And she was off, bustling down to the kitchens, sniffing the savory smells; excited and a little fearful.
“Come, come, you wenches. There's work to be done. My Lord Chancellor has a guest for supper tonight. I'll doubt any of you have ever served a noble Duke before, eh, eh?”
“No, my lady.”
“Well, then, now you will learn to do so, for it would not surprise me if we shall one day have at our table a guest who is far greater than His Grace of Norfolk. Do you know whom I mean? Do you, wench?”
Alice gave one of the girls a slap with a wooden ladle. It was more an affectionate pat than a blow.
Alice allowed herself one minute to dream that at her table sat a great, glittering man who shouted to her that he had never tasted a better meal than that eaten at the table of his Lord Chancellor.
“Tilly valley!” she cried. “This is not the way to prepare supper for His Grace of Norfolk!”
THE OLD Judge stood before his son; his hands were trembling and there were tears in his eyes.
“Thomas, my son … my dearest son…. Thomas, Lord Chancellor of England. So you have the Great Seal, my son. You … my son, Thomas.”
Thomas embraced his father. “Your son first, Father; Chancellor second.”
“And to think that I scolded you for not working at the law!”
“Ah, Father, there are many routes to fame.”
“And you found a quick one, my son.”
“I took a byway. I confess I am a little startled still to find where it has led me.”
“Oh, Thomas, would that your mother could have lived to see this day. And my father … and my grandfather. They would have been proud… proud indeed. Why, your grandfather was only a butler of the inn; he was, it was true, at the head of the servants and kept the accounts. Would that he could have lived to this day to see his grandson Lord Chancellor of England. Oh, Thomas, my son! Oh, proud and happy day!”
Later Thomas said to Margaret: “You see, daughter, how there is much good in all things. I am glad to have pleased your grandfather, for he is feeble, and I fear he may not be long for this life. I believe his delight in me is almost as great at this moment as mine has always been in you. And, Margaret, it is a happy child who make a fond father a proud one, think you not?”
“If I were less fond,” she said, “I think I should find greater enjoyment in my pride.”
He kissed her. “Do not ask too much of life, my wise daughter; ask for little, and then, if it comes, you will be happy.”
IT SEEMED to Margaret that the one who was least changed by his elevation was her father.
He was delighted with his importance only when he could use it to do good for others. He had shown to the King the drawings Hans Holbein had made of his family, and the King had been impressed with them; so Master Holbein had, regretfully, left the house at Chelsea to take up his quarters at Court as painter to the King at a salary of thirty pounds a year.
“It is a large sum,” said Hans, “and I am a poor man. I shall mayhap find fame in Hampton Court and Westminster, but will it give me as much joy as the happiness I have enjoyed in Chelsea?”
“With a brush such as yours, my friend,” said Thomas, “you have no choice. Go. Serve the King, and I doubt not that your future is secure.”
“I would as lief stay. I wish to do more pictures of your family… and your servants.”
“Go and make pictures of the King and his servants. Go, Hans; make the best of two worlds. Take up your quarters at the Court, and come to Chelsea for a humble meal with us when you feel the need for it.”
Then Hans Holbein embraced his friend and benefactor, and said with tears in his eyes: “To think that I should wish to refuse an offer such as this. You have put a magic in your house, dear friend; and I am caught in its spell.”
Yes, those were the things which Thomas greatly enjoyed doing. At such times it was worthwhile holding a great office.
But he was uneasy—far more uneasy than he would have his family realize.
The King was spending more and more time with Cromwell and Cranmer; they were the two to whom he looked for help in this matter of the divorce, and no other matter seemed of any great importance to him. The Cardinal had slipped down to disgrace and death, and the descent had been more rapid than his spectacular climb to grace and favor. He had first been indicted upon the Statute of Praemunire; but Thomas Cromwell had cleared him of the charge of high treason, so that Wolsey had been ordered to retire to York; but before he had long rested there he was charged once more with high treason and had died of a broken heart at Leicester on his way to London.
Thomas Wolsey had come to the Chancellorship with everything in his favor; Thomas More had come to it with everything against him. Wolsey had not realized his peril until within a year or so of his decline and death; More was aware of his from the moment he received the Great Seal.
WILLIAM DAUNCEY came to his father-in-law on one of those rare occasions when Thomas found time to be with his family.
There was a determined light in Dauncey's eyes.
“Well, son Dauncey, you would have speech with me?”
“I have thought much of late, Father,” said Dauncey, “that things have changed since you became the Chancellor of this realm in place of the Cardinal.”
“In what way?”
“When my lord Cardinal was Chancellor, those about him grew rich, for he shut himself away and it was a matter of some cost for any to put their desires before him. Yet, since you have become Chancellor, any man may come to you. He may state his case and receive judgement.”
“Well, my son, is that not a good thing? Why, when my lord Cardinal held the Great Seal there were many cases which must go unheard because there was no time to put them before him. 'Tis easier for me. My interests are not so many, and I am a lawyer to boot. Do you know that when I took office there were cases which men were waiting to present for ten or twelve years! And now, my son—I grow boastful, but this matter gives me great pleasure, so forgive my pride—I called yesternoon for the next case, and I was told that there were no more cases to be heard. So proud was I that I invented a little rhyme as I sat there. This is it:
“When More some time had Chancellor been,
No more suits did remain.
The like will never more he seen
Till More be there again.”
“Yes, Father,” said Dauncey impatiently, after he had given his polite laugh. “That is good for those who would wish their cases to be heard; but it is not so good for the friends of the Chancellor.”
“How so, my son?”
“When Thomas Wolsey was Chancellor, not only the members of his privy chamber but even the keepers of his doors took great gain to themselves.”
“Ah,” said Thomas. “Now I understand. You feel that a daughter of this Chancellor should be at least as profitable as a door in the house of the last.”
“Profit?” said Dauncey. “But there is no profit. How could I take gifts from those whom I brought to your presence when in bringing them to you I could do no more for them than they could do for themselves?”
“You think I am at fault in making myself accessible to all who desire to see me?”
“It may be a commendable thing,” said Dauncey stubbornly, “but it is not a profitable thing for a son-in-law. How could I take reward from a man for something he could get without my help?”