CHAPTER THREE.
COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.
"Ay, sooth we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road. But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The guests departed about seven o'clock, and Dame Lovell got to bed alittle before nine--an hour which was in her eyes most untimely.Margery, though she had not slept on the previous night, was unable toclose her eyes for some time. The unwonted excitement kept her awake,and another idea, too, mingled with her thoughts. The book! How shouldshe copy it? It must be at stolen hours--probably in the night. Andwhat material should she use? Not vellum, for Sir Geoffrey might askwhat she was doing if she requested more of that precious article thanwas necessary for her Breviary. He had allowed her some paper for therough draft of her illuminations, and she had a little of this left.She determined to make use of this paper so far as it would go, and totrust to circumstances for the remainder.
Thinking and contriving, Margery sank to sleep, and dreamed that SirGeoffrey was reading the book to Lord Marnell, who, by that curiousmixture which often takes place in dreams, was also Richard Pynson.From this dream, about ten minutes after she fell asleep, as it appearedto her, Margery suddenly sprang up to the conviction that broad daylightwas streaming in at the window. She rose and dressed herself hurriedly,and, running down into the kitchen, was surprised to find nobody therebut Joan, the drudge of the household, who moreover was rubbing hereyes, and apparently only half awake.
"Why, Mistress Margery!" said the girl, in astonishment, "your goodmistress-ship is early, considering our late hours. The Dame is not yetrisen."
"In good sooth?" inquired Margery, looking at the clock, when she foundto her surprise that it was barely five o'clock; and receiving from Joanthe information that Dame Lovell had told Cicely overnight that she didnot intend to appear until six, she returned to her own room, and,drawing the book from its hiding-place, commenced her task of copying.Margery worked quickly, and had copied nearly a page in the hour. Soabsorbed was she in her task, that she never heard the door open, andstarted like a guilty thing when the well-known voice of her mothersounded close by her.
"Eh, Madge! Up and at work? Thou wilt work thy fingers to the bone,child! Is that thy mass-book? Nay, it is paper, I see, and that, Iwis, is on vellum. What art doing, damsel?"
Pale and red, red and pale, went Margery by turns at this string ofquestions.
"Why, lass, what hast?" asked Dame Lovell, in surprise.
"I cry you mercy, good mother!" said Margery, descending toequivocation, and blushing more than ever; "I heard you not open mydoor, and your voice started me."
"Poor Madge! did I fright thee?" said Dame Lovell, kindly. "But what isthis, child? Another Breviary? Dost want two?"
"Poor Madge" she was indeed at this moment. Terrified beyond measurelest Dame Lovell should inform Sir Geoffrey, whose learned eyes wouldperceive in a moment what the book was--and seeing more danger in hisdiscovering its real character than in letting him suppose it to beanother Breviary, Margery, generally so truth-telling, was frightenedinto a lie.
"Ay, good mother," she stammered out, "'tis a Breviary."
All that day Margery sat upon thorns; but Dame Lovell made no mention ofthe incident, and she accordingly hoped it was forgotten.
Day after day passed on, and Margery worked harder than ever at copyingthe book. She finished her task just one day before the month was up,and gave back the original to Richard Pynson, entreating him to make anerrand to Marston as soon as possible, and restore the book, with herhearty thanks, into the hands of Master Carew.
On the evening of that day, Dame Lovell sat at work in the widechimney-corner of the hall. Near her was Mistress Katherine, scrapingalmonds into a bowl; while Margery, occupied with her distaff, sat at alittle distance. On a wide oaken settle on the opposite side of thefire lay Friar Andrew, taking a nap, as was his afternoon custom; whileon another settle drawn up before the fire, Sir Geoffrey and RichardPynson sat conversing with the ladies.
"Madge, lass, hast finished thy Breviary?" asked Sir Geoffrey. "An thouhast, I would see it."
Margery's heart leaped into her mouth, for now was the time for thediscovery of her falsehood to be made. Simply replying, however, "Iwill seek it, father," she rose and laid her distaff down.
"Ay, Madge is a feat scribe, truly!" remarked Dame Lovell, to Margery'sunspeakable distress. "She hath written two Breviaries, I wis."
"Two!" said Sir Geoffrey, laughing. "One for Sundays and feasts, andthe other for week-days? Madge, bring us both of them."
Margery left the room, and returned in a few minutes, with both thebooks in her hand. Sir Geoffrey took them, and opened the illuminatedone--the genuine Breviary--first. Margery reseated herself, and took upher distaff, but the thread was very uneven, and she broke it twice,while her father turned over the leaves of the book, and praised herwriting and illuminations. His praise was sweet enough, but some timehe must come to the end, and _then_--!
How fervently Margery wished that Dame Lovell would ask an irrelevantquestion, which might lead to conversation--that Friar Andrew wouldawake--that Cicely would rush in with news of the cows having brokeninto the garden--or that _anything_ would occur which would put a stopto the examination of those volumes before Sir Geoffrey arrived at thelast leaf! But everything, as it always is under such circumstances,was unusually quiet; and Sir Geoffrey fastened the silver clasps of theBreviary, and opened the book without anything to hinder his doing so.Margery stole furtive looks at her father over her distaff, and soonobserved an ominous look of displeasure creeping over his face. Hepassed over several leaves--turned to the beginning, and then to theend,--then, closing the volume, he looked up and said, in a sternvoice--
"Andrew!"
Friar Andrew snored placidly on.
"Andrew!" said Sir Geoffrey, in a louder tone.
Friar Andrew gave an indistinct sound between a snore and a grunt. SirGeoffrey rose from his seat, and striding over to where his confessorslept, laid hold of his shoulders, and gave him such a shake as nearlybrought him to the stone floor.
"Awake, thou sluggard!" said he, angrily. "Is it a time for theshepherd to sleep when the wolf is already in the fold, and the lambs bein danger?"
"Eh? Oh! ay!" said Friar Andrew, half awake. "Time to sup, eh?"
"Look here, Andrew!" roared his offended patron, "and see thee what thissinful maid hath been doing. What penance deemest thou fit for suchfault as this?" He handed the book to the friar. The friar sat up,rubbed his eyes, opened the book, and turned over two or three leaves.
"I cry your good worship mercy," said he. "I knew not you were assayingto arouse me. I was dreaming of a kettle of furmety of Madge's making."
"I trow here is a pretty kettle of furmety of Madge's making!" was theirate response.
"I conceive you not, good master," said the friar. "The book is a goodbook enough, trow."
"Thou art an ass!" was the civil answer. "Seest thou not that it is thetranslation of Scripture whereof the Lord Marnell spake, by Master JohnWycliffe, the Lollard priest? Mindest thou not that which he said aboutLollards?"
"An what if it be?" said the confessor, yawning. "I pin not my faith onmy Lord Marnell's sleeve, though it _were_ made of slashed velvet. AndI trow Madge hath been too well bred up to draw evil from the book. Solet the damsel alone, good master, and give her book back. I trow itwill never harm her." Margery was exceedingly surprised at the turnwhich affairs were taking. The truth was, that Friar Andrew was veryfond of her; he had been Sir Geoffrey's chaplain before she was born,she had grown up under his eye, and she made, moreover, such a kettle offurmety as he declared no one else could make. Beside this, Andrew wasa marvellous poor scholar; he could never read a book at sight, andrequired to spell it over two or three times before he could make outthe meaning. He could read his mass-book, because he had done so forthe last forty ye
ars, and could have gone through the service as easilywithout book as with it; though, had a different copy been given him, inwhich the pages did not commence with the same line, it would probablyhave perplexed him extremely. Thus, under these circumstances, his lovefor Margery, his love for furmety, and his utter ignorance, combined todispose him to let her off easily.
Sir Geoffrey took the book from his chaplain with a sort of growl, andthrew it into Margery's lap.
"There! take it, damsel!" said he. "I account it Andrew's business totake care of thy soul, and he saith it will not hurt thee. I mind itthe less, as thou wilt shortly go to dwell with one who will see to theein these matters, and will not let thee read Lollard books."
The thread fell from Margery's hand, and so did the distaff, whichrolled over the floor with a clatter. She never heeded it. A terrible,indefinite dread had taken hold of her.
"Father! what mean you?" she stammered forth at last.
"What mean I?" said Sir Geoffrey, in the same half-affectionate,half-sarcastic tone. "Why, that I have promised thee to the LordMarnell, Lord of the Bedchamber to the King's Grace, and Knight of theGarter--and thou wilt be a lady and dwell in London town, and hold upthine head with the highest! What sayest to _that_, child?" he added,proudly.
She sat a moment with her white lips parted,--cold, silent, stunned.Then the bitter cry of "Father, father!" awoke the echoes of the oldhall.
Sir Geoffrey was evidently troubled. He had sought only his daughter'sgrandeur, and had never so much as dreamed that he might be making hermiserable.
"Why, child! dost not like it?" said he, in surprise.
She rose from her seat, and went to him, and kneeling down by him, laidher head, bowed on her clasped hands, upon his knee. "O father,father!" was all she said again.
"Truly, lass, I grieve much to see thee thus," said her father, in aperplexed tone. "But thou wilt soon get over this, and be right glad,too, to be so grand a lady. What shall I say to comfort thee?"
Long, terrible, hysterical sobs were coming from the bowed frame--but notears. At length, still without lifting up her head, she whispered--
"Is there no way to shun it, father? I love him not. O father, I lovehim not--I cannot love him!"
"Truly, my poor lass, I trow we cannot shun it," said he. "I neverthought to see thee grieve so sore. The Lord Marnell is a noblegentleman, and will find thee in silken tissues and golden cauls."
Sir Geoffrey did not rightly understand his daughter's sorrow. His"silken tissues and golden cauls" did not raise the bowed head one inch.
"Father!" she whispered, "have you promised him?"
"I have, my child," he answered, softly.
She rose suddenly, and quickly turned to go up the stairs leading to herown room. At this moment Richard Pynson rose also, and quietly takingup the book, which had fallen from Margery's lap on the floor, he handedit to her. She took it with one hand, and gave him the other, but didnot let him see her face. Then she passed into her chamber, and theyheard her fasten the door.
When she had done so, she flung herself down on the rushes [note 1], andbent her head forward on her knees. The longer she thought over herprospects, the more dreary and doleful they appeared. Her state of mindwas one that has been touchingly described by a writer who lived threehundred years later--"Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother"--who, of allwho have attempted and failed in the impossible task of rendering thePsalms into verse, perhaps approached as near success as any one.
"Troublous seas doe mee surrownde; Saue, O Lord, my sinking soule, Sinking wheare it feeles no grownde, In this gulf, this whirling hole; Wayghting ayde with earnest eying, Calling God with bootles crying; Dymme and drye in mee are fownde Eyes to see, and throat to sounde."
Suddenly, as she sat thus bowed down, too sorrowful for tears, like thedew to a parched flower came the words of the book--nay, the words ofthe Lord--into her soul.
"_Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it_."
"_And therfore ghe han now sorowe, but eftsoone I schal se ghou, andghoure herte schal haue ioie, and no man schal take fro ghou ghoureioie. Treuly, treuly, I seie to ghou, if ghe axen the Fadir ony thingin my name he schal ghyue to ghou_." John xvi. 22, 23.
Now, Margery had neither teacher nor commentary to interpret to her thewords of Scripture; and the result was, that she never dreamed ofmodifying any of them, but took the words simply and literally. Itnever entered her head to interpret them with any qualification--toargue that "anything" must mean only some things. Ah! how much betterwould it be for us, if we would accept those blessed words as plainly,as unconditionally, as conclusively, as this poor untaught girl!
But when Margery considered the question more minutely, poor child! sheknew not what to ask. The constant reference of everything by the LordJesus to "the will of the Father" had struck her forcibly; and now shedared not ask for entire freedom from the crashing blow which had fallenon her, lest it should not be the will of the Father. So she contentedherself with a supplication which, under the circumstances, was the bestshe could have offered. She did not even try to form her petitions intowords--the depths in which her soul lay were too deep for that; it was awordless cry which went up to God. But its substance was an entreatythat the Father would do His will, and would bend her will to it; thatwhatever He saw fit to give her, He would always give His presence andHis love; that whatever He was pleased to take away, He would not takefrom her the word unto His handmaid wherein He had caused her to hope.And when she rose from her knees, the prominent idea in her mind mighthave been expressed in the words of the old proverb, "He loseth nothingthat keepeth God for his friend."
An hour afterwards, Dame Lovell, who could not rest for the remembranceof her child's grief, came softly into Margery's chamber to see if shecould comfort her. She was surprised to find her sleeping as quietly asa little child, with the book, even in sleep, held fast to her bosom, asif she would permit nothing to separate her from that Word of God whichhad given rest to her soul.
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Note 1. Carpets were very rare at this time, and only used on stateoccasions and for invalids. Their place was supplied by fresh greenrushes, strewn on the floor. It appears rather doubtful, however,whether carpets were not sometimes used in the winter.