Mistress Margery Part 14

"I trow he be in the garden with Richard," replied Dame Lovell. "I will bid him hither."

Little Geoffrey, holding Richard's hand, as if he would not part with him for a moment, returned to the house at his grandmother's bidding; but like her, he could not recognise his father, whom he had not seen for some months, until Lord Marnell's well-known voice a.s.sured him of his ident.i.ty. He rather shrank from him, as usual; but when Lord Marnell contrary to his custom, lifted him up and kissed him, he seemed a little rea.s.sured, and sat on his father's knee, staring at him intently. Lord Marnell gave a cordial greeting to Richard, and then, observing how earnestly his little son's eyes were fixed upon him, asked him at what he was looking.

"What have you done with your hair?" was Master Geoffrey's puzzled answer.

Lord Marnell laughed, and told the child that everybody's hair turned white as they grew old.

"But your Lordship's hath done so quickly," remarked Richard.

"That were no great marvel," he answered, gravely.

Dame Lovell found it rather difficult to keep up her revengeful determination. She was naturally a very easy-tempered woman, and the evident change, moral as well as physical, in Lord Marnell, touched her, and melted her enmity considerably.

"I pray you, fair mother," he said, looking up, "to leave me tell you wherefore I came hither. Firstly, it was to give you a letter from Madge, which she wrote in the Tower unto you." And Lord Marnell, pa.s.sing his hand into his breast, pulled out a small square packet, tied with blue silk, and sealed with yellow wax. It was directed--

"_To the hands of my singular good lady and most dear mother, Dame Agnes Lovell, at Lovell Tower, be these delivered with speed_."

Dame Lovell kissed the letter, and placed it in her own bosom. She could not read a word of it, but it was enough that it came from Margery.

"Secondarily," pursued Lord Marnell, "I would fain ask you, fair mother, for to keep Geoffrey here a while longer, for I wis not yet what I shall do."

"That will I, right heartily," said Dame Lovell, in a tone as cordial as her words.

"Moreover, an' it stand with your pleasure, I would pray you for to take back Alice Jordan, as you will find in yon letter that Madge did desire her for to be about Geoffrey, if she would, and she seemeth right fain."

"I will have her with a very good will," answered Dame Lovell, "and she shall be next in mine house unto Mistress Katherine, and shall eat at the high table."

Lord Marnell thanked her sincerely for her readiness to comply with his wishes. He said that Alice should come down to Lovell Tower as soon as she could conveniently set out, and old Christopher, as the most trusty of his household, should escort her. There was silence for a short time, and then, with a kind of shadow of a smile, Lord Marnell said suddenly--

"Do you hate me, fair mother?"

"I did afore I saw thee this morrow," replied Dame Lovell, candidly.

"And wherefore not after?"

"Meseemeth thou hast repented thyself of thy deed."

"Repented!" said Lord Marnell, mournfully. "Mother, will you crede me if I tell you that no sorrow worser than this can ever befall me, and that had I known what would come of my seeking of Abbot Bilson, I had sooner cut off my right hand?"

"I do," said she.

"Madge knew it, poor damsel! and she said she forgave me in such manner as Christ did forgive herself. Will you do the like, mother?"

"With all mine heart and soul, good son!" cried Dame Lovell, every shred of her animosity vanished, and the tears fairly running down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, g'ammer!" exclaimed little Geoffrey, jumping off his father's knee and running to Dame Lovell. "What are you crying for?

Somebody hurt you? If they have, I'll kill 'em!"

Dame Lovell laughed through her tears at Master Geoffrey's threat. She was a good deal surprised when Lord Marnell spoke of going away; but he said he had promised his cousin Sir Ralph that he would stay with him next time he came into the neighbourhood; and he must return to London in a day or two. So he only remained to dinner, and departed immediately afterwards, evoking from Geoffrey the significant remark that "he liked him a great deal better this time."

That evening, Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew sat down by the fire to listen to that last letter. Her widow's dress, somewhat resembling that of a nun, but pure white, left only her eyes, nose, and mouth visible.

Richard Pynson, in a rather more ambitious costume than the page's suit wherein we made his acquaintance, seated himself in the opposite corner.

How like Margery's voice the letter sounded, in that old hall at Lovell Tower!--so much so, that it seemed scarcely a stretch of fancy to expect her to glide down the stair which led from her chamber, where her child now lay sleeping. How well Richard could recall the scene when, six years before, she came softly down to receive from his hand the cherished and fatal volume!

Richard broke the seal, while Friar Andrew threw back his cowl, and Dame Lovell smoothed her ap.r.o.n, and bent forward to listen.

"Mine Own Dear Mother,--In as humble and lowly manner as I may, I commend myself unto you, praying you of your daily blessing.

"Whereas I hear that Richard Pynson hath been here in London on Saint Luke's Day last, and hath borne back Geoffrey with him, at the which news I am truly glad, I trow that you have heard of my close prison in the Tower, whence I now write. I pray you therefore, good mother, not to lay this overmuch to heart, neither to grieve for me; for I certify unto you that never was I so happy and blessed as now I am, when over the dark water, which is death, I can see a glimpse of the Happy City.

Neither, good mother, be downcast, I beseech you, when you shall hear that on Sunday, the eve of Saint Anselm, I am to die. I pray you, dear mother, if you knew that on Sunday I should be advanced to some high place in the Court, would you sorrow? Yea, would you not rejoice greatly therefor? Wherefore I entreat you, sorrow not now, but rejoice rather, for I am to be taken up into an high place, yea, pa.s.sing high-- even the Court of Christ Himself, whence also none of those changes and evils can cast me down again, which are ever coming upon them who live in this world.

"Moreover, good mother, I do you to wit that this is Christ's truth for the which I suffer, and that Christ Himself is with me. Yea, I think on Christ as He that is standing on the other side of the fire; and shall I not then make haste through the same that I may come at Him?

"Likewise I do beseech you, mine own dear mother, grieve not when you think that I have had but little joy or gladness in this my short life.

If divers children be playing in a garden, and the serving-man do come and fetch away some afore others, that they may see their elders, and may have brave gifts the which be ready for them at home, fall they a-weeping, think you, because they must lose an hour of play? Nay, truly not, if their hearts be set on the brave gifts afore them. So, good mother, though you have pa.s.sed in this weary and evil life nigh sixty years, and I only twenty-three, count it, I beseech you, but an hour more or less of child's playing, which will surely be made up to us when we go home, and receive the brave gifts which our Father hath for us in His storehouse. And if I have not known joy as much as some, I have the less for to leave behind me in the case wherein I now am. For you know, good mother, that at the first I was wedded against mine own will and liking; and though I may and must say unto you for my Lord my husband, that in this evil case he hath been more gentler unto me than ever afore, and hath drawn mine heart much closer unto him, yet nathless I may say also that an' I had been with mine own will wedded, I trow that I had had far more for to leave for Christ, and had found far more hardship in the doing of it. For G.o.d doeth all His work well; and He wist surely what He did when my dear father--whose soul G.o.d rest!--was let wed me thus.

"Behold now, most dear mother, how I have taken from you all cause of your lamentation, and have left you nothing but to rejoice for me!

Wherefore rejoice for me, for at this time a sennight hence, I shall be singing with the angels of G.o.d. I trow that one look at Christ Jesu will pay me all mine account in the small matter I have suffered for Him. I trow that if He but smile, and say, 'Thou art welcome, dear child, for I have loved thee,' I shall count the fires of this world but light gear then. Will you sorrow that I am in good case? Will you grieve because I am blessed? Will you count you have lost your child, when she is singing in the great glory? Nay, good mother, I wis I have well said in praying you to rejoice rather.

"And, dear mother, I beseech you that you bring up mine own dear child in the same. I would have him, if I may, as dear unto Christ as I am, and as ready to leave all for Christ His sake, as I, his mother, have done. I say not this, G.o.d witteth, to magnify my poor deeds, the which I know well be vile enough and want as much and great washing in Christ His blood, as the worst sin that ever I did,--but, good mother, teach my boy of Christ! Count it not anything that he leaveth for Him. Yea, forsooth, rather would I a thousandfold that he should live on a dry crust for Christ, than that he should have many brave dishes and rich fare without Him. To this end I beseech you, most dear mother, that you will have the child learned for to read, and will get that he may read G.o.d's Word, which hath shown me how dear and gracious is Christ Jesus.

I pray you spare no pains ne goods for to do this.

"Dear mother, I have prayed my Lord my husband that, if she will, Alice Jordan shall have the care of Geoffrey. She hath been a good and true serving-woman unto me, and she witteth how I would have him ordered. I pray you, therefore, if she come unto you, that you would put her about him. Likewise commend me, I beseech you, unto mine ancient friends and fellows, and all the meynie, and bid them learn for to love Christ Jesu, and we shall then meet shortly again. Specially I would desire mine humble service unto dear Father Andrew, and I do beg him for my sake to read for himself the blessed book which hath been my comfort.

"And to end,--for I will weary you no longer, dear friend Richard Pynson, with reading of mine evil hand, and I give you G.o.d's blessing and mine for the kindness you have done unto me, and pray you not to forget the last words which I said unto you with my voice, but to keep fast hold of Christ, till you know and love Him better than any friend in this evil world,--so to end, dear mother, I beseech you that you would forgive me all wherein I have been an ill daughter unto you, and all things wherein at any time I have troubled you. Good mother, I am happy. I am looking out of the night to see the day-dawn breaking.

Come Sunday, I shall be in heaven. Come Sunday, by G.o.d's mercy--not by mine own good, which G.o.d witteth is but evil--I shall stand with the angels before Christ His throne. Haste, haste, dear good day that shall deliver me! And G.o.d give you to know Christ, and send us a happy meeting in that His blessed habitation, unto the great gladding of your most loving and dutiful daughter, Margery Marnell.

"Written this second of March, from the gate of the _Urbs Beata_."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

EASTWARD HO!

"Whether he go to East or West, With Christ he always is at home."

Newton.

For a few minutes after Richard finished reading the letter, there was silence, unbroken save by the sound of weeping, in the old hall. Friar Andrew cried like a child. Dame Lovell, too, wept profusely, especially at the pa.s.sage in which Margery begged her forgiveness, and sobbed forth that she had nothing to forgive her. Richard had hard work to read. He heard her voice in every line, and when he came to the one sentence addressed to himself, he very nearly broke down altogether. After that long pause, Richard, who had been sitting with his head buried in his hands, looked up and spoke.

"Mistress, you mind that I did promise you not to go hence save with your good will?"

"Well, Richard?"

"May I have the same, good mistress, for a season?"

"Where wouldst go, lad? Dost want to see thy father? I meant not to let thee from going home at times, so thou leave me not wholly." [Let means hinder. The modern signification of this word is exactly the opposite of its original meaning.]