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 thanshe was, and her face wore an unnaturally pensive expression, which hadbeen gradually settling itself there since the day of her marriage. Shenever laughed, and very rarely smiled, except when her eyes rested uponher little golden-haired Geoffrey, whom she had sought and obtainedpermission to name after her father. He was a bright, merry littlefellow, perpetually in motion, and extremely fond of his mother, thoughhe 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 littleGeoffrey was running about his mother's apartments on what he doubtlessconsidered important business. Suddenly, in the midst of her reading, acry of pain from the child startled Margery. She sprang up, and ran tohim; and she found that in running about, he had contrived to fall downa step which intervened between the landing and the antechamber, wherebyhe had very slightly bruised his infantine arm, and very greatlyperturbed his infantine spirit. Geoffrey was weeping and whiningpiteously, and his mother lifted him up, and carried him into herbedroom, where she examined the injured arm, and discovered that theinjury consisted only of an almost imperceptible bruise. The child,however, still bewailed his misfortune; and Lady Marnell, having appliedsome ointment to the sore place, sat down, and taking Geoffrey in herlap, she soothed and rocked him until he fell asleep, and forgot allabout his bruised arm. The boy had been asleep about a quarter of anhour, when the recollection suddenly flashed upon Margery's mind thatshe had left the book open to all comers and goers, instead of puttingit carefully away, as was her wont. She set down the child softly onthe trussing-bed, (the curious name given by our forefathers to a pieceof furniture which formed a sofa or travelling-bed at pleasure), andquietly opening the door into her bower, she saw--her husband standingon the hearth, with the book in his hand, and a very decided frowngathering on his countenance. The rustle of Margery's dress made LordMarnell look up.
"What meaneth this, I pray you, mistress?" asked he, angrily.
There was no need, had Margery felt any disposition, to attempt furtherconcealment. The worst that could come, had come.
"It is a book of mine," she quietly answered, "which I left here a shortseason 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?" saidhe, rather ironically.
Margery was silent. She was determined to bear the blame alone, and notto compromise either Pynson or Carew.
"Had you this book since you came hither?" said Lord Marnell, varyingthe 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, whothought there was no harm in the book, and that I might safely retainthe 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 itneedeth to say whence I had the same. The book was lent unto me, whenceI 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 notbe let drop--it passeth into the hands of holy Abbot Bilson. I willseek him presently."
And so saying, Lord Marnell strode out of the room, leaving Margery in acondition of intense terror.
That afternoon, as Margery sat in her bower, she was informed that thePrioress of Kennington was in the oaken chamber. Margery went down toher, holding Geoffrey by the hand, and found her seated on a settle,apparently preferring this more ancient form of seat to a chair; andwearing her veil low over her face. The Prioress rose when Lady Marnellentered, and threw back her heavy black veil, as she advanced to greether. Margery returned her salutation courteously, and then tried toinduce Geoffrey to go to his aunt--but Geoffrey hung back and would notgo. Margery did not attempt to force the child, but sat down, and heattached himself to that particular plait of her dress which wasfurthest from the Prioress. The Prioress tried to propitiate him, bydrawing from her pocket a piece of linen, which, being unfolded,revealed a placenta--a delicacy which the nuns of several convents werespecially famed for making, and the nature of which will be better knownto an ordinary reader by the explanatory term cheese-cake. Geoffreygraciously accepted the placenta, but utterly declined all furtherintimacy. The expression of the Prioress's countenance suggested toMargery the idea that she had seen her brother, and had heard of thediscovery of the book; so that Margery was quite prepared for herremarking gravely, after her unsuccessful attempt to attract her littlenephew--
"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 mychamber by my Lord my husband, the which did anger him?"
"I rejoice that you take my meaning," answered the Prioress, in an evenvoice. "I meant that verily. I grieve much, fair sister, to hear frommy fair brother that you have allied yourself unto those evil men whichbe known by the name of Lollards."
"I cry you mercy, holy mother," answered Margery, quietly, "I haveallied myself unto no man. I know not a Lollard in the realm. Only Iread 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 yourelders [parents], fair sister, had shown the wisdom for to have put youin the cloister, you would have been free from such like temptations."
"Is it a temptation?" replied Margery. "Meseemeth, holy mother, thatthere be temptations as many in the cloister as in the world, only theybe to divers sins: and I misdoubt that I should have temptation in thecloister, to the full as much as here."
"I cry you mercy, fair sister!" said the Prioress, with an air ofsuperiority. "We have no temptations in our blessed retreat. Our rulesaveth us, and our seclusion from the vanity of the world--and I prayyou, what other evil can assail a veiled nun?"
Margery glanced at the heavy gold chain round the Prioress's neck, themultifarious rings on her fingers, and the costly jewels in her girdle,and rather doubted her testimony as to the utter absence of vanity in aveiled nun; but she contented herself with saying, "I trow, holy mother,that ye carry with you evil hearts into your cloister, as have all menwithout; and an evil heart within, and the devil without, need notoutward matters whereon to form temptation. At least, I speak by mineown."
The Prioress looked rather shocked. "The evil heart," answered she, "isgoverned and kept down in us by our mortifications, our almsgivings, ourpenances, our prayers, and divers other holy exercises."
"Ah, holy mother," said Margery, looking up, "can ye keep down by suchmeans 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, andthe grace of Christ risen, have I yet found, that would avail to keepdown an evil he
art!"
"Of force, fair sister, of force!" said the Prioress, coldly, "that isas well as said."
"Then I pray you, why said you it not?"
The Prioress rose. "I trust, fair sister," said she, without giving anyreply to Margery's home question, "that you may see your error ere it befull 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 shemounted 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 hermeet him and Abbot Bilson in the oaken chamber, and bring the book withher. She took the book from the table on which Lord Marnell had thrownit--no need to hide it any longer now--kissed little Geoffrey's sleepingforehead, as he lay in his cradle, and went down to the oaken chamber.
Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on thehearth 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 afinely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and aremarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner. Had the Order of Jesuitsexisted 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, andthe latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, "Peace bewith thee, daughter."
"Where is the book?" asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite soangrily 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 sufferedno change.
"A fine, clear scribe hath written this," remarked he, politely. "TheGospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction ofMaster John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a fewyears back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of yourkeeping 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 sosaid, 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, andtherefore knew not the book."
"Certes," said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. LordMarnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyedat 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 smallportion of its extraordinary softness.
"Nay."
"Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? orMaster Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?"
Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a verydangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions anddenials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he,too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning LordMarnell? Margery's breath came short and fast, and she trembledexceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, whenthe Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush inhearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her thebook, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw theblush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice ofit.
"Well, well," said he, courteously, "we will not go further into thatquestion at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this bookcontaineth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you thesame? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you benot able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from thetruth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You arevery young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Churchcan tell you, an' you be meek and humble in receiving of theirteaching."
He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He wasquite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, andeven passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not preparedhe got in Margery's answer.
"I wis well, reverend father," she said, very quietly, "to the full aswell as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting Ibe. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they beweak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith Henot, `_If ony man wole do His wille_, _he schall knowe of thetechinge_'? [John vii. 17.] Saith He not again, `_Seke ye Scripturis_'?[John v. 39.] I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Untofathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving--veryheathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, `_He thatdispisith 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_'? [Johnxii. 48.] I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shalljudge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of HisWord lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this bookcontaineth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Sonof God teach evil? Doth God evil? Will God deceive them that ask Himtruth? 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. Helooked silently at Lord Marnell.
"I pray you see now, reverend father," said Lord Marnell, angrily, "howthe teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl's talk! Is it a smallevil, 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 reverendfather teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be thewords of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow thereis small doubt as to who shall be the winner."
The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm andpale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; andhe could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothedher; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her manythings to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he mighthave commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet sodecided--so gentle, but so uncompromising--puzzled him extremely. Heonly saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her greatstrength lay.
"My Lord Marnell," he said, in a perplexed tone, "I would speak withyou. Good lady, will you give us leave?"
Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she tookthe 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 Ibefore, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thingis to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not, _then_--"
The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.