Mistress Margery | Page 6

the study of the
book. After the first glance which had made her acquainted with the
particulars above noticed, she opened the book at random near the
middle, and her eye fell on the following words:--
"Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it; ye bileuen in God, and bileeue
ye in me. In the hous of my Fadir ben manye dwellingis; if ony thinge

lasse, I hadde seid to you; for I go to make readi to you a place. And if
I go to make redy to you a place, eftsoone I come, and I schal take you
to my silf, that where I am, ye be." John xiv. 1-3.
Never before had Margery read words like these. "Be not your herte
afrayed!" Why, the one feeling which she was taught was more
acceptable to God than any other, was fear. "In the hous of my Fadir
ben manye dwellingis." Margery clasped her hands above her head, and
laid head and hands upon the open volume; and in the agony of her
earnestness she cried aloud, "O Lamb that was slain, hast thou not
made ready a dwelling for Margery Lovell!"
Margery read on, and the more she read the more she wondered. The
Church did not teach as this book did, and both could not be right.
Which, then, was wrong? How could the Church be wrong, which was
the depository of God's truth? And yet, how could the holy apostle be
wrong in reporting the words of Christ?
Many times over during that night did Margery's thoughts arrange
themselves in this manner. At one time she thought that nothing could
possibly supersede the infallibility of the Church; at another she saw
the complete impossibility of anything being able to stand for a
moment against the infallibility of God. The only conclusion at which
she could arrive was a determination to read the volume, and judge for
herself. She read on. "I am weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the
Fadir but by me." [John xiv. 6.] Were these words the words of Christ?
And what way had Margery been taught? Obedience to the Church,
humility, penances, alms-giving--works always, Christ never. Could
these be the right way? She went on, till the tears ran down her cheeks
like rain--till her heart throbbed and her soul glowed with feelings she
had never felt before--till the world, and life, and death, and things
present, all seemed to be nothing, and Christ alone seemed to be
everything. She read on, utterly oblivious of the flight of time, and
regardless that darkness had given place to light, until the fall of
something in the room below, and the voice of Dame Lovell calling for
Cicely, suddenly warned her that the house was astir. Margery sprang
up, her heart beating now for a different reason. She hurriedly closed

the book, and secreted it in a private cupboard, of which she alone had
the key, and where she generally kept her jewels, and any little trinkets
on which she set a special value. Margery's next act, I fear, was
indefensible; for it was to throw the cover and pillows of her bed into
confusion, that the maids might suppose it had been occupied as usual.
She then noiselessly unfastened the door, and proceeded with her
dressing, so that when, a few minutes after, Dame Lovell came panting
up the stairs, and lifted the latch, the only thing she noticed was
Margery standing before the mirror, and fastening up her hair with
what she called a pin, and what we should, I suspect, designate a
metallic skewer.
"What, Madge, not donned yet?" was Dame Lovell's greeting. "How
thou hast overslept thyself, girl! Dost know it is already five of the
clock, and thy father and I have been stirring above an hour?"
"Is it so late, of a truth?" asked Margery, in dismay. "I cry you mercy,
good mother!"
And Margery was thinking what excuse she could use by way of
apology, when Dame Lovell's next words set her at rest, as they showed
that the mind of that good lady was full of other thoughts than her
daughter's late rising.
"Grand doings, lass!" said she, as she sat down in the carved arm-chair.
"Grand doings, of a truth, Madge!"
"Where, good mistress mine?"
"Where?" said Dame Lovell, lifting her eyebrows. "Why, here, in
Lovell Tower. Where should they be else? Richard Pynson was so late
of returning from Marston that he saw not thy father until this morrow."
"I heard him come."
"Wert awake?"
"Yea. I was awake a long season!"

"Poor lass!" said her mother. "No marvel thou art late. But harken to
what I was about to tell thee. Sir Ralph Marston and his kinsman the
Lord Marnell, dine with us to-day."