It was true that when she stopped playing she would declare that she had done with wasting time for that day; and to reassure herself she would doubtless scold some defaulter in the kitchens; but the next day she would be practicing on the lute or the virginals.

Dorothy's heart began to beat faster, for, coming toward her, was Sir Thomas's secretary, John Harris.

John was an earnest young man, fully aware of the importance of his work. He sought to emulate his master in all ways, even adopting that habit of walking with his gown not properly set on the shoulders, and the left shoulder lifted a little higher than the right. Dorothy noticed this, and it made her smile become a little tender.

He was deep in thought and did not immediately see Dorothy.

She spoke first. “Good day to you, Master Harris.”

He smiled, pleasure transforming his face. “And a very good day to you,” he said, sitting down beside her and smiling at the baby.

“How big he grows!” said John.

“His sister is nearly as big as he is. So you are not at the Court today, Master Harris?”

“No. There is work to do at home.”

“Tell me, do they really think so highly of the master at Court?”

“Very highly indeed.”

Dorothy pulled up a handful of grass and frowned at it.

“You are not pleased that it should be so?” he asked.

“I was thinking that I would like to see all the girls as happily married as is Mistress Roper. She was married before the master became so important. Master Roper was here … they grew to know each other … and they eventually married. I was thinking that that is the best way in which to make a marriage.”

“You are thinking of William Dauncey?”

She nodded. “Mistress Elizabeth does not seem to understand. Of course, he is very handsome … and very charming to her … but there is a light in his eyes which, it would seem to me, is put there by his love of the advancement Sir Thomas More can provide, rather than for Sir Thomas's daughter.”

“Dorothy, you are a discerning woman.”

“I love them so much. I have been with them so long. Mistress Elizabeth is very clever with her lessons, but that is not being clever in the ways of the world. I wish that some quiet young gentleman like Master Roper would come here to study, and Mistress Elizabeth gradually get to know him. And I would like to see her take him instead of Master Dauncey.”

“You have served Mistress Roper for a long time, Dorothy. She has educated you and molded your thoughts, and you think that everything she does is always right. The baby is the perfect baby. Master Roper is the perfect husband. There are some who would say that Master William Dauncey is not such a bad match. His father has a high post at Court. What more could you want?”

“Love,” she said. “Disinterested love. Ah, I have said too much.”

“You need have no fear, Dorothy. But let me say this: When Mistress Roper married, her husband was caught fast in heresy. Heresy, Dorothy! Is that then more desirable than ambition?”

She was thoughtful. “His heresy,” she said, “grew out of his searching for die right, his determination to do what he considered best. Ambition—such as Dauncey has—is for self-glorification. There lies the difference.”

“Mistress Dorothy, you are wondrous learned.”

“My mistress has taught me to read; she has given me books. She has taught me to form my own opinions—that is all.”

Dorothy picked up the baby and held him against her. “Sometimes I wish that the master were not so well received at Court,” she said. “I would rather see him more often at home … with good people about him … like you, John Harris … than with the most handsome gallants of the Court.”

Then Dorothy left him and walked to the house.

How peaceful was this scene! she thought.

Now came the sound of someone playing the lute. It was too well played to be Lady More. Now she heard Cecily's and Elizabeth's voices, singing a ballad.

“Please God keep them happy,” prayed Dorothy. “Let us go on just like this … forever and ever … until we are called to our rest.”

There came the sound of other voices, singing with the girls— Giles Herons and William Dauncey's.

Dorothy shivered. The voices of the young men reminded her that life was continually changing.

Too many honors were being thrust upon the master, and honors brought envy; they brought the sycophants, the false friends, who were like wasps that fed on the lovely fruit until it was ruined and dropped from the branches.


* * *

THAT YEAR came the winter of the great frost.

There was no keeping the house warm; the bleak winds penetrated into every room, and there was ice on the river. Blizzards swept across the country.

Mercy was hardly ever at home; she had so many sick people in the hospital. Margaret and Elizabeth were often there helping her.

Mercy was very happy. The hospital was her life. Although others might deplore Sir Thomas's rise in the world, Mercy could not. But for his making a fortune in the service of the King, he could not have supplied the money which she needed to keep her hospital in being. But she was careful in the extreme. There was nothing extravagant about Mercy; she worked hard and enjoyed working hard. She remembered Erasmus's criticism of English houses, and she had no rushes in her hospital; there were windows that could be opened wide; and her success with her patients was gratifying.

Mercy enjoyed those days when her foster father came to inspect her work. He would go among the patients, a joke on his lips. “Laughter is one of the best medicines,” he told her; and she was contented to have him with her whether he praised or questioned what she did.

She would not admit to herself that she was not completely happy; she, who was so frank on all other matters, knew herself to be evasive in this.

She would not admit to herself that she loved Dr. Clement. It is merely, she told herself, that there is so much talk of weddings and that makes me wonder if I shall ever be a bride. Ailie and Margaret are married; and now Cecily will have Giles Heron, and Elizabeth her William Dauncey; and because of all this I too look for love.

Had it not always been so? The little foster sister had always feared that she was not quite a member of the family, in spite of everyone's attempts to assure her that she was. Now from Court came two gallants eager to wed the daughters of Sir Thomas More; but none came to woo his foster daughter.

Not that Mercy expected it. She laughed at the idea of plain Mercy Gigs being wooed by such a dashing gentleman as William Dauncey.

Moreover, Mercy did not want a Court gallant; she wanted Dr. Clement.

And he? Why should he think of Mercy Gigs? But he did think of her—oh, as a friend, as a girl who was interested in medicine, as one who spent her time working in her hospital and who liked to ask his advice on certain matters.

She must not be deluded. She was a nobody. She was an orphan on whom the Mores had taken pity; however much they tried to make her forget that, she must not. And John Clement? A young man of good family, high in the service of the great Cardinal, looked on with favor by the King's physician, Dr. Linacre. As if he would think of Mercy Gigs as anything but a friend.

Ah yes, she reminded herself, all this talk of marriages makes me want what the others have. I want to be loved by a husband even as, when I was a child, I wished to be loved by their father.

Cecily and Elizabeth had come over to the hospital on this day, although it was as much as they could do to plod through the snow even that far.

They seemed quite pretty—both of them—with a certain glow upon them. That was being in love. Cecily was the happier perhaps; she was more sure of her Giles. But Elizabeth—more reserved than her younger sister—was she a little anxious about William Dauncey? Did she know—as others did—that he was an ambitious young man who believed her father could advance him? Poor Elizabeth! Like Mercy, she wished for marriage. Was she loving the ideal of marriage more than the man who would make it possible? Mercy uttered a silent prayer for Elizabeth. Cecily would be happy with her Giles. He was a lazy boy, good-natured, frank, not hiding the fact that his father had wished him to marry a Mistress More, and that he was delighted to find such a marriage to his liking. He had not William Dauncey's tight-lipped ambition. And was she right, Mercy wondered, when she thought that even Dauncey had changed since he had visited the house? Was his laughter, when he joined their family group and played their games and sang with them, was it a little less forced than it had been?

The two girls laughed as they shook the snow out of their clothes.

“Why, Mercy, what a day! If the blizzard starts again, we shall be snowed up and unable to get out at all… and no one will be able to get to us.” That was Elizabeth.

Cecily said: “And you must come over to dinner today. Someone is coming, and he'll be disappointed if you're not there.”

Mercy flushed; she knew, by Cecily's quick glance at Elizabeth, who was coming.

“If the weather is so bad, your guest may not arrive.”

“I doubt if he'll come by barge. The ice is quite thick on the river. Oh, Mercy, what a lovely fire!” Cecily held out her hands to the blaze.

“I was lucky, I gathered much furze and bracken during the autumn. I had those of my patients who were recovering go out and get it for me. We believe that exercise is good, and so is fresh air.”

“We?” said Cecily almost archly.