These graver thoughts, though they occupied a good deal of his attention, were not allowed to cloud the happiness of himself, or the household of which he was master.
His young wife, now known as "the young Lady Paton," was as happy as a bird as she went about her household duties with Margery; for the two had agreed to divide these between them, now that the elder lady was no longer able to take any active share in their management.
The Dowager Lady Paton was better now than she had been during the winter, but she did not leave her rooms, and behaved with rather distant courtesy to Cicely; but still, it was a happy and united household, and they all managed to keep on good terms with the brethren at the Monastery, though the monks took no pains to hide the fact that they hated the new learning, and Sir Miles was equally frank in declaring his attachment to it.
The family were gathered round a fire of logs one chilly evening in April of this year, 1524, when a messenger arrived, bringing a letter from London for Sir Miles Paton. He wore the livery of the Cardinal, and brought a packet from one of his friends in the household; but when the packet was opened, Miles found the most important news came from Master Tyndale, who begged him to come to London, if it was possible, as he had determined to leave England very soon, and he knew not when he might return.
Miles felt almost alarmed as he read the letter. It was cautiously written, and no mention was made of the special work in which the writer had been engaged; for, as it had to pass through the hands of some of the Cardinal's servants before it could reach Miles, Tyndale had to be very careful what he said; but Miles could understand that his friend had been disappointed, as well as himself, lately.
The messenger who had brought the packet of letters—for there were others besides that of Tyndale's—would stay the night, of course, and Miles determined to ride back with him to London, for he was anxious to see his friend once more before he left England. So, by daybreak, the little party were in their saddles—Cicely and Margery standing in the porch to bid Miles farewell.
He found the scholarly priest bending over his books in the little turret-room, and the two friends eagerly grasped hands, and then silently looked into each other's eyes to see what change time had made in them since they last met.
"You have grown in knowledge, my friend," said Tyndale, with a closer clasp on the hand.
"Yes," said Miles, with something of a sigh.
"All growth must be through pain and disappointment of some sort," remarked Tyndale. "I used to think when I was at Sodbury Hall that if I could only be in a fair way to set about my life's work I should be fully content, and now—"