Margery pa.s.sed 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 suffered no change.

"A fine, clear scribe hath written this," remarked he, politely. "The Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your keeping 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 so said, 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, and therefore knew not the book."

"Certes," said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed at 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 small portion of its extraordinary softness.

"Nay."

"Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?"

Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very dangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he, too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning Lord Marnell? Margery's breath came short and fast, and she trembled exceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the book, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw the blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of it.

"Well, well," said he, courteously, "we will not go further into that question at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book containeth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you the same? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You are very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church can tell you, an' you be meek and humble in receiving of their teaching."

He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He was quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and even pa.s.sionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared he got in Margery's answer.

"I wis well, reverend father," she said, very quietly, "to the full as well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I be. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith He not, '_If ony man wole do His wille_, _he schall knowe of the techinge_'? [John vii. 17.] Saith He not again, '_Seke ye Scripturis_'?

[John v. 39.] I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Unto fathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving--very heathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, '_He that dispisith 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_'? [John xii. 48.] I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall judge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of His Word lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this book containeth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Son of G.o.d teach evil? Doth G.o.d evil? Will G.o.d deceive them that ask Him truth? 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. He looked silently at Lord Marnell.

"I pray you see now, reverend father," said Lord Marnell, angrily, "how the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl's talk! Is it a small evil, 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 reverend father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there is small doubt as to who shall be the winner."

The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm and pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and he could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or pa.s.sionately, he might have commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so decided--so gentle, but so uncompromising--puzzled him extremely. He only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great strength lay.

"My Lord Marnell," he said, in a perplexed tone, "I would speak with you. Good lady, will you give us leave?"

Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took the book with her, and n.o.body 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 I before, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thing is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not, _then_--"

The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.

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 were hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in traveller's dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at the 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 singing reached him--an air which he instantly recognised as "The Palmer's hymn," sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words of 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 or trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery Lovell. 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, if he may, of the Lady Marnell."

As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the gate. "Enter, friend." The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the house, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelled with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested him to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoining chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, "Mistress Alice! Mistress Alice!"

A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the familiar voice of Alice Jordan.

"Hush! good Christopher," said she, in a low tone; "the boy sleepeth at last--wake him not. What wouldst?"

"There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech of my Lady."

On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber where Richard sat.

"Ah! Master Pynson!" she said, "is it you! My Lady will be right fain to see you--but you come at an evil hour."

"How so?" asked Richard, quickly.