And when he had written and dispatched this letter, he paced up and down his apartment, weeping and praying; and all the time longing for Anne, cursing the fate which kept them apart, promising himself how he would reward those who helped him to marry Anne, promising revenge on all those who continued to keep them apart.
In the Court the news spread: The Lady hath the sweat. This will doubtless impair her beauty, even though she should recover. Could she do so and be so charming when and if she returned to the Court?
Important events were being decided in a lady's bedchamber at Hever Castle.
GREAT SORROW had touched the house in Chelsea.
Margaret had been to the village, taking some garments to one of the families, and she had seemed quite well when she had returned to the house. She had sat with them at the supper table and had joined in the talk. Then, as she had risen, she had tottered suddenly and had been obliged to catch at the table to support herself.
“Margaret!” cried Mercy in terrible alarm.
“What is it?” demanded Alice.
“Let us get Margaret to bed at once,” said Mercy. “She is sick, I am afraid.”
“Margaret sick!” cried Alice. “Why, she was eating a hearty meal a moment ago!”
“Yes, Mother, I know. But don't hinder me now. Will! Jack! Father … help me.”
It was Will who carried her to her room. Now her eyes were tightly shut and the beads of sweat were beginning to form on her face; she was shivering, yet burning hot.
Thomas followed. He caught his daughter's limp hand.
“O Lord God,” he prayed silently. “Not Margaret…. That I could not endure.”
Will was beside himself with anxiety. “What shall we do, Mercy? Mercy, in God's name, what can we do?”
“Cover her up. Keep her warm. No; don't attempt to undress her. I will try the philosopher's egg. I have it ready. God be thanked.”
She lay on the bed, no longer looking like Margaret; her face was yellow and the sweat ran down her cheeks.
“Please,” begged Mercy, “everybody go. There is nothing you can do. Leave her with me. No, Will; you can do no good. Make sure that the children do not come into this room. Father… please … there is nothing … nothing you can do.”
Mercy's thoat constricted as she looked into his face.
How will he bear it? she asked herself. He loves her best in the world. She is his darling, as he is hers. How could either endure life without the other?
“Father … dearest Father … please go away. There is nothing … nothing to be done.”
But he stood numbly outside the door as though he had not heard.
Margaret ill of the sweat! Margaret… dying!
Elizabeth and Cecily had shut themselves in their rooms. There was nothing to be done; that was the pity of it. They said to each other that if only there was something they could have done it would have been easier to bear. But to sit… waiting … in such maddening inactivity…. It was all but unendurable.
Alice took refuge in scolding anyone who came near her. “The foolish girl… to go to the cottages at such a time. She should have known. And they tell us she is so clever…! And what is Mercy doing? Is she not supposed to be a doctor? Why does she not cure our Margaret?”
Will paced up and down. He could find no words. Margaret, his beloved wife, so calm, so serene; what would he do if he lost her? What would his life be without Margaret?
Giles Heron was all for riding to the Court; he would bring Dr. Linacre himself, he declared. What did it matter if Dr. Linacre was the King's first physician? Margaret was a member of that family, which was now his, and she was in danger. He must get the best doctors for her. He could bring Dr. Butts … and Dr. Clement. He would bring all the greatest doctors in the country.
Dauncey said: “You would find yourself in trouble, brother. You … from an afflicted house … to ride to Court!”
Dauncey was astonished that he could be so affected. What was Margaret to him? What could Margaret do to advance his fortunes? Nothing. He trembled, it was true, that her father might catch the disease and die, and that Dauncey's biggest hope of achieving favor at Court would be lost. Yet he was moved, and faintly astonished to find himself sharing in the family's anguish. He had grown fond of them; he had enjoyed their merry games; and, strange as it was, he knew that if any calamity came to them it could not fail to touch him. So there was a streak of sentiment in this most ambitious young man after all.
Thomas shut himself up in the private chapel.
What could he do to save Margaret? What could he do but pray? Now he thought of her—Margaret, the baby, the child, the prodigy who had astonished all with her aptitude for learning. He could think of a hundred Margaret's whom he loved, but the one who meant most to him was the loving daughter, the Margaret who was his dearest friend and best companion, who was nearer to him than anyone in the world.
“O God,” he prayed, “do not take my daughter from me. Anything … anything but that.”
He did not leave the chapel. He stayed there on his knees. The hair shirt lacerated his skin, and he wished its pain were doubled.
Will came to him and they prayed together.
“Ah, son Roper,” said Thomas, “what religious differences are there between us now? We ask one thing, and that we wish for more than anything in the world. She must not die.”
“I cannot contemplate life without her, Father,” said Will.
“Nor I, my son.”
“They say that if she does not recover during the first day there is no hope.”
“The day is not yet over. How was she when you left her?”
“Unconscious. She lies there with her eyes fast shut, oblivious of the world. I spoke her name. ‘Margaret,’ I said. ‘Margaret, come back to me and our children.’”
“Will, I beg of you, say no more. You unnerve me.”
He thought: I have loved her too well; I have loved her more than all the world. When she was born she gave me contentment; she was the meaning of life to me. She is the meaning of life. Have I loved her too well? Oh, how easy it is to torture the body, to wear the hair shirt, to flagellate the flesh, to deprive the body of its cravings. Those pains are easy to suffer; but how bear the loss of a loved one … how endure life when the one you love more than your own life, more than the whole world is taken from you?
“If… if aught should happen to her …” he began.
Now it was Will's turn to implore him not to go on. Will could only shake his head while the tears ran down his cheeks.
But Thomas continued: “I would retire from the world. Nothing could keep me leading this life. Oh, my son, I could not go on. If Margaret were taken from me, I would never meddle with wordly affairs hereafter.”
“Father, I implore you … I beg of you not to speak of it. Do not think of it. She will get well. She must get well. Let us pray. Let us pray together….”
So they knelt and prayed, and if Will saw God as Martin Luther saw him, and if Thomas saw God as the Pope saw Him, they each knew that their prayers were being offered to the same God.
Thomas rose suddenly. His spirits were lifted.
He said: “Will, when Margaret was a little girl—scarcely two years old—and we were visiting her mother's old home, New Hall in Kent, Margaret, playing in a field, was lost and could not find the gate through which she had come into the field and which opened onto the path which led to the house. She was frightened, for dusk was settling on the land. Frantically she ran about the field, and still she could not find the gate. Then suddenly she remembered that I had told her that when she was in trouble she must ask the help of her Father upon Earth or her Father in Heaven. ‘And, Father,’ she said when she told me this some time later, ‘I had lost you, so I knelt down and asked God the way home. And when I arose from my knees I was no longer frightened. I walked calmly round the field until I came to the gate.’ I had missed her, as it happened, and had gone to look for her, and as she came through the gate and ran toward me, she said: ‘Father, God showed me the way home.’ What a beautiful thought it is, Will. What a comfort. I have been on my knees now… frightened … panic-stricken, as Margaret was. I was lost and I could not find the gate which led to the home I knew… to the happiness I knew. ‘God,’ I have prayed, ‘show me the way.’”