"Thou sayest well, Madge; but I trow thou art more angel presently than shall I be ever. I tell thee, Madge--for mayhap it will comfort thee to know it--thy dealings and sayings of late have caused me to think more on these things than ever did I afore. It seemeth but a small matter to thee, to go through the fire to the glory. I marvel an' it could be so unto me."

"Say not 'to the glory,' good husband, but to Christ. I would not have the glory and lack Christ. And for thee, I do rejoice and bless G.o.d heartily, if He will make my poor doings of any good service unto the welfare of thy soul. And believe me, that if thou art called unto my fiery ordeal, Christ will give thee grace and strength equal unto thy need. It is not much for them who love Christ, if they see Him stand beyond a little fire, to pluck up heart and go through the fire to Him.

O good husband, take these as my dying words, and teach them to the child for the same, 'Christ without everything is an hundredfold better than everything without Christ!'" Those last words were ringing in Lord Marnell's ears when, about eight o'clock in the morning, he stood on the steps of Marnell Place, looking towards the Tower, and fancying the mournful preparations which were going on there. Margery had thought it best that she should be alone for her fiery trial. As Lord Marnell stood there, lost in thought, he suddenly heard his own name spoken. He turned round, and saw two men before him, in travellers' attire. One of them was an old man, with venerable white head and beard; the other was much younger, and Lord Marnell recognised him at once.

"Master Pynson! I pray you what brings you here? Is the boy well?"

"He is well," answered Richard, in a low tone, "and Dame Lovell likewise. We came hither on matters pertaining to my friend who here standeth, and a terrible bruit hath reached us that the Lady Marnell will suffer this morrow."

"It is true," said Lord Marnell, sorrowfully.

"Can no help be found?" cried Richard, in an agony. "I would put my life for hers--yea, an hundred times twice told!"

"And I likewise," said her husband. "No--there is no help. The King will hear of no remittance."

"When is it?"

"At nine o' the clock. You will come into the house and eat?"

Richard declined. He had already secured a chamber at the "Blue Boar,"

and would not trouble his Lordship.

"Come, Master Carew," said he to his companion, "let us be on our way."

"Go ye for to see her?" inquired Lord Marnell.

"I will not lose sight of her," answered Richard, "until she be in the Paradise of G.o.d!"

Long before nine o'clock on the morning of that 6th of March, a large crowd was already gathered on Tower Hill. Some came there from a feeling of revenge--glad to see a Lollard burned. Among these was Archbishop Arundel. Some, from a feeling of deep pity for the poor young girl who was to be almost the proto-martyr of the new faith.

Among these were Pynson and Carew. The chief part of the concourse, however, shared neither of these feelings to any great degree, but came simply to see a sight, just as they would have gone to see a royal procession, or any other pageant.

As nine o'clock struck on the great bell of the Tower, the martyr appeared, led forth between the sheriff and Abbot Bilson. She was clothed in one long white garment, falling from her throat to her feet; and, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, her head, arms, and feet were bare. No fastening confined her golden hair, which streamed freely over her shoulders and fell around her. She walked slowly, but quite calmly. Arrived at the place of execution, the sheriff urged her to confess.

"I will confess," said Margery, "to Him who can alone absolve me." And lifting up her eyes, she said, "O Lord G.o.d, who art above all things, and hast given Thy Son to die for us sely and sinful men, I confess to Thee that I am a vile sinner, utterly unworthy of Thy grace and mercy.

That day by day, for twenty-three years, have I done what I ought not, and said what I ought not, and thought what I ought not. That all my life also have I left undone things the which I ought for to have done.

Wherefore, O Father, let it please Thee of Thy goodness to forgive me, and to look not on me, but on Thy Son Christ, in whose rightwise-ness I am rightwise, and who hath loved me as Thou hast loved also Him. O Lord G.o.d, turn not away the face of Thy servant, whose heart Thou hast moved to pray thus unto Thee!"

The Abbot and the sheriff were extremely annoyed, but they did not dare to silence her, for the mult.i.tude hung breathlessly on her words.

"There's none so much harm in _that_, any way!" said a woman who stood near Richard Pynson.

"Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?" asked the Abbot.

"To G.o.d I will and have done," answered Margery; "to man I will not."

There was a short pause, while the sheriff's men, under his direction, heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly.

Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long doc.u.ment, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read. After this, they pa.s.sed a chain round Margery's body, and fastened her to the stake. The sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.

"Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?" asked Margery of the Abbot.

"No, miserable reprobate!" said he, "thou hast spoken too much already!"

"I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!" was the martyr's answer.

The sheriff now applied the torch. Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to heaven. What means it? Does she feel no pain? How is it that, as the flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face?

And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the hall at Lovell Tower--

"_Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and G.o.dhead, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory_--"

But the voice fails there, and the "blessing" is spoken to the angels of G.o.d.

And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very like the voice of Richard Pynson--

"_I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not dye withouten eende_." [John xi. 25].

"The n.o.ble army of martyrs praise Thee," softly adds old Carew.

Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MARGERY'S LETTER.

"So that day there was dole in Astolat."

Tennyson.

The winter had just given place to spring, and a bright, fresh morning rose on Lovell Tower. Dame Lovell was busy in the kitchen, as she was when we first saw her, and so were Mistress Katherine and the handmaidens; but Dame Lovell now wore the white weeds of widowhood, and her face was thinner and much graver. Richard Pynson on his return from London, had brought her the terrible news of Margery's death; and Dame Lovell, in the midst of her sorrow, which was very deep, had solemnly affirmed that no power on earth should ever induce her to pardon her son-in-law for the part which he had taken in the matter.

Richard Pynson, long before this, had mooted the question of his return to his father, but Dame Lovell would not hear of it. He reminded her smilingly that _she_ needed no squire; but she came and put both her hands on his shoulders, and made him look her in the face.

"Thou sayest sooth, Richard, that I need no squire, but I trow I need a son. I am an old lone woman, and shall not keep thee long; and I have loved thee as if I had been thine own mother. Promise me, mine own dear lad, that thou wilt not go hence while I live."

Richard looked up with the tears in his eyes, and told her, as he kissed her hand, that it was no wish of his to depart, and that he would not do so without her full consent.

"That shalt thou have never!" was the answer. So Richard remained at Lovell Tower. On the morning of which I speak, little Geoffrey, who was very fond of Richard, and was petted by him perhaps rather more than was good for him, had suddenly espied him at the farther end of the garden, and instantly rushed after him as fast as his little legs would carry him. A few minutes afterwards, Cicely came into the kitchen from the hall, and announced to her mistress that a strange gentleman wished to see her. Dame Lovell took off her ap.r.o.n, and rinsed her hands in water.

"See thou to the marchpane, Kat," remarked she to Mistress Katherine, as she went to receive her guest.

It was no wonder that Cicely had not known him, for some seconds elapsed before Dame Lovell herself could recognise Lord Marnell. Six years had pa.s.sed since they met at his marriage to Margery, but he looked at least twenty years older. His figure was still upright, though much thinner, but the very form of his features seemed changed, and his rich auburn hair was now white as drifted snow. His manner, which had been blunt and almost boisterous, was remarkably quiet. When he saw that Dame Lovell did not recognise him, he said, with a smile--

"You know me not, fair mother?"

Dame Lovell's astonishment overcame her enmity for the moment.

"Troth, I knew thee not, good son! is it truly thou? Nay, how changed art thou!"

"I wis that well," he answered. "Where is Geoffrey?"