When the meal was over they sat on the lawn, for the day was still hot; and some of them brought out their lutes and there was singing.
Giles Heron was very happy that night. He felt that, instead of coming to a strange household and perhaps a hostile one, he had come home.
He sat next to Cecily and listened to her sweet singing voice. He had already decided that by falling in love with and marrying Cecily he might please not only his father, but himself.
WHEN SIR John Heron, Treasurer of the King's Chamber, told his friend Sir John Dauncey, Knight of the Body to the King, that his son Giles was to marry one of the daughters of Sir Thomas More, Sir John Dauncey was reflective.
His thoughts turned to his son William, and he lost no time in seeking him out.
It was possible to talk frankly to William, for William was a most ambitious young man, and would not have to be told twice to seize any advantages which came his way.
“I hear Giles Heron is to marry one of Mores daughters,” he said to his son. “Master Heron has been quick. But there is still one daughter left.”
William nodded. He did not need to have the implication of those words explained. There was no need to point out the advantages of a match between himself and one of the daughters of so favored a man.
“I must call at the house in Chelsea,” he said.
His father smiled his approval. There was no need to say: “Do not make the reason for your call too obvious. More is a strange man, and his daughters will doubtless be equally strange. The matter must be tackled with some delicacy.”
William would know. He was ambitious enough to approach every advantageous situation with the utmost tact and delicacy.
THE SUMMER was passing. Among the trees in the orchard, Dorothy Colly, Margaret's maid, was playing with Margaret's young son Will. An apple, part of which had been destroyed by the wasps, fell suddenly to the grass, and the baby began to crawl toward it.
“Come away, my little man, come away,” said Dorothy. “Don't touch it, darling. Ugh!… Nasty!”
The baby crowed and Dorothy picked him up and cuddled him. He was very like his mother, and Dorothy loved his mother, who had treated her more like a friend than a servant, teaching her to read and write, giving her respect and affection.
“You're a lucky boy,” she said. “We're all lucky here in Chelsea.”
She thought of coming to the house—her life before, her life after.
As soon as she entered the house or the grounds a feeling of peace would steal over her. She knew this was due to the influence of the master, for to be in his presence was to be filled with a determination to live up to his high standards.
At this moment she could hear Lady More at the virginals, practicing in her labored way. Yet even such sounds were harmonious coming from this house, for to hear them was to remember that her ladyship, who had no great love of music, practiced the lute and the virginals so that when her husband came home she might show him what progress she had made. Even Lady More had been mellowed by the sweetness of her husbands nature.
It was true that when she stopped playing she would declare that she had done with wasting time for that day; and to reassure herself she would doubtless scold some defaulter in the kitchens; but the next day she would be practicing on the lute or the virginals.
Dorothy's heart began to beat faster, for, coming toward her, was Sir Thomas's secretary, John Harris.
John was an earnest young man, fully aware of the importance of his work. He sought to emulate his master in all ways, even adopting that habit of walking with his gown not properly set on the shoulders, and the left shoulder lifted a little higher than the right. Dorothy noticed this, and it made her smile become a little tender.
He was deep in thought and did not immediately see Dorothy.
She spoke first. “Good day to you, Master Harris.”
He smiled, pleasure transforming his face. “And a very good day to you,” he said, sitting down beside her and smiling at the baby.
“How big he grows!” said John.
“His sister is nearly as big as he is. So you are not at the Court today, Master Harris?”
“No. There is work to do at home.”
“Tell me, do they really think so highly of the master at Court?”
“Very highly indeed.”
Dorothy pulled up a handful of grass and frowned at it.
“You are not pleased that it should be so?” he asked.
“I was thinking that I would like to see all the girls as happily married as is Mistress Roper. She was married before the master became so important. Master Roper was here … they grew to know each other … and they eventually married. I was thinking that that is the best way in which to make a marriage.”
“You are thinking of William Dauncey?”
She nodded. “Mistress Elizabeth does not seem to understand. Of course, he is very handsome … and very charming to her … but there is a light in his eyes which, it would seem to me, is put there by his love of the advancement Sir Thomas More can provide, rather than for Sir Thomas's daughter.”
“Dorothy, you are a discerning woman.”
“I love them so much. I have been with them so long. Mistress Elizabeth is very clever with her lessons, but that is not being clever in the ways of the world. I wish that some quiet young gentleman like Master Roper would come here to study, and Mistress Elizabeth gradually get to know him. And I would like to see her take him instead of Master Dauncey.”
“You have served Mistress Roper for a long time, Dorothy. She has educated you and molded your thoughts, and you think that everything she does is always right. The baby is the perfect baby. Master Roper is the perfect husband. There are some who would say that Master William Dauncey is not such a bad match. His father has a high post at Court. What more could you want?”
“Love,” she said. “Disinterested love. Ah, I have said too much.”
“You need have no fear, Dorothy. But let me say this: When Mistress Roper married, her husband was caught fast in heresy. Heresy, Dorothy! Is that then more desirable than ambition?”
She was thoughtful. “His heresy,” she said, “grew out of his searching for die right, his determination to do what he considered best. Ambition—such as Dauncey has—is for self-glorification. There lies the difference.”
“Mistress Dorothy, you are wondrous learned.”
“My mistress has taught me to read; she has given me books. She has taught me to form my own opinions—that is all.”
Dorothy picked up the baby and held him against her. “Sometimes I wish that the master were not so well received at Court,” she said. “I would rather see him more often at home … with good people about him … like you, John Harris … than with the most handsome gallants of the Court.”
Then Dorothy left him and walked to the house.
How peaceful was this scene! she thought.
Now came the sound of someone playing the lute. It was too well played to be Lady More. Now she heard Cecily's and Elizabeth's voices, singing a ballad.
“Please God keep them happy,” prayed Dorothy. “Let us go on just like this … forever and ever … until we are called to our rest.”
There came the sound of other voices, singing with the girls— Giles Herons and William Dauncey's.
Dorothy shivered. The voices of the young men reminded her that life was continually changing.
Too many honors were being thrust upon the master, and honors brought envy; they brought the sycophants, the false friends, who were like wasps that fed on the lovely fruit until it was ruined and dropped from the branches.