“Well, well,” said he, courteously, “we will not go further into that question at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book containeth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you the same? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You are very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church can tell you, an’ you be meek and humble in receiving of their teaching.”
He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He was quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and even passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared he got in Margery’s answer.
“I wis well, reverend father,” she said, very quietly, “to the full as well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I be. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith He not, ‘If ony man wole do His wille, he schall knowe of the techinge’? (John vii. 17.) Saith He not again, ‘Seke ye Scripturis’? (John v. 39.) I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Unto fathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving—very heathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, ‘He that dispisith me, and takith not my wordis, hath him that schal juge him; thilk word that I have spoken schal deme him in the laste day’? (John xii. 48.) I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall judge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of His Word lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this book containeth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Son of God teach evil? Doth God evil? Will God deceive them that ask Him truth? Knoweth He not as much as fathers of the Church? Nay truly, good father, I trust that you wot not fully what you have said. He is ‘weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by Him.’” (John xiv. 6.)
Abbot Bilson, for once in his life, was completely dumb-foundered. He looked silently at Lord Marnell.
“I pray you see now, reverend father,” said Lord Marnell, angrily, “how the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl’s talk! Is it a small evil, Madge, to turn upon thy teacher when he teacheth thee of wisdom, with sayings picked up from a book? Art not ashamed?”
“No, my Lord, I am no wise shamed,” answered she; “for the reverend father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there is small doubt as to who shall be the winner.”
The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm and pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and he could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he might have commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so decided—so gentle, but so uncompromising—puzzled him extremely. He only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great strength lay.
“My Lord Marnell,” he said, in a perplexed tone, “I would speak with you. Good lady, will you give us leave?”
Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took the book with her, and nobody prevented her from doing so.
“My Lord,” said the Abbot, when she was gone, “I am bewildered utterly. I know not what to do with this girl. Never the like of her saw I before, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thing is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not, then—”