Mistress Margery Part 5

"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.s 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 pa.s.seth 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 mis...o...b.. 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 a.s.sail 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 G.o.d 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.