XIII.
In the meantime Sir Thomas More had returned to his home at Chelsea. He felt at first a slight decree of uneasiness on account of the indiscretions of the Holy Maid of Kent, the evident malice with which Cromwell had drawn them out, and the eagerness with which he had interpreted them.
But as he was accustomed to resign into the hands of God the entire care of his future, and as there appeared to be nothing with which he could reproach himself in the short and accidental relations he had had with that woman, he soon recovered his former tranquillity, and thought no more but of how he might be able to render some new service to the queen. He knew she had set out for Leicester Abbey, and he had already found means of writing to the abbot, whom he remembered having received at the chancelry on some particular business concerning the rights of the abbey, and the father abbot had appeared, as well as he could remember, to be an honest and intelligent man.
Feeling satisfied that the queen had, ere that time, received his communications, he had gone towards evening to take a walk with his children in the country.
They were all seated on the green slope at Chelsea. The Thames flowed at their feet; the freshness of the verdure, the perfumed breeze
that arose from the meadow, the balmy sweetness of the air, all united to render the moment a delicious one.
“See, dear father,” said Margaret, who was sitting at his feet (she always kept as near him as possible), “see how beautiful the river is! How it comes with its silver waves to kiss the rich and verdant meadow which extends so far before us! Look at those flocks of sheep, following the shepherds to the fold; how docile they are and obedient to their voices! And those dogs, how active and intelligent! Oh! how I love the evening, when the horizon yet burns with the red glow of the sun as he descends to light up other skies.” And Margaret paused to admire in silence the pure and inspiring beauties of nature by which she was surrounded, while her eyes sought those of her father, as if to interrogate him.
More smiled as he regarded her.
“Well, my dear daughter,” he said, “why not speak thy whole thought?”
For he loved to listen to the forcible sentiments she sometimes expressed, so characteristic of her melancholy and enthusiastic temperament.