No labour was too great to make his translation as nearly perfect as it could be; and he thanked God now for the scholarship that made this possible to him; for without it he could hardly have undertaken such a task.
But he did not give up preaching occasionally, especially at St. Dunstan's, beyond the gate of the city. Here a fashionable congregation would be gathered to hear him, and he did not fail to prepare their minds for the reception of God's Word in its purest translation, although he did not venture to speak openly of such a work being done. For he knew enough now to feel convinced that Dr. Tunstall, and the Cardinal too, would oppose, and not help forward, such a work. How far their opposition might go, there was no telling; and while Wolsey held supreme power, neither rank nor learning would avail to save any man who ventured to oppose his policy in the slightest degree; and his policy at present was to keep the people in ignorance, whatever he might do to help forward learning among the upper classes.
Miles and Master Tyndale did not see eye to eye in this matter. Perhaps Miles was dazzled; or perhaps he had formed a truer estimate of the man than his public policy warranted. At any rate, they agreed to differ as to their estimate of his character, and Miles was content to serve him faithfully, and even affectionately, for he could see some lovable traits of character where others saw only haughty disdain.
Yet even if they had quarrelled, neither would have let that interfere with the self-imposed task they had undertaken. This was to both a sacred task, to which they had been divinely called, and for which mere private feelings,—their own convenience or pleasure,—must instantly give way; for Miles was only a trifle less possessed by this desire to see the Scripture translated into English than William Tyndale himself; and he had written home more than once to tell his sister that such a work was likely to be accomplished at last, and that in his leisure time he was able to give some help to the translator.
Things were in this condition, and summer was waning in the year 1523, when one day Sir Thomas Paton himself arrived at York House to his son's great surprise.
"My father, this is a great joy," said Miles, grasping the old man's hand, and looking tenderly into his face. He was almost afraid to ask for his mother and sister, lest his father should have come to tell him that something had befallen them.
The old man seemed to read his thoughts, for he said, "You need not be afraid—Margery and our dear dame are well."
"Thank you, father; I was afraid."
"Yes, yes, you always were a coward," said Sir Thomas, impatiently. "But I have come to see His Eminence the Chancellor, for I cannot pay these taxes on the land as things are now, and I have come to see what is to be done about it; and as my son, you ought to make things plain and easy for me with the Chancellor."
Miles looked puzzled. Was it the old trouble cropping up again, or had his father simply come on the bootless errand of trying to get the new tax remitted, under the impression that because he was in the service of the Cardinal, this favour ought to be extended to them? If this was the view his father took, he thought perhaps he might solve the difficulty by paying the tax himself; though he had no wish to spend his money in this way, for he was saving what he could to help to pay the cost of printing the New Testament.