Again she visits him in the tower, by especial favor, after the blow has descended, and his fate, all but the doom, is fixed, and so, “ye who have tears prepare to shed them now.”
“. . . I minded to put ye haircloth and cord under my farthingale, and one or two of ye smaller books in my pouch, as alsoe some sweets and suckets such as he was used to love. Will and Bonvisi were awaiting for me, and deare Bess, putting forthe her head from her chamber door, cries pitiously, ‘Tell him, dear Meg, tell him . . . ’twas never soe sad to me to be sick . . . and that I hope . . . I pray . . . the time may come . . .’ then falls back swooning into Dancey’s arms, whom I leave crying heartilie over her, and hasten below to receive the confused medley of messages sent by every other member of ye house. For mine owne part, I was in such a tremulous succussion as to be scarce fitt to stand or goe, but time and the tide will noe man bide, and, once having taken boat, the cool river air allayed my fevered spiritts; onlie I coulde not for awhile get rid of ye impression of poor Dancey crying over Bess in her deliquium.
“I think none o’ the three opened our lips before we reached Lambeth, save in ye Reach, Will cried to ye steersman, ‘Look you run us not a ground,’ in a sharper voyce than I e’er heard from him. After passing ye Archbishop’s palace, whereon I gazed full ruefullie, good Bonvisi beganne to mention some rhymes he had founde writ with a diamond on one of his window-panes at Crosby House, and would know were they father’s! and was’t ye chamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him it was, but knew nought of ye distich, though ’twas like enow to be his. And thence he went on to this and that, how that father’s cheerfulle, funny humour never forsook him, nor his brave heart quelled, instancing his fearless passage through the Traitor’s Gate, asking his neighbours whether his gait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his upper garment, giving him his cap, which he sayd was uppermost. And other such quips and passages, which I scarce noted nor smiled at, soe sorry was I of cheer.
“At length we stayed rowing: Will lifted me out, kissed me, heartened me up, and, indeede, I was in better heart then, having been quietlie in prayer a good while. After some few forms, we were led through sundrie turns and passages, and, or ever I was aware, I found myselfe quit of my companions, and in father’s arms.
“We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but strength was given me in that hour. As soone as I coulde, I lookt him in the face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning to note his hollow cheeks, when he sayd, ‘Why, Meg, you are getting freckled:’ soe that made us both laugh. He sayd, ‘You should get some freckle-water of the lady that sent me here; depend on it, she hath washes and tinctures in plenty; and after all, Meg, she’ll come to the same end at last, and be as the lady all bone and skin, whoso ghastlie legends used to scare thee soe when thou wert a child. Don’t tell that story to thy children; ’twill hamper ’em with unsavory images of death. Tell them of heavenlie hosts awaiting to carry off good men’s souls in fire-bright chariots, with horses of the sun, to a land where they shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy turf and among myrtle trees, and eat fruits that shall heal while they delight them, and drink the coldest of cold water, fresh from ye river of life, and have space to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and whichever way they look, meet Christ’s eyes smiling on them. Lord, Meg, who would live that could die? One mighte as lief be an angel shut up in a nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the sweet spirit would be to have the shell cracked! no matter by whom; the king, or king’s mistress. . . Let her dainty foot but set him free, he’d say, ‘For this release, much thanks. . . . And how goes the court, Meg?’
“ ‘In faith, father, never better. . . . There is nothing else there, I hear, but dancing and disporting.’
“ ‘Never better, child, sayst thou? Alas, Meg, it pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortlie come to. These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs; but ’twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance. Mark you, Meg, a man that restraineth not his passions, hath always something cruel in his nature, and if there be a woman toward, she is sure to suffer heaviest for it, first or last. . . . Seek Scripture precedent for’t . . . you’ll find it as I say. Stony as death, cruel as the grave. Those Pharisees that there, to a man, convicted of sin, yet haled a sinning woman before the Lord, and woulde fain have seen the dogs lick up her blood. When they lick up mine, deare Meg, let not your heart be troubled, even though they shoulde hale thee to London Bridge to see my head stuck on a pole. Think, most dear’st, I shall then have more reason to weep for thee than thou for me. But there’s noe weeping in heaven, and bear in mind, Meg, distinctlie, that if they send me thither, ’twill be for obeying the law of God rather than of men. And after alle, we live not in the bloody, barbarous old times of crucifyings and flayings, and immerseings in cauldrons of boiling oil. One stroke, and the affair’s done. A clumsy chirurgeon would be longer extracting a tooth. We have oft agreed that the little birds struck down by the kite and hawk suffer less than if they were reserved to a naturall death. There is one sensible difference, indeed, between us. In our cases, preparation is a-wanting.’
“Hereon, I minded me to slip off ye haircloth and rope, and give the same to him, along with the books and suckets, all which he hid away privatelie, making merry at the last.
“ ‘ ’Twoulde tell well before the council,’ quoth he, ‘that on searching the prison-cell of Sir Thomas More, there was founde, flagitiouslie and mysteriouslie laid up . . . a piece of barley-sugar!’
“Then we talked over sundry home matters; and anon, having now both of us attayned unto an equable and chastened serenite of mind, which needed not any false shows of mirth to hide ye naturall complexion of, he sayth, ‘I believe, Meg, they that have put me here ween they have done me a high displeasure; but I assure thee on my faith, mine own good daughter, that if it had not beene for my wife, and you, my dear good children, I would faine have been closed up, long ere this, in as straight a room, and straighter too.’ ”