“Why, lass, what hast?” asked Dame Lovell, in surprise.
“I cry you mercy, good mother!” said Margery, descending to equivocation, and blushing more than ever; “I heard you not open my door, and your voice started me.”
“Poor Madge! did I fright thee?” said Dame Lovell, kindly. “But what is this, child? Another Breviary? Dost want two?”
“Poor Madge” she was indeed at this moment. Terrified beyond measure lest Dame Lovell should inform Sir Geoffrey, whose learned eyes would perceive in a moment what the book was—and seeing more danger in his discovering its real character than in letting him suppose it to be another Breviary, Margery, generally so truth-telling, was frightened into a lie.
“Ay, good mother,” she stammered out, “’tis a Breviary.”
All that day Margery sat upon thorns; but Dame Lovell made no mention of the incident, and she accordingly hoped it was forgotten.
Day after day passed on, and Margery worked harder than ever at copying the book. She finished her task just one day before the month was up, and gave back the original to Richard Pynson, entreating him to make an errand to Marston as soon as possible, and restore the book, with her hearty thanks, into the hands of Master Carew.
On the evening of that day, Dame Lovell sat at work in the wide chimney-corner of the hall. Near her was Mistress Katherine, scraping almonds into a bowl; while Margery, occupied with her distaff, sat at a little distance. On a wide oaken settle on the opposite side of the fire lay Friar Andrew, taking a nap, as was his afternoon custom; while on another settle drawn up before the fire, Sir Geoffrey and Richard Pynson sat conversing with the ladies.
“Madge, lass, hast finished thy Breviary?” asked Sir Geoffrey. “An thou hast, I would see it.”
Margery’s heart leaped into her mouth, for now was the time for the discovery of her falsehood to be made. Simply replying, however, “I will seek it, father,” she rose and laid her distaff down.