Sir Thomas conducted him through the shrubbery towards the chapel, a venerable structure in the Anglo-Saxon style of architecture. A thick undergrowth of briers, brambles, and wild shrubbery was matted and interlaced around the foundation of the building; running vines clambered over the heavy arches of the antique windows, and fell back in waving garlands upon the climbing branches from which they had sprung. The walls, of rough unhewn stone, were thickly covered with moss and ivy, giving the little structure an appearance of such antiquity that the most scrupulous antiquarian would have unhesitatingly referred its foundation to the time of King Athelstan or his brother Edmund. The interior was adorned with extreme care and taste. A bronze lamp, suspended before the altar, illuminated a statue of the Holy Virgin placed above it. The children of Sir Thomas, with the servants of his household, were ranged in respectful silence behind the arm-chair of his aged father. Margaret knelt beside him with her prayer-book, waiting to begin the devotions.
The touching voice of this young girl as she slowly repeated the sublime words—“Our Father who art in heaven”—those words which men may so joyfully pronounce, which teach us the exalted dignity of our being, the grandeur of our origin and destiny—those sublime words penetrated the soul of the king with a profound and singular emotion.
“What a happy family!” he exclaimed, mentally. “Nothing disturbs their harmony; day after day passes without leaving a regret behind it. Why can I not join in this sweet prayer—why, O my soul, hast thou banished and forgotten it?” He turned from the contemplation of these youthful heads bowed before the Mother of God, and a wave of bitter remorse swept once again over his hardened, hypocritical soul.
After the king had returned to his royal palace and the evening repast was ended, William Roper approached Sir Thomas and said:
“You must consider yourself most fortunate, my dear father, in enjoying so intimately the favor of his majesty—why, even Cardinal Wolsey cannot boast of being honored with such a degree of friendship and familiarity.”
With a sad smile More, taking the young man’s hand, replied:
“Know, my son, I can never be elated by it. If this head, around which he passed his royal arm so affectionately this evening, could in falling pay the price of but one single inch of French territory, he would, without a moment’s hesitation, deliver it up to the executioner.”
“What acknowledgments do I not owe you, madam,” said Sir Thomas Cheney to Lady Anne Boleyn, “for the services you have rendered me. But dare I hope for a full pardon from the king?”
“Feel perfectly secure on that point,” replied Lady Anne. “He is convinced that Wolsey had you banished from court because of your disagreement with Cardinal Campeggio, and he considers you now one of his most faithful adherents.”