But she soon found that it was useless to struggle against this man. The calm, benevolent face that she thought gave promise of an easily swayed will behind it, proved to be but as a velvet glove on a hand of steel. The Cardinal always chose his instruments wisely, and they were fitted by nature, as well as by training, for the work they were deputed to perform; and so the lady was obliged to send for the novices, and see them ranged in a line before these two men, and in a moment the absence of one was detected by the elder, almost before Miles himself could feel certain that Cicely was not among them.
"Madam, one of your novices has not taken her place with the rest," said Master Baldock, as he looked keenly along the line of shrinking girls.
"She does not wish to expose herself to the gaze of men," said the lady, defiantly, and at the moment the door was pushed open by an elderly nun, and the faint sound of shrieks were heard in the distance. In a moment Miles had sprung from his seat and darted to the door to go to the rescue, for he felt sure that it was Cicely calling for him to help her; but the Lady-Superior reached the door first, and shut it in his face, and the two stood glaring at each other for a moment in silence.
If she had been a man, or even a woman in secular life, Miles would have hurled himself upon her and dragged her from the door; but her sacred habit was still sacred to him, and he shrunk from laying his hand rudely upon a nun. He shook like a tree beaten in a storm, as he watched the hard relentless face, and thought of his darling being in the power of this woman, and he unable to lift hand or foot to help her, tied and bound as he was by the superstitious reverence, in which he had been reared, for the sacred vocation of a nun.
Even Master Baldock was relieved to see that his assistant had sufficient self-control to keep him from what he would have regarded as the sacrilege of using violence to a pledged recluse, and he said, in a calm tone, "My friend would fain have saved the lady from the peril she must have been in, but doubtless the holy sisters of this house have gone to her relief."
"Of course they have," replied the lady, haughtily, and she remained master of the field, while Miles felt himself hopelessly beaten.
He was so torn by contending emotions that he scarcely understood what his chief was saying for the next minute or two. He returned to his seat, and resumed the cutting of the quill for writing his list of the novices, and then, as he gradually grew calm, he heard Master Baldock say, "You will summon the other novice, Cicely Guildford, to our presence."
The Lady-Superior started when she heard the name, and even Miles—who knew him to be one of the Cardinal's most trusted secretaries—was amazed at the calm assurance with which he pronounced her name, until his next words unravelled the mystery.
"How do you know the maiden you name has found a shelter in this house?" demanded the Mother.
"Because I have seen her. I have known her from a child, and am the bearer of a message from her parents, which the Cardinal has commanded me to deliver."
The lady looked greatly disturbed for a moment, but at length she said, "I will fetch this Cicely Guildford, since you are set upon seeing her; but I pray you be gentle in your questioning of her, for she is not over strong, and hath been ill of late."
"Do not fear that we shall be rough in our questioning, and be not long absent, for I am not of the most patient mind, and already you have sorely hindered me in my master's work."
The lady nodded, and withdrew, and Miles took the opportunity of asking his friend if he thought he should know Mistress Cicely. "You have seen her among the Queen's ladies, of course, but are you sure you would know my Cicely?" said Miles, earnestly, but in a whisper.
"Be content; Cicely is my sister's child, and I never forget a face I have once seen," answered Master Baldock, in a reassuring whisper.
They were kept waiting for some few minutes, but at last the Mother came back, leading by the hand a girl, who looked timidly up at the two men seated at the table in the middle of the room. The girl was attired in the dress of a novice, but one glance at her face assured both of them that it was not Cicely, and Master Baldock said, in a stern tone, "Look at me, and tell me your true name. You are not Cicely Guildford," and the man fastened his eyes on the girl's face, as if to compel her to speak the truth.
The plan succeeded. "I am Amy Taylor," she said, in a faltering tone, not daring to look at the Mother-Superior, who stood at the back of her.
"Well, Amy Taylor, tell me where your friends live, and if you know what dowry was paid with you when you came to this house."
But the girl could only shake her head at these questions. She had lived with the sisters at the convent all her life, she said. She would be a novice by-and-bye, she hoped, but now she only helped the lay sisters. In short, she was the little drudge of the household, who had been hastily fetched from the kitchen, and dressed in the habit of a novice for the occasion, and these facts the commissioner soon elicited from the frightened girl.
"You may go back to the kitchen now, my little wench," said the commissioner. "I have no wish to take a useful servant away from these ladies." Then, turning to the Mother once more, he said, "Will you fetch me the true Cicely, or shall I have to close this house in consequence of the rebellion of its Superior to the command of the Cardinal Legate, who administers the affairs of the Church in this realm as the Holy Father himself." He felt obliged to remind the lady that he was armed with power to put a summary end to her rule, in the hope that the hint would be taken, and the true Cicely produced.
Finding that the commissioner was not to be hoodwinked, and would not proceed to the other part of his work until the girl he asked for was brought before him, she at last reluctantly sent one of the elder nuns, who had come to take charge of the novices while they were waiting, to fetch Cicely; and this time there was no mistaking the sweet, shy face Miles had learned to love. But it was sadly changed. There was a deep and abiding look of sorrow in the large grey eyes, and deep rings beneath told of broken health and sleepless nights; while the look of terror that mantled her face when the Mother-Superior spoke, was sufficient to tell both men what she had endured although she had been here such a short time.
As Cicely drew near the table the Mother contrived to change her position, and sit so that she could command a view of the girl, and also make her feel that she was being watched.
So when Master Baldock said, "Now, Cicely Guildford, I have come by the command of my Lord Cardinal to ask you some questions, which your father would have propounded to you if his duty to the King would have suffered him to come with me on this journey. First, are you happy in this household?"
But, instead of answering at once, Cicely glanced timidly round at the elder lady, and then slowly answered, in a mechanical tone.
"Madam, I must request you to change your seat, and leave my witness to answer me alone."
"I have not spoken to the witness," said the Mother, indignantly.
"But you are frightening her, and if you do not move I shall send the whole of these girls to their friends without further parley."
So the lady moved, and the commissioner took care that the girl kept her eyes upon him or Miles.
Without betraying the secret of either of them, he contrived to draw from the girl the confession that she was very unwilling to enter upon a monastic life when the time came for her to leave home; and, though she was heartily ashamed to confess it, she would greatly prefer to live a secular life than be a nun.
She did not make any complaints of the treatment she had received since she had been here, but it was easy to see that the girl was unhappy; and a glad light beamed in her eyes when Master Baldock, turning to his assistant, said, "Mistress Cicely will be returned to her father, and, as I have his authority to take charge of her, she must come back to the hostelry with us." To the Lady-Superior he said, "If a lay sister can attend her I will take the charge of her as well."
"What do you mean? I cannot allow you to remove any of these children of God out of my care."
"But you forget I have the authority of the Cardinal Legate for this," said the commissioner, calmly. And then he motioned Cicely aside, and called one of the other girls before him. Similar questions were asked and answered; and among the twenty novices there two only wished to remain. The rest had grown tired of the life that had been pictured to them as one of exalted piety, but which they found to be so different on a fuller knowledge of it.
They all hoped they might be taken to the hostelry as well as Cicely, but this did not suit the plans of the commissioners, and they simply received a promise that they should be sent to their friends in the course of a week, when they could be sent under proper escort, and arrangements had been made for them to be welcomed home once more.
Then the storm began over Cicely again. The Mother protested that she must not be separated from her companions until her father came to fetch her.
In vain Master Baldock explained that the King's business would not permit him to take such a long journey; and, moreover, that the journey was needless, as he was her uncle, and duly authorised to take her into his care. At first the lady would not hear of such a thing; and when, at last, she was forced to yield a reluctant consent, she said the girls were all faint and in want of food, and Cicely must have a meal, and be wrapped up from the observation of passengers in the streets, or there might be some disturbance in the town over the matter.
This precaution was certainly necessary if they would escape observation as they passed through the streets, which would be thronged with students now; and the commissioner blamed himself for not thinking of this.
So he thanked the lady, and Cicely passed out of the room with the rest, and Miles packed up his things for that day, eager now to reach the hostelry, and ascertain whether his sister had arrived yet. If she had not, he would go in search of Rankin, and see if his wife could not come to attend upon the young lady until some more suitable friend could be found.
He would fain have gone on first to ascertain this point, but his friend declined to be left alone with these ladies. "I would not have my life at the mercy of that Lady-Superior, and I would not leave you in her power, and so, for the same reason, I decline to be left here by myself," he said, in a jocular way.
At length a nun summoned them to the gate, where, she said, Cicely was awaiting them; and there she stood when they appeared, muffled up to the eyes, so that the most prying and impudent of students could not catch a glimpse of the sweet, shy face; and she walked between the two men without asking a question as to how far she was to go, or how all the friends at Greenwich were faring.
Judging her by himself, Miles was not surprised at this silence, for he had no wish to talk, and, indeed, the state of the roads, and the rushing parties of students compelled them to give more attention to the passengers around them than to each other.
Cicely walked very slowly now, Miles thought. Remembering how she had climbed the hills with him in Greenwich Park, her lagging steps now made him think that she must be very weak through the fasts she had been keeping, or else she was very tired.
At last their hostelry was reached, and then Master Baldock hastily seized the cloak she was wearing, and tore it off her head.
"I thought so! I thought so!" he exclaimed. "Fool that I have been to trust a nun," for there stood revealed before them the demure face of an elderly nun, instead of Cicely Guildford!
THE Cardinal's commissioner stood for a moment and stared blankly at the elderly nun who had personated Cicely, and then broke into a storm of oaths and imprecations, cursing himself for a fool, and Miles for suffering himself to be cheated; and during this hurricane of passion the nun managed to make her escape and return to the convent to tell her story.
Miles, too, was dumbfounded; but it was with grief and dismay, as he thought of what Cicely's fate was likely to be, left defenceless in the hands of the hard woman who had unrestrained power over her.
As soon as he could recover from the fit of passion, Master Baldock exclaimed, "Now they will send her back to the Abbess at Greenwich, and we may not be able to release her from that convent, even with the Cardinal to help us."
"Then let us follow and overtake her at once," said Miles, springing up as he spoke, and calling to the ostler to saddle his horse without delay.
But Master Baldock countermanded the order. "We must go to work warily in this matter," he said, "and fortunately I left a man to watch the convent gates and inform us what took place in the night, for I mistrusted that she-wolf, though I did not think she would try to cheat us twice in the same way. By our Lady, she must think we are a pair of fools, Master Paton!" he exclaimed, angrily. And then he picked up the short sword he had thrown on the table, and said, "I will go in search of my messenger near the convent and see what he can tell us. It may be they have not started with Cicely yet. They would need horses and an escort for a journey to Greenwich, and they are but a household of women."
Miles was only too thankful to follow his friend; and the two were soon in the street, and hastening towards the other end of the town. But Miles was too impatient to wait for his companion; and the well-known cry of the students in a Town and Gown row, which was evidently being fought out close at hand, fired his blood, and he tucked up his cloak and ran much as he did in the old student days, his knowledge of the city enabling him to take several short cuts, so as to avoid the thronging streets, and bring him more quickly to the convent, which he was now anxious to reach before the nun who had gone with them to the hostelry should get back to tell her tale.
But presently his way was blocked, for he came face to face with the main body of the combatants, the students slowly driving the town lads and apprentices before them; and Miles saw to his chagrin that it would be the wisest course for him to turn and fly too, unless he would take part in the melee; and he was just about to do this, when a woman laid her hand upon his shoulder and panted, "Oh sir, for the love of our Blessed Lady, come and help me. A poor girl has fallen down, and will be trampled to death by the mob," and, as she spoke, the woman dragged him to the side of the road, and pointed to the prostrate figure of a girl which was almost unseen in the gathering gloom of evening; and, by the fact, that she was closely enveloped in the thick folds of a black cloak.
There was no time to ask questions. He could only snatch up the girl, swing her across his shoulders, and fly before the crowd that came surging down the street, and would have trampled the girl to death the next minute if he had not been at hand to rescue her.
"Come, sir, come, I live close by," said the woman, when Miles began to falter with his burden.
The next minute a stalwart, burly man appeared. "What ho, dame! who have we here? Come indoors, sir, and rest a minute," and he led the way down a gloomy entry, but into a comfortable cottage that seemed to have fastened itself on to the walls of some large building.
Miles deposited his burden on the earth-trodden floor, and then turned to look at the man who had greeted him, for something in the tone of his voice sounded familiar; and the next minute he held out both hands, exclaiming, "What, Rankin! is it you, my friend?"
"Master Miles! Master Miles! Bless the saints for giving me a sight of you once more. Molly! Molly! it is our Master Miles Paton, who made our fortune a year or two ago," said Rankin, shaking his wife by the shoulder in the exuberance of his joy, while she, breathless, and panting still from her run, could only curtsey and smile, and glance at the black bundle on the floor.
"What is it, dame?" her husband asked, a little anxiously, turning to look at the girl.
"One of your girls, isn't it, dame?" said Miles, but at the same time thinking that she must have grown very tall during the last year or two.
"No, no, it is no girl of mine, but a stranger, who ran to me for help from the crowd, and she fell down just as you came up."
While she had been speaking, Dame Rankin had knelt down beside the prostrate figure and loosened the hood of the cloak, so as to give the girl air, and in that moment Miles caught sight of the face, and recognised it.
"Cicely! my Cicely!" he exclaimed, pushing Dame Rankin aside, and taking the girl into his arms once more.
She slowly opened her eyes, and looked at him, and a smile of ineffable joy and peace passed over her as she whispered, "Miles, take care of me,—don't let them take me back."
"Never, my darling, never," he said; and then he pressed the first lover's kiss upon her lips, and silently thanked God for His help and guidance in bringing him to her in her hour of need.
There was a little truckle-bed in one corner of the room, and he carried her to that; and then told Rankin something of the day's doings, and how he had sent for his sister to meet this lady when she should leave the convent, and how another had been imposed upon them instead of Mistress Cicely Guildford.
"How she came to be in the streets in this part of the town, I do not know, but, doubtless, she will tell us when she has somewhat recovered." And then Miles devoted himself to comforting and reassuring the frightened girl, who could not be persuaded that she was safe here from her persecutors; for it seemed that she had been made to suffer a great deal of unkind treatment, since she had told the abbess at Greenwich that she did not wish to become a nun, through having been able to read some portions of God's Word for herself.
These, of course, were from the translation of Miles, which he had copied, and given to her, and which she had taken with her to the convent, and lent to some of the other novices secretly, when she learned that such reading was not approved by her superiors.
She managed to tell Miles this as he sat by her side, while Dame Rankin busied herself about her household affairs, a little doubtful and uneasy as to whether she had done right in fetching Miles to the rescue of a nun, since it seemed likely, as they had found each other, that she would not go back to a monastic life.
After about an hour Cicely had so far recovered that she said to Miles, "I am so hungry; we had to keep a special fast to-day. But I may have something to eat now."
"Of course, you may, my darling. What a stupid fellow I am! I can scarcely think of anything else because I have found you." And then he went to enquire what the cottage larder would afford, for he had at last realised that he was hungry too.
But Rankin, although he had risen to the position of a leading workman, and had had this cottage built for him close to the walls of Cardinal College, did not presume to keep white bread in his house, or anything else that was fit to set before the gentry; but he readily agreed to go to the hostelry, and fetch Master Baldock if he could be found there, and also to order a meal to be sent by one of the turnspits to Miles and Cicely.
It was arranged that she should stay here for the night in the care of Dame Rankin; for no inconvenience was too great if the man could do anything for the son of his old master, who had saved him from ruin, and made him a man again, as he said.
A month later, and this might have been impossible; for, by that time, the poor fellow would probably have been caught begging, and lashed at the cart-tail through the neighbourhood of Woodstock. And after that, the man could no longer have held up his head among his fellow-men, but would have descended from a man to a savage brute only too easily; so that Rankin was not far wrong when he said that Miles had saved him soul and body, and he would serve him with both till death if he needed such service.
So the simple service of fetching supplies from the hostelry was quickly accomplished, and he was only too eager to give up the best his cottage afforded for the accommodation of Cicely.
When she had eaten a hearty meal, and seemed disposed to go to sleep, Miles left her in charge of his friends; and, as Master Baldock had not returned to the hostelry, he went in search of him, but did not find him until the city gates closed, and then he came galloping in from the London road, his horse covered with foam, and himself almost exhausted from want of food and the exertion and discomfort of the day. At the sight of Miles, however, he sprang from his horse, exclaiming, "Thank God you are safe at least; but I began to think that she-wolf had somehow spirited you away. She has gone, I am sorry to say, and is half way to London by this time I fear."
"Who is?" asked Miles, fearing his friend's wits had wandered a little.
"My niece, Mistress Cicely Guildford. My watchman saw them leave the convent soon after we went to the hostelry, but, as I had bidden him abide at his post until I saw him, he could not leave to give me notice of what had happened."
"But I found Cicely here in the streets of Oxford," said Miles.
"Found—Cicely—in—the—street," slowly uttered Master Baldock, who thought Miles must have sought to drown his sorrow in too much Canary, and said as much to the young man.
But Miles could afford to be good-tempered, and he laughed at the insinuation, as he said, "It is true enough, Master Baldock. It seems that they sent her in charge of two sisters to another convent in the city, but the Town and Gown riot frightened the women, and they ran away from the mob, and bade Cicely follow them. But she had caught sight of a poor woman coming out of a shop, and ran towards her, not knowing I was close at hand, for the woman ran screaming to me to rescue a girl who had fallen down almost at the feet of the mob. I picked her up and carried her to the woman's home, thinking it was her daughter, until her face was uncovered, and I recognised my Cicely. I have left her there, for I know the people well, and the man would lay down his life to defend her."
This story astonished Master Baldock. "The she-wolf has outwitted herself for once, then," he said, in a tone of satisfaction.
The two hastened back to the hostelry, for now that the city gates were closed and the shops shut up, it was scarcely safe to be abroad without an armed guard being in attendance. They had left the hostelry in such hot haste that there had been no time to summon those who had attended them from London, and it was certainly unsafe for strangers to be out so late unattended.
The next day letters were sent by different messengers to the parents of the novices who wished to return home. These friends were informed that for the better ruling and guidance of the Church the monastic system was to be gradually restricted, and for the next few years no more novices of either sex would be allowed to take the vows of the monastic life. The great abuses which had crept into the abbeys and convents had forced the heads of the Church to exercise this discipline, and therefore the daughter or niece had been sent back to the care of her friends, and the business of her dowry would be settled later.
Having settled this matter, Master Baldock began to look round for a temporary home for these novices, for he scarcely liked to trust them to the tender mercies of the woman who had deceived him so grossly. But no one cared to shelter girls who would practically break their vows by leaving the convent, even under the protection of the Cardinal's commissioner; and as there were no married clergy in the city, no one of importance, who could protect the girls from scandal, was willing to run the risk of offending the higher clergy by receiving a disgraced nun; and so, for want of protectors, they were obliged to remain in the convent, and Cicely was securely hidden in the little homely cottage that had first received her.
The business upon which Miles and his friend had been sent was pressed forward with all diligence, and the two commissioners found little difficulty, after sending the novices home, in finding accommodation for the nuns of two convents, and even three where the sisterhood was very small, in one only.
By this means the revenue of the houses that were suppressed could be taken for the further development of colleges, schools, and learning generally, while the buildings themselves could either be pulled down and their stones used in the completion of the Cardinal College, or they might be used for grammar schools or hostelries for students, who, at present, often had to beg from door to door like the monks, to maintain themselves while mastering the Greek and Latin tongues, or preparing themselves to take their degrees as Doctors of Law or Philosophy; and this daily hunt for food often sorely hindered them in their studies, the Cardinal knew.
Miles knew it, too, by bitter experience, so that he was willing enough to press forward the work for the work's own sake, to say nothing of the plan he had formed in his mind of taking Cicely to Woodstock until she should become his wife.
But the best laid plans are often upset, and just before the close of the commission a messenger brought a letter from Paton Hall, bidding him ride home with all speed if he wished to see his father before he died. It was not the first letter he had received from home since he had been in Oxford. He had hoped that his sister could join him there, but his father had forbidden it, and had sent to tell him that he was in failing health, and could not spare his daughter Margery to go junketing about the country. Miles had only half-believed it, although a letter from his sister herself confirmed the old man's report of his health.
The fact was Miles did not want to believe it, because it would be very inconvenient just now. But the inconvenient had happened, it seemed, and now he was in a dilemma as to what he should do with Cicely. He rather shrank from taking her home to Paton Hall at such a time as this, especially when he remembered his father's anger at Greenwich. But resection taught him that this anger was unreasonable on his father's part, and he owed a duty to Cicely now which must stand before all considerations of what people would say; and he made up his mind how to act before speaking to his friend, Master Baldock, who, as Cicely's uncle, might think he had a right to interfere if he did not make up his mind at first.
So, after pondering over the messenger's news for a little while, he went to Master Baldock, and told him what had happened. "Now, I must have a strong escort to protect Cicely, and set off at daybreak to-morrow, for I would fain see my father once again before he dies."
Contrary to his expectations, Master Baldock did not object to this plan. "It would be better thus, I think," he said, slowly, "for, from all I can hear, the nuns think she was killed the night of the riot, and have sent to tell the abbess at Greenwich the story of how it happened. Of course it will all be hushed up, as such things are, but I have taken care to send a letter to my brother, informing him of the true state of the case; and before she leaves Oxford she had better lay aside the dress of a novice, and no one at Woodstock need know that she ever contemplated entering the monastic life. You can understand how inconvenient it would be for her to go home to Greenwich just now."
"I would not let her go. Until she is my wife she shall not go near the Court or Queen," said Miles, hotly.
Master Baldock shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. Perhaps he thought it would be just as well if Miles did not have to continue much longer in the service of the Cardinal, for the affair had already caused more talk than was pleasant, and Wolsey was apt to think that someone had blundered if a matter was not settled with the silence and despatch with which he liked to characterise all his business transactions.
So a secular dress was provided for Cicely, and an escort engaged to take them to Woodstock, so that they should not be waylaid either by beggars or miscreants hired by the Mother-Superior to kidnap Cicely and murder Miles. For, he thought, either fate might befall them if they were not sufficiently guarded.
So, with his beloved Cicely beside him, and a well-armed guard, Miles once more passed through the gate of Oxford city, along the Northern Road, delighted to point out to his companion this and that along the road, and trying to keep up her spirits, but all the time feeling gravely anxious as to what reception he should get at the end of his journey, and wondering whether the Lady Audrey still lived at Paton Hall.
BEFORE Miles left Oxford, his friend, Master John Clark, advised that he should marry Cicely for her due protection, but she demurred to this hasty marriage, saying she would rather wait until she had seen her mother and father again, although she did not hesitate to promise Miles that she would marry him in a few months.
Of course Cicely had her way, but Master Clark told Miles that if any sudden need should arise, when he reached Woodstock, for the marriage to be hastened, he would come to Paton Hall and perform the ceremony if a messenger was sent to tell him that his services were required.
It was winter now, and the ill-kept roads almost impassable for mire and water, so that the journey to Woodstock was long and uncomfortable, and when at last the little town was reached, the travellers heard that Sir Thomas Paton had died the day before.
It was a painful shock to both of them, for Miles greatly desired to see his father once more, and both could see now that it would have been better to have taken the advice of friends, and had the marriage celebrated in Oxford.
But Miles was not long deciding what was best to be done, and, after a few words with Cicely, a messenger was sent back in hot haste to ask Master Clark to journey to Paton Hall, as Sir Thomas was dead.
There was no need to say more than this, for the priest would understand why he was needed, and that it would be for a marriage, and not for a funeral, that he was summoned.
When the party reached Paton Hall it was Margery who came to receive them, and then Miles heard for the first time that his mother had been ill as well as his father, and she was now too weak to leave her bed. "I am so glad you have come, Miles," said his sister, with a sob.
"And I am glad I could come, and I have not come alone, for I have brought you a little sister, Margery, who will be a comfort to us both I think."
In the bustle and confusion Margery had failed to notice Cicely until her brother spoke, but now she turned and greeted her, feeling somewhat relieved at the first glance to see that she looked a simple maiden, and not like the Lady Audrey, whose coming to Paton Hall had seemed to bring such painful changes in its train.
"Take her to your room, Margery, and don't ask her any questions until I see you. She is hungry and weary I doubt not."
"And you, Miles?" said his sister, anxiously, but grasping the little hand that had been placed in hers.
"Oh, I will shift for myself. Where is Reuben?" he asked, looking round the wide hall, and wondering that his old servant did not come forward to proffer his services.
"Reuben has gone away," said Margery, in a lower tone. "Do not ask questions about anything just now. I will bid them set a meal."
"No, no; take Cicely away to your own room, for she is almost fainting with fatigue and hunger. I am strong, and can look after myself when I have seen my mother. Ah, there is her serving-woman—"; and Miles hurried across the hall at once, leaving his sister to take Cicely to her own rooms, and care for her out of the sight of the servants, who began to gather round to have a peep at the new mistress of Paton Hall, for they knew well enough that the present Lady Paton would not rule them much longer.
"How is my mother, Deborah?" asked Miles, as he hurried the middle-aged lady's maid towards his mother's room.
"Master Miles, she is very ill, and knows nothing of what has happened to Sir Thomas, and she must not be told."
"How long has she been ill?" asked Miles.
"It would be better to say, 'How long is it since she was well?'" said the serving-woman, in a solemn tone, as she shook her head and wiped her eyes. She did not hesitate to add that in her belief the new learning had just broken his mother's heart.
Miles looked at the woman in amazement. "What do you know about the new learning?" he said, sharply.
"Thank the Blessed Virgin I know nothing of such folly," said Deborah, "but I have heard the master say, many times of late, that all the troubles that had come upon the land were through this learning they taught at Oxford; so I hope, Master Miles, that now you have come you will leave all that has brought the trouble behind you in Oxford, for the land is well-nigh ruined now, and a little more will quite ruin us all. Father Boniface says it is all on account of the heresy they teach in the new books. So that you see Sir Thomas was not far wrong in what he thought about it."
There was no time to say more, even if Miles had thought it wise to argue the point with his mother's maid, for Lady Paton's room was reached, and Deborah hurried forward to prepare her mistress for the coming of Miles.
She had told her early that morning that he would probably visit them soon, but she seemed too ill to take very much notice of anything just now, and in fact Miles stood by her bedside for several minutes before she quite took in the fact that he was there.
When she had grasped the idea it seemed to waken in her other trains of thought, for she said, quickly, "I am glad you have come, Miles. Now you can marry Audrey, and the sheep need not be sold, and—and—" And then she fell into an incoherent murmur about his father being tired, and not able to come to see her, and soon she had sunk back into a state of semi-unconsciousness.
"She's asleep now, Master Miles, and she mustn't be disturbed any more to-day." And then Miles learned that about once in the twenty-four hours his mother woke for a few minutes like this, and lapsed into the stupor that seemed to have seized and benumbed all her faculties the last few weeks.
Miles sat for a few minutes beside his mother, and then, finding that she was wholly unconscious of his presence, he went to the room where a meal had been placed on the table in readiness for him.
To his great relief it was his father's old servant who stood near the door when he went into the room, and he bade the man stay and tell him all about his father's illness, while he ate his dinner.
But there was not a great deal to tell. Sir Thomas had been ailing for some time, like his wife, and a severe cold, brought on by a change in the weather, had resulted in the last illness, in spite of all that Father Boniface had been able to do in the way of doctoring, and the exertions of another monk at the monastery, who was a famous witch-finder, and held to his opinion that the illness of the old people was caused by the spells of some witch who had a grudge against them.
Unfortunately the way things had been managed lately, both in the house and village, and on the land, had given occasion enough for the poor to have a grudge against Sir Thomas. But still Miles only smiled, and shook his head, when old Roger talked of witchcraft.
Not that he disbelieved in it. But he thought there were causes enough at work to account for the illness of both father and mother without seeking for it in witchcraft; unless it was that malign influence that had first set his father on the quest for more money than the ordinary rent of the land would bring in. This might have been the work of witchcraft, he was willing to believe, but then it was one that had seized so many other English landlords at the same time, and they all seemed so eager to engage in the race for wealth that the witchcraft must have been on a mighty scale to seize upon so many at once.
Miles tried to explain this to old Roger, but the man only shook his head. He had lived a good many years at Paton Hall, and it was his world, and the ideas gathered from his master and the monks at the monastery were enough for him; and these had said again and again that the changes which had come the last few years had been the work of the new learning. That might be another word for witchcraft. He did not know, nor was he sure whether his master had died from witch spells, but the holy father, learned in such matters, had given it as his opinion that he had.
As soon as he had attended to the first most pressing duties that now developed upon him, Miles went to his sister's room, and was glad to hear that Cicely was fast asleep.
"Who is she, Miles?" asked Margery, in a whisper; "she says she is not married."
"No, dear, but I hope she will be to-morrow or the next day. That we are not married is because she wanted to go home and see her mother and father first; and if my father had lived I should have taken her on to London with all speed, and been married at the Church of St. Dunstan-in-the-West. Now, however, we must have a secret marriage performed in your room by my friend, Master John Clark, who is coming from Oxford with all speed for the purpose."
"Then she will really be your wife and my sister," said Margery, in a tone of satisfaction.
"Ah, you are glad, little sister," said Miles, in a tone of relief.
"I am glad it is not Audrey," whispered Margery.
"Why should you be glad of that? I have just heard from my mother that she greatly wished it."
"Oh, yes, to save the sheep being sold; but sheep are not everything, although wool is a good price. In the first place, the Church would not bless a marriage like that. I learned that from my confessor."
Miles took his sister's hand, and looked earnestly into her face. "Suppose the Church should refuse to bless this marriage, Margery," he said, in a whisper.
Margery shivered. "What do you mean, Miles?" she said, in a tone of horror. "Surely this girl has not been married—she looks almost a child?"
"And yet she has known much sorrow," said Miles.
"Yes; she told me she had suffered much of late," answered Margery.
"Did she tell you wherefore this was?" asked her brother.
"No; she seemed to remember something you had said to her, and when I asked her to tell me all about it, she said, 'Miles will tell you when he thinks best.' What is it, Miles? Why is there such a sad look in her sweet, grey eyes, and how is it she is travelling alone with you if she is not your wife?"
"Margery, we did not know how much we loved each other until it was too late. I used to go to Greenwich, and the Tower, and the Palace of Sheen, in attendance upon my master, and wherever I might go I would meet Mistress Cicely about the Court, because she was one of the Queen's favourites, and we talked, and walked, and met at Cicely's home. But at last somebody found out more than we knew, or, at least, were quite sure of ourselves, and to prevent our marriage and please the Queen, Cicely was sent to a convent a few months ago, and it was not until she had gone that I knew how much I loved her."
"But—but—is she a nun?" asked Margery in a frightened whisper.
"No, Margery, she was only a novice," said Miles, boldly.
"But is not that almost the same?" asked his sister, anxiously.
"No, indeed, there is a very great deal of difference. If a man or woman is betrothed to another they can change their minds before they are married, and none can say aught against it. You understand that, Margery?"
"Oh yes, that is quite clear," said Margery.
"Well, Cicely was a novice, but she had not taken the vows of a nun; and more than that, the Cardinal Legate has absolved all novices from whatever vows they may have made, either public or secret; and so my Cicely is quite free to marry me so soon as Master Clark shall come, though it will be a poor bridal for my darling," added Miles with a sigh.
"Ah, the funeral baked meats for the bridal marchpane," said Margery. "Could it not be otherwise? It is not fitting that you who are Sir Miles Paton now should have no wedding feast."
"Better be without the feast than without the bride," said Miles. "I cannot feel that Cicely is safe for a moment out of my sight until we are married; for if she could be taken back to the convent I might not be able to rescue her again, and that is why I want you to keep her close in your rooms, and never leave her for a moment until Master Clark comes and the wedding is over. Until then say nought about her, even to the servants, for I would they should think that we married at Oxford, or before we journeyed from London. Once we are married I can speak of her as my dame, the young Lady Paton."
Miles was too impatient for the arrival of his friend to be able to settle to the consideration of business, although the family scrivener, having heard of his arrival, had walked over from the monastery to greet him, and ask if he had need of his services.
"Nay, not yet. I did but hear of my father's death this morning, and knew not that my mother was ill. You know to whom general and special invitations to the funeral should be sent. It cannot be hastened, for all must have time to journey hither. Send messengers with letters to all old friends of my father both near and far," he said.
This commission satisfied the scrivener for the time, for writing the letters and going and coming of messengers would cause a little stir in the torpid life of the brotherhood. And so Miles and his whilom enemy parted very good friends, for the time being.
Master Clark arrived early the next morning, having ridden with such hot haste, that people, seeing he was a priest, thought he must be riding to the death-bed of some patient; and when he enquired for Paton Hall, they informed him there was no need to hurry, as Sir Thomas had passed away before his son had reached him.
His arrival was not such a startling surprise to the servants as Miles feared it might be, and the traveller being taken almost immediately to Mistress Margery's rooms did not excite any surprise, as the priest might be expected to go and say a word of comfort to the daughter, seeing he had arrived too late to speak a word to Sir Thomas himself.
So there was a very small wedding-party gathered in Margery's winter parlour, and Cicely Guildford became Cicely, Lady Paton; but there was no marchpane or hippocras, or anything that could suggest that a wedding had taken place in the house of mourning.
The ladies still kept to their own wing of the house, as was usual in such cases, and Miles was not in too much haste to speak of his wife as Lady Paton, or even to mention her at all, leaving the servants to surmise what they liked, as he was sure now of being able to introduce her as his wife when the time came for her to emerge from her retirement with Margery after the funeral.
Master Clark was prevailed upon to stay and take part in the funeral service; and during the interval he and Miles had many serious talks as to the future.
As one of the great Cardinal's secretaries, Miles could return to London with his wife, and turn his back upon all the confusion and muddle that his father's affairs seemed to have fallen into of late.
If he did this, however, things would inevitably go from bad to worse; and there was his mother and sister to think for as well as himself, although it must be confessed that Miles rebelled at the thought of being so far from London just now, when his friend at the "Golden Fleece" might be in need of his help in the work of translating God's Word into English.
Still, great as this work was, and needful as it might be, Master Clark held that, for the present at least, Miles' duty was to stay at Paton Hall, and try to alleviate the lot of the peasants, who were apparently on the verge of a revolt against the landlords.
"You can do something to lighten their lot, and it is the duty that lies nearest to you now," said his friend; "and though you may not be able to set up a ready-made Utopia, after the pattern of my friend's, still you might begin to set one growing, and that would be worth something."
The two were gazing out over the pasture-land that had been almost denuded of its sheep, and the sight of which had doubtless done much to shorten the days of the late baronet.
The sheep had been sold, and the money paid over to Lady Audrey, but this could not bring back the men who had farmed the land; and as he thought of this and the beggars' camp in the woods, and how many had been driven off the land to this roving life by the landlord's passion for making money by wool, he thought he would try to set right the wrong that had been wrought in that little corner of the country. He could thank God now that he had stood firm, and refused to do his part in ousting the last of the tenants from their holdings. These still remained, though they were in great trouble, for, as the baronet could not let the land for sheep farming, he had put a higher rental upon it than the tenants had ever paid before, and there had been distress and poverty in every home since.
Now Master Clark thought it would be worth something to put the teaching of Christ into practice on the Paton lands. At all events it was the duty that lay nearest to his hand now, and consequently the one for him to do; and so, before the funeral, a letter was written to the Cardinal, telling him what had happened, and that he had found his father's affairs in such confusion that he must ask leave to stay, for a time at least, and put things in order. And, having despatched this letter, Miles felt he began to sever his connection with the life in London, though he still hoped to be able to help his friend at the "Golden Fleece."
A FUNERAL, in the days of which we write, was a most portentous business. Friends and neighbours, and even strangers, came from near and far, and the kitchen spit was going day and night, to roast the huge joints for the funeral baked meats.
Among the motley crowd who came to honour his father's memory in this fashion, Miles had to live for nearly a fortnight, but he took care that neither his sister nor Cicely should be disturbed in their quiet retreat, and he had the satisfaction of seeing that, as the days went on, the frightened look faded out of Cicely's eyes, and she began to be more like the girl he had first met in that happy home at Greenwich.
Letters had been sent by both of them to Sir Harry and Lady Guildford, telling them of all that had happened, and begging that Sir Harry would visit them, if it was possible for him to leave his duties, under the plea of attending the funeral of a friend.
This plea did serve its purpose; and the day before the interment of Sir Thomas Paton, Sir Harry Guildford arrived, followed closely by a train of servants and sumpter mules, bringing wedding presents and wardrobe for Cicely. Lady Guildford realised the awkward position in which the young couple were placed, and she rightly thought that a visit from her father, and gifts from all her friends, would do more than anything else to set matters right in the eyes of servants and friends.
So the coming of Sir Harry was hailed with real pleasure by Miles and Master Clark too. He also brought news from Tyndale, for he had rested at the "Golden Fleece" on his way through the city, and had been told all about the great work going on there, on purpose that he might tell Miles. He had also brought letters for him from Master Tyndale and the merchant too—such cheerful, hopeful letters, that Miles thought he would like to throw his cap in the air and shout for joy.
Tyndale was making good progress with his translation of the New Testament, and the difficulties that had at first beset him were fast vanishing, thanks to the pains they had both taken in clearing up the first difficulties as they arose, and when they had the help of the Cardinal's library at hand.
This was a very real comfort to Miles, for he saw now clearly enough that his duty lay here in the country among his tenants; but he could scarcely have settled down to this, if he had thought that he was wanted by Tyndale for the larger duty of giving with him the New Testament to the people. So the visit of Sir Harry brought help and comfort without alloy, except that Miles had to give so much time and attention to other guests that he could not see as much of his old friend as he could wish.
But at last the elaborate funeral came to an end, and there were candles enough burned on the occasion to satisfy even Lady Paton, whose mind, now that she had been able to take in the fact that her husband had passed away, seemed to fasten itself upon this item of the funeral.
Of course, the old friends and fellow landlords of Miles' father had been lavish in their advice as what he ought to do now that he had succeeded to the old inheritance of the Patons. One and all agreed that whatever he had been able to save while in the service of the Cardinal should now be expended to replace the sheep his father had been compelled to part with, and that all the property should be turned into grazing land.
"I say this to you, Sir Miles, with all the authority of an old friend, who knew your father's mind fully in these matters," said one.
Miles listened patiently enough while another old friend expressed his views in the same way; but at last he said, "You may have heard from my father that we did not see eye to eye in these matters."
"Aye, aye, we heard all about that pretty little quarrel, but you are old enough to know better now—to know that the old way of dealing with the land is not profitable; and being one addicted to the new learning, which is just now so fashionable, you surely will not keep to the old way of managing the land."
"I am, as you say, addicted to the new learning, which teaches a man to think and judge for himself in many matters, but he must judge righteously. He must follow the law of Christ, and do to his neighbour, though he be his tenant or his hind, as he would have them do to him. In the matter of my father's funeral I have carried out what I know would have been his wish. I have not stinted candles, masses, nor baked meats. There has been free bed and board for man and beast for whoever liked to come to honour him; but, having done this, I must be free to live my life, and deal with my tenants, as God shall guide me. I have taken a wife, and propose to live here on the land, as my father did before me, but what riches I shall gather for the sons and daughters who come after me, God knoweth, for I must seek first the good of those He hath placed under my hand, and I must be free to do it in the way He shall show me; but I do not think it will be other than the old way of growing corn by which yeoman and hind can live as well as their master," added Sir Miles.
"Do you mean to say you will keep on those lazy, grumbling beggars, whom your father would fain have turned off the land years ago?" fumed one of the old men.
"I do not wonder that they have grumbled when their rent has been raised, so that they have well-nigh starved, sometimes, because they could give so little to the land to raise a good crop," said Miles, indignantly. For he had heard all about this charge of laziness, which had its root in his father's mistaken policy, and prevented the tenants from getting a fair crop from the land.
He tried to explain this, but they bade him cut short all his vexations about tenants and cottages, by clearing the land and keeping sheep to supply the markets of Flanders with wool.
"I am not going to sell my sheep," said Miles, "nor my wool either next year, but I am going to send for a steady craftsman from Ghent, who can teach my people to use it for themselves; and then there will be employment for men, and women too, in the winter. If it will make the men of Flanders rich, as it does, to buy our wool, and weave it, and send it back as cloth, why should we not learn to do it for ourselves, and so do away with something of the bitter poverty with which all are now afflicted. It was taught and practised here in England in the time of Wickliffe, I have read, and if our people would take to it again we might rightly and truly be called 'Merry England' once more. Now, however, the merriment is only for the King and his Court, while the rest of the people sigh and languish for want of work and want of bread; and no man's life is safe if he stirs from his own hearthstone by reason of the crowds of beggars and robbers that we make by our laws, and our unjust dealing with the land."
Of course such a speech as this could not fail to make a sensation, and the news that Miles had mentioned the name of Wickliffe was carried to the monastery by a monk who was one of the party.
He did not know much about the matter himself, but he had heard that somebody of that name was an enemy of the Church, and so it would be wise for the brethren to keep their eyes open to the doings of this young man. At present they could find no fault with him. He had provided a funeral for his father which they fully approved. There were to be plenty of masses, and plenty of candles, and as the monastery supplied both, there would be a nice little sum added to their coffers over the business.
The monk was not disposed to grumble if Miles did give up the growing of sheep for the growing of corn. With a populous village of well-to-do peasants, the Church could reap a much richer harvest than from the enlarged green meadows, with a silent alehouse, and the mud-hovels of the village dropping to pieces from decay; so that in his design to bring back the tenants to the land, Miles was not like to meet with any opposition from the Church. It was only when her rights and privileges were threatened that the Church bestirred herself; and so if they had received any news at the monastery about Cicely, they were careful to keep it to themselves, and the coming of Sir Harry Guildford placed the young couple out of the way of idle questioning which might have arisen if it had been known that they were not married when they first arrived.
But although the Church was neutral in its opinion of Miles, and old friends offended, the news was carried by one and another until it reached the ears of the beggars in the woods, and among these it aroused varying feelings. Those who were rogues and vagabonds from choice, or who, from having lived this life so long did not care for steady work, mocked and jeered at the idea of men going back when once they had been turned off the land. Then there were others out of whom all the manhood had been beaten by the cruel and degrading treatment they had received, and these seemed to care very little for anything now. But there were a few young men who had vivid recollections of a happy home and steady work, who had not yet been flogged at the cart-tail, or branded as slaves, and two or three of these resolved to tie their rags together as decently as they could, and go to see Miles as soon as his funeral guests should depart.
So as soon as Miles had a little time to give to his wife and her father, he was fetched in some alarm by his steward, to meet this ragged band of dirty unkempt men, who nevertheless seemed to know how to behave themselves with courtesy and decorum.
After a few words of explanation, Miles learned that these were for the most part the sons of those tenants who had been turned off the land. When he heard this, he said to the steward, "take them to the barn where the tables are set, and give them a good meal of what is left of the funeral baked meats!" Then turning to the men he said, "You are hungry and weary, eat first, and then I will see you and learn what you want, and how I can help you!"
"God bless you, Master Miles, and may the holy Mother have you in her keeping," fervently ejaculated one of the most gaunt and hungry looking of the band, and they gladly followed to the barn.
The servants eyed the ragged crew suspiciously, but they had abundance of meat and bread still in the larder, and so the men ate their fill, and washed down the meal with ale that was not too strong for weakly stomachs. Having eaten and drunk, the men asked if they might wash and roll themselves in the straw by way of drying before they again presented themselves before Sir Miles.
To this the servants gave a rather grudging assent, but Miles was pleased to see in this a sign that the men had not lost all self-respect, and he did not fail to accord to them a hearty welcome, and even thanked them for coming to ask as to the truth of the reports they had heard.
"I will tell you plainly that those who have lived on this land for generations I should like to come back. But there are difficulties in the way of doing this all at once. The houses have fallen into decay, many of them have disappeared, and only a few stones remain of what was once a comfortable dwelling. Now when they are put up, I would like them to be more substantially built, and not mere mud-hovels. You are strong hearty men if you were well fed. Would you be willing to learn how to do this work, if I could find somebody to teach you, and pay you a fair wage while you were learning?"
To see the gleaming eager eyes of the half-starved men as they listened to this proposal, was enough to convince Miles of the sincerity of his visitors; and so, after some further talk, it was arranged that they should all sleep in the straw at the upper end of the barn that night, and Miles would write a letter for them to carry to Rankin the next day. In this Miles told the farmer something of what he intended to do, and asked him to give the men some employment, if possible, about the building, that they might learn something of the art of laying and compacting the stones and beams of timber, that they might know how to fashion a house out of these materials, instead of mud and straw, and thatch of turf, which was what most of them were built of.
Having assented to this proposal, the men then asked Miles what was to be done when they had learned to build better houses.
"I will employ you to put up substantial barns and farm-houses, where mud cottages stood before," answered Miles, quite expecting to see a smile of gratification brighten the gaunt faces.
But a look of sullen obstinacy gradually stole over the countenance of each, and one of them slowly muttered, "What served our fathers is good enough for us. We want no houses of timber and stone; we be Englishmen, and like our own fashions."
This was a fling at Miles, because they knew by report that he had lived some time in London, and thought it would be as well to let their future master know at once that they were not going to have any London ways forced upon them.
It was the first encounter with the crass ignorance and prejudice that arrayed itself against all change, even though it might be for the bettering of the lot of those who complained of it.
Miles, full of his Utopian dream, tried to explain to these young men the advantage of having a house firmly and compactly built, how the peasants would suffer less from cold and ague if the water did not drip off the walls on to the beds. It was a sufficient argument that the little hovels—that were not much more than magnified bee-hives—were good enough for their fathers, and ought to be good enough for them; and if they might only repair some of the cottages in the village, and bring the old people to live there, they would be thankful and content.
So the matter had to be settled in that way for the present, and Miles hastened to his sister's rooms to tell her and his wife what he had done.
"You do not want them to be content with the old mud cottages," said Cicely with a smile, for she began to understand her husband better than his sister could.
"Is it not right and just that the poor should be content with things as they are," asked Margery rather severely.
"Nay, they should not be content to be unjustly treated; and for the sake of the master who is unjust, they should do all that in them lies to make that master see and remedy the injustice. Perhaps it is too much to expect that those who have been glad to hide in a cave for shelter, should now aspire to a well-built house; and I shall have to bear with the mud-hovels for the present, until they can learn to appreciate better things."
"What is to come of it all?" asked Margery.
"I have promised to give these five work in putting the deserted cottages in order; and when they are ready, the old folks, and women, and children are to come back to the village. While they are working they must live in the barn, and have the scraps from the kitchen that would go to the dogs. It is an experiment, I know," he added, when Sir Harry held up his hands, "but I am beginning to find out that it is easier to commit a wrong than to set it right again. My father thought to make a great fortune in wool before he died, but he has left me such a store of worry and trouble that Cicely and I are not likely to be at a loss for employment for heart and hands for many a year to come."
"And what better fortune could we have left us than that?" asked young Lady Paton. "I am not clever, you know, but I have always been busy either about the Court or at home; and now we can be busy thinking out the best way of helping these poor tenants."
"If they will let you help them," said her husband slyly. "I begin to think that the landlords are not quite masters of the situation, however much they may seem so. I have learned a lesson to-day from those stupid stolid fellows that I am not likely to forget; and I am afraid the Utopia will not be set up even in this little corner of the kingdom for some years to come at least."
BEFORE the winter was over, most of the cottages in the village had been made habitable, and some of the old folks who had survived the hard life in the woods had moved back to their old dwellings.
Miles had fondly hoped that when this was attained the hardest part of his task would be over, but he found to his dismay that it had only just begun.
His workmen had done well, and worked steadily and carefully until the cottages that were worth repairing had been finished; but when that was accomplished, and the old folks moved in, then their ardour for work seemed to evaporate. Miles wanted his large pastures fenced off into something like their old proportions, that the land might be made arable once more; and, as he said, it would give work to all about the place to bring it back to its former condition. But the men shook their heads to the proposal.
"It is not the custom among Englishmen to work in the winter; that is the time for wrestling and running, not for working," said the boldest of these peasants. "We have worked at the cottages because we are tired of a roving life in the woods; but what would be thought of a man who would work all the year round? What would come of our wrestling matches, which are the glory of every Englishman?"
In vain Miles argued and protested; he was always met with the same answer,—their fathers never worked in the winter, and why should they? And he found that he was expected to keep these wrestlers as well as the old folks who were too weak to work. But in their case he said, "No;" if they would not work they should not eat at his expense; and though he was half afraid the more restless of them might go off to the precarious life of the woods, they at last submitted to the inevitable, though they grumbled a good deal at the un-English demand made upon them, and Miles earned the character of being a hard man on his dependents at the very outset.
But still he had the satisfaction of seeing the fences put up, and the old landmarks restored, and he hoped this enforced labour would not be without its uses in breaking down the men's prejudices against working during the winter season, for it did not have its root in laziness, but in the pride of race. Frenchmen might, and did work, but they despised and hated the very name of a Frenchman, this feeling growing out of the frequent wars between the two countries.
Early in the spring he had a visit from Rankin, who had heard the news of the changes going on at his old home. He had come to see whether Miles would not let him have the old holding which had descended from father to son for so many generations.
Miles said he should be glad enough for Rankin to come back when he could leave his present employment; and as soon as he could come, he would supply the materials for him to build a substantial farmhouse where the old mud-cottage had stood.
But to his disappointment Rankin could not see the need of putting up a dwelling which would cost so much more in time, labour, and material. The old tenement, if it did need frequent patching, was easily built, and he wanted to be back on the land and get to work there with as little delay as possible; and he brought forward the same argument that the others did,—what was good enough for his father and mother was good enough for him.
But after some talk a compromise was effected in the matter, and he agreed to carry out his landlord's wishes.
It was not encouraging to have these contests with his tenants, over matters that were so clearly for their own benefit, and Miles wondered how it would be in the matter of religion by-and-bye.
Here the bulk of the people on his own property were stupidly holding to customs that were hurtful to themselves, and refusing to adopt better because they were new. Would it be the same when the New Testament was printed and scattered broadcast through the land? Or would they hold to the new light and learning when once it was given to them, as the Commons held by their rights when his master would have infringed them that May-day at Westminster?
The memory of that scene was deeply engraven upon the memory of Miles, and he reflected that after all, the decision concerning this rested in the hands of the people of the country, rather than with the King and Cardinal, however powerful they might be.
Of course there were a few like his friend Monmouth, and other merchants of London, who would hold as fast by what they learned from Master Tyndale and Master Garrett of Honey Lane; but if the Church declared that this teaching was heresy, and contrary to that of the Church, he feared there would be a sorry time in store for a few at least of those who embraced the new doctrines, unless the people, as a whole, could be brought to embrace them.
He had thought at one time that no sensible man could fail to do this, when once they were made clear to him; but his winter's experience had somewhat shaken his faith in his speedy conversion of even the thinking part of the community, and he saw that they would have to be very cautious how they distributed the New Testament, even when it was printed.
He tried to hope that his former master, the Cardinal, would institute such a reform of the Church, that there would be no need to do as the German monk Luther had done—separate from the Church, and denounce it. He shuddered at the thought of doing this, for he and Cicely could go to the Monastery Chapel now, and take part in the service truly and devoutly, but what it might be later on he dared not think. He shivered at the reflection of what a storm might burst, when the prejudices of some, and the vested interests of others, taken in conjunction with the hostility of the Church, were all brought into conflict with this new light that God had given for the advancement of the world, and the establishment of His kingdom.
These graver thoughts, though they occupied a good deal of his attention, were not allowed to cloud the happiness of himself, or the household of which he was master.
His young wife, now known as "the young Lady Paton," was as happy as a bird as she went about her household duties with Margery; for the two had agreed to divide these between them, now that the elder lady was no longer able to take any active share in their management.
The Dowager Lady Paton was better now than she had been during the winter, but she did not leave her rooms, and behaved with rather distant courtesy to Cicely; but still, it was a happy and united household, and they all managed to keep on good terms with the brethren at the Monastery, though the monks took no pains to hide the fact that they hated the new learning, and Sir Miles was equally frank in declaring his attachment to it.
The family were gathered round a fire of logs one chilly evening in April of this year, 1524, when a messenger arrived, bringing a letter from London for Sir Miles Paton. He wore the livery of the Cardinal, and brought a packet from one of his friends in the household; but when the packet was opened, Miles found the most important news came from Master Tyndale, who begged him to come to London, if it was possible, as he had determined to leave England very soon, and he knew not when he might return.
Miles felt almost alarmed as he read the letter. It was cautiously written, and no mention was made of the special work in which the writer had been engaged; for, as it had to pass through the hands of some of the Cardinal's servants before it could reach Miles, Tyndale had to be very careful what he said; but Miles could understand that his friend had been disappointed, as well as himself, lately.