"Why not?" cried More, with a beaming face, "I am merry enough. I would not be a monk; so G.o.d hath compelled me to be one, and treats me as one of His own spoilt children. He setteth me on His lap and dandleth me. I have never been so happy."
He told Ralph presently that his chief sorrow was that he could not go to ma.s.s or receive the sacraments. The Lieutenant, Sir Edward Walsingham, who had been his friend, had told him that he would very gladly have given him liberties of this kind, but that he dared not, for fear of the King"s displeasure.
"But I told him," said More, "not to trouble himself that I liked his cheer well enough as it was, and if ever I did not he was to put me out of his doors."
After a little more talk he showed Ralph what he was writing. It was a treatise called a "Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation."
"It is to persuade myself," he said, "that I am no more a prisoner than I was before; I know I am, but sometimes forget it. We are all G.o.d"s prisoners."
Ralph glanced down the page just written and was astonished at its good humour.
"Some prisoner of another gaol," he read, "singeth, danceth in his two fetters, and feareth not his feet for stumbling at a stone; while G.o.d"s prisoner, that hath but his one foot fettered by the gout, lieth groaning on a couch, and quaketh and crieth out if he fear there would fall on his foot no more than a cushion."
Ralph went straight up the river from the Tower to Chelsea to take them news of the prisoner, and was silent and moody as he went. He had been half touched and half enraged by More"s bearing--touched by his simplicity and cheerfulness and enraged by his confidence in a bad cause.
Mrs. Alice More behaved as usual when he got there: she had a genius for the obvious; commented on the weariness of living in one room, the distress at the thought that one was fastened in at the will of another; deplored the plainness of the prison fare, and the folly of her husband in refusing an oath that she herself and her children and the vast majority of the prominent persons in England had found so simple in accepting. She left nothing unsaid.
Finally, she apologized for the plainness of her dress.
"You must think me a slattern, Mr. Torridon, but I cannot help it. I have not the heart nor the means, now that my man is in prison, to do better."
And her solemn eyes filled with tears.
When he had given the news to the family he went aside from the group in the garden to where Beatrice Atherton was sitting below the Jesu tree, with work on her lap.
He had noticed as he talked that she was sitting there, and had raised his voice for her benefit. He fancied, and with a pleasure at the delicate instinct, that she did not wish to appear as intimately interested in the news from the Tower as those who had a better right to be. He was always detecting now faint shades in her character, as he knew her better, that charmed and delighted him.
She was doing some mending, and only glanced up and down again without ceasing or moving, as Ralph stood by her.
"I thought you never used the needle," he began in a moment.
"It is never too late to mend," she said, without the faintest movement.
Ralph felt again an odd p.r.i.c.k of happiness. It gave him a distinct thrill of delight that she would make such an answer and so swiftly; and at such a time, when tragedy was round her and in her heart, for he knew how much she loved the man from whom he had just come.
He sat down on the garden chair opposite, and watched her fingers and the movements of her wrist as she pa.s.sed the needle in and out, and neither spoke again till the others had dispersed.
"You heard all I said?" said Ralph at last.
She bowed her head without answering.
"Shall I go and bring you news again presently?"
"If you please," she said.
"I hope to be able to do some little things for him," went on Ralph, dropping his eyes, and he was conscious that she momentarily looked up.
--"But I am afraid there is not much. I shall speak for him to Master Cromwell and the Lieutenant."
The needle paused and then went on again.
Ralph was conscious of an extraordinary momentousness in every word that he said. He was well aware that this girl was not to be wooed by violence, but that he must insinuate his mind and sympathies delicately with hers, watching for every movement and ripple of thought. He had known ever since his talk with Margaret Roper that Beatrice was, as it were, turned towards him and scrutinising him, and that any mistake on his part, however slight, might finally alienate her. Even his gestures, the tones of his voice, his manner of walking, were important elements.
He knew now that he was the kind of person who might be acceptable to her--or rather that his personality contained one facet that pleased her, and that he must be careful now to keep that facet turned towards her continually at such an angle that she caught the flash. He had sufficient sense, not to act a part, for that, he knew, she would soon discover, but to be natural in his best way, and to use the fine instincts that he was aware of possessing to tell him exactly how she would wish him to express himself. It would be a long time yet, he recognised, before he could attain his final object; in fact he was not perfectly certain what he wanted; but meanwhile he availed himself of every possible opportunity to get nearer, and was content with his progress.
He was sorely tempted now to discuss Sir Thomas"s position and to describe his own, but he perceived from her own aloofness just now that it would seem a profanity, so he preserved silence instead, knowing that it would be eloquent to her. At last she spoke again, and there was a suggestion of a tremor in her voice.
"I suppose you can do nothing for him really? He must stay in the Tower?"
Ralph threw out his hands, silently, expostulating.
"Nothing?" she said again, bending over her work.
Ralph stood up, looking down at her, but made no answer.
"I--I would do anything," she said deliberately, "anything, I think, for the man--" and then broke off abruptly.
Ralph went away from Chelsea that afternoon with a whirling head and dancing heart. She had said no more than that, but he knew what she had meant, and knew, too that she would not have said as much to anyone to whom she was indifferent. Of course, it was hopeless to think of bringing about More"s release, but he could at least pretend to try, and Ralph was aware that to chivalrous souls a pathetic failure often appeals more than an excellent success.
Folks turned to look after him more than once as he strode home.
CHAPTER VIII
A HIGHER STEP
As Chris, on the eve of his profession, looked back over the year that had pa.s.sed since his reception at the guest-house, he scarcely knew whether it seemed like a week or a century. At times it appeared as if the old life in the world were a kind of far-away picture in which he saw himself as one detached from his present personality, moving among curious scenes in which now he had no part; at other times the familiar past rushed on him fiercely, deafened him with its appeal, and claimed him as its own. In such moods the monastery was an intolerable prison, the day"s round an empty heart-breaking formality in which his soul was being stifled, and even his habit, which he had once touched so reverently, the badge of a fool.
The life of the world at such times seemed to him the only sanity; these men used the powers that G.o.d had given them, were content with simple and unostentatious doings and interests, reached the higher vocation by their very naivete, and did not seek to fly on wings that were not meant to bear them. How sensible, Christopher told himself, was Ralph"s ideal!
G.o.d had made the world, so Ralph lived in it--a world in which great and small affairs were carried on, and in which he interested himself. G.o.d had made horses and hawks, had provided materials for carriages and fine clothes and cross-bows, had formed the s.e.xes and allowed for love and domestic matters, had created brains with their capacities of pa.s.sion and intellect; and so Ralph had taken these things as he found them, hunted, dressed, lived, managed and mixed with men. At times in his cell Chris saw that imposing figure in all its quiet bravery of dress, that sane, clever face, those pitying and contemptuous eyes looking at him, and heard the well-bred voice asking and commenting and wondering at the misguided zeal of a brother who could give all this up, and seek to live a life that was built on and sustained by illusions.
One event during his first six months of the novitiate helped to solemnise him and to clear the confusion.
Old Dom Augustine was taken sick and died, and Chris for the first time in his life watched the melting tragedy of death. The old monk had been moved from the dortor to the sick-room when the end seemed imminent, and one afternoon Chris noticed the little table set outside the door, with its candles and crucifix, the basin of cotton-wool, and the other signs that the last sacraments were to be administered. He knew little of the old man, except his bleared face and shaking hands as he had seen them in choir, and had never been greatly impressed by him; but it was another matter when in the evening of the same day, at his master"s order he pa.s.sed into the cell and knelt down with the others to see the end.
The old monk was lying now on the cross of ashes that had been spread on the floor; his features looked pinched and white in the candlelight; his old mouth moved incessantly, and opened now and again to gasp; but there was an august dignity on his face that Chris had never seen there before.
Outside the night was still and frosty; only now and again the heavy stroke of the bell told the town that a soul was pa.s.sing.
Dom Augustine had received Viatic.u.m an hour before. Chris had heard the steady tinkle of the bell, like the sound of Aaron"s garments, as the priest who had brought him Communion pa.s.sed back with his sacred burden, and Chris had fallen on his knees where he stood as he caught a glimpse of the white procession pa.s.sing back to the church, their frosty breath going up together in the winter night air, the wheeling shadows, and the glare of the torches giving a pleasant warm light in the dull cloister.
But all that was over now, and the end was at hand.