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 morningrose on Lovell Tower. Dame Lovell was busy in the kitchen, as she waswhen we first saw her, and so were Mistress Katherine and thehandmaidens; but Dame Lovell now wore the white weeds of widowhood, andher face was thinner and much graver. Richard Pynson on his return fromLondon, had brought her the terrible news of Margery's death; and DameLovell, in the midst of her sorrow, which was very deep, had solemnlyaffirmed that no power on earth should ever induce her to pardon herson-in-law for the part which he had taken in the matter.
Richard Pynson, long before this, had mooted the question of his returnto his father, but Dame Lovell would not hear of it. He reminded hersmilingly that _she_ needed no squire; but she came and put both herhands 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 ason. I am an old lone woman, and shall not keep thee long; and I haveloved thee as if I had been thine own mother. Promise me, mine own dearlad, that thou wilt not go hence while I live."
Richard looked up with the tears in his eyes, and told her, as he kissedher hand, that it was no wish of his to depart, and that he would not doso without her full consent.
"That shalt thou have never!" was the answer. So Richard remained atLovell Tower. On the morning of which I speak, little Geoffrey, who wasvery fond of Richard, and was petted by him perhaps rather more than wasgood 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 carryhim. A few minutes afterwards, Cicely came into the kitchen from thehall, and announced to her mistress that a strange gentleman wished tosee her. Dame Lovell took off her apron, and rinsed her hands in water.
"See thou to the marchpane, Kat," remarked she to Mistress Katherine, asshe went to receive her guest.
It was no wonder that Cicely had not known him, for some seconds elapsedbefore Dame Lovell herself could recognise Lord Marnell. Six years hadpassed since they met at his marriage to Margery, but he looked at leasttwenty years older. His figure was still upright, though much thinner,but the very form of his features seemed changed, and his rich auburnhair was now white as drifted snow. His manner, which had been bluntand almost boisterous, was remarkably quiet. When he saw that DameLovell 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 changedart thou!"
"I wis that well," he answered. "Where is Geoffrey?"
"I trow he be in the garden with Richard," replied Dame Lovell. "I willbid him hither."
Little Geoffrey, holding Richard's hand, as if he would not part withhim 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 seenfor some months, until Lord Marnell's well-known voice assured him ofhis identity. He rather shrank from him, as usual; but when LordMarnell contrary to his custom, lifted him up and kissed him, he seemeda little reassured, and sat on his father's knee, staring at himintently. Lord Marnell gave a cordial greeting to Richard, and then,observing how earnestly his little son's eyes were fixed upon him, askedhim at what he was looking.
"What have you done with your hair?" was Master Geoffrey's puzzledanswer.
Lord Marnell laughed, and told the child that everybody's hair turnedwhite 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 revengefuldetermination. She was naturally a very easy-tempered woman, and theevident 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 youwherefore I came hither. Firstly, it was to give you a letter fromMadge, which she wrote in the Tower unto you." And Lord Marnell,passing his hand into his breast, pulled out a small square packet, tiedwith blue silk, and sealed with yellow wax. It was directed--
"_To the hands of my singular good lady and most dear mother, Dame AgnesLovell, at Lovell Tower, be these delivered with speed_."
Dame Lovell kissed the letter, and placed it in her own bosom. Shecould not read a word of it, but it was enough that it came fromMargery.
"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 shalldo."
"That will I, right heartily," said Dame Lovell, in a tone as cordial asher words.
"Moreover, an' it stand with your pleasure, I would pray you for to takeback Alice Jordan, as you will find in yon letter that Madge did desireher 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 sheshall be next in mine house unto Mistress Katherine, and shall eat atthe high table."
Lord Marnell thanked her sincerely for her readiness to comply with hiswishes. He said that Alice should come down to Lovell Tower as soon asshe could conveniently set out, and old Christopher, as the most trustyof his household, should escort her. There was silence for a shorttime, and then, with a kind of shadow of a smile, Lord Marnell saidsuddenly--
"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 meif I tell you that no sorrow worser than this can ever befall me, andthat had I known what would come of my seeking of Abbot Bilson, I hadsooner cut off my right hand?"
"I do," said she.
"Madge knew it, poor damsel! and she said she forgave me in such manneras Christ did forgive herself. Will you do the like, mother?"
"With all mine heart and soul, good son!" cried Dame Lovell, every shredof her animosity vanished, and the tears fairly running down her cheeks.
"Don't cry, g'ammer!" exclaimed little Geoffrey, jumping off hisfather'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. Shewas a good deal surprised when Lord Marnell spoke of going away; but hesaid he had promised his cousin Sir Ralph that he would stay with himnext time he came into the neighbourhood; and he must return to Londonin a day or two. So he only remained to dinner, and departedimmediately afterwards, evoking from Geoffrey the significant remarkthat "he liked him a great deal better this time."
That evening, Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew sat down by the fire tolisten to that last letter. Her widow's dress, somewhat resembling thatof 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 suitwherein we made his acquaintance, seated himself in the opposite corner.How like Margery's voice the letter sounded, in that old hall at LovellTower!--so much so, that it seemed scarcely a stretch of fancy to expecther to glide down the stair which led from her chamber, where her childnow lay sleeping. How well Richard could recall the scene when, sixyears before, she came softly down to receive from his hand thecherished and fatal volume!
Richard broke the seal, while Friar Andrew threw back his cowl, and DameLovell smoothed her apron, and bent forward to listen.
"Mine Own Dear Mother,--In as humble and lowly manner as I may, Icommend myself unto you, praying you of your daily blessing.
"Whereas I hear that Richard Pynson hath been here in London on SaintLuke's Day last, and hath borne back Geoffrey with him, at the whichnews I am truly glad, I tr
ow that you have heard of my close prison inthe Tower, whence I now write. I pray you therefore, good mother, notto lay this overmuch to heart, neither to grieve for me; for I certifyunto you that never was I so happy and blessed as now I am, when overthe 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 hearthat on Sunday, the eve of Saint Anselm, I am to die. I pray you, dearmother, if you knew that on Sunday I should be advanced to some highplace in the Court, would you sorrow? Yea, would you not rejoicegreatly therefor? Wherefore I entreat you, sorrow not now, but rejoicerather, for I am to be taken up into an high place, yea, passing high--even the Court of Christ Himself, whence also none of those changes andevils can cast me down again, which are ever coming upon them who livein this world.
"Moreover, good mother, I do you to wit that this is Christ's truth forthe which I suffer, and that Christ Himself is with me. Yea, I think onChrist as He that is standing on the other side of the fire; and shall Inot then make haste through the same that I may come at Him?
"Likewise I do beseech you, mine own dear mother, grieve not when youthink 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 comeand fetch away some afore others, that they may see their elders, andmay have brave gifts the which be ready for them at home, fall theya-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 passed in this weary and evil life nighsixty years, and I only twenty-three, count it, I beseech you, but anhour more or less of child's playing, which will surely be made up to uswhen we go home, and receive the brave gifts which our Father hath forus in His storehouse. And if I have not known joy as much as some, Ihave the less for to leave behind me in the case wherein I now am. Foryou know, good mother, that at the first I was wedded against mine ownwill and liking; and though I may and must say unto you for my Lord myhusband, that in this evil case he hath been more gentler unto me thanever afore, and hath drawn mine heart much closer unto him, yet nathlessI may say also that an' I had been with mine own will wedded, I trowthat I had had far more for to leave for Christ, and had found far morehardship in the doing of it. For God doeth all His work well; and Hewist surely what He did when my dear father--whose soul God rest!--waslet wed me thus.
"Behold now, most dear mother, how I have taken from you all cause ofyour lamentation, and have left you nothing but to rejoice for me!Wherefore rejoice for me, for at this time a sennight hence, I shall besinging with the angels of God. I trow that one look at Christ Jesuwill pay me all mine account in the small matter I have suffered forHim. I trow that if He but smile, and say, `Thou art welcome, dearchild, for I have loved thee,' I shall count the fires of this world butlight gear then. Will you sorrow that I am in good case? Will yougrieve 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 havewell said in praying you to rejoice rather.
"And, dear mother, I beseech you that you bring up mine own dear childin 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, havedone. I say not this, God witteth, to magnify my poor deeds, the whichI know well be vile enough and want as much and great washing in ChristHis blood, as the worst sin that ever I did,--but, good mother, teach myboy of Christ! Count it not anything that he leaveth for Him. Yea,forsooth, rather would I a thousandfold that he should live on a drycrust for Christ, than that he should have many brave dishes and richfare without Him. To this end I beseech you, most dear mother, that youwill have the child learned for to read, and will get that he may readGod'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, AliceJordan shall have the care of Geoffrey. She hath been a good and trueserving-woman unto me, and she witteth how I would have him ordered. Ipray you, therefore, if she come unto you, that you would put her abouthim. Likewise commend me, I beseech you, unto mine ancient friends andfellows, and all the meynie, and bid them learn for to love Christ Jesu,and we shall then meet shortly again. Specially I would desire minehumble service unto dear Father Andrew, and I do beg him for my sake toread for himself the blessed book which hath been my comfort.
"And to end,--for I will weary you no longer, dear friend RichardPynson, with reading of mine evil hand, and I give you God's blessingand mine for the kindness you have done unto me, and pray you not toforget the last words which I said unto you with my voice, but to keepfast hold of Christ, till you know and love Him better than any friendin this evil world,--so to end, dear mother, I beseech you that youwould forgive me all wherein I have been an ill daughter unto you, andall things wherein at any time I have troubled you. Good mother, I amhappy. I am looking out of the night to see the day-dawn breaking.Come Sunday, I shall be in heaven. Come Sunday, by God's mercy--not bymine own good, which God witteth is but evil--I shall stand with theangels before Christ His throne. Haste, haste, dear good day that shalldeliver me! And God give you to know Christ, and send us a happymeeting in that His blessed habitation, unto the great gladding of yourmost loving and dutiful daughter, Margery Marnell.
"Written this second of March, from the gate of the _Urbs Beata_."