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 Thee Is happy anywhere."
Miss Waring.
It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London werehushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man intraveller's dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up atthe 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 singingreached him--an air which he instantly recognised as "The Palmer'shymn," sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the HolyLand. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the wordsof 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 greeting For the guests thy gates who see! Ah! what blessed, blessed meeting Have 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 ortrouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whencethe music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of MargeryLovell. 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, ifhe may, of the Lady Marnell."
As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open thegate. "Enter, friend." The ponderous gate swung to again, and the oldman slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of thehouse, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelledwith oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requestedhim to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoiningchamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, "Mistress Alice! MistressAlice!"
A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard thefamiliar voice of Alice Jordan.
"Hush! good Christopher," said she, in a low tone; "the boy sleepeth atlast--wake him not. What wouldst?"
"There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech ofmy Lady."
On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber whereRichard sat.
"Ah! Master Pynson!" she said, "is it you! My Lady will be right fainto 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 youngmaster, who is sore sick--we fear nigh unto death. The child is ingrievous disease [restlessness, uneasiness], and cannot sleep; and hergood Ladyship hath been singing unto him, I ween, for to soothe him torest. Her voice hushed as you came, wherefore I count that the boysleepeth."
"What aileth the poor child?" inquired Richard.
"My Lady counteth that he got him an ill rheum when we departed hencefor my Lord his house of plesance [country house], for to sweeten [SeeNote 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. Shehath been in sore trouble of late, wherefore it is no marvel. There berumours of accusations for heresy out against her, and my Lord is illangered towards her. Well, God witteth, and God keep her! You will seehow evil [ill] she looketh an' she come to speak with you, and I trowthat she will when I give her to wit who is here."
So saying, Alice returned to the room she had quitted, and for someminutes Richard heard nothing more. Then the door re-opened, and a ladyentered the chamber.
Was _that_ Margery Lovell? Never, surely, were hers that feeble step,that worn, wan, white face, that dark ring round the eyes, telling ofweary vigils, and of bitter weeping! But the smile of welcome wasMargery Lovell's own, and the gesture, as she came forward quickly,holding out both hands, was hers also; though the smile died away in aninstant, and the worn, wearied look came back instead.
"Dear, good friend!" she said, "how it gladdeth me to see you! You comestraightway from Lovell Tower? My father and mother be well? AndMistress Katherine, and Cicely, and all the maidens? And Lyard, and oldBeaudesert? (naming her palfrey and the watchdog). And all mine oldfriends--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 beassured 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 thoughRichard had made no answer in words, his face told his tidings toounmistakably. Sir Geoffrey Lovell was dead. After a time Margerylooked up whiter and more wan than ever, and begged to know theparticulars of her father's death. Richard informed her that SirGeoffrey had been taken ill three days only before he died; they hadimmediately summoned Master Carew, who was a physician, and who hadpronounced that since he could not live many days, it would be uselessto send for his daughter, who could not possibly reach Lovell Tower intime to see him alive. Dame Lovell was well in health, but had quitelost her old cheerfulness, and appeared to feel her husband's death veryacutely. It had been arranged that Friar Andrew should remain with DameLovell as her confessor. As to himself, Richard said that he should ofcourse return to his father for a time, until he could by some act ofbravery or special favour receive the honour of knighthood; but he didnot like to say anything to Dame Lovell about leaving her, so long as hesaw that he was of any use to her, as he knew that she regarded him inthe light of an adopted son, and had especially seemed to cling to himsince Margery's departure.
Margery replied that she would have requested for him the favour ofknighthood in a moment at the hands of Lord Marnell, but she did notlike to ask him for anything so long as he was displeased with her.
Richard inquired after Lord Marnell. Margery said he was well, and waswith the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed toincrease her look of weariness and woe. She turned the subject byinquiring again about her old friends. Cicely and the maids, Richardtold her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he wasasked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow,and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he mustnever 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 betweenthem--and then Richard asked--
"And what tidings take I home, good my Lady? Dame Lovell bade me have acare to ask how you fared, and the child. I grieve to hear from AliceJordan that _he_ fareth but evil, and for _you_--"
He smiled the same grave smile.
"Well--_well_, Master Pynson," said Margery, quickly. "I fare well. Icannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I mustneeds fare well. And for the child--come and see him."
She led the way noiselessly to the adjoining room. Little Geoffrey layin Alice's arms in a heavy sleep. His breathing was very quick andshort, and his face flushed and fevered. Richard stood looking silentlyat him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oakenchamber. She offered him refreshments, but he declined them. He hadsupped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on hisway back to the North. Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, andintrusted it to him; and then she sat by th
e table, wearily resting herhead upon her hand.
"I pray you, good my Lady," said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spellthat seemed to bind them, "what meaneth this bruit [noise, rumour] ofheresy 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?--andwending with me to hear Master Sastre's homily?"
"I mind it well."
"_That_ meaneth 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 islaid 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 comfortlessimprisonment, was almost more than he could bear. His own utterpowerlessness 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 alongthe weary and bitter road? Is it an evil thing to sue the Lamb, thoughHe 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 halfan 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 beena-reading of Master Carew's book, since I found you counted it so greata thing. Oft-times have Master Carew and I sat reading of that bookwhenever I could make an errand unto his neighbourhood; and he hathtaught 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, "orthat I know Christ as friendly as you seem to know Him."
"Then," said Margery, earnestly, "let not go your grasp till you havefast 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 Heloueth them_.' [John xiii. 1.] O dear friend, count not anything lostif thou keepest Christ His love! If He shall come unto thee and say ofaught by which thou settest store, as He did say unto Peter, `_Louest__thou me more than these_?' let thine answer be his, `_Che, Lord, Thouwoost that I loue Thee_!' [John xxi. 15.] Oh count not aught too rareor too brave for to give Christ! `_He that loueth his lyf schal leeseit; and he that hatith his lyf in this world, kepith it untoeverlastinge lyf_.' [John xii. 25.] No man loseth by that chepe[exchange, bargain] of life worldly for life everlasting. Never shallthe devils have leave to say, `Behold here a man who hath lost byChrist!'"
"Must we needs give Christ _all_?" said Richard, in an unsteady tone.
"Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?--a thing that thoulovest more than thou lovest Him? Then it will be no marvel that thoushouldst lose the same. Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He willeither have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have itaway from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow. And alas for that manwho hath no portion in Christ His heart!"
Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery'shand as he did so. The spell was fully broken now.
"There was only one thing, and He hath taken it. Margery, I loved_you_. I had given readily all else but you. And I trow you will countit but a sorry [poor, unworthy] giving, wherein the heart goeth not withthe hands."
She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt herhand grow deathly cold in his own. He dropped it, and rose--and so didshe. She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her handfor a farewell greeting, she spoke--
"Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He dothwed. If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof. When childrencome home to their father's house from afar, I trow they fall nota-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company. And if only wemay clasp hands at the gate of the _Urbs Beata_, I trow well that weshall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little theone of the other on the journey!"
Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softlypassed into her darkened nursery. For a moment he stood looking afterher. "Please God, we will, Margery!" he said to himself, at length.Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at thesound of his step to open the door for him.
And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak toeach other on this side of the Happy City.
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Note 1. Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise inthis--
"Urbs coelestis! urbs beata! Super petram collocata."
I have translated a few lines of the hymn for the benefit of the Englishreader; but my heroine must be supposed to sing it in the originalLatin.
Note 2. "Sweetening" was a process to which our forefathers werecompelled by their want of drains, and consisted in leaving a houseentirely empty for a time, to have the windows opened, the rushesrenewed, and to adroit of a general purification. Families who had themeans generally "went to sweeten" at least every summer.