Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on the hearth with his arms folded. Abbot Bilson was seated in an arm-chair, with his cowl thrown back. He was a man of about sixty, with a finely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and a remarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner. Had the Order of Jesuits existed at that time, Abbot Bilson might fitly have been the head of it. “His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.”
“The Lady Marnell,” said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, “Peace be with thee, daughter.”
“Where is the book?” asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so angrily as he had spoken in the morning.
Margery passed it to him.
“See there, reverend father,” said he, as he handed it to the Abbot. “What callest thou that?”
The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered no change.
“A fine, clear scribe hath written this,” remarked he, politely. “The Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your keeping the book, my daughter?”
“So he said,” answered Margery, shortly.
“Ah! But your father—?”
“Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so said, he made no further matter.”