FATHER AND SON.
IT is possible that if Miles had been able to go to his brother's
funeral feast, and take his part in the business and bustle he was
sent for to undertake, the changes that he had noticed in the village,
and heard of since, would not have made so deep an impression upon
his mind. But, as it was, he could only lie in bed for some weeks and
think over all he had heard and seen, varied with reading his precious
Greek Testament, until at last he began to make comparison between
the teaching of Christ in its pages and the practice of the world as
exhibited by his father in the disposal of the land.
There was no opportunity to discuss this with his father, and Margery
was the first to whom he had unburdened his mind upon the subject, but,
now it had once been spoken of, he longed to talk to his father about
the matter, and a few days after he had his talk with his sister the
opportunity occurred.
His father came, to his room one morning to pay his customary visit,
but instead of leaving him a few minutes afterwards, he said, "I want a
talk with you, Miles, for John's death has put some of my business into
confusion, and as you are my only son now you must do what you can to
help me."
"Thank you; I shall be glad enough to help you, for time passes slowly
here, so if you can give me some scrivener's work to do I will be
careful to follow all your commands," said Miles.
His father smiled. "I have not much scrivener's work for you, it is but
to write your name a few times. Perhaps you have not heard of the usage
among the Patons in the matter of the land, but it is necessary if any
changes are to be made in the letting and leasing that not only the
landlord himself, but his heir, be he son, or brother, or nephew, shall
conjoin with him in all such signing. Now you may have heard that we
can make a good deal more by the land now than letting it at a low rent
to a few yeomen to grow wheat and rye and oats."
"Did they fail to pay the rent when it fell due?" asked Miles, with a
tremble in his voice, for he had never heard of this custom before, but
he began to see that he would not be so powerless as he thought.
"Oh, yes, the knaves paid well enough," said his father, carelessly,
"but the rent was small, and I began to see that they got far more
profit out of the land than I did. They managed to bring up sons and
daughters, feeding them well while they lived at home, and giving them
as much as five pounds when they married."
"But—but was this more than fair?" asked Miles.
His father fidgetted on his stool. "It is not needful to talk about
that. I am only doing what other landlords have done. I told Rankin
that I must double his rent or turn the land into a sheep farm."
"But was there nothing less than doubling the rent, father? That—"
"Now, Miles, you are a scholar, and know all about Greek and Latin
Testaments I daresay," interrupted his father, "but they have nothing
to do with English land, and you cannot be expected to understand it
either, and I don't ask you to trouble your wits about the matter. You
enjoy yourself as much as you can while you are at home, and if you
like to go back to Oxford for another year you shall do so, but if you
like to take poor Jack's place at once, why, you have the right to it,
and there will be plenty of hunting and hawking by-and-bye."
"Thank you, father, but we were talking about the land, and you seemed
to think that my Greek New Testament could have nothing to say about
such a matter as English land. But we have in this new book not a set
of dogmas, but the very teaching of Christ Himself, and He says that
we should do to others as we would they should do to us if we were in
their place. Now, father, if we were yeomen like the Rankins and the
Clarks, who have been turned off the land, do you think we should like
such treatment?"
Sir Thomas sat and gazed at his son with parted lips and widely opened
eyes, as though he thought he was crazed. "Is—is this the new learning
I have heard you talk about?" he managed to say at last, in a sneering
tone.
"It is the new light God bath given to the world through the New
Testament of Erasmus," said Miles, firmly.
"Then it will turn the world upside down, and must be resisted at all
costs," said his father. "We owners of English land know nothing about
this foreigner and his books, so you need not tell me anything about
them."
"Father, father, but you call yourself a Christian man," said Miles, in
a tone of protest.
"To be sure I am a good Christian. See what it hath cost me for candles
for poor Jack's funeral; why—"
"But buying candles for Jack's funeral is altogether another matter,"
said Miles, quickly. "The Lady Audrey and her family would probably
require that that should be done."
But Miles found that the Lady Audrey and her family were a disagreeable
topic to his father just now, for he fumed, and fretted, and swore a
good many oaths before he grew calm again, and then it was to say,
"I have promised to pay a hundred pounds to the holy Fathers at the
monastery to say Masses for him. What more would you have? If I am not
a Christian man I should like to see one."
"My father, people in olden time were called Christians because they
tried to follow the example of the Christ and live as He taught them
they should, and the first commandment he gave them was to love, or
do to, their neighbour as they would have the neighbour do to them if
they could exchange places. This is to be a Christian man, and I have
resolved to make this the rule of my life."
"Then I shall have to build an iron cage for you as they do for
madmen," said his father, with a mocking smile, and yet there was a
threatening look in his eye that made Miles recall the horror he had
once seen, of a madman confined in such a cage in an outhouse on his
own estate. It was the ordinary treatment dealt out to maniacs in that
age, and it warned him to be careful how he acted just now, for, above
all things, he must be able to prove that he was perfectly sane, and
no madman, if he was to do anything to help those who had always been
dependents of the Paton family.
So after a pause he said, quite calmly, "I think you will find I am no
madman, father, but—"
"Tut, tut, lad, I want no further talk on these matters; the scrivener
will be here anon, and then I shall require you to affix your name
to some parchments concerning matters that were to have been settled
before John died."
"May I see these writings, and know what they are?" asked Miles.
Sir Thomas drew himself up, and looked angrily at the lad. "Am I to be
dictated to by you?" he demanded.
"Nay, nay, father, but as you said the custom of the Patons was to make
the heir responsible—"
"I take that responsibility," interrupted his father, loftily, "you do
my bidding, I will see to the rest."
"Nay, but I cannot in this matter, father; since the law of this
estate requires that I assent to what is done before it can be legally
performed I must know whereof I—I am called upon to assent."
His father swore a good many oaths over this, but as Miles was rather
singular in having given up this custom of the day, it did not hurt
or surprise him much, though he hoped the matter might be settled
amicably; but he began to fear that his refusal to sign parchments that
would drive the tenants from their holdings would bring trouble upon
him, and so he waited with some anxiety the coming of the scrivener
from the monastery, for one of the monks drew up all the legal
documents that were required in the management of the estate.
He did not see his father again that day, but his mother had evidently
been told something of what had passed, for she was tearfully tender
over him when he went down to her room the next morning. "Miles, I hope
you will remember how much sorrow and trouble we have had of late," she
said, plaintively.
Miles took her hand, and bowed his head as he raised it to his lips
with all due reverence, not venturing to sit down in her presence until
she bade him. But when he had seated himself upon the stool to which
she pointed, he said, "My mother, I am sorely grieved for you and my
father, and the more so that I can do so little to spare you."
"Yes, it bath fallen out sorely awry that you should be hurt at this
time, and perchance some of those witless knaves may have had a hand in
it."
"No, no, it was a fellow-student who struck me down," said Miles,
quickly.
His mother waved her hand in deprecation of the interruption.
"It is not seemly to speak thus to me," she said. "Hear what I have
to say. There is talk of witchcraft being at work, for it is passing
strange that you and my poor John should both be struck down. But I
shall pay little heed to such talk if you prove to us that you are not
bewitched."
"How can I prove this, my mother?" asked Miles, seeing she waited for
him to answer.
"How? By acting as an obedient son should to a loving father and
mother. You know what I mean, Miles; John's signature would have been
affixed to these parchments if he had lived a day longer. It was only
the illness of Father Ralph that delayed their being signed a month
before, and therefore I desire that you shall do without question what
your brother would have done gladly."
"Will you tell me what these parchments are, and all about them?"
But the lady was saved from doing this by the announcement that Father
Ralph had come, and was waiting to see Sir Thomas.
"Send him in here," said Lady Paton, and at the same moment she rose
and went out of the room.
Miles bowed to the holy father as he took his seat at the table.
"My lady has bidden me read these parchments to you," said the monk,
with scant ceremony, and the next minute he began mumbling over the
legal phrases of a lease. But before he had read far Miles said,—
"Who is this Giles Morpeth who is to have three farms, and expel the
present holders on so short a notice?"
"A citizen of London, I believe, who bath a mind to make money in wool.
Is there aught to be said against that?"
"Yea, indeed! a good deal," said Miles, with a flash of anger, for
the monk spoke in a sneering tone which he would not have used to his
brother John. "In the first place these yeomen, who are to be driven
forth, have done naught to deserve such treatment at our hands. They
have dwelt on the land as long as we have, and wherefore should they be
driven to the trade of thieves and beggars?"
"Is not the land your father's, and may he not do as he will with his
own?"
"Nay, but it is not wholly his own, or the law would not give me a
share in its disposal; and wherefore should I strip myself of my right
to the disposal of the land for forty years, and give it to a stranger?
Nay, I will have no hand in such robbery," said Miles.
This aspect of the case had not struck him before, but he saw at once
that he was much more likely to be able to help the tenants if he
made common cause with them. And, indeed, as he spoke, the look on
the monk's face changed, and he said, "I thought it was this accursed
Erasmus and his New Testament that made you unwilling to obey the
command of Sir Thomas."
"Then my father hath told you of my objection to expel these poor
people?"
"Nay, he told me you had gone mad over this new learning that
threatened to turn the world upside down."
"Well, I am not so mad as to affix my name to that which will deprive
me of all power over my own land for forty years. My father is an old
man now, and worn with his service in the King's wars, and that he is
not likely to live many years longer. Why then should he want me to do
this thing?"
"Because he would fain see you a wealthy man. It was your brother's
desire above all things, and this knight of the shambles—this London
butcher—offered him a goodly rent for the land."
"I would not part with the land if the King himself offered me double
what this butcher is offering," said Miles. "Not a rood shall be cut
off from the rest with my assent," concluded Miles.
The monk sighed. "Wilt tell me what it is about, this New Testament
side of the question?" he said, in a wheedling tone.
"Aye, and you can read it in your own Scriptorium, I doubt not,—'Thou
shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.' Hast heard this before?"
"Yes, but this command is for the Church, that thou shalt not rob her
of her dues, or be chary of help to her servants,—holy brethren like
myself and brethren of the monastery."
Miles shook his head, but his father's words about the iron cage had
warned him to be cautious what he said, and so, pointing to the roll of
parchments, he asked, "Did these dispose of all the land but what my
father holds for the pasture of sheep?"
"Yea; it is less trouble and expense to use the land so," said the monk.
"And where are we to buy corn if none is grown on our own English land?"
[Illustration: As he spoke, the monk watched Miles closely.]
"I have nought to do with that, nor have you, Master Miles. It is your
duty to obey your father, and not consider questions of State,—how the
nation is to be fed."
"Nay, but I may consider how I am myself to be fed by-and-bye, I trow.
Of what use is a goodly store of wool if there is no corn to make
bread?"
"Corn can be bought in the Low Countries, whither we send our wool; but
that is not the question we have to consider, but the signing these
parchments for Master Morpeth, who is in haste to take possession."
"I have told you what I think of the matter: that I will not sell my
birthright for a sack of wool or gold either. It will be mine own
inheritance in a few years' time, and I may then sorely sorrow over it
if I should give mine inheritance to a stranger now."
"And is this the answer I am to take to Sir Thomas?" asked the monk.
"Nay, I will talk with my father over the matter, but I shall not alter
my present will about it."
"Nay, Sir Thomas will not talk again with thee upon this matter, but he
bade me warn you that he should go to Diccon, the blacksmith, without
delay," and as he spoke the monk watched Miles closely, to see what
effect this threat had upon him.
Try as he would the lad could not keep the look of horror out of his
eyes, or his cheeks from paling as he sat and looked at the rolls of
parchment, which the monk deliberately put up while he watched the
effect of his words upon the lad.
The result seemed to satisfy him, for, with a low chuckle, he said, as
he bade Miles good morning, "You will sign these to-morrow."
Miles made no reply to this, but as soon as the monk had left the
house, and he saw him striding back to the monastery, he went up to his
sister's room—not to trouble her with what had passed—but to have one
more talk with her, for when the monk said, "You will send for me again
to-morrow," he resolved to go back to Oxford while he was able to do
so, for he feared his father might carry out his threat in his anger
and disappointment at his refusal to sign the parchments.
Fortunately he had a good sum of money that his father had given him
the day before, and so he went to his sister's room first, and then
to the stable to tell his servant to have the horses ready in a few
minutes, as he intended to ride to the town of Woodstock.
He made no secret of this intention, and, meeting his mother, he told
her of it, and bade her good-bye with all the affectionate deference
she would permit.
As he rode through the park he looked back at his sister's window,
and waved his hand to her in token of farewell, and then bade his
servant ride on with all speed possible, as he hoped to reach Oxford by
nightfall.
"Oxford?" queried the servant in a tone of amazement.
"Aye; did'st ever hear of mad Sir Philip Warren and his cage?" said
Miles.
"Aye, I have, master," said the young fellow, with a shudder.
"Well, Oxford must save me from that fate. My father will have it that
I am mad over some matters in which we cannot agree, and so I must
leave home until his anger cools or his purpose changes, for I know not
but they might drive me mad, and then put me in such a cage."
"And is that the business Diccon the blacksmith was to see about in
such haste, Master Miles?"
"Then my father hath seen Diccon?" said the lad.
"Aye, he went to the forge while the monk was at the Hall," said the
servant, and then both of them urged their horses into a canter, fur
they must push on with all speed possible that the shelter of the
college might be reached with as little delay as possible.