that, Mrs. Beatrice?"
"It is what you said. Do you really think that, Mr. Torridon?"
Ralph was bewildered for a moment.
"I do not understand," he said.
"Do you truly think he always has an escape ready?" repeated the girl.
Then Ralph understood.
"You mean he is in danger," he said steadily. "Well, of course he is. There is no great man that is not. But I do not see why he should not escape as he has always done."
"You think that, Mr. Torridon?"
"Why, yes;" went on Ralph, a little hastily. "You remember the matter of the bribe. See how he cleared himself. Surely, Mrs. Beatrice—"
"And you really think so," said the girl. "I know that you know what we do not; and I shall believe what you say."
"How can I tell?" remonstrated Ralph. "I can only tell you that in this matter I know nothing that you do not. Master More is under no suspicion."
Beatrice drew a breath of relief.
"I am glad I spoke to you, sir," she said. "It has been on my mind. And something that he said a few minutes ago frightened me."
"What did he say?" asked Ralph curiously.
"Ah! it was not much. It was that no man knew what might come next; that matters were very strange and dismaying—and—and that he wanted this paper copied quickly, for fear—"
The girl stopped again, abruptly.
"I know what you feel, Mrs. Beatrice," said Ralph gently. "I know how you love Master More, and how terrified we may become for our friends."
"What do you think yourself, Mr. Torridon," she said suddenly, almost interrupting him.
He looked at her doubtfully a moment, and half wished that Margaret would come back.
"That is a wide question," he said.
"Well, you know what I mean," she said coolly, completely herself again. She was sitting back in her chair now, drawing the paper serenely to and fro between her fingers; and he could see the firelight on her chin and brows, and those steady eyes watching him. He had an impulse of confidence.
"I do think changes are coming," he said. "I suppose we all do."
"And you approve?"
"Oh! how can I say off-hand?—But I think changes are needed."
She was looking down at the fire again now, and did not speak for a moment.
"Master More said you were of the new school," she said meditatively.
Ralph felt a curious thrill of exultation. Margaret was right then; this girl had been thinking about him.
"There is certainly a stirring," he said; and his voice was a little restrained.
"Oh, I am not blind or deaf," said the girl. "Of course, there is a stirring—but I wondered—"
Then Margaret came in with the candles.
Ralph went away that evening more excited than he liked. It seemed as if Mistress Roper's words had set light to a fire ready laid, and he could perceive the warmth beginning to move about his heart and odd wavering lights flickering on his circumstances and business that had not been there before.
* * * * *
He received his first letter from Beatrice a few weeks later, and it threw him into a strait between his personal and official claims.
Cromwell at this time was exceedingly occupied with quelling the ardour of the House of Lords, who were requesting that the Holy Maid of Kent and her companions might have an opportunity of defending themselves before the Act of Attainder ordered by the King was passed against them; but he found time to tell his agent that trouble was impending over More and Fisher; and to request him to hand in any evidence that he might have against the former.
"I suppose we shall have to let the Bishop off with a fine," said the minister, "in regard to the Maid's affair; but we shall catch him presently over the Act; and Mr. More is clear of it. But we shall have him too in a few days. Put down what you have to say, Mr. Torridon, and let me have it this evening."
And then he rustled off down the staircase to where his carriage was waiting to take him to Westminster, where he proposed to tell the scrupulous peers that the King was not accustomed to command twice, and that to suspect his Grace of wishing them to do an injustice was a piece of insolence that neither himself nor his royal master had expected of them.
Ralph was actually engaged in putting down his very scanty accusations against Sir Thomas More when the letter from Beatrice was brought up to him. He read it through twice in silence; and then ordered the courier to wait below. When the servant had left the room, he read it through a third time.
It was not long; but it was pregnant.
"I entreat you, sir," wrote the girl, "for the love of Jesu, to let us know if anything is designed against our friend. Three weeks ago you told me it was not so; I pray God that may be true still. I know that you would not lift a finger against him yourself—" (Ralph glanced at his own neat little list at these words, and bit his pen)—"but I wish you to do what you can for him and for us all." Then followed an erasure.
Ralph carried the paper to the window, flattened it against the panes and read clearly the words, "If my" under the scratching lines, and smiled to himself as he guessed what the sentence was that she was beginning.
Then the letter continued.
"I hear on good authority that there is something against him. He will not escape; and will do nothing on such hearsay, but only tells us to trust God, and laughs at us all. Good Mr. Torridon, do what you can. Your loving friend, B.A."
Ralph went back from the window where he was still standing, and sat down again, bending his head into his hands. He had no sort of scruples against lying as such or betraying Mr. More's private conversation; his whole training was directed against such foolishness, and he had learnt at last from Cromwell's incessant precept and example that the good of the State over-rode all private interests. But he had a disinclination to lie to Beatrice; and he felt simply unable to lose her friendship by telling her the truth.
As he sat there perfectly still, the servant peeped in once softly to see if the answer was ready, and noiselessly withdrew. Ralph did not stir; but still sat on, pressing his eyeballs till they ached and fiery rings twisted before him in the darkness. Then he abruptly sat up, blinked a moment or two, took up a pen, bit it again, and laid it down and sat eyeing the two papers that lay side by side on his desk.
He took up his own list, and read it through. After all, it was very insignificant, and contained no more than minute scraps of conversation that Sir Thomas More had let drop. He had called Queen Katharine "poor woman" three or four times; had expressed a reverence for the Pope of Rome half a dozen times, and had once called him the Vicar of Christ. He had been silent when someone had mentioned Anne Boleyn's name; he had praised the Carthusians and the Religious Life generally, at some length.
