MASTER MORE
It was not until nearly a month later that Ralph made an opportunity to
call upon Sir Thomas More. Cromwell had given him to understand that
there was no immediate reason for haste; his own time was tolerably
occupied, and he thought it as well not to make a show of over-great
hurry. He wrote to Sir Thomas, explaining that he wished to see him on a
matter connected with his brother Christopher, and received a courteous
reply begging him to come to dinner on the following Thursday, the
octave of the Assumption, as Sir Thomas thought it proper to add.
* * * * *
It was a wonderfully pleasant house, Ralph thought, as his wherry came
up to the foot of the garden stairs that led down from the lawn to the
river. It stood well back in its own grounds, divided from the river by
a wall with a wicket gate in it. There was a little grove of trees on
either side of it; a flock of pigeons were wheeling about the
bell-turret that rose into the clear blue sky, and from which came a
stroke or two, announcing the approach of dinner-time as he went up the
steps.
There was a figure lying on its face in the shadow by the house, as
Ralph came up the path, and a small dog, that seemed to be trying to dig
the head out from the hands in which it was buried, ceased his
excavations and set up a shrill barking. The figure rolled over, and sat
up; the pleasant brown face was all creased with laughter; small pieces
of grass were clinging to the long hair, and Ralph, to his amazement,
recognised the ex-Lord Chancellor of England.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said More, rising and shaking himself. “I had
no idea--you take me at a disadvantage; it is scarcely dignified”--and
he stopped, smiling and holding out one hand, while he stretched the
other deprecatingly, to quiet that insistent barking.
Ralph had a sensation of mingled contempt and sympathy as he took his
hand.
“I had the honour of seeing you once before, Master More,” he said.
“Why, yes,” said More, “and I hope I cut a better figure last time, but
Anubis would take no refusal. But I am ashamed, and beg you will not
speak of it to Mrs. More. She is putting on a new coif in your honour.”
“I will be discreet,” said Ralph, smiling.
They went indoors almost immediately, when Sir Thomas had flicked the
grass sufficiently off his gown to escape detection, and straight
through to the hall where the table was laid, and three or four girls
were waiting.
“Your mother is not here yet, I see,” said Sir Thomas, when he had made
Ralph known to his daughters, and the young man had kissed them
deferentially, according to the proper etiquette--“I will tell you
somewhat--hush--” and he broke off again sharply as the door from the
stairs opened, and a stately lady, with a rather solemn and
uninteresting face, sailed in, her silk skirts rustling behind her, and
her fresh coif stiff and white on her head. A middle-aged man followed
her in, looking a little dejected, and made straight across to where the
ladies were standing with an eagerness that seemed to hint at a sense of
escape.
“Mrs. Alice,” said Sir Thomas, “this is Mr. Ralph Torridon, of whom you
have heard me speak. I was fortunate enough to welcome him on the lawn
just now.”
“I saw you, Mr. More,” said his wife with dignity, as she took Ralph’s
hand and said a word about the weather.
“Then I will confess,” said Sir Thomas, smiling genially round, “I
welcomed Mr. Torridon with the back of my head, and with Anubis biting
my ears.”
Ralph felt strangely drawn to this schoolboy kind of man, who romped
with dogs and lay on his stomach, and was so charmingly afraid of his
wife. His contempt began to melt as he looked at him and saw those wise
twinkling eyes, and strong humorous mouth, and remembered once more who
he was, and his reputation.
Sir Thomas said grace with great gravity and signed himself reverently
before he sat down. There was a little reading first of the Scriptures
and a commentary on it, and then as dinner went on Ralph began to attend
less and less to his hostess, who, indeed appeared wholly absorbed in
domestic details of the table and with whispering severely to the
servants behind her hand, and to listen and look towards the further end
where Sir Thomas sat in his tall chair, his flapped cap on his head, and
talked to his daughters on either side. Mr. Roper, the man who had come
in with Mrs. More, was sitting opposite Ralph, and seemed to be chiefly
occupied in listening too. A bright-looking tall girl, whom her father
had introduced by the name of Cecily, sat between Ralph and her father.
“Not at all,” cried Sir Thomas, in answer to something that Ralph did
not catch, “nothing of the kind! It was Juno that screamed. Argus would
not condescend to it. He was occupied in dancing before the bantams.”
Ralph lost one of the few remarks that Mrs. More addressed to him, in
wondering what this meant, and the conversation at the other end swept
round a corner while he was apologising. When he again caught the
current Sir Thomas was speaking of wherries.
“I would love to row a wherry,” he said. “The fellows do not know their
fortune; they might lead such sweet meditative lives; they do not, I am
well aware, for I have never heard such blasphemy as I have heard from
wherrymen. But what opportunities are theirs! If I were not your father,
my darling, I would be a wherryman. _Si cognovisses et tu quae ad pacem
tibi_! Mr. Torridon, would you not be a wherryman if you were not Mr.
Torridon?”
“I thought not this morning,” said Ralph, “as I came here. It seemed hot
rowing against the stream.”
“It is part of the day’s work,” said More. “When I was Chancellor I
loved nothing more than a hot summer’s day in Court, for I thought of my
cool garden where I should soon be walking. I must show you the New
Building after dinner, Mr. Torridon.”
Cecily and Margaret presently had a short encounter across the table on
some subject that Ralph did not catch, but he saw Margaret on the other
side flush up and bring her lips sharply together. Sir Thomas leapt into
the breach.
“_Unde leves animae tanto caluere furore?_” he cried, and glanced up at
Ralph to see if he understood the quotation, as the two girls dropped
their eyes ashamed.
“_Pugnavare pares, succubuere pares_,” said Ralph by a flash of
inspiration, and looking at the girls.
Sir Thomas’s eyes shone with pleasure.
“I did not know you were such a treasure, Mr. Torridon. Now, Master
Cromwell could not have done that.”
There fell a silence as that name was spoken, and all at the table eyed
Ralph.
“He was saying as much to me the other day,” went on Ralph, excited by
his success. “He told me you knew Horace too well.”
“And that my morals were corrupted by him,” went on More. “I know he
thinks that, but I had the honour of confuting him the other day with
regard to the flagon and gloves. Now, there is a subject for Martial,
Mr. Torridon. A corrupt statesman who has retired on his ill-gotten
gains disproves an accusation of bribery. Let us call him Atticus
‘Attice ... Attice’ ...--We might say that he put on the gloves lest his
forgers should be soiled while he drank from the flagon, or something of
the kind.”
Sir Thomas’s eyes beamed with delight as he talked. To make an apt
classical quotation was like wine to him, but to have it capped
appropriately was like drunkenness. Ralph blessed his stars that he had
been so lucky, for he was no great scholar, and he guessed he had won
his host’s confidence.
Dinner passed on quietly, and as they rose from table More came round
and took his guest by the arm.
“You must come with me and see my New Building,” he said, “you are
worthy of it, Mr. Torridon.”
He still held his arm affectionately as they walked out into the garden
behind the house, and as he discoursed on the joys of a country life.
“What more can I ask of God?” he said. “He has given me means and tastes
to correspond, and what man can say more. I see visions, and am able to
make them realities. I dream of a dovecote with a tiled roof, and
straightway build it; I picture a gallery and a chapel and a library
away from the clack of tongues, and behold there it is. The eye cannot
say to the hand, ‘I have no need of thee.’ To see and dream without the
power of performance is heart-breaking. To perform without the gift of
imagination is soul-slaying. The man is blessed that hath both eye and
hand, tastes and means alike.”
It was a very pleasant retreat that Sir Thomas More had built for
himself at the end of his garden, where he might retire when he wanted
solitude. There was a little entrance hall with a door at one corner
into the chapel, and a long low gallery running out from it, lined with
bookshelves on one side, and with an open space on the other lighted by
square windows looking into the garden. The polished boards were bare,
and there was a path marked on them by footsteps going from end to end.
“Here I walk,” said More, “and my friends look at me from those shelves,
ready to converse but never to interrupt. Shall we walk here, Mr.
Torridon, while you tell me your business?”
Ralph had, indeed, a touch of scrupulousness as he thought of his host’s
confidence, but he had learnt the habit of silencing impulses and of
only acting on plans deliberately formed; so he was soon laying bare his
anxiety about Chris, and his fear that he had been misled by the Holy
Maid.
“I am very willing, Mr. More,” he said, “that my brother should be a
monk if it is right, but I could not bear he should be so against God’s
leading. How am I to know whether the maid’s words are of God or no?”
Sir Thomas was silent a moment.
“But he had thoughts of it before, I suppose,” he said, “or he would not
have gone to her. In fact, you said so.”
Ralph acknowledged that this was so.
“--And for several years,” went on the other.
Again Ralph assented.
“And his tastes and habits are those of a monk, I suppose. He is long
at his prayers, given to silence, and of a tranquil spirit?”
“He is not always tranquil,” said Ralph. “He is impertinent sometimes.”
“Yes, yes; we all are that. I was very impertinent to you at dinner in
trying to catch you with Martial his epigram, though I shall not offend
again. But his humour may be generally tranquil in spite of it. Well, if
that is so, I do not see why you need trouble about the Holy Maid. He
would likely have been a monk without that. She only confirmed him.”
“But,” went on Ralph, fighting to get back to the point, “if I thought
she was trustworthy I should be the more happy.”
“There must always be doubtfulness,” said More, “in such matters. That
is why the novitiate is so severe; it is to show the young men the worst
at once. I do not think you need be unhappy about your brother.”
“And what is your view about the Holy Maid?” asked Ralph, suddenly
delivering his point.
More stopped in his walk, cocked his head a little on one side like a
clever dog, and looked at his companion with twinkling eyes.
“It is a delicate subject,” he said, and went on again.
“That is what puzzles me,” said Ralph. “Will you not tell me your
opinion, Mr. More?”
There was again a silence, and they reached the further end of the
gallery and turned again before Sir Thomas answered.
“If you had not answered me so briskly at dinner, Mr. Torridon, do you
know that I should have suspected you of coming to search me out. But
such a good head, I think, cannot be allied with a bad heart, and I
will tell you.”
Ralph felt a prick of triumph but none of remorse.
“I will tell you,” went on More, “and I am sure you will keep it
private. I think the Holy Maid is a good woman who has a maggot.”
Ralph’s spirits sank again. This was a very non-committing answer.
“I do not think her a knave as some do, but I think, to refer to what we
said just now, that she has a large and luminous eye, and no hand worth
mentioning. She sees many visions, but few facts. That tale about the
Host being borne by angels from Calais to my mind is nonsense. Almighty
God does not work miracles without reason, and there is none for that.
The blessed sacrament is the same at Dover as at Calais. And a woman who
can dream that can dream anything, for I am sure she did not invent it.
On other matters, therefore, she may be dreaming too, and that is why
once more I tell you that to my mind you can leave her out of your
thoughts with regard to your brother. She is neither prophetess nor
pythoness.”
This was very unsatisfactory, and Ralph strove to remedy it.
“And in the matter of the King’s death, Mr. More?” he said.
Again Sir Thomas stopped in his walk.
“Do you know, Mr. Torridon, I think we may leave that alone,” he said a
little abruptly. And Ralph sucked in his lip and bit it sharply at the
consciousness of his own folly.
“I hope your brother will be very happy,” went on the other after a
moment, “and I am sure he will be, if his call is from God, as I think
likely. I was with the Carthusians myself, you know, for four years,
and sometimes I think I should have stayed there. It is a blessed life.
I do not envy many folks, but I do those. To live in the daily
companionship of our blessed Lord and of his saints as those do, and to
know His secrets--_secreta Domini_--even the secrets of His Passion and
its ineffable joys of pain--that is a very fortunate lot, Mr. Torridon.
I sometimes think that as it was with Christ’s natural body so it is
with His mystical body: there be some members, His hands and feet and
side, through which the nails are thrust, though indeed there is not one
whole spot in His body--_inglorius erit inter viros aspectus ejus--nos
putavimus eum quasi leprosum_--but those parts of His body that are
especially pained are at once more honourable and more happy than those
that are not. And the monks are those happy members.”
He was speaking very solemnly, his voice a little tremulous, and his
kindly eyes were cast down, and Ralph watched him sidelong with a little
awe and pity mingled. He seemed so natural too, that Ralph thought that
he must have over-rated his own indiscretion.
A shadow fell across the door into the garden as they came near it, and
one of the girls appeared in the opening.
“Why, Meg,” cried her father, “what is it, my darling?”
“Beatrice has come, sir,” said the girl. “I thought you would wish to
know.”
More put out his arm and laid it round his daughter’s waist as she
turned with him.
“Come, Mr. Torridon,” he said, “if you have no more to say, let us go
and see Beatrice.”
There was a group on the lawn under one of the lime trees, two or three
girls and Mr. Roper, who all rose to their feet as the three came up.
More immediately sat down on the grass, putting his feet delicately
together before him.
“Will, fetch this gentleman a chair. It is not fit for Master
Cromwell’s friend to sit on the grass like you and me.”
Ralph threw himself down on the lawn instantly, entreating Mr. Roper not
to move.
“Well, well,” said Sir Thomas, “let be. Sit down too, Will, _et cubito
remanete presso_. Mr. Torridon understands that, I know, even if Master
Cromwell’s friend does not. Why, tillie-vallie, as Mrs. More says, I
have not said a word to Beatrice. Beatrice, this is Mr. Ralph Torridon,
and this, Mr. Torridon, is Beatrice. Her other name is Atherton, but to
me she is a feminine benediction, and nought else.”
Ralph rose swiftly and looked across at a tall slender girl that was
sitting contentedly on an outlying root of the lime tree, beside of Sir
Thomas, and who rose with him.
“Mr. More cannot let my name alone, Mr. Torridon,” she said tranquilly,
as she drew back after the salute. “He made a play upon it the other
day.”
“And have been ashamed of it ever since,” said More; “it was sacrilege
with such a name. Now, I am plain Thomas, and more besides. Why did you
send for me, Beatrice?”
“I have no defence,” said the girl, “save that I wanted to see you.”
“And that is the prettiest defence you could have made--if it does not
amount to corruption. Mr. Torridon, what is the repartee to that?”
“I need no advocate,” said the girl; “I can plead well enough.”
Ralph looked up at her again with a certain interest. She seemed on
marvellously good terms with the whole family, and had an air of being
entirely at her ease. She had her black eyes bent down on to a piece of
grass that she was twisting into a ring between her slender jewelled
fingers, and her white teeth were closed firmly on her lower lip as she
worked. Her long silk skirts lay out unregarded on the grass, and her
buckles gleamed beneath. Her voice was pleasant and rather deep, and
Ralph found himself wondering who she was, and why he had not seen her
before, for she evidently belonged to his class, and London was a small
place.
“I see you are making one more chain to bind me to you,” said More
presently, watching her.
She held it up.
“A ring only,” she said.
“Then it is not for me,” said More, “for I do not hold with Dr.
Melanchthon, nor yet Solomon in the matter of wives. Now, Mr. Torridon,
tell us all some secrets. Betray your master. We are all agog. Leave off
that ring, Beatrice, and attend.”
“I am listening,” said the girl as serenely as before, still intent on
her weaving.
“The King breakfasted this morning at eight of the clock,” said Ralph
gravely. “It is an undoubted fact, I had it on the highest authority.”
“This is excellent,” said Sir Thomas. “Let us all talk treason. I can
add to that. His Grace had a fall last night and lay senseless for
several hours.”
He spoke with such gravity that Ralph glanced up. At the same moment
Beatrice looked up from her work and their eyes met.
“He fell asleep,” added Sir Thomas.
* * * * *
It was very pleasant to lie there in the shadow of the lime that
afternoon, and listen to the mild fooling, and Ralph forgot his
manners, and almost his errand too, and never offered to move. The grass
began to turn golden as the sun slanted to the West, and the birds began
to stir after the heat of the day, and to chirp from tree to tree. A
hundred yards away the river twinkled in the sun, seen beyond the trees
and the house, and the voices of the boatmen came, softened by distance
and water, as they plied up and down the flowing highway. Once a barge
went past under the Battersea bank, with music playing in the stern, and
Ralph raised himself on his elbow to watch it as it went down the stream
with flags flying behind, and the rhythmical throb of the row-locks
sounding time to the dancing melody.
Ralph did his best to fall in with the humour of the day, and told a
good story or two in his slow voice--among them one of his mother
exercising her gift of impressive silence towards a tiresome chatterbox
of a man, with such effect that the conversationalist’s words died on
his lips, after the third or fourth pause made for applause and comment.
He told the story well, and Lady Torridon seemed to move among them, her
skirts dragging majestically on the grass, and her steady, sombre face
looking down on them all beneath half-closed languid eye-lids.
“He has never been near us again,” said Ralph, “but he never fails to
ask after my mother’s distressing illness when I meet him in town.”
He was a little astonished at himself as he talked, for he was not
accustomed to take such pains to please, but he was conscious that
though he looked round at the faces, and addressed himself to More, he
was really watching for the effect on the girl who sat behind. He was
aware of every movement that she made; he knew when she tossed the ring
on the little sleeping brown body of the dog that had barked at him
earlier in the day, and set to work upon another. She slipped that on
her finger when she had done, and turned her hand this way and that, her
fingers bent back, a ruby catching the light as she did so, looking at
the effect of the green circle against the whiteness. But he never
looked at her again, except once when she asked him some question, and
then he looked her straight in her black eyes as he answered.
A bell sounded out at last again from the tower, and startled him. He
got up quickly.
“I am ashamed,” he said smiling, “how dare I stay so long? It is your
kindness, Mr. More.”
“Nay, nay,” said Sir Thomas, rising too and stretching himself. “You
have helped us to lose another day in the pleasantest manner
possible--you must come again, Mr. Torridon.”
He walked down with Ralph to the garden steps, and stood by him talking,
while the wherry that had been hailed from the other side made its way
across.
“Beatrice is like one of my own daughters,” he said, “and I cannot give
her better praise than that. She is always here, and always as you saw
her to-day. I think she is one of the strongest spirits I know. What did
you think of her, Mr. Torridon?”
“She did not talk much,” said Ralph.
“She talks when she has aught to say,” went on More, “and otherwise is
silent. It is a good rule, sir; I would I observed it myself.”
“Who is she?” asked Ralph.
“She is the daughter of a friend I had, and she lives just now with my
wife’s sisters, Nan and Fan. She is often in town with one of them. I am
astonished you have not met her before.”
The wherry slid up to the steps and the man in his great boots slipped
over the side to steady it.
“Now is the time to begin your philosophy,” said More as Ralph stepped
in, “and a Socrates is ready. Talk it over, Mr. Torridon.”