Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Life in London.“Whan we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see,—My luve was clad in velvet blackAnd I mysel’ in cramoisie.”Old Ballad.A fortnight after the events recorded in the last chapter, Lovell Tower was in the confusion of great preparations for the approaching wedding. Friar Andrew was despatched to York fair to purchase twenty yards of scarlet cloth, fourteen yards of tawny satin, eight of purple satin, and the same number of blue cloth of silver, with jewels and rich furs. All was cutting-out and fitting-on, with discussions about trimmings, quintises, and head-dresses. Richard Pynson was sent hither and thither on errands. Sir Geoffrey himself superintended the purchase of a new pillion, and ordered it to be covered with green velvet. Lord Marnell, who did not often come to Lovell Tower himself, sent over a trusty messenger every day to inquire if Mistress Margery had rested well and was merry. From the latter condition she was very far. At length the preparations were completed; and on a splendid summer day, when the birds were singing their most joyous melodies, Margery Lovell was married, in Bostock Church, to Sir Ralph Marnell, Baron Marnell of Lymington, Knight of the Garter. The bride was attired in blue cloth of silver, trimmed with miniver; and her hair, as was then the custom at weddings, was not confined by any head-dress, but flowed down her back, long and straight. The bridegroom was dressed in cramoisie—crimson velvet—richly trimmed with bullion, and wore three long waving plumes in his cap, as well as a streamer of gold lace. If any one who may read these pages should inquire why Margery chose blue for her wedding-dress, I may answer that Margery would have been greatly astonished if any one had recommended white. White at this period was not only a mourning colour, but mourning of the very deepest character.No pains were spared to make this a merry wedding, and yet it certainly could not be called a joyous one. All the inhabitants of Lovell Tower knew well that the bride was very far from happy; Sir Geoffrey and Dame Lovell were naturally sorry to lose their only child; Friar Andrew mourned over his favourite and his kettle of furmety; while Richard Pynson had his own private sorrow, to which I need not allude further in this place.The bridal feast was held at Lovell Tower, and all the neighbours were invited to it. The festivities were prolonged to a late hour; and at five o’clock next morning everybody was busy helping the bride to pack up. Everybody thought of everything so well, that there was very little left for her to think of; but she did think of one thing. When Margery set out for her new home in London, the book went too.The journey to London from the North was in those days a long and wearisome one. There were no vehicles but litters and waggons. Margery travelled part of the way in a litter, and part on a pillion behind her bridegroom, who rode on horseback the whole way. He had with him a regular army of retainers, besides sundry maidens for the Lady Marnell, at the head of whom was Alice Jordan, the unlucky girl who, at our first visit to Lovell Tower, was reprimanded for leaving out the onions in the blanch-porre. Margery had persuaded her mother to resign to her for a personal attendant this often clumsy and forgetful but really well-meaning girl. It was a Friday evening when they arrived in London; and Margery was much too tired to think of doing anything but rest her wearied head in sleep.As early as four o’clock the next morning, she was roused by London cries from a happy dream of Lovell Tower. “Quinces! sweet quinces! ripe quinces!”“Any kitchen-stuff, have you, maids?”“Cakes and ale! cakes and ale!”“Cherry ripe! cherry ripe!”“Come buy, pretty maids, come buy! come buy!” with an undercurrent of the long rhymed cry of the hawker of haberdashery, of which Shakespeare has given us a specimen as regards the English version—“Lawn, as white as driven snow;Cyprus, black as e’er was crow,”etcetera.Margery lay still, and listened in silence to all these new sounds. At length she rose and dressed herself, with the assistance of Alice, who was seriously dissatisfied with the narrow streets and queer smells of the town, and spared no comment on these points while assisting her young mistress at her toilette. Having dressed, Margery passed into an antechamber, close to her bedroom, where breakfast was served. This repast consisted of a pitcher of new milk, another pitcher of wine, a dish of poached eggs, a tremendous bunch of water-cress, a large loaf of bread, and marchpanes—a sweet cake, not unlike the modern macaroon. Breakfast over, Margery put on her hood, and taking Alice with her, she sallied forth on an expedition to examine the neighbourhood of her new home. One of Lord Marnell’s men-servants followed at a short distance, wearing a rapier, to defend his mistress in case of any assault being made upon her.Lord Marnell’s house was very near the country, and in a quiet and secluded position, being pleasantly situated in Fleet Street. Green fields lay between the two cities of London and Westminster. There was only one bridge across the river, that silver Thames, which ran, so clear and limpid, through the undulating meadows; and the bridge was entirely built over, a covered way passing under the houses for wheeled vehicles. Far to the right rose the magnificent Palace of Westminster, a relic of the Saxon kings; and behind it the grand old Abbey, and the strong, frowning Sanctuary; while to the left glittered the walls and turrets of the White Tower, the town residence of royalty. Margery, however, could not see the whole of this as she stepped out of her house. What first met her eyes were the more detailed and less pleasant features of the scene. There were no causeways; the streets, as a rule, would just allow of the progress of one vehicle, though a few of the principal ones would permit the passage of two; and the pavements consisted of huge stones, not remarkable either for evenness or smoothness. A channel ran down the middle of the street, into which every housewife emptied her slops from the window, and along which dirty water, sewerage, straw, drowned rats, and mud, floated in profuse and odoriferous mezee. Margery found it desirable to make considerable use of her pomander, a ball of various mixed drugs inclosed in a gold network, and emitting a pleasant fragrance when carried in the warm hand. As she proceeded along the streets which were lined with shops, the incessant cry of the shopkeepers standing at their doors, “What do you lack? what do you lack?” greeted her on every side. The vehicles were of two classes, as I have before observed—waggons and litters, the litters being the carriages of the fourteenth century; but the waggons were by far the most numerous. Occasionally a lady of rank would ride past in her litter, drawn by horses whose trappings swept the ground; or a knight, followed by a crowd of retainers, would prance by on his high-mettled charger. Margery spent the happiest day which she had passed since her marriage, in wandering about London, and satisfying her girlish curiosity concerning every place of which she had ever heard. Lord Marnell frowned when Margery confessed, on her return, that she had been out to see London. It was not fit, he said, that she should go out on foot: ladies of rank were not expected to walk: she ought to have ordered out her litter, with a due attendance of retainers.“But, my lord,” said Margery, very naturally, “an’t please you, I could not see so well in a litter.”Lord Marnell’s displeased lips relaxed into a laugh, for he was amused at her simplicity; but he repeated that he begged she would remember, now that shehadseen, that she was no longer plain Mistress Margery Lovell, but Baroness Marnell of Lymington, and would behave herself accordingly. Margery sighed at this curtailment of her liberty, and withdrew to see where Alice was putting her dresses.As it was approaching evening, Lord Marnell’s voice called her downstairs.“If thou wilt see a sight, Madge,” he said, good-naturedly, as she entered, “come quickly, and one will gladden thine eyes which never sawest thou before. The King rideth presently from the Savoy to the Tower.”Margery ran to the window, and saw a number of horses, decked, as well as their riders, in all the colours of the rainbow, coming up the street from the stately Savoy Palace, which stood, surrounded by green fields, in what is now the Strand.“Which is the King’s Grace, I pray you?” asked she, eagerly.“He weareth a plain black hood and a red gown,” answered her husband. “He rideth a white horse, and hath a scarlet footcloth, all powdered over with ostrich feathers in gold.”“What!” said Margery, in surprise, “that little, fair, goodly man, with the golden frontlet to his horse?”“The very same,” said Lord Marnell. “The tall, comely man who rideth behind him, on yon brown horse, and who hath eyes like to an eagle, is the Duke of Lancaster. ‘John of Gaunt,’ the folk call him, by reason that he was born at Ghent, in Flanders.”“And who be the rest, if I weary you not with asking?” said Margery, rather timidly.“In no wise,” answered he. “Mostly lords and noble gentlemen, of whom thou mayest perchance have heard. The Earl of Surrey is he in the green coat, with a red plume. The Earl of Northumberland hath a blue coat, broidered with gold, and a footcloth of the same. Yon dark, proud-looking man in scarlet, on the roan horse, is the Duke of Exeter (Sir John Holland), brother to the King’s Grace by my Lady Princess his mother, who was wed afore she wedded the Prince, whose soul God rest! Ah! and here cometh my Lord of Hereford, Harry of Bolingbroke (afterwards Henry IV), the Duke of Lancaster’s only son and heir—and a son and heir who were worse than none, if report tell truth,” added Lord Marnell, in a lower tone. “Seest thou, Madge, yon passing tall man, with black hair, arrayed in pink cloth of silver?” (See note 1).“I see him well, I thank your good Lordship,” was Margery’s answer; but she suddenly shivered as she spoke.“Art thou cold, Madge, by the casement? Shall I close the lattice?”“I am not cold, good my Lord, I thank you,” said Margery, in a different tone; “but I like not to look upon that man.”“Why so?” asked Lord Marnell, looking down from his altitude upon the slight frail figure at his side. “Is he not a noble man and a goodly?”“I know not,” answered Margery, still in a troubled voice. “There is a thing in his face for which I find not words, but it troubleth me.”“Look not on him, then,” said he, drawing her away. She thanked him for his kindness in showing and explaining the glittering scene to her, and returned to her supervision of Alice.A few days after this, the Prioress of Kennington, Lord Marnell’s sister, came in her litter to see her young sister-in-law. Margery was surprised to find in her a lady so little resembling her country-formed idea of a nun. She wore, indeed, the costume of her order; but her dress, instead of being common serge or camlet, was black velvet; her frontlet and barb (see Note 2) were elaborately embroidered; her long gloves (see Note 3) were of white Spanish leather, delicately perfumed, and adorned with needlework in coloured silks; she wore nearly as many rings as would have stocked a small jeweller’s shop, and from her girdle, set with the finest gems, were suspended a pomander richly worked in gold and enamel, a large silver seal, and a rosary, made of amethyst beads, holding a crucifix, the materials of which were alabaster and gold.In those palmy days of Romanism in England, nuns were by no means so strictly secluded as now. They were present at all manner of festivities; the higher class travelled about the country very much as they chose, and all of them, while retaining the peculiar shape and colour of the prescribed monastic costume, contrived to spend a fortune on the accessories and details of their dress. The Prioress of Kennington, as I have just described her, is a specimen of nearly all the prioresses and other conventual authorities of her day.This handsomely-dressed lady was stiff and stately in her manner, and uttered, with the proudest mien, words expressive only of the most abject humility. “If her fair sister would come and see her at her poor house at Kennington, she would be right glad of so great honour.” Margery replied courteously, but she had no desire to see much of the Prioress.Lord Marnell took his wife to Court, and presented her to the King—the Queen was dead—and the Duchess of Gloucester (Eleanor Bohu), his aunt. The King spoke to Margery very kindly, and won her good opinion by so doing. The Duchess honoured her with a haughty stare, and then “supposed she came from the North?” in a tone which indicated that she considered her a variety of savage. The ladies in waiting examined and questioned her with more curiosity than civility; and Margery’s visit to Court left upon her mind, with the single exception of King Richard’s kindness, a most unpleasant impression.In the winter of 1396, King Richard brought home a new queen, the Princess Isabelle of France, who had attained the mature age of eight years. Margery watched the little Queen make her entrance into London. She was decked out with jewels, of which she brought a great quantity over with her, and fresh ones were presented to her at every place where she halted. Alice, with round eyes, declared that “the Queen’s Grace’s jewels must be worth a King’s ransom—and would not your good Ladyship wish to have the like?”Margery shook her head.“The only jewels that be worth having, good Alice,” said she, “be gems of the heart, such like as meekness, obedience, and charity. And in truth, if I were the chooser, there be many things that I would have afore jewels. But much good do they the Queen’s Grace, poor child! and I pray God she rest not content with gauds of this earth.”Before that winter was over, one thing, worth more than the Queen’s jewels in her eyes, was bestowed upon Margery. Something to take care of—something to love and live for. A little golden-haired baby, which became, so far as anything in this world could become so, the light and joy of her heart and soul.Margery soon learned to value at its true worth the show and tinsel of London life. She never appeared again at Court but once, to pay her respects to the new Queen, who received her very cordially, seated on a throne by her husband. The small Queen of eight “hoped she was quite well, and thought that England was a very fine country.” The king spoke to her as kindly as before, offered her ipocras (see Note 4) and spices, and on the close of the interview, took up his little Queen in his arms, and carried her out of the room. Margery had, indeed, no opportunity to visit the Court again; for the young Queen was educated at Windsor, and very rarely visited London. And Lady Marnell, tired of the hollow glitter of high life, and finding few or none in her own sphere with whom she could complacently associate, went back with fresh zest to her baby and the book.Note 1. These descriptions are taken from the invaluable illuminations in Creton’sHistoire du Roy Richart Deux, Harl. Ms. 1319. Creton was a contemporary and personal friend of King Richard.Note 2. The frontlet and barb were pieces of white linen, the former worn over the forehead, the latter over the chin.Note 3. Gloves were just becoming fashionable in the fourteenth century for common wear. Before that, they were rarely used except when the wearer carried a falcon on the wrist.Note 4. A sweet wine or liqueur, generally served at the “void.”

“Whan we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see,—My luve was clad in velvet blackAnd I mysel’ in cramoisie.”Old Ballad.

“Whan we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see,—My luve was clad in velvet blackAnd I mysel’ in cramoisie.”Old Ballad.

A fortnight after the events recorded in the last chapter, Lovell Tower was in the confusion of great preparations for the approaching wedding. Friar Andrew was despatched to York fair to purchase twenty yards of scarlet cloth, fourteen yards of tawny satin, eight of purple satin, and the same number of blue cloth of silver, with jewels and rich furs. All was cutting-out and fitting-on, with discussions about trimmings, quintises, and head-dresses. Richard Pynson was sent hither and thither on errands. Sir Geoffrey himself superintended the purchase of a new pillion, and ordered it to be covered with green velvet. Lord Marnell, who did not often come to Lovell Tower himself, sent over a trusty messenger every day to inquire if Mistress Margery had rested well and was merry. From the latter condition she was very far. At length the preparations were completed; and on a splendid summer day, when the birds were singing their most joyous melodies, Margery Lovell was married, in Bostock Church, to Sir Ralph Marnell, Baron Marnell of Lymington, Knight of the Garter. The bride was attired in blue cloth of silver, trimmed with miniver; and her hair, as was then the custom at weddings, was not confined by any head-dress, but flowed down her back, long and straight. The bridegroom was dressed in cramoisie—crimson velvet—richly trimmed with bullion, and wore three long waving plumes in his cap, as well as a streamer of gold lace. If any one who may read these pages should inquire why Margery chose blue for her wedding-dress, I may answer that Margery would have been greatly astonished if any one had recommended white. White at this period was not only a mourning colour, but mourning of the very deepest character.

No pains were spared to make this a merry wedding, and yet it certainly could not be called a joyous one. All the inhabitants of Lovell Tower knew well that the bride was very far from happy; Sir Geoffrey and Dame Lovell were naturally sorry to lose their only child; Friar Andrew mourned over his favourite and his kettle of furmety; while Richard Pynson had his own private sorrow, to which I need not allude further in this place.

The bridal feast was held at Lovell Tower, and all the neighbours were invited to it. The festivities were prolonged to a late hour; and at five o’clock next morning everybody was busy helping the bride to pack up. Everybody thought of everything so well, that there was very little left for her to think of; but she did think of one thing. When Margery set out for her new home in London, the book went too.

The journey to London from the North was in those days a long and wearisome one. There were no vehicles but litters and waggons. Margery travelled part of the way in a litter, and part on a pillion behind her bridegroom, who rode on horseback the whole way. He had with him a regular army of retainers, besides sundry maidens for the Lady Marnell, at the head of whom was Alice Jordan, the unlucky girl who, at our first visit to Lovell Tower, was reprimanded for leaving out the onions in the blanch-porre. Margery had persuaded her mother to resign to her for a personal attendant this often clumsy and forgetful but really well-meaning girl. It was a Friday evening when they arrived in London; and Margery was much too tired to think of doing anything but rest her wearied head in sleep.

As early as four o’clock the next morning, she was roused by London cries from a happy dream of Lovell Tower. “Quinces! sweet quinces! ripe quinces!”

“Any kitchen-stuff, have you, maids?”

“Cakes and ale! cakes and ale!”

“Cherry ripe! cherry ripe!”

“Come buy, pretty maids, come buy! come buy!” with an undercurrent of the long rhymed cry of the hawker of haberdashery, of which Shakespeare has given us a specimen as regards the English version—

“Lawn, as white as driven snow;Cyprus, black as e’er was crow,”etcetera.

“Lawn, as white as driven snow;Cyprus, black as e’er was crow,”etcetera.

Margery lay still, and listened in silence to all these new sounds. At length she rose and dressed herself, with the assistance of Alice, who was seriously dissatisfied with the narrow streets and queer smells of the town, and spared no comment on these points while assisting her young mistress at her toilette. Having dressed, Margery passed into an antechamber, close to her bedroom, where breakfast was served. This repast consisted of a pitcher of new milk, another pitcher of wine, a dish of poached eggs, a tremendous bunch of water-cress, a large loaf of bread, and marchpanes—a sweet cake, not unlike the modern macaroon. Breakfast over, Margery put on her hood, and taking Alice with her, she sallied forth on an expedition to examine the neighbourhood of her new home. One of Lord Marnell’s men-servants followed at a short distance, wearing a rapier, to defend his mistress in case of any assault being made upon her.

Lord Marnell’s house was very near the country, and in a quiet and secluded position, being pleasantly situated in Fleet Street. Green fields lay between the two cities of London and Westminster. There was only one bridge across the river, that silver Thames, which ran, so clear and limpid, through the undulating meadows; and the bridge was entirely built over, a covered way passing under the houses for wheeled vehicles. Far to the right rose the magnificent Palace of Westminster, a relic of the Saxon kings; and behind it the grand old Abbey, and the strong, frowning Sanctuary; while to the left glittered the walls and turrets of the White Tower, the town residence of royalty. Margery, however, could not see the whole of this as she stepped out of her house. What first met her eyes were the more detailed and less pleasant features of the scene. There were no causeways; the streets, as a rule, would just allow of the progress of one vehicle, though a few of the principal ones would permit the passage of two; and the pavements consisted of huge stones, not remarkable either for evenness or smoothness. A channel ran down the middle of the street, into which every housewife emptied her slops from the window, and along which dirty water, sewerage, straw, drowned rats, and mud, floated in profuse and odoriferous mezee. Margery found it desirable to make considerable use of her pomander, a ball of various mixed drugs inclosed in a gold network, and emitting a pleasant fragrance when carried in the warm hand. As she proceeded along the streets which were lined with shops, the incessant cry of the shopkeepers standing at their doors, “What do you lack? what do you lack?” greeted her on every side. The vehicles were of two classes, as I have before observed—waggons and litters, the litters being the carriages of the fourteenth century; but the waggons were by far the most numerous. Occasionally a lady of rank would ride past in her litter, drawn by horses whose trappings swept the ground; or a knight, followed by a crowd of retainers, would prance by on his high-mettled charger. Margery spent the happiest day which she had passed since her marriage, in wandering about London, and satisfying her girlish curiosity concerning every place of which she had ever heard. Lord Marnell frowned when Margery confessed, on her return, that she had been out to see London. It was not fit, he said, that she should go out on foot: ladies of rank were not expected to walk: she ought to have ordered out her litter, with a due attendance of retainers.

“But, my lord,” said Margery, very naturally, “an’t please you, I could not see so well in a litter.”

Lord Marnell’s displeased lips relaxed into a laugh, for he was amused at her simplicity; but he repeated that he begged she would remember, now that shehadseen, that she was no longer plain Mistress Margery Lovell, but Baroness Marnell of Lymington, and would behave herself accordingly. Margery sighed at this curtailment of her liberty, and withdrew to see where Alice was putting her dresses.

As it was approaching evening, Lord Marnell’s voice called her downstairs.

“If thou wilt see a sight, Madge,” he said, good-naturedly, as she entered, “come quickly, and one will gladden thine eyes which never sawest thou before. The King rideth presently from the Savoy to the Tower.”

Margery ran to the window, and saw a number of horses, decked, as well as their riders, in all the colours of the rainbow, coming up the street from the stately Savoy Palace, which stood, surrounded by green fields, in what is now the Strand.

“Which is the King’s Grace, I pray you?” asked she, eagerly.

“He weareth a plain black hood and a red gown,” answered her husband. “He rideth a white horse, and hath a scarlet footcloth, all powdered over with ostrich feathers in gold.”

“What!” said Margery, in surprise, “that little, fair, goodly man, with the golden frontlet to his horse?”

“The very same,” said Lord Marnell. “The tall, comely man who rideth behind him, on yon brown horse, and who hath eyes like to an eagle, is the Duke of Lancaster. ‘John of Gaunt,’ the folk call him, by reason that he was born at Ghent, in Flanders.”

“And who be the rest, if I weary you not with asking?” said Margery, rather timidly.

“In no wise,” answered he. “Mostly lords and noble gentlemen, of whom thou mayest perchance have heard. The Earl of Surrey is he in the green coat, with a red plume. The Earl of Northumberland hath a blue coat, broidered with gold, and a footcloth of the same. Yon dark, proud-looking man in scarlet, on the roan horse, is the Duke of Exeter (Sir John Holland), brother to the King’s Grace by my Lady Princess his mother, who was wed afore she wedded the Prince, whose soul God rest! Ah! and here cometh my Lord of Hereford, Harry of Bolingbroke (afterwards Henry IV), the Duke of Lancaster’s only son and heir—and a son and heir who were worse than none, if report tell truth,” added Lord Marnell, in a lower tone. “Seest thou, Madge, yon passing tall man, with black hair, arrayed in pink cloth of silver?” (See note 1).

“I see him well, I thank your good Lordship,” was Margery’s answer; but she suddenly shivered as she spoke.

“Art thou cold, Madge, by the casement? Shall I close the lattice?”

“I am not cold, good my Lord, I thank you,” said Margery, in a different tone; “but I like not to look upon that man.”

“Why so?” asked Lord Marnell, looking down from his altitude upon the slight frail figure at his side. “Is he not a noble man and a goodly?”

“I know not,” answered Margery, still in a troubled voice. “There is a thing in his face for which I find not words, but it troubleth me.”

“Look not on him, then,” said he, drawing her away. She thanked him for his kindness in showing and explaining the glittering scene to her, and returned to her supervision of Alice.

A few days after this, the Prioress of Kennington, Lord Marnell’s sister, came in her litter to see her young sister-in-law. Margery was surprised to find in her a lady so little resembling her country-formed idea of a nun. She wore, indeed, the costume of her order; but her dress, instead of being common serge or camlet, was black velvet; her frontlet and barb (see Note 2) were elaborately embroidered; her long gloves (see Note 3) were of white Spanish leather, delicately perfumed, and adorned with needlework in coloured silks; she wore nearly as many rings as would have stocked a small jeweller’s shop, and from her girdle, set with the finest gems, were suspended a pomander richly worked in gold and enamel, a large silver seal, and a rosary, made of amethyst beads, holding a crucifix, the materials of which were alabaster and gold.

In those palmy days of Romanism in England, nuns were by no means so strictly secluded as now. They were present at all manner of festivities; the higher class travelled about the country very much as they chose, and all of them, while retaining the peculiar shape and colour of the prescribed monastic costume, contrived to spend a fortune on the accessories and details of their dress. The Prioress of Kennington, as I have just described her, is a specimen of nearly all the prioresses and other conventual authorities of her day.

This handsomely-dressed lady was stiff and stately in her manner, and uttered, with the proudest mien, words expressive only of the most abject humility. “If her fair sister would come and see her at her poor house at Kennington, she would be right glad of so great honour.” Margery replied courteously, but she had no desire to see much of the Prioress.

Lord Marnell took his wife to Court, and presented her to the King—the Queen was dead—and the Duchess of Gloucester (Eleanor Bohu), his aunt. The King spoke to Margery very kindly, and won her good opinion by so doing. The Duchess honoured her with a haughty stare, and then “supposed she came from the North?” in a tone which indicated that she considered her a variety of savage. The ladies in waiting examined and questioned her with more curiosity than civility; and Margery’s visit to Court left upon her mind, with the single exception of King Richard’s kindness, a most unpleasant impression.

In the winter of 1396, King Richard brought home a new queen, the Princess Isabelle of France, who had attained the mature age of eight years. Margery watched the little Queen make her entrance into London. She was decked out with jewels, of which she brought a great quantity over with her, and fresh ones were presented to her at every place where she halted. Alice, with round eyes, declared that “the Queen’s Grace’s jewels must be worth a King’s ransom—and would not your good Ladyship wish to have the like?”

Margery shook her head.

“The only jewels that be worth having, good Alice,” said she, “be gems of the heart, such like as meekness, obedience, and charity. And in truth, if I were the chooser, there be many things that I would have afore jewels. But much good do they the Queen’s Grace, poor child! and I pray God she rest not content with gauds of this earth.”

Before that winter was over, one thing, worth more than the Queen’s jewels in her eyes, was bestowed upon Margery. Something to take care of—something to love and live for. A little golden-haired baby, which became, so far as anything in this world could become so, the light and joy of her heart and soul.

Margery soon learned to value at its true worth the show and tinsel of London life. She never appeared again at Court but once, to pay her respects to the new Queen, who received her very cordially, seated on a throne by her husband. The small Queen of eight “hoped she was quite well, and thought that England was a very fine country.” The king spoke to her as kindly as before, offered her ipocras (see Note 4) and spices, and on the close of the interview, took up his little Queen in his arms, and carried her out of the room. Margery had, indeed, no opportunity to visit the Court again; for the young Queen was educated at Windsor, and very rarely visited London. And Lady Marnell, tired of the hollow glitter of high life, and finding few or none in her own sphere with whom she could complacently associate, went back with fresh zest to her baby and the book.

Note 1. These descriptions are taken from the invaluable illuminations in Creton’sHistoire du Roy Richart Deux, Harl. Ms. 1319. Creton was a contemporary and personal friend of King Richard.

Note 2. The frontlet and barb were pieces of white linen, the former worn over the forehead, the latter over the chin.

Note 3. Gloves were just becoming fashionable in the fourteenth century for common wear. Before that, they were rarely used except when the wearer carried a falcon on the wrist.

Note 4. A sweet wine or liqueur, generally served at the “void.”

Chapter Five.The Beginning of the End.“All quick and troubled was his speech,And his face was pale with dread,And he said, ‘The king had made a law,That the book must not be read,—For it was such fearful heresy,The holy abbot said.’”Mary Howitt.Three years had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter, and Margery was now twenty-one years of age. She appeared older than she was, and her face wore an unnaturally pensive expression, which had been gradually settling itself there since the day of her marriage. She never laughed, and very rarely smiled, except when her eyes rested upon her little golden-haired Geoffrey, whom she had sought and obtained permission to name after her father. He was a bright, merry little fellow, perpetually in motion, and extremely fond of his mother, though he always shrank from and seemed to fear his father.On a summer day in the year 1399, Margery sat in her bower, or boudoir, perusing the book. Lord Marnell was, as usual, at Court; and little Geoffrey was running about his mother’s apartments on what he doubtless considered important business. Suddenly, in the midst of her reading, a cry of pain from the child startled Margery. She sprang up, and ran to him; and she found that in running about, he had contrived to fall down a step which intervened between the landing and the antechamber, whereby he had very slightly bruised his infantine arm, and very greatly perturbed his infantine spirit. Geoffrey was weeping and whining piteously, and his mother lifted him up, and carried him into her bedroom, where she examined the injured arm, and discovered that the injury consisted only of an almost imperceptible bruise. The child, however, still bewailed his misfortune; and Lady Marnell, having applied some ointment to the sore place, sat down, and taking Geoffrey in her lap, she soothed and rocked him until he fell asleep, and forgot all about his bruised arm. The boy had been asleep about a quarter of an hour, when the recollection suddenly flashed upon Margery’s mind that she had left the book open to all comers and goers, instead of putting it carefully away, as was her wont. She set down the child softly on the trussing-bed, (the curious name given by our forefathers to a piece of furniture which formed a sofa or travelling-bed at pleasure), and quietly opening the door into her bower, she saw—her husband standing on the hearth, with the book in his hand, and a very decided frown gathering on his countenance. The rustle of Margery’s dress made Lord Marnell look up.“What meaneth this, I pray you, mistress?” asked he, angrily.There was no need, had Margery felt any disposition, to attempt further concealment. The worst that could come, had come.“It is a book of mine,” she quietly answered, “which I left here a short season agone, when the boy’s cry started me.”“Hast read it?” asked Lord Marnell, no less harshly.“I have read it many times, good my Lord.”“And I pray you for to tell me whence you had it, good my Lady?” said he, rather ironically.Margery was silent. She was determined to bear the blame alone, and not to compromise either Pynson or Carew.“Had you this book since you came hither?” said Lord Marnell, varying the form of his question, when he saw she did not answer.“No, my Lord. I brought it with me from home.”And the word “home” almost brought the tears into her eyes.“Your father—Sir Geoffrey—knew he thereof?”“He did,” said Margery, “and rebuked me sharply therefor.”“He did well. Why took he not the book from you?”“Because he showed it to Friar Andrew Rous, his and my confessor, who thought there was no harm in the book, and that I might safely retain the same.”“Then Friar Andrew Rous is the longest-eared ass I have lightly seen. Whence got you this book?”“It is mine own writing. I copied it.”“Whence had you it?”No answer.“I say, whence had you this book?” roared Lord Marnell.“My Lord,” said Margery, gently, but decidedly, “I think not that it needeth to say whence I had the same. The book was lent unto me, whence I copied that one; but I say not of whom it was lent unto me.”“You shall say it, and soon too!” was the reply. “This matter must not be let drop—it passeth into the hands of holy Abbot Bilson. I will seek him presently.”And so saying, Lord Marnell strode out of the room, leaving Margery in a condition of intense terror.That afternoon, as Margery sat in her bower, she was informed that the Prioress of Kennington was in the oaken chamber. Margery went down to her, holding Geoffrey by the hand, and found her seated on a settle, apparently preferring this more ancient form of seat to a chair; and wearing her veil low over her face. The Prioress rose when Lady Marnell entered, and threw back her heavy black veil, as she advanced to greet her. Margery returned her salutation courteously, and then tried to induce Geoffrey to go to his aunt—but Geoffrey hung back and would not go. Margery did not attempt to force the child, but sat down, and he attached himself to that particular plait of her dress which was furthest from the Prioress. The Prioress tried to propitiate him, by drawing from her pocket a piece of linen, which, being unfolded, revealed a placenta—a delicacy which the nuns of several convents were specially famed for making, and the nature of which will be better known to an ordinary reader by the explanatory term cheese-cake. Geoffrey graciously accepted the placenta, but utterly declined all further intimacy. The expression of the Prioress’s countenance suggested to Margery the idea that she had seen her brother, and had heard of the discovery of the book; so that Margery was quite prepared for her remarking gravely, after her unsuccessful attempt to attract her little nephew—“I heard this morn, fair sister, of a thing which did much trouble me.”“You mean,” said Margery, simply, “of the discovering of a book in my chamber by my Lord my husband, the which did anger him?”“I rejoice that you take my meaning,” answered the Prioress, in an even voice. “I meant that verily. I grieve much, fair sister, to hear from my fair brother that you have allied yourself unto those evil men which be known by the name of Lollards.”“I cry you mercy, holy mother,” answered Margery, quietly, “I have allied myself unto no man. I know not a Lollard in the realm. Only I read that book—and that book, as you must needs wit, holy mother, containeth the words of the Lord Jesu. Is there hurt therein?”The Prioress did not directly answer this question. She said, “If your elders (parents), fair sister, had shown the wisdom for to have put you in the cloister, you would have been free from such like temptations.”“Is it a temptation?” replied Margery. “Meseemeth, holy mother, that there be temptations as many in the cloister as in the world, only they be to divers sins: and I misdoubt that I should have temptation in the cloister, to the full as much as here.”“I cry you mercy, fair sister!” said the Prioress, with an air of superiority. “We have no temptations in our blessed retreat. Our rule saveth us, and our seclusion from the vanity of the world—and I pray you, what other evil can assail a veiled nun?”Margery glanced at the heavy gold chain round the Prioress’s neck, the multifarious rings on her fingers, and the costly jewels in her girdle, and rather doubted her testimony as to the utter absence of vanity in a veiled nun; but she contented herself with saying, “I trow, holy mother, that ye carry with you evil hearts into your cloister, as have all men without; and an evil heart within, and the devil without, need not outward matters whereon to form temptation. At least, I speak by mine own.”The Prioress looked rather shocked. “The evil heart,” answered she, “is governed and kept down in us by our mortifications, our almsgivings, our penances, our prayers, and divers other holy exercises.”“Ah, holy mother,” said Margery, looking up, “can ye keep down by such means your evil hearts! I trow mine needeth more than that!”“What mean you, fair sister?” inquired the Prioress.“Nought less,” replied Margery, “than the blood of the Lamb slain, and the grace of Christ risen, have I yet found, that would avail to keep down an evil heart!”“Of force, fair sister, of force!” said the Prioress, coldly, “that is as well as said.”“Then I pray you, why said you it not?”The Prioress rose. “I trust, fair sister,” said she, without giving any reply to Margery’s home question, “that you may see your error ere it be full late so to do.”“I trust,” said Margery, as she followed her sister-in-law to the door, “that God will keep me in the true faith, whatsoever that be.”“Amen!” said the Prioress, her long black robe sweeping the steps as she mounted her litter.“Is she gone?” lisped little Geoffrey, when his mother returned. “Deff’y so glad! Deff’y don’t like her!”That evening Margery received a message from her husband, bidding her meet him and Abbot Bilson in the oaken chamber, and bring the book with her. She took the book from the table on which Lord Marnell had thrown it—no need to hide it any longer now—kissed little Geoffrey’s sleeping forehead, as he lay in his cradle, and went down to the oaken chamber.Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on the hearth with his arms folded. Abbot Bilson was seated in an arm-chair, with his cowl thrown back. He was a man of about sixty, with a finely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and a remarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner. Had the Order of Jesuits existed at that time, Abbot Bilson might fitly have been the head of it. “His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.”“The Lady Marnell,” said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, “Peace be with thee, daughter.”“Where is the book?” asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so angrily as he had spoken in the morning.Margery passed it to him.“See there, reverend father,” said he, as he handed it to the Abbot. “What callest thou that?”The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered no change.“A fine, clear scribe hath written this,” remarked he, politely. “The Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your keeping the book, my daughter?”“So he said,” answered Margery, shortly.“Ah! But your father—?”“Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so said, he made no further matter.”“Ah! of force. I conceive it fully. Your mother, good daughter?”“My mother spake not of the matter. She witteth not to read, and therefore knew not the book.”“Certes,” said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed at the Abbot’s extreme suavity.“You had this book from a friend, methinks?” resumed the Abbot.“I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it,” was Margery’s firm reply.The Abbot looked surprised.“Did our brother Rous lend it you?” he asked, his manner losing a small portion of its extraordinary softness.“Nay.”“Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?”Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very dangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he, too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning Lord Marnell? Margery’s breath came short and fast, and she trembled exceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the book, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw the blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of it.“Well, well,” said he, courteously, “we will not go further into that question at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book containeth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you the same? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You are very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church can tell you, an’ you be meek and humble in receiving of their teaching.”He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He was quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and even passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared he got in Margery’s answer.“I wis well, reverend father,” she said, very quietly, “to the full as well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I be. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith He not, ‘If ony man wole do His wille,he schall knowe of the techinge’? (John vii. 17.) Saith He not again, ‘Seke ye Scripturis’? (John v. 39.) I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Unto fathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving—very heathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, ‘He that dispisith me, and takith not my wordis, hath him that schal juge him; thilk word that I have spoken schal deme him in the laste day’? (John xii. 48.) I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall judge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of His Word lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this book containeth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Son of God teach evil? Doth God evil? Will God deceive them that ask Him truth? Knoweth He not as much as fathers of the Church? Nay truly, good father, I trust that you wot not fully what you have said. He is ‘weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by Him.’” (John xiv. 6.)Abbot Bilson, for once in his life, was completely dumb-foundered. He looked silently at Lord Marnell.“I pray you see now, reverend father,” said Lord Marnell, angrily, “how the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl’s talk! Is it a small evil, Madge, to turn upon thy teacher when he teacheth thee of wisdom, with sayings picked up from a book? Art not ashamed?”“No, my Lord, I am no wise shamed,” answered she; “for the reverend father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there is small doubt as to who shall be the winner.”The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm and pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and he could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he might have commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so decided—so gentle, but so uncompromising—puzzled him extremely. He only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great strength lay.“My Lord Marnell,” he said, in a perplexed tone, “I would speak with you. Good lady, will you give us leave?”Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took the book with her, and nobody prevented her from doing so.“My Lord,” said the Abbot, when she was gone, “I am bewildered utterly. I know not what to do with this girl. Never the like of her saw I before, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thing is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not,then—”The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.

“All quick and troubled was his speech,And his face was pale with dread,And he said, ‘The king had made a law,That the book must not be read,—For it was such fearful heresy,The holy abbot said.’”Mary Howitt.

“All quick and troubled was his speech,And his face was pale with dread,And he said, ‘The king had made a law,That the book must not be read,—For it was such fearful heresy,The holy abbot said.’”Mary Howitt.

Three years had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter, and Margery was now twenty-one years of age. She appeared older than she was, and her face wore an unnaturally pensive expression, which had been gradually settling itself there since the day of her marriage. She never laughed, and very rarely smiled, except when her eyes rested upon her little golden-haired Geoffrey, whom she had sought and obtained permission to name after her father. He was a bright, merry little fellow, perpetually in motion, and extremely fond of his mother, though he always shrank from and seemed to fear his father.

On a summer day in the year 1399, Margery sat in her bower, or boudoir, perusing the book. Lord Marnell was, as usual, at Court; and little Geoffrey was running about his mother’s apartments on what he doubtless considered important business. Suddenly, in the midst of her reading, a cry of pain from the child startled Margery. She sprang up, and ran to him; and she found that in running about, he had contrived to fall down a step which intervened between the landing and the antechamber, whereby he had very slightly bruised his infantine arm, and very greatly perturbed his infantine spirit. Geoffrey was weeping and whining piteously, and his mother lifted him up, and carried him into her bedroom, where she examined the injured arm, and discovered that the injury consisted only of an almost imperceptible bruise. The child, however, still bewailed his misfortune; and Lady Marnell, having applied some ointment to the sore place, sat down, and taking Geoffrey in her lap, she soothed and rocked him until he fell asleep, and forgot all about his bruised arm. The boy had been asleep about a quarter of an hour, when the recollection suddenly flashed upon Margery’s mind that she had left the book open to all comers and goers, instead of putting it carefully away, as was her wont. She set down the child softly on the trussing-bed, (the curious name given by our forefathers to a piece of furniture which formed a sofa or travelling-bed at pleasure), and quietly opening the door into her bower, she saw—her husband standing on the hearth, with the book in his hand, and a very decided frown gathering on his countenance. The rustle of Margery’s dress made Lord Marnell look up.

“What meaneth this, I pray you, mistress?” asked he, angrily.

There was no need, had Margery felt any disposition, to attempt further concealment. The worst that could come, had come.

“It is a book of mine,” she quietly answered, “which I left here a short season agone, when the boy’s cry started me.”

“Hast read it?” asked Lord Marnell, no less harshly.

“I have read it many times, good my Lord.”

“And I pray you for to tell me whence you had it, good my Lady?” said he, rather ironically.

Margery was silent. She was determined to bear the blame alone, and not to compromise either Pynson or Carew.

“Had you this book since you came hither?” said Lord Marnell, varying the form of his question, when he saw she did not answer.

“No, my Lord. I brought it with me from home.”

And the word “home” almost brought the tears into her eyes.

“Your father—Sir Geoffrey—knew he thereof?”

“He did,” said Margery, “and rebuked me sharply therefor.”

“He did well. Why took he not the book from you?”

“Because he showed it to Friar Andrew Rous, his and my confessor, who thought there was no harm in the book, and that I might safely retain the same.”

“Then Friar Andrew Rous is the longest-eared ass I have lightly seen. Whence got you this book?”

“It is mine own writing. I copied it.”

“Whence had you it?”

No answer.

“I say, whence had you this book?” roared Lord Marnell.

“My Lord,” said Margery, gently, but decidedly, “I think not that it needeth to say whence I had the same. The book was lent unto me, whence I copied that one; but I say not of whom it was lent unto me.”

“You shall say it, and soon too!” was the reply. “This matter must not be let drop—it passeth into the hands of holy Abbot Bilson. I will seek him presently.”

And so saying, Lord Marnell strode out of the room, leaving Margery in a condition of intense terror.

That afternoon, as Margery sat in her bower, she was informed that the Prioress of Kennington was in the oaken chamber. Margery went down to her, holding Geoffrey by the hand, and found her seated on a settle, apparently preferring this more ancient form of seat to a chair; and wearing her veil low over her face. The Prioress rose when Lady Marnell entered, and threw back her heavy black veil, as she advanced to greet her. Margery returned her salutation courteously, and then tried to induce Geoffrey to go to his aunt—but Geoffrey hung back and would not go. Margery did not attempt to force the child, but sat down, and he attached himself to that particular plait of her dress which was furthest from the Prioress. The Prioress tried to propitiate him, by drawing from her pocket a piece of linen, which, being unfolded, revealed a placenta—a delicacy which the nuns of several convents were specially famed for making, and the nature of which will be better known to an ordinary reader by the explanatory term cheese-cake. Geoffrey graciously accepted the placenta, but utterly declined all further intimacy. The expression of the Prioress’s countenance suggested to Margery the idea that she had seen her brother, and had heard of the discovery of the book; so that Margery was quite prepared for her remarking gravely, after her unsuccessful attempt to attract her little nephew—

“I heard this morn, fair sister, of a thing which did much trouble me.”

“You mean,” said Margery, simply, “of the discovering of a book in my chamber by my Lord my husband, the which did anger him?”

“I rejoice that you take my meaning,” answered the Prioress, in an even voice. “I meant that verily. I grieve much, fair sister, to hear from my fair brother that you have allied yourself unto those evil men which be known by the name of Lollards.”

“I cry you mercy, holy mother,” answered Margery, quietly, “I have allied myself unto no man. I know not a Lollard in the realm. Only I read that book—and that book, as you must needs wit, holy mother, containeth the words of the Lord Jesu. Is there hurt therein?”

The Prioress did not directly answer this question. She said, “If your elders (parents), fair sister, had shown the wisdom for to have put you in the cloister, you would have been free from such like temptations.”

“Is it a temptation?” replied Margery. “Meseemeth, holy mother, that there be temptations as many in the cloister as in the world, only they be to divers sins: and I misdoubt that I should have temptation in the cloister, to the full as much as here.”

“I cry you mercy, fair sister!” said the Prioress, with an air of superiority. “We have no temptations in our blessed retreat. Our rule saveth us, and our seclusion from the vanity of the world—and I pray you, what other evil can assail a veiled nun?”

Margery glanced at the heavy gold chain round the Prioress’s neck, the multifarious rings on her fingers, and the costly jewels in her girdle, and rather doubted her testimony as to the utter absence of vanity in a veiled nun; but she contented herself with saying, “I trow, holy mother, that ye carry with you evil hearts into your cloister, as have all men without; and an evil heart within, and the devil without, need not outward matters whereon to form temptation. At least, I speak by mine own.”

The Prioress looked rather shocked. “The evil heart,” answered she, “is governed and kept down in us by our mortifications, our almsgivings, our penances, our prayers, and divers other holy exercises.”

“Ah, holy mother,” said Margery, looking up, “can ye keep down by such means your evil hearts! I trow mine needeth more than that!”

“What mean you, fair sister?” inquired the Prioress.

“Nought less,” replied Margery, “than the blood of the Lamb slain, and the grace of Christ risen, have I yet found, that would avail to keep down an evil heart!”

“Of force, fair sister, of force!” said the Prioress, coldly, “that is as well as said.”

“Then I pray you, why said you it not?”

The Prioress rose. “I trust, fair sister,” said she, without giving any reply to Margery’s home question, “that you may see your error ere it be full late so to do.”

“I trust,” said Margery, as she followed her sister-in-law to the door, “that God will keep me in the true faith, whatsoever that be.”

“Amen!” said the Prioress, her long black robe sweeping the steps as she mounted her litter.

“Is she gone?” lisped little Geoffrey, when his mother returned. “Deff’y so glad! Deff’y don’t like her!”

That evening Margery received a message from her husband, bidding her meet him and Abbot Bilson in the oaken chamber, and bring the book with her. She took the book from the table on which Lord Marnell had thrown it—no need to hide it any longer now—kissed little Geoffrey’s sleeping forehead, as he lay in his cradle, and went down to the oaken chamber.

Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on the hearth with his arms folded. Abbot Bilson was seated in an arm-chair, with his cowl thrown back. He was a man of about sixty, with a finely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and a remarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner. Had the Order of Jesuits existed at that time, Abbot Bilson might fitly have been the head of it. “His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.”

“The Lady Marnell,” said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, “Peace be with thee, daughter.”

“Where is the book?” asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so angrily as he had spoken in the morning.

Margery passed it to him.

“See there, reverend father,” said he, as he handed it to the Abbot. “What callest thou that?”

The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered no change.

“A fine, clear scribe hath written this,” remarked he, politely. “The Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your keeping the book, my daughter?”

“So he said,” answered Margery, shortly.

“Ah! But your father—?”

“Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so said, he made no further matter.”

“Ah! of force. I conceive it fully. Your mother, good daughter?”

“My mother spake not of the matter. She witteth not to read, and therefore knew not the book.”

“Certes,” said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed at the Abbot’s extreme suavity.

“You had this book from a friend, methinks?” resumed the Abbot.

“I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it,” was Margery’s firm reply.

The Abbot looked surprised.

“Did our brother Rous lend it you?” he asked, his manner losing a small portion of its extraordinary softness.

“Nay.”

“Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?”

Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very dangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he, too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning Lord Marnell? Margery’s breath came short and fast, and she trembled exceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the book, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw the blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of it.

“Well, well,” said he, courteously, “we will not go further into that question at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book containeth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you the same? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You are very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church can tell you, an’ you be meek and humble in receiving of their teaching.”

He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He was quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and even passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared he got in Margery’s answer.

“I wis well, reverend father,” she said, very quietly, “to the full as well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I be. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith He not, ‘If ony man wole do His wille,he schall knowe of the techinge’? (John vii. 17.) Saith He not again, ‘Seke ye Scripturis’? (John v. 39.) I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Unto fathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving—very heathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, ‘He that dispisith me, and takith not my wordis, hath him that schal juge him; thilk word that I have spoken schal deme him in the laste day’? (John xii. 48.) I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall judge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of His Word lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this book containeth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Son of God teach evil? Doth God evil? Will God deceive them that ask Him truth? Knoweth He not as much as fathers of the Church? Nay truly, good father, I trust that you wot not fully what you have said. He is ‘weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by Him.’” (John xiv. 6.)

Abbot Bilson, for once in his life, was completely dumb-foundered. He looked silently at Lord Marnell.

“I pray you see now, reverend father,” said Lord Marnell, angrily, “how the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl’s talk! Is it a small evil, Madge, to turn upon thy teacher when he teacheth thee of wisdom, with sayings picked up from a book? Art not ashamed?”

“No, my Lord, I am no wise shamed,” answered she; “for the reverend father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there is small doubt as to who shall be the winner.”

The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm and pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and he could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he might have commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so decided—so gentle, but so uncompromising—puzzled him extremely. He only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great strength lay.

“My Lord Marnell,” he said, in a perplexed tone, “I would speak with you. Good lady, will you give us leave?”

Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took the book with her, and nobody prevented her from doing so.

“My Lord,” said the Abbot, when she was gone, “I am bewildered utterly. I know not what to do with this girl. Never the like of her saw I before, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thing is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not,then—”

The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.

Chapter Six.News from Home.“There are briars besetting every path,That call for patient care;There is a cross in every lot,And an earnest need for prayer;But a lowly heart that leans on TheeIs happy anywhere.”Miss Waring.It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London were hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in traveller’s dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought. The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary, worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson. Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up. From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing reached him—an air which he instantly recognised as “The Palmer’s hymn,” sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.“Holy City, happy City,Built on Christ, and sure as He,From my weary journeying,From the wastes, I cry to thee;Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,Till within thy walls I be.Ah! what happy, happy greetingFor the guests thy gates who see!Ah! what blessed, blessed meetingHave thy citizens in thee!Ah! those glittering walls how fair,Jasper shene and ruby blee.Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,Thee can enter, City free!”The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery Lovell. The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and, sentinel-like, inquired, “Who goes there?”“A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if he may, of the Lady Marnell.”As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the gate. “Enter, friend.” The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the house, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelled with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested him to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoining chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, “Mistress Alice! Mistress Alice!”A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the familiar voice of Alice Jordan.“Hush! good Christopher,” said she, in a low tone; “the boy sleepeth at last—wake him not. What wouldst?”“There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech of my Lady.”On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber where Richard sat.“Ah! Master Pynson!” she said, “is it you! My Lady will be right fain to see you—but you come at an evil hour.”“How so?” asked Richard, quickly.“My Lady is watching this livelong night by the cradle of the young master, who is sore sick—we fear nigh unto death. The child is in grievous disease (restlessness, uneasiness), and cannot sleep; and her good Ladyship hath been singing unto him, I ween, for to soothe him to rest. Her voice hushed as you came, wherefore I count that the boy sleepeth.”“What aileth the poor child?” inquired Richard.“My Lady counteth that he got him an ill rheum when we departed hence for my Lord his house of plesance (country house), for to sweeten (See Note 2). Howsoever that be, he is now grievous sick.”“The Lady Marnell herself is well?”“Alas!” replied Alice, “I ween she is little better than the child. She hath been in sore trouble of late, wherefore it is no marvel. There be rumours of accusations for heresy out against her, and my Lord is ill angered towards her. Well, God witteth, and God keep her! You will see how evil (ill) she looketh an’ she come to speak with you, and I trow that she will when I give her to wit who is here.”So saying, Alice returned to the room she had quitted, and for some minutes Richard heard nothing more. Then the door re-opened, and a lady entered the chamber.WasthatMargery Lovell? Never, surely, were hers that feeble step, that worn, wan, white face, that dark ring round the eyes, telling of weary vigils, and of bitter weeping! But the smile of welcome was Margery Lovell’s own, and the gesture, as she came forward quickly, holding out both hands, was hers also; though the smile died away in an instant, and the worn, wearied look came back instead.“Dear, good friend!” she said, “how it gladdeth me to see you! You come straightway from Lovell Tower? My father and mother be well? And Mistress Katherine, and Cicely, and all the maidens? And Lyard, and old Beaudesert? (naming her palfrey and the watchdog). And all mine old friends—Sir Ralph Marston, and Master Carew?”Richard smiled a grave, almost mournful smile.“You ask too many questions, good my Lady, to be answered in a breath. But Dame Lovell is in health, and greets you well by me, bidding you be assured ever of her love and blessing.”“And my father? O Master Pynson, my father! my father!”She sat down, and buried her face in her hands, and wept; for though Richard had made no answer in words, his face told his tidings too unmistakably. Sir Geoffrey Lovell was dead. After a time Margery looked up whiter and more wan than ever, and begged to know the particulars of her father’s death. Richard informed her that Sir Geoffrey had been taken ill three days only before he died; they had immediately summoned Master Carew, who was a physician, and who had pronounced that since he could not live many days, it would be useless to send for his daughter, who could not possibly reach Lovell Tower in time to see him alive. Dame Lovell was well in health, but had quite lost her old cheerfulness, and appeared to feel her husband’s death very acutely. It had been arranged that Friar Andrew should remain with Dame Lovell as her confessor. As to himself, Richard said that he should of course return to his father for a time, until he could by some act of bravery or special favour receive the honour of knighthood; but he did not like to say anything to Dame Lovell about leaving her, so long as he saw that he was of any use to her, as he knew that she regarded him in the light of an adopted son, and had especially seemed to cling to him since Margery’s departure.Margery replied that she would have requested for him the favour of knighthood in a moment at the hands of Lord Marnell, but she did not like to ask him for anything so long as he was displeased with her.Richard inquired after Lord Marnell. Margery said he was well, and was with the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed to increase her look of weariness and woe. She turned the subject by inquiring again about her old friends. Cicely and the maids, Richard told her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he was asked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow, and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he must never see again.“You miss me, then, all?” said Margery, mournfully.“You will never know how sore,” was Richard’s answer.Another pause ensued—there seemed some strange constraint between them—and then Richard asked—“And what tidings take I home, good my Lady? Dame Lovell bade me have a care to ask how you fared, and the child. I grieve to hear from Alice Jordan thathefareth but evil, and foryou—”He smiled the same grave smile.“Well—well, Master Pynson,” said Margery, quickly. “I fare well. I cannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I must needs fare well. And for the child—come and see him.”She led the way noiselessly to the adjoining room. Little Geoffrey lay in Alice’s arms in a heavy sleep. His breathing was very quick and short, and his face flushed and fevered. Richard stood looking silently at him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oaken chamber. She offered him refreshments, but he declined them. He had supped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on his way back to the North. Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, and intrusted it to him; and then she sat by the table, wearily resting her head upon her hand.“I pray you, good my Lady,” said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spell that seemed to bind them, “what meaneth this bruit (noise, rumour) of heresy that I hear of you?”Margery looked up with a strange light in her eyes.“You remember, I trow, asking Master Carew for to lend me yon book?—and wending with me to hear Master Sastre’s homily?”“I mind it well.”“Thatmeaneth it. That because I read Christ’s words, and love them, and do them, so far as in my poor power lieth, the charge of heresy is laid at my door. And I ween they will carry it on to the end.”“The end?” said Richard, tremblingly,—for he guessed what that meant, and the idea of Margery being subjected to a long and comfortless imprisonment, was almost more than he could bear. His own utter powerlessness to save her was a bitter draught to drink.“Ay, the end!” she said, with the light spreading all over her face. “Mind you not how Master Sastre asked us if we could sue the Lamb along the weary and bitter road? Is it an evil thing to sue the Lamb, though He lead over a few rugged stones which be lying in the path? Nay, friend, I am ready for the suing, how rough soever the way be.”Richard sat looking at her in silence. He had always thought her half an angel, and now he thought her so more than ever.“I trow you know these things, good friend?” said Margery, with her sad, faint smile. “You know, is it not, how good is Christ?”“I am assaying for to know,” answered Richard, huskily. “I have been a-reading of Master Carew’s book, since I found you counted it so great a thing. Oft-times have Master Carew and I sat reading of that book whenever I could make an errand unto his neighbourhood; and he hath taught me many things. But I cannot say yet that I be where you be, Mistress Margery,” he added, calling her by the old familiar title, “or that I know Christ as friendly as you seem to know Him.”“Then,” said Margery, earnestly, “let not go your grasp till you have fast hold of Him. Ah! what matter how soon or how sore cometh the end, if ‘whanne He hath loued Hise that ben in the world, into the ende He loueth them.’ (John xiii. 1.) O dear friend, count not anything lost if thou keepest Christ His love! If He shall come unto thee and say of aught by which thou settest store, as He did say unto Peter, ‘Louestthou me more than these?’ let thine answer be his, ‘Che, Lord, Thou woost that I loue Thee!’ (John xxi. 15.) Oh count not aught too rare or too brave for to give Christ! ‘He that loueth his lyf schal leese it; and he that hatith his lyf in this world, kepith it unto everlastinge lyf.’ (John xii. 25.) No man loseth by that chepe (exchange, bargain) of life worldly for life everlasting. Never shall the devils have leave to say, ‘Behold here a man who hath lost by Christ!’”“Must we needs give Christall?” said Richard, in an unsteady tone.“Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?—a thing that thou lovest more than thou lovest Him? Then it will be no marvel that thou shouldst lose the same. Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He will either have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have it away from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow. And alas for that man who hath no portion in Christ His heart!”Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery’s hand as he did so. The spell was fully broken now.“There was only one thing, and He hath taken it. Margery, I lovedyou. I had given readily all else but you. And I trow you will count it but a sorry (poor, unworthy) giving, wherein the heart goeth not with the hands.”She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt her hand grow deathly cold in his own. He dropped it, and rose—and so did she. She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her hand for a farewell greeting, she spoke—“Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He doth wed. If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof. When children come home to their father’s house from afar, I trow they fall not a-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company. And if only we may clasp hands at the gate of theUrbs Beata, I trow well that we shall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little the one of the other on the journey!”Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softly passed into her darkened nursery. For a moment he stood looking after her. “Please God, we will, Margery!” he said to himself, at length. Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at the sound of his step to open the door for him.And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak to each other on this side of the Happy City.Note 1. Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise in this—“Urbs coelestis! urbs beata! Super petram collocata.”I have translated a few lines of the hymn for the benefit of the English reader; but my heroine must be supposed to sing it in the original Latin.Note 2. “Sweetening” was a process to which our forefathers were compelled by their want of drains, and consisted in leaving a house entirely empty for a time, to have the windows opened, the rushes renewed, and to adroit of a general purification. Families who had the means generally “went to sweeten” at least every summer.

“There are briars besetting every path,That call for patient care;There is a cross in every lot,And an earnest need for prayer;But a lowly heart that leans on TheeIs happy anywhere.”Miss Waring.

“There are briars besetting every path,That call for patient care;There is a cross in every lot,And an earnest need for prayer;But a lowly heart that leans on TheeIs happy anywhere.”Miss Waring.

It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London were hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in traveller’s dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought. The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary, worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson. Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up. From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing reached him—an air which he instantly recognised as “The Palmer’s hymn,” sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.

“Holy City, happy City,Built on Christ, and sure as He,From my weary journeying,From the wastes, I cry to thee;Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,Till within thy walls I be.Ah! what happy, happy greetingFor the guests thy gates who see!Ah! what blessed, blessed meetingHave thy citizens in thee!Ah! those glittering walls how fair,Jasper shene and ruby blee.Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,Thee can enter, City free!”

“Holy City, happy City,Built on Christ, and sure as He,From my weary journeying,From the wastes, I cry to thee;Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,Till within thy walls I be.Ah! what happy, happy greetingFor the guests thy gates who see!Ah! what blessed, blessed meetingHave thy citizens in thee!Ah! those glittering walls how fair,Jasper shene and ruby blee.Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,Thee can enter, City free!”

The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery Lovell. The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and, sentinel-like, inquired, “Who goes there?”

“A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if he may, of the Lady Marnell.”

As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the gate. “Enter, friend.” The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the house, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelled with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested him to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoining chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, “Mistress Alice! Mistress Alice!”

A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the familiar voice of Alice Jordan.

“Hush! good Christopher,” said she, in a low tone; “the boy sleepeth at last—wake him not. What wouldst?”

“There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech of my Lady.”

On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber where Richard sat.

“Ah! Master Pynson!” she said, “is it you! My Lady will be right fain to see you—but you come at an evil hour.”

“How so?” asked Richard, quickly.

“My Lady is watching this livelong night by the cradle of the young master, who is sore sick—we fear nigh unto death. The child is in grievous disease (restlessness, uneasiness), and cannot sleep; and her good Ladyship hath been singing unto him, I ween, for to soothe him to rest. Her voice hushed as you came, wherefore I count that the boy sleepeth.”

“What aileth the poor child?” inquired Richard.

“My Lady counteth that he got him an ill rheum when we departed hence for my Lord his house of plesance (country house), for to sweeten (See Note 2). Howsoever that be, he is now grievous sick.”

“The Lady Marnell herself is well?”

“Alas!” replied Alice, “I ween she is little better than the child. She hath been in sore trouble of late, wherefore it is no marvel. There be rumours of accusations for heresy out against her, and my Lord is ill angered towards her. Well, God witteth, and God keep her! You will see how evil (ill) she looketh an’ she come to speak with you, and I trow that she will when I give her to wit who is here.”

So saying, Alice returned to the room she had quitted, and for some minutes Richard heard nothing more. Then the door re-opened, and a lady entered the chamber.

WasthatMargery Lovell? Never, surely, were hers that feeble step, that worn, wan, white face, that dark ring round the eyes, telling of weary vigils, and of bitter weeping! But the smile of welcome was Margery Lovell’s own, and the gesture, as she came forward quickly, holding out both hands, was hers also; though the smile died away in an instant, and the worn, wearied look came back instead.

“Dear, good friend!” she said, “how it gladdeth me to see you! You come straightway from Lovell Tower? My father and mother be well? And Mistress Katherine, and Cicely, and all the maidens? And Lyard, and old Beaudesert? (naming her palfrey and the watchdog). And all mine old friends—Sir Ralph Marston, and Master Carew?”

Richard smiled a grave, almost mournful smile.

“You ask too many questions, good my Lady, to be answered in a breath. But Dame Lovell is in health, and greets you well by me, bidding you be assured ever of her love and blessing.”

“And my father? O Master Pynson, my father! my father!”

She sat down, and buried her face in her hands, and wept; for though Richard had made no answer in words, his face told his tidings too unmistakably. Sir Geoffrey Lovell was dead. After a time Margery looked up whiter and more wan than ever, and begged to know the particulars of her father’s death. Richard informed her that Sir Geoffrey had been taken ill three days only before he died; they had immediately summoned Master Carew, who was a physician, and who had pronounced that since he could not live many days, it would be useless to send for his daughter, who could not possibly reach Lovell Tower in time to see him alive. Dame Lovell was well in health, but had quite lost her old cheerfulness, and appeared to feel her husband’s death very acutely. It had been arranged that Friar Andrew should remain with Dame Lovell as her confessor. As to himself, Richard said that he should of course return to his father for a time, until he could by some act of bravery or special favour receive the honour of knighthood; but he did not like to say anything to Dame Lovell about leaving her, so long as he saw that he was of any use to her, as he knew that she regarded him in the light of an adopted son, and had especially seemed to cling to him since Margery’s departure.

Margery replied that she would have requested for him the favour of knighthood in a moment at the hands of Lord Marnell, but she did not like to ask him for anything so long as he was displeased with her.

Richard inquired after Lord Marnell. Margery said he was well, and was with the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed to increase her look of weariness and woe. She turned the subject by inquiring again about her old friends. Cicely and the maids, Richard told her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he was asked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow, and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he must never see again.

“You miss me, then, all?” said Margery, mournfully.

“You will never know how sore,” was Richard’s answer.

Another pause ensued—there seemed some strange constraint between them—and then Richard asked—

“And what tidings take I home, good my Lady? Dame Lovell bade me have a care to ask how you fared, and the child. I grieve to hear from Alice Jordan thathefareth but evil, and foryou—”

He smiled the same grave smile.

“Well—well, Master Pynson,” said Margery, quickly. “I fare well. I cannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I must needs fare well. And for the child—come and see him.”

She led the way noiselessly to the adjoining room. Little Geoffrey lay in Alice’s arms in a heavy sleep. His breathing was very quick and short, and his face flushed and fevered. Richard stood looking silently at him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oaken chamber. She offered him refreshments, but he declined them. He had supped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on his way back to the North. Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, and intrusted it to him; and then she sat by the table, wearily resting her head upon her hand.

“I pray you, good my Lady,” said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spell that seemed to bind them, “what meaneth this bruit (noise, rumour) of heresy that I hear of you?”

Margery looked up with a strange light in her eyes.

“You remember, I trow, asking Master Carew for to lend me yon book?—and wending with me to hear Master Sastre’s homily?”

“I mind it well.”

“Thatmeaneth it. That because I read Christ’s words, and love them, and do them, so far as in my poor power lieth, the charge of heresy is laid at my door. And I ween they will carry it on to the end.”

“The end?” said Richard, tremblingly,—for he guessed what that meant, and the idea of Margery being subjected to a long and comfortless imprisonment, was almost more than he could bear. His own utter powerlessness to save her was a bitter draught to drink.

“Ay, the end!” she said, with the light spreading all over her face. “Mind you not how Master Sastre asked us if we could sue the Lamb along the weary and bitter road? Is it an evil thing to sue the Lamb, though He lead over a few rugged stones which be lying in the path? Nay, friend, I am ready for the suing, how rough soever the way be.”

Richard sat looking at her in silence. He had always thought her half an angel, and now he thought her so more than ever.

“I trow you know these things, good friend?” said Margery, with her sad, faint smile. “You know, is it not, how good is Christ?”

“I am assaying for to know,” answered Richard, huskily. “I have been a-reading of Master Carew’s book, since I found you counted it so great a thing. Oft-times have Master Carew and I sat reading of that book whenever I could make an errand unto his neighbourhood; and he hath taught me many things. But I cannot say yet that I be where you be, Mistress Margery,” he added, calling her by the old familiar title, “or that I know Christ as friendly as you seem to know Him.”

“Then,” said Margery, earnestly, “let not go your grasp till you have fast hold of Him. Ah! what matter how soon or how sore cometh the end, if ‘whanne He hath loued Hise that ben in the world, into the ende He loueth them.’ (John xiii. 1.) O dear friend, count not anything lost if thou keepest Christ His love! If He shall come unto thee and say of aught by which thou settest store, as He did say unto Peter, ‘Louestthou me more than these?’ let thine answer be his, ‘Che, Lord, Thou woost that I loue Thee!’ (John xxi. 15.) Oh count not aught too rare or too brave for to give Christ! ‘He that loueth his lyf schal leese it; and he that hatith his lyf in this world, kepith it unto everlastinge lyf.’ (John xii. 25.) No man loseth by that chepe (exchange, bargain) of life worldly for life everlasting. Never shall the devils have leave to say, ‘Behold here a man who hath lost by Christ!’”

“Must we needs give Christall?” said Richard, in an unsteady tone.

“Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?—a thing that thou lovest more than thou lovest Him? Then it will be no marvel that thou shouldst lose the same. Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He will either have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have it away from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow. And alas for that man who hath no portion in Christ His heart!”

Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery’s hand as he did so. The spell was fully broken now.

“There was only one thing, and He hath taken it. Margery, I lovedyou. I had given readily all else but you. And I trow you will count it but a sorry (poor, unworthy) giving, wherein the heart goeth not with the hands.”

She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt her hand grow deathly cold in his own. He dropped it, and rose—and so did she. She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her hand for a farewell greeting, she spoke—

“Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He doth wed. If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof. When children come home to their father’s house from afar, I trow they fall not a-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company. And if only we may clasp hands at the gate of theUrbs Beata, I trow well that we shall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little the one of the other on the journey!”

Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softly passed into her darkened nursery. For a moment he stood looking after her. “Please God, we will, Margery!” he said to himself, at length. Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at the sound of his step to open the door for him.

And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak to each other on this side of the Happy City.

Note 1. Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise in this—

“Urbs coelestis! urbs beata! Super petram collocata.”

I have translated a few lines of the hymn for the benefit of the English reader; but my heroine must be supposed to sing it in the original Latin.

Note 2. “Sweetening” was a process to which our forefathers were compelled by their want of drains, and consisted in leaving a house entirely empty for a time, to have the windows opened, the rushes renewed, and to adroit of a general purification. Families who had the means generally “went to sweeten” at least every summer.

Chapter Seven.Bereavement, but not Death.“Take from me anything Thou wilt,But go notThouaway!”Little Geoffrey slowly recovered from the illness which had brought him to death’s door, and though able to run about the house, he was still far from perfect health, when Margery received orders to prepare for another interview with Abbot Bilson. She rightly divined that this would be more stormy than the last. Abbot Bilson came now fully prepared, and not alone. He was accompanied by Archbishop Arundel, a man of violent passions, and a bitter persecutor of all whom he conceived to lean to the opinions of Wycliffe. When Margery entered the room, and saw the Archbishop, she trembled, as well she might. She meekly knelt and asked their blessing—the manner in which priests were commonly greeted. The Abbot gave his, saying, “May God bless thee, and lead thee unto the truth!”“Amen!” responded Margery. Arundel, however, refused his benediction until he had inquired into the matter.“Be seated, my daughter!” said the Abbot. Margery obeyed.“Holy Church, daughter, hath been sore aggrieved by thine evil doing. She demandeth of thee an instant yielding of yon heretical and pernicious book, the which hath led thee astray; and a renunciation of thy heresy; the which done, thou shalt receive apostolic absolution and benediction.”“I know not, reverend father, what ye clepe (call) heresy. Wherein have I sinned?”“In the reading of yon book, and in thy seldom confession. Moreover, I trow thou holdest with the way of John Wycliffe, yon evil reprobate!” replied the Archbishop.“I cry you mercy, reverend fathers. I take my belief from no man. I crede (believe) the words of Christ as I find the same written, and concern not myself with Master Wycliffe or any other. I know not any Lollards, neither have I allied myself unto them.”The Archbishop and the Abbot both looked at Lord Marnell—a mute inquiry as to whether Margery spoke the truth.“I ween it is so, reverend fathers,” said he. “I wis nought of my wife her manner of living ere I wedded her, but soothly sithence (since) she came hither, I know of a surety that she hath never companied with any such evil persons as be these Lollards.”“Hold younotwith the way of Wycliffe, daughter?” inquired the Abbot.“I wis not, reverend father,” answered she, “for of a truth I know not wherein it lieth. I hold that which I find in the book; and I trow an’ I keep close by the words of Christ, I cannot stray far from truth.”“The words in yon book be no words of Christ!” said Arundel. “That evil one Wycliffe, being taught of the devil, hath rendered the holy words of the Latin into pernicious heresy in English.”“I pray you then, father, will you give me the book in Latin, for I wis a little the Latin tongue, and moreover I can learn of one that hath the tongues to wit better the same.”This was not by any means what Arundel intended, and it raised his anger.“I will not give thee the Latin!” exclaimed he. “I forbid thee to read or learn the same, for I well know thou wouldst wrest it to thine evil purposes.”“How can you put a right meaning to the words, my daughter?” mildly suggested the Abbot.“I know well that I could in no wise do the same,” replied Margery, humbly, “had I not read the promise of Christ Jesu that He would send unto His own ‘thilk Spyryt of treuthe,’ who should ‘teche them al treuthe,’ (John xvi. 13) wherefore by His good help I trust I shall read aright.”“That promise was given, daughter, unto the holy apostles.”“It was given, reverend father, unto weak men and evil, else Peter had never denied his Master, ne (neither) had all of them left Him and taken to flight, when the servants of the bishops (see Note 1) laid hold on Him. I wis that I have an evil heart like as they had, but meseemeth that mine is not worser than were theirs, wherefore I count that promise made unto myself also.”“Thou art lacking in meekness, Madge,” said Lord Marnell.“I trust not so, good my Lord; but an’ if I be, I pray God to give it to me.”“Give up the book, Madge!” said her husband, apparently desirous to allay the storm which he had raised, “and thou shalt then receive absolution, and all will go well.”“I will give up the book, my Lord, in obedience to you,” replied Margery, “for I wis well that wives be bounden to obey their husbands; and soothly it is no great matter, for I know every word therein. But under your good leave, my Lord, the truth which this book hath taught me, neither you nor any other man shall have power to take from me, for it is of God, and not of men!”She drew the book from her pocket—ladies wore much larger pockets in those days than they now do—kissed it, and handed it to her husband.“Thou hast well done, Madge!” said Lord Marnell, more kindly than before, as he passed the book to the Archbishop. Arundel, with a muttered curse upon all evil teaching, took the book from Lord Marnell with his hand folded in the corner of his gown, as if he thought its very touch would communicate pollution, and flung it into the fire. The fire was a large one, and in a minute the volume was consumed. Margery watched the destruction of her treasure with swimming eyes.“Burn, poor book!” she said, falteringly, “and as thy smoke goeth up to God, leave it tell Him that the reading and the loving of His Word is accounted a sin by those who ought to be His pastors.”“Woman, wilt not hear the truth?” cried Arundel.“Truly, father, I have heard it, and it shall rest with me unto my dying day. But I trow that if your teaching were truth, ye had never burned with fire the Word of Christ, who hath power, if ye repent not, to consume you also with the like!”“Told I not thee that the evil book which I gave to the fire was not Christ His Word, but the work of the devil?”“Yea, truly; and the like said the heathen Jews, ‘Wher we seyen not wel that thou art a Samaritan, and hast a deuel?’ But I find not that their saying the same made it ever the truer. What saith Christ in answer? ‘I haue not a deuel; but I honoure my Fadir, and ye han unhonourid me.’” (John viii. 48, 49.)“My daughter,” said the Abbot, with even more than his usual gentleness, “I misdoubt greatly that you be obstinate in your error. And if this be so, we shall have necessity of deeds the which we should sore lament. You wit, doubtless, that in case you continue thus obstinate, you will be had up afore the King’s Grace’s Council?”“I am ready,” answered Margery.“You wit also,” pursued the Abbot, no less gently, “that you may be sentenced unto close prison for such time as pleaseth the King’s Grace?”“I am ready,” said Margery again.Her examiners looked surprised.“Moreover,” continued the Abbot, in a softer tone than ever, “wit you that we can allow you no longer to have the charge and teaching of your son, who must needs be instructed in the true faith?”The end of the reverend fathers was at length reached. The quiet words of the Abbot produced an effect which the furious abuse of the Archbishop had been unable to accomplish. A cry of mingled terror, anguish, and despair, broke from poor Margery’s lips.“Ye could not—ye could not be so cruel!” she sobbed. “Take from me all I have in this world—comfort, freedom, yea, life—only leave me my child!”“Thou seest what thou hast brought on thyself!” said Arundel. “How can we, being the ministers of God His truth, suffer the mind of yon innocent child to be poisoned with like evil doctrine?”“Doth God part the child from the mother?” faltered Margery. “This is none of His doing. My darling! my darling!”Lord Marnell pitied his wife. Her agony touched all that was soft and gentle in his not too soft heart.“Well, well, Madge!” he said, kindly; “I will see that thy child is not taken from thee, if thou wilt obey these reverend fathers in confessing of thine error, and wilt humbly beg absolution at their hands.”Margery looked up at her husband with an expression of unutterable gratitude beaming in her eyes—but the moment she heard his if, her face fell instantly.“I conceive you, good my Lord,” she said, mournfully, “howsoever I thank you. You will give me back my darling, if I will deny that I hold Christ His truth. I cannot. I dare not!”“‘Christ His truth,’ persist you in calling your heresy!” cried Arundel, in a fury. “Choose, then, quickly, for the last time, betwixt ‘Christ His truth’ and your child!”She shivered from head to foot as if an ague-fit were on her, and her sobs almost mounted to a scream. No heart that had any pretension to humanity could have helped pitying her. Her husband did pity her; but Arundel was carried away by passion, and Bilson had no heart. Through all this tempest, however agonised, firm and unwavering came the answer—“Christ!”Arundel, rising, ordered her to kneel. Margery knelt down on the hearth, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes looking up to heaven. Solemnly, and with all that terrific majesty which the Church of Rome so well knows how to put into her threats and denunciations, the Archbishop cited her to appear before the council on the 17th day of the following September. In the meantime she was to be confined in one of the State dungeons. Arundel graciously added that he would give her the remainder of that day to make her preparations. Lord Marnell here interposed, and begged the Archbishop to reconsider his decision. He had anticipated Margery’s examination by the council, and possibly her being sentenced to a term of imprisonment, but he had not bargained for this previous incarceration. Arundel bluntly refused to alter his sentence.Margery raised her tearful eyes to Lord Marnell. “My Lord,” she said, “and you, reverend fathers, I have one small thing to ask of you. I pray you deny me not.”“What is it, Madge?” asked Lord Marnell.“My good Lord,” she said, pleadingly, “suffer me to take one last kiss of my child, ere ye take me where I shall see him no more!”The Abbot seemed disposed to grant Margery’s petition, though the Archbishop demurred; but Lord Marnell settled the matter by authoritatively commanding that the mother should be permitted to take leave of her child. Arundel, with rather a bad grace, gave way on this secondary point. Margery was then dismissed.She went up-stairs as if she were walking in a dream, and found Alice hiding behind the door for the amusement of little Geoffrey, who was in high glee. Margery stood a moment on the threshold, looking at them, and mournfully thinking that it was the last time she would ever look on that sunny little face, or hear that silvery laugh. As she stood there, Alice caught sight of her mistress, and her share of the mirth ceased instantly.“My Lady! my Lady! what have you, I pray you tell me? You look as if sentence of death had been passed on you!”Margery passed her hand dreamily across her brow.“Sentence, good Alice, of the evil which is in death!” she said, softly, “and henceforth death must needs be a glad thing. But that is to come yet.”She sat down, and took the child on her knee, and he nestled his little golden head into her bosom. For a few minutes she rocked herself and him to and fro in silence, but at length her voice came, and though it trembled a little, it was almost as quiet and silvery as usual.“Geoffrey, dost love me?”“Yes, mother, very much.”“Poor child! how wilt do without me!”“Go you hence, mother?”“Yes, my child, I go hence. Geoffrey, wilt mind ever what I now say unto thee? Wilt never, never forget it, but ever keep it fresh and shene, and think thereof whenever thou dost think of me?”“Yes, mother, I shan’t forget.”“Alice, thou wilt help him to remember, good lass, if thou be not taken from him.”“That will I, good my Lady,” said Alice, sobbing, and only comprehending that something painful had happened.“Geoffrey, darling, thou wilt be a good child to thy father?”“I’ll try, mother, but—he frighteth me.”Margery sighed heavily.“List me now, my heart. Dost remember what I told thee about Jesus Christ?”Geoffrey answered that he did.“Right, my heart. And lovest Jesus Christ, who died for thee?”“Yes, mother, I love Him and you.”The child’s innocent answer nearly upset Margery’s half-assumed calmness. She rocked him a minute longer in silence. “Remember, mine own sweet heart, ever that nothing but Jesus can save thee. Thou canst not save thyself. Beg of Him with all thine heart that He will save thee, and love Him all thy life long, even untothe end.”She ceased an instant.“Now, sweet heart, kiss me. Give me a brave kiss, mine own—it is the last. Never shall we kiss again till we kiss in the Happy City! Fare-thee-well, dearly beloved! God have thee in His holy keeping! God teach thee what I cannot—what I by reason of mine ignorance know not, or what thou by reason of thy tender years canst not yet conceive. God forgive thee thy sins, and help thee in all trouble and woe, and bring thee to that blessed home where I shall see thee again, and where they sin not, nor grieve, neither part any more!”Margery gently detached herself from the child’s embrace, and set him down. She desired Alice to take him away, and then to return and assist her in matters respecting which she would tell her particulars when she should have removed the child. She stood looking after the boy as Alice led him away, and he turned his head to say, “God be wi’ ye!” (See Note 2).“Never again! never again!” said Margery to herself in a half-whisper. “The worst part of death is over! I have nothing left now but Christ.”Note 1. Wycliffe always renders “Bisschopis” the word translated “chief priests” in the authorised version.Note 2. The farewell phrase which has in modern times been shortened into “good-bye.”

“Take from me anything Thou wilt,But go notThouaway!”

“Take from me anything Thou wilt,But go notThouaway!”

Little Geoffrey slowly recovered from the illness which had brought him to death’s door, and though able to run about the house, he was still far from perfect health, when Margery received orders to prepare for another interview with Abbot Bilson. She rightly divined that this would be more stormy than the last. Abbot Bilson came now fully prepared, and not alone. He was accompanied by Archbishop Arundel, a man of violent passions, and a bitter persecutor of all whom he conceived to lean to the opinions of Wycliffe. When Margery entered the room, and saw the Archbishop, she trembled, as well she might. She meekly knelt and asked their blessing—the manner in which priests were commonly greeted. The Abbot gave his, saying, “May God bless thee, and lead thee unto the truth!”

“Amen!” responded Margery. Arundel, however, refused his benediction until he had inquired into the matter.

“Be seated, my daughter!” said the Abbot. Margery obeyed.

“Holy Church, daughter, hath been sore aggrieved by thine evil doing. She demandeth of thee an instant yielding of yon heretical and pernicious book, the which hath led thee astray; and a renunciation of thy heresy; the which done, thou shalt receive apostolic absolution and benediction.”

“I know not, reverend father, what ye clepe (call) heresy. Wherein have I sinned?”

“In the reading of yon book, and in thy seldom confession. Moreover, I trow thou holdest with the way of John Wycliffe, yon evil reprobate!” replied the Archbishop.

“I cry you mercy, reverend fathers. I take my belief from no man. I crede (believe) the words of Christ as I find the same written, and concern not myself with Master Wycliffe or any other. I know not any Lollards, neither have I allied myself unto them.”

The Archbishop and the Abbot both looked at Lord Marnell—a mute inquiry as to whether Margery spoke the truth.

“I ween it is so, reverend fathers,” said he. “I wis nought of my wife her manner of living ere I wedded her, but soothly sithence (since) she came hither, I know of a surety that she hath never companied with any such evil persons as be these Lollards.”

“Hold younotwith the way of Wycliffe, daughter?” inquired the Abbot.

“I wis not, reverend father,” answered she, “for of a truth I know not wherein it lieth. I hold that which I find in the book; and I trow an’ I keep close by the words of Christ, I cannot stray far from truth.”

“The words in yon book be no words of Christ!” said Arundel. “That evil one Wycliffe, being taught of the devil, hath rendered the holy words of the Latin into pernicious heresy in English.”

“I pray you then, father, will you give me the book in Latin, for I wis a little the Latin tongue, and moreover I can learn of one that hath the tongues to wit better the same.”

This was not by any means what Arundel intended, and it raised his anger.

“I will not give thee the Latin!” exclaimed he. “I forbid thee to read or learn the same, for I well know thou wouldst wrest it to thine evil purposes.”

“How can you put a right meaning to the words, my daughter?” mildly suggested the Abbot.

“I know well that I could in no wise do the same,” replied Margery, humbly, “had I not read the promise of Christ Jesu that He would send unto His own ‘thilk Spyryt of treuthe,’ who should ‘teche them al treuthe,’ (John xvi. 13) wherefore by His good help I trust I shall read aright.”

“That promise was given, daughter, unto the holy apostles.”

“It was given, reverend father, unto weak men and evil, else Peter had never denied his Master, ne (neither) had all of them left Him and taken to flight, when the servants of the bishops (see Note 1) laid hold on Him. I wis that I have an evil heart like as they had, but meseemeth that mine is not worser than were theirs, wherefore I count that promise made unto myself also.”

“Thou art lacking in meekness, Madge,” said Lord Marnell.

“I trust not so, good my Lord; but an’ if I be, I pray God to give it to me.”

“Give up the book, Madge!” said her husband, apparently desirous to allay the storm which he had raised, “and thou shalt then receive absolution, and all will go well.”

“I will give up the book, my Lord, in obedience to you,” replied Margery, “for I wis well that wives be bounden to obey their husbands; and soothly it is no great matter, for I know every word therein. But under your good leave, my Lord, the truth which this book hath taught me, neither you nor any other man shall have power to take from me, for it is of God, and not of men!”

She drew the book from her pocket—ladies wore much larger pockets in those days than they now do—kissed it, and handed it to her husband.

“Thou hast well done, Madge!” said Lord Marnell, more kindly than before, as he passed the book to the Archbishop. Arundel, with a muttered curse upon all evil teaching, took the book from Lord Marnell with his hand folded in the corner of his gown, as if he thought its very touch would communicate pollution, and flung it into the fire. The fire was a large one, and in a minute the volume was consumed. Margery watched the destruction of her treasure with swimming eyes.

“Burn, poor book!” she said, falteringly, “and as thy smoke goeth up to God, leave it tell Him that the reading and the loving of His Word is accounted a sin by those who ought to be His pastors.”

“Woman, wilt not hear the truth?” cried Arundel.

“Truly, father, I have heard it, and it shall rest with me unto my dying day. But I trow that if your teaching were truth, ye had never burned with fire the Word of Christ, who hath power, if ye repent not, to consume you also with the like!”

“Told I not thee that the evil book which I gave to the fire was not Christ His Word, but the work of the devil?”

“Yea, truly; and the like said the heathen Jews, ‘Wher we seyen not wel that thou art a Samaritan, and hast a deuel?’ But I find not that their saying the same made it ever the truer. What saith Christ in answer? ‘I haue not a deuel; but I honoure my Fadir, and ye han unhonourid me.’” (John viii. 48, 49.)

“My daughter,” said the Abbot, with even more than his usual gentleness, “I misdoubt greatly that you be obstinate in your error. And if this be so, we shall have necessity of deeds the which we should sore lament. You wit, doubtless, that in case you continue thus obstinate, you will be had up afore the King’s Grace’s Council?”

“I am ready,” answered Margery.

“You wit also,” pursued the Abbot, no less gently, “that you may be sentenced unto close prison for such time as pleaseth the King’s Grace?”

“I am ready,” said Margery again.

Her examiners looked surprised.

“Moreover,” continued the Abbot, in a softer tone than ever, “wit you that we can allow you no longer to have the charge and teaching of your son, who must needs be instructed in the true faith?”

The end of the reverend fathers was at length reached. The quiet words of the Abbot produced an effect which the furious abuse of the Archbishop had been unable to accomplish. A cry of mingled terror, anguish, and despair, broke from poor Margery’s lips.

“Ye could not—ye could not be so cruel!” she sobbed. “Take from me all I have in this world—comfort, freedom, yea, life—only leave me my child!”

“Thou seest what thou hast brought on thyself!” said Arundel. “How can we, being the ministers of God His truth, suffer the mind of yon innocent child to be poisoned with like evil doctrine?”

“Doth God part the child from the mother?” faltered Margery. “This is none of His doing. My darling! my darling!”

Lord Marnell pitied his wife. Her agony touched all that was soft and gentle in his not too soft heart.

“Well, well, Madge!” he said, kindly; “I will see that thy child is not taken from thee, if thou wilt obey these reverend fathers in confessing of thine error, and wilt humbly beg absolution at their hands.”

Margery looked up at her husband with an expression of unutterable gratitude beaming in her eyes—but the moment she heard his if, her face fell instantly.

“I conceive you, good my Lord,” she said, mournfully, “howsoever I thank you. You will give me back my darling, if I will deny that I hold Christ His truth. I cannot. I dare not!”

“‘Christ His truth,’ persist you in calling your heresy!” cried Arundel, in a fury. “Choose, then, quickly, for the last time, betwixt ‘Christ His truth’ and your child!”

She shivered from head to foot as if an ague-fit were on her, and her sobs almost mounted to a scream. No heart that had any pretension to humanity could have helped pitying her. Her husband did pity her; but Arundel was carried away by passion, and Bilson had no heart. Through all this tempest, however agonised, firm and unwavering came the answer—

“Christ!”

Arundel, rising, ordered her to kneel. Margery knelt down on the hearth, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes looking up to heaven. Solemnly, and with all that terrific majesty which the Church of Rome so well knows how to put into her threats and denunciations, the Archbishop cited her to appear before the council on the 17th day of the following September. In the meantime she was to be confined in one of the State dungeons. Arundel graciously added that he would give her the remainder of that day to make her preparations. Lord Marnell here interposed, and begged the Archbishop to reconsider his decision. He had anticipated Margery’s examination by the council, and possibly her being sentenced to a term of imprisonment, but he had not bargained for this previous incarceration. Arundel bluntly refused to alter his sentence.

Margery raised her tearful eyes to Lord Marnell. “My Lord,” she said, “and you, reverend fathers, I have one small thing to ask of you. I pray you deny me not.”

“What is it, Madge?” asked Lord Marnell.

“My good Lord,” she said, pleadingly, “suffer me to take one last kiss of my child, ere ye take me where I shall see him no more!”

The Abbot seemed disposed to grant Margery’s petition, though the Archbishop demurred; but Lord Marnell settled the matter by authoritatively commanding that the mother should be permitted to take leave of her child. Arundel, with rather a bad grace, gave way on this secondary point. Margery was then dismissed.

She went up-stairs as if she were walking in a dream, and found Alice hiding behind the door for the amusement of little Geoffrey, who was in high glee. Margery stood a moment on the threshold, looking at them, and mournfully thinking that it was the last time she would ever look on that sunny little face, or hear that silvery laugh. As she stood there, Alice caught sight of her mistress, and her share of the mirth ceased instantly.

“My Lady! my Lady! what have you, I pray you tell me? You look as if sentence of death had been passed on you!”

Margery passed her hand dreamily across her brow.

“Sentence, good Alice, of the evil which is in death!” she said, softly, “and henceforth death must needs be a glad thing. But that is to come yet.”

She sat down, and took the child on her knee, and he nestled his little golden head into her bosom. For a few minutes she rocked herself and him to and fro in silence, but at length her voice came, and though it trembled a little, it was almost as quiet and silvery as usual.

“Geoffrey, dost love me?”

“Yes, mother, very much.”

“Poor child! how wilt do without me!”

“Go you hence, mother?”

“Yes, my child, I go hence. Geoffrey, wilt mind ever what I now say unto thee? Wilt never, never forget it, but ever keep it fresh and shene, and think thereof whenever thou dost think of me?”

“Yes, mother, I shan’t forget.”

“Alice, thou wilt help him to remember, good lass, if thou be not taken from him.”

“That will I, good my Lady,” said Alice, sobbing, and only comprehending that something painful had happened.

“Geoffrey, darling, thou wilt be a good child to thy father?”

“I’ll try, mother, but—he frighteth me.”

Margery sighed heavily.

“List me now, my heart. Dost remember what I told thee about Jesus Christ?”

Geoffrey answered that he did.

“Right, my heart. And lovest Jesus Christ, who died for thee?”

“Yes, mother, I love Him and you.”

The child’s innocent answer nearly upset Margery’s half-assumed calmness. She rocked him a minute longer in silence. “Remember, mine own sweet heart, ever that nothing but Jesus can save thee. Thou canst not save thyself. Beg of Him with all thine heart that He will save thee, and love Him all thy life long, even untothe end.”

She ceased an instant.

“Now, sweet heart, kiss me. Give me a brave kiss, mine own—it is the last. Never shall we kiss again till we kiss in the Happy City! Fare-thee-well, dearly beloved! God have thee in His holy keeping! God teach thee what I cannot—what I by reason of mine ignorance know not, or what thou by reason of thy tender years canst not yet conceive. God forgive thee thy sins, and help thee in all trouble and woe, and bring thee to that blessed home where I shall see thee again, and where they sin not, nor grieve, neither part any more!”

Margery gently detached herself from the child’s embrace, and set him down. She desired Alice to take him away, and then to return and assist her in matters respecting which she would tell her particulars when she should have removed the child. She stood looking after the boy as Alice led him away, and he turned his head to say, “God be wi’ ye!” (See Note 2).

“Never again! never again!” said Margery to herself in a half-whisper. “The worst part of death is over! I have nothing left now but Christ.”

Note 1. Wycliffe always renders “Bisschopis” the word translated “chief priests” in the authorised version.

Note 2. The farewell phrase which has in modern times been shortened into “good-bye.”

Back to IndexNext