's words about not talking in the street.
"She often walks in the Park with her ladies," replied her mother; "we will tell you all about that when we reach home," she hastened to add, for she was in fear lest she should speak some word concerning the late Queen that might give an advantage to any spy that should be near, and Cicely, though she wondered, and certainly disapproved of the rule forbidding friends to talk when and where they pleased, did not attempt any further questions until they reached home, the dear old home she had left to please her mistress, Queen Catherine, whose ideas of life in the convent had filled her with vague longings for a monastic vocation.
Ah! what a bitter awakening the reality had proved! During the few months she had spent at that Franciscan convent overlooking Greenwich Park, she had passed through a lifetime of disappointment and disgust, from which she had been rescued almost by a miracle in the streets of Oxford. And at the thought of what her husband had been to her, she placed her hand in his as they re-entered the old home she had despaired of ever seeing again.
IT was a pleasant meal that was served in Sir Harry Guildford's keeping-room,—a meal rather more stately and ceremonious than at Woodstock, where Sir Miles kept up the old fashion of having all his household servants gathered at the same board. Here at Greenwich, however, it had been found more convenient to follow the usage set by the Court lately, and only his own family and friends sat down to dinner now in the Guildford household. As soon as the dishes were set on the table, the servants left the room, until they were again required; and by this means the family could talk more freely than they could have done with servants present. There was a good deal of pleasant chitchat, from which Lady Paton learned that the practical outcome of the more general reading of the New Testament by the people, was different from that which had taken place among them at quiet Woodstock.
Queen Anne Boleyn had made herself very popular, and the upper classes of society had been ready enough to adopt the more quiet and sedate fashion in dress she had introduced. Lady Paton heard, to her surprise, that nearly every one had adopted this fashion, unless they wished to proclaim to the world that they still adhered to the old form of faith.
This, however, was growing dangerous now, for it implied that they did not acknowledge the King's right to assume the headship of the Church, which, springing as it did out of Henry's determination to get rid of his first queen, that he might marry Ann Boleyn, had caused a good deal of strife and bitterness, even among private friends and relatives.
"I often wish we could have the old times back again," said Lady Guildford, speaking to Cicely in an undertone. "Your father and many others say that to be able to read God's Word in peace, and without fear, is worth all the cost. But I do not know; I am only a witless woman, of course, but when I think of your sister Maud," and Lady Guildford shook her head sadly as she mentioned her younger daughter's name.
"What is it, mother? What is the matter?" asked Lady Paton. "You told me Maud was well, and that we should see her, and her husband, too, before the end of the day."
"Yes; but I thought they would have been at this meal with us. I sent to tell her you were coming, as soon as your messenger arrived, and she sent word that she should follow shortly, but she has not come, and I fear that it is her husband that has hindered it."
"But—but why should he?" asked Cicely.
Her mother could not say, "Because he now deems your marriage unlawful, and would not let his wife meet you at all if he could help it." But Lady Paton had an inkling of this, when her mother told her how passionately Mr. Marvin had taken up the cause of Queen Catherine, and how the King's divorce had divided people, and severed friendships that nothing else could have touched.
"I do not wonder at it," said Lady Paton. "My dear mistress was a good woman, and a faithful wife, and why should she be set aside for my Lady Anne?"
"Hush, hush, my child! You must not talk like that, or you will bring us all into trouble with the Vicar-General," said Lady Guildford, in a tone of suppressed terror, as she stealthily looked round the room to make sure that no servant was present to hear the dangerous words. "We cannot trust one of them," she whispered, "now that we know the ways of the Vicar-General and his agents. Times are hard, and taxes are heavy; and who can wonder that the witless knaves and wenches are glad to earn a groat by repeating what you or I may say. They are told no harm will happen through it, the King only wants to know what his people think, that he may please them so the little bits of gossip are reported to the spies, and in crafty hands are woven into a rope that will presently move the headsman's axe; and here we are living close to this terrible peril."
"Oh, my mother! Why should you stay here, then? Why not come and live with us, or at Oxford? Ask father to retire from the Court at once," said Lady Paton.
Her mother shook her head. "To do that would inevitably bring trouble. Your father is a favourite with the King, and, because of that, we dare not think of retiring from his service; for it would certainly bring down suspicion if we only asked to be allowed to give up this service. I tell you, the King is not the good-tempered easy-going man he once was. It is whispered, too, that he is growing tired of the new queen. She brought him a daughter—the little Lady Elizabeth—which disappointed him, and he will put her away somehow." This was said in a whisper, for fear a servant should enter the room unawares; but the lady wanted to convince her daughter, that it would not be safe for them to rouse the anger of the King, that she might not urge her father to retire from the Court.
When the meal was concluded, Sir Harry said: "Now I have something to show you. I have made myself a withdrawing-room, somewhat after the pattern of one at the Palace. I never allow a servant to enter it, for I have to write for the King many things that are private." As he spoke Sir Harry led the way to a distant wing of the house, and admitted them to a room on the upper floor.
Instead of being hung with arras, behind which listeners could conceal themselves, this room was hung with stamped leather, lined with a thick padding of wool, that was securely fastened to the walls; and, when they had entered, an overlapping piece was drawn over the door, so that no one could hear a word that passed within.
Lady Guildford breathed a sigh of relief as the door was secured. "Now we can talk freely and without fear," she said.
"Is it possible that such a room as this is necessary in a gentleman's private house here in England?" said Sir Miles Paton, in a serious tone. "Of course I have heard of such rooms being needful in Italy and other outlandish places, but—"
"Aye, but our Vicar-General has lived in Italy, and seems to have brought many of the Italian methods with him to govern our English folk," answered Sir Harry.
"But the Parliament?" said Sir Miles. "I know my master, the Cardinal, would fain have governed the kingdom without the help of Parliaments, but the want of money for the King's wars and pleasures compelled him to summon them; and is not Parliament defence enough?"
Sir Harry shook his head. "Wolsey hated the Parliament and all its ways, but Master Cromwell has now gone a step further, and made the Parliament a means to do his will, and crush out all that remains of English liberty."
"And yet this same man has given to the English people the right to read God's Word in their own tongue! I cannot understand it," said Sir Miles Paton.
"Aye, I trow many are puzzled by Thomas Cromwell's doings. He has been everything by turns,—from a mercenary in the army of Italy to the man next in power to the King of England, whom he has made equal to the Pope in all matters of faith and belief, and absolute ruler in Church and State. No other king in this realm has ever dared to assume such power as our present lord; and with this growing power he grows more evil, and arrogant, and selfish every day."
At this moment a knocking was heard at the door, and Sir Harry went to open it. "It is Maud, I trow," he said, and it was Dame Marvin who entered the room as soon as the door was unlocked. Lady Paton rose and hurried forward to meet her sister, but the younger lady drew back, and held up her hand as if to ward off a blow, while she said, in a piteous tone,—
"I cannot help it, mother; I may not touch you, dear Cicely, and yet my heart aches to throw my arms round you as in the old days. Oh, mother, mother!" and the young matron threw herself into her mother's arms, to seek relief in tears there.
Lady Paton sank back in her seat with a gasp, while her husband looked on in amazement.
"I feared it might be thus," muttered Sir Harry, and he turned to Sir Miles to explain. "You see, when Maud married Walter Marvin the King's divorce was only being talked about, and he, like many others, could make a joke of the matter, never supposing it would be carried out. He was as much interested in the study of Tyndale's Testament as we were in those days, and we all supposed we should be of one heart and one mind in matters of faith. But the divorce of Queen Catherine seemed to set men by the ears, and Walter Marvin took up her quarrel, until we feared he would bring himself to the Tower if he did not moderate his zeal on her behalf."
"She has been shamefully treated, father," protested Cicely.
"We all admit that, but still it was the King's will that she should be put away, and if our present Queen, the Lady Anne Boleyn, had refused his suit, it would have made little difference. But now that all trouble is over for Queen Catherine, surely we may cease to quarrel about the wrongs she suffered."
"All trouble over?" repeated Lady Paton. "What do you mean, father? Surely my dear mistress is not dead?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed her sister and mother in the same breath, "Queen Catherine died early in January of this year of grace 1536."
"Why, I sent my last letter to you by the King's messenger, who was sent with the news to Oxford," remarked Sir Harry.
"But we have had no letter from you," said Sir Miles, quickly. "No letters have reached us from London or Greenwich since Oxford Autumn Fair—more than six months ago—and Cicely and I had grown anxious concerning you, seeing no answer came to our letters."
"I have had no letter from you since last summer, and would fain have journeyed to see how it fared with you all, if my duties at Court would have suffered me to be absent. But I am never sure that the King will not need my service at any moment, for he grows more impetuous and impatient every day, and none would dare to say to him: 'Guildford hath departed on a journey,' if he should call for me."
"The King's service is no light burden, I trow," said Sir Miles; "but what of our letters, my father?" he asked.
"They are doubtless safe in the hands of one of Cromwell's agents, to be brought forward against one or other of us, if ever we should be caught tripping in word or deed in any matter concerning the King's supremacy."
"And it is really true, my father, that the Queen, my mistress, is dead," said Cicely with a sigh. "I wonder whether she ever forgave me for leaving the convent and embracing a secular life," she added.
"You had no choice in the matter, sweetheart," said her husband, with a smile, thinking of her rescue in the streets of Oxford.
"I am afraid I was only too willing to be taken captive, and hidden by you," answered his wife with a smile.
"Aye! You may have been the first novice in England to break her vows concerning the monastic life, but there have been many since, I trow, who have gladly followed in your steps; for this breaking up of the monasteries and convents has been hard and cruel to the helpless women folk who have lived a sheltered life."
"Aye, we have heard of this," said Sir Miles, "for many of the monks have come to us asking for a piece of bread, and this has increased the numbers of beggars enormously."
"Yes, and this is done in the name of the Reformation, and makes good men like Walter Marvin say they detest it," put in Lady Guildford, who was always trying to find some excuse for her younger daughter's husband when she was present.
"Aye, it is all very well, good dame, to try and find excuses for Master Walter Marvin," said Sir Harry, "but there is another side to that question, and none can deny that these monks and nuns lived an idle, useless, often vicious life, caring neither for God nor man. The Parliament would not have presented the picture they did, in their petition to the King that helped on this royal supremacy, if the clergy at large, and the monks in particular, had led clean, honest lives,—doing their duty to their fellows. Look at the rules passed by Convocation, and at the command of the bishops, for the guidance of the clergy and reformation of the Church. It was decreed that priests should no longer keep shops or taverns, play at dice or other forbidden games, pass the night in suspected places, be present at disreputable shows, go about with sporting-dogs, or go about with hawks, falcons, and other birds of prey on their wrists. If a priest is found doing any of these things now, he is liable to be fined; but there is very little change as yet, and with such a clergy how are the people to be instructed in the Word of God?" asked Sir Harry.
But Lady Paton and her sister were not so interested in public affairs. They had not met for some years, and now, as Maud pathetically said, if she dare not kiss her sister she could talk to her; and so the sisters drew aside, and Lady Paton told her all about her children, and how both the elder ones had been taught to read the New Testament, and commit portions of it to memory.
"I taught them when we were obliged to keep the books hidden away, for fear of the friars and monks, for the precious Word of God had done so much for Miles and me, that we were resolved our children should be taught its precious truths as soon as they could understand anything about it."
"But you had to take them to church; and people are saying now that all the old service is idolatry. How did you manage about the Mass?"
"Ah! that was a difficulty; not only for our children, but for our people too, until I thought it over, and prayed God to guide and teach us what to say, though I think Sister Margery helped me to the thought a great deal. Of course many of our poor people know bitterly the want of bread. If only they had bread to eat they used to think themselves rich, they have said to me; and so I told them that the piece of bread that the priest lifted up in the Mass, was to remind them that Christ was to be to their souls what bread was to their bodies. And I believe this was the first meaning that men attached to the elevation of the Host, and that they had no intention of worshipping it as they have come to do; but the first meaning being lost sight of in course of time, all the rest about transubstantiation has followed and corrupted it."
"Oh, that dreadful word," sighed Maud. "That is what the fight rages over; and men and women have been burned at Smithfield, after being terribly tortured, because they said the Mass was idolatry, and because they would not bow to the Host. Oh, Cicely, if your thought is right, why don't the reformers teach the people to think of it in your way, and stop all this terrible suffering?"
But Lady Paton could only shake her head doubtfully. "How do I know what would be right for wise and learned men to teach? You see, Miles had set himself to create a little Utopia by the help of God, and what he could learn from His Word. And what we set ourselves to teach our poor people was to do to one another as they would have their neighbours do to them if they changed places. Miles said when we had got them to learn and live this first rule, we might find time for the next, but our people are slow to learn it, and so we have had no time to think of the things that may come after. Margery and I have taught, or tried to teach them that Christ, as He is shown in the New Testament, is as real as the bread held out by the priest, and so we have made the Mass a help to them as far as we could. Of course we are always very busy, for we make our ploughs as well as use them, and build our looms to weave the wool in the winter time, so that there is little time for questioning this and that. Our dear Margery has most time for thought, and she is really our household priest, and God teaches her through His Word, and gives her many helpful thoughts, which she gives to Miles, and me, and the children; and they are always helpful, happy thoughts, fitted to help us in the place we are living, and not great, high thoughts that could only be useful in London, or here at the Court of Placentia, where grave, learned men meet to talk over affairs of State."
"Dear Margery! I wish we could all have a household priest like her. Now, it seems to me she has the true vocation for a religious life, and I used to think when I was staying with you that if Margery had been in your place she would not have left the convent, even for Miles."
But Cicely laughed aloud at her sister's suggestion. "Why, Margery would never hear of being a nun," she said; "she has told me that her mother asked her more than once if she would like to join the sisterhood at the convent near Woodstock. But Margery said she was always too fond of minding other people's business for them, ever to be content with a nun's life; and she says if she could have chosen, she could not have had a happier life than she has now, for with Miles, and me, and the children, and the village folk, who bring all their troubles to her, she always has her hands full, and plenty to think about and plan for, when she is obliged to lie still on her couch for days together. This active life is good for her too, Miles says, for she is stronger and better able to walk about with her stick than ever she was before. And Aunt Margery's room is the choicest, and sweetest, and best in the house, where Miles and I get rested if we are tired and cross. Oh, no, the world could never get on without our Margery—at least our busy little world could not," added Lady Paton.