MARGARET MORE
A Little Schoolgirl of Tudor England
Part I.
At the foot of the river-stairs nearest the Westminster Law Courts, you might have seen (in the days when the sixteenth century was yet in its teens, King Henry the Eighth, a slim young Prince—the very flower of knighthood—and the Thames, a silver highway of romance,) a private barge, with a couple of blue-coated serving men, waiting for their master. And presently down the steps would come a man with brown hair a little tumbled, and dress a little awry, after a long, hard day’s work in the Courts. Something in the gait—a little defect, one shoulder somewhat higher than the other—might strike your attention, and you would turn to a water-bailiff near you with a question: “Is this Master More?” Then—whether intentionally or not, your whisper having carried further than the ear for which it was ostensibly intended—you would see the uneven shoulders swing suddenly round, and from half-way down the steps a clever face—wonderfully attractive in its irregularity—with a humorous mouth, and merry, grey eyes, would be lifted to you, and a laughing voice would proclaim its owner, “Thomas More, indeed, and very much more at your service.”
If upon being further pressed to know in what more he could serve you, you were well enough advised to make the request to be rowed down the river with him to Chelsea—there to make the acquaintance of his daughter, Mistress Margaret, and the others of his “Academia,” not to mention his second wife, Dame Alice (for whose solid, if somewhat Philistine, qualities you have the highest regard), and Master Gunnel, and John Harris, and Henry Pattieson—with all of whom you already seem to yourself familiar, from Erasmus, his letters—you would find yourself comfortably seated in the stern of the barge (before you had time to enlarge on the reasons, which had emboldened you to make your request), and being borne on your pleasant way down the pleasant, shining Thames.
Oh! a very pleasant way, in good sooth! The river covered with barges that carry bright colours, and music and laughter, and its banks covered with gardens that let the evening breeze rifle them for sweetness; the wooded hills that fill in the distance, brave in their new summer greenery, and the kindly sun, the giver of all these good gifts, so loth to leave the sight of them that he sinks but slowly, slowly to his bed in the West!
And yet methinks the most pleasant part of all would be yet to come. It would be waiting for you at a certain steps, towards which you might have seen your host, long since, strain his eyes. A group of young things are standing at the top, waving their scarves. Two of them, a little boy and a girl, so near a size that you take them for twins, are in such haste to get to the barge that they are in danger of tumbling right down the steps into the river. You can hear a girl’s voice call at them anxiously, “Cecy! Jack!” and when the barge is fastened to its moorings, and you are mounting the steps, leisurely enough to give your host a good start of you, you look up and see those two troublesome little monkeys held fast by the hands of a tall girl of fifteen or so, and you know by the way her father turns to her, first of all, that this is Margaret.
In the meantime your host is being pulled, very affectionately, from one to the other. Margaret’s restraining hand is not strong enough to keep Jack and Cecily in check any longer, and with those two rifling his pockets for barley-sugar, and Bess and Daisy hanging out of his arms, one on each side, and Margaret Giggs a little in the background, and young Will Roper, and Jack Dancey, and Rupert Alington dancing around, one understands why he cares not to be over-careful of his clothes.
Going up the garden path to the great house you will meet a stately lady stepping sedately down from it. If her welcome has a touch of frigidity, lay it not to her charge, good lady. In truth, her lord might have given her a little warning that a stranger was coming to supper. Then had she time to get Gillian to add a dish of black-caps and a lèche to the bill of fare, and herself to change into her scarlet gown and coif. Whereas, now!