“Come to my winter parlor and drink a mug of wine with me. Can you smell the juniper and rosemary? That's our Jane. She knows much of the herbs that grow in the fields, and she is forever burning them in pomanders to make the air sweet.”

Master Colt still thought he had to impress on Jane's suitor the wifely qualities of the girl, as though Thomas needed to be impressed, as though he had not already made up his mind.

His host led the way to the winter parlor and called for wine to be brought.

The winter parlor was a cozy place; it contained hangings embroidered in rich colors by die girls, and there was a table about which were placed several stools; Master Colt was very proud of the polished metal mirror and the new clock.

They sat at the table and wine was brought, but Master Colt noticed that his guest merely touched his with his lips for the sake of politeness.

He sighed. Here was a man he did not understand, who did not care what he ate, and loved books better than wine. Yet any husband for Jane was better than no husband at all.

Then through the window he caught sight of Jane with her flower basket.

“Why,” said Jane's father, “there is Jane. You have seen her. You're thinking you'd rather have a word with her than drink wine with her father. Well then, slip out into the garden now. You can speak with her before supper is served.”

So Thomas went out of the house to Jane.


* * *

JANE KNEW he was coming. She was afraid. Her sisters laughed at her for her timidity. She should be grateful, they told her. At last she had a suitor. At last a man was thinking of marrying her. She had better be careful how she acted, for he was not caught yet.

I wish, thought Jane, that I could stay at home with my heartsease and snapdragons, my sweet williams and gilly-flowers. I want to stay and help salt the meat after the killing, and make the butter and cheese, and to see that the servants watch well the roasting meat, to make the bread and pies. I could stay at home and do these things.

But Jane knew that was not what was expected of a girl. She must marry. If she did not, she was scorned; her sisters would marry and shut her out of their confidences; they would laugh at her; they would pity her; even now they called her Poor Jane.

She was Poor Jane because, while she was afraid of marriage, she was even more afraid of not being married at all.

He was very old, this man who had selected her; he was twenty-six, and she was just turned sixteen. Still, it was better to have an old husband than no husband at all. He was very clever, so they said; and he knew much of what had been written in books. But her father did not think very highly of that sort of cleverness. As for June, it alarmed her greatly, for she could not understand half of what Thomas More said to her; and when he began to speak she would think, since he was fond of jesting, that she must surely smile; but she was never certain when die smile should come. Perhaps she would learn. She was sure there were many things which she would have to learn, and that was doubtless one of them.

Still, she continually repeated to herself, and she was sure of the wisdom of this: it was better to marry any man than not to marry at all.

When, in the kitchen, she had heard his horse, she had taken her flower basket and run into the gardens to hide herself. Today he had come to ask her to marry him. Her father had told her this would happen and that she must accept him and tell him that she would be very happy to become his wife.

Happy to become his wife …

Would her young sister have been happy to be his wife, and would he have been happy to wed her?

She wondered why he had suddenly turned from her sister to herself; her father had sent her sister away at that time, and again she wondered why.

Life was difficult to understand. If it were only as simple as tending the garden, how contented she would be!

Now she started, and her heart began to beat in real fear, for Thomas was coming toward her.


* * *

HE SAW her bending over the flowers, rosy color flooding her neck, for her head was bent so that he could not see her face.

I will make her happy, he swore. Poor, fragile little Jane.

“Why, Mistress Colt,” he said. “Why, Jane, I trust I find you well.”

She curtsied awkwardly, and the flowers fell from her basket.

“You tremble,” he said. “Jane, you must not be afraid of me.”

“I… I am not afraid.” She lifted her eyes to his face. They reminded him of her sisters and he felt a pang of regret. His feelings for the two girls were so different. The younger girl, whom her father had sent away, was a creature of charm and beauty; he had been fascinated by the smooth, clear skin, the childish line of the cheeks, a certain boldness in her eyes that proclaimed her aware of the fact that she was admired. There had been, in her face and form, a certain promise of carnal delight. It was she who had decided him, who had shown him clearly that he must not take his vows, that he must leave the Charterhouse and make a home with a wife.

Was that love? He thought of others who had attracted him. He was no monk; he was no priest. He was a sensual man, it seemed. God had made him thus; and he believed he would have to control such feelings during the course of his life. All his friends had taken orders: Colet, Linacre, Lily. And what were women to Erasmus? He could see that he himself was fashioned of different clay. He wanted to be a saint; but since women moved him, charmed him, he was right not to turn from them; for it was better to be a layman who knew his weakness and tried to make an ideal family life, than a priest who took his vows and afterward broke them.

He had loved young Mistress Colt until he had caught a look in Jane's eyes which had moved him—in another manner, it was true—as deeply as his desire for her sister.

He remembered the day well. They had been at dinner; and dinner was a merry meal at New Hall. Master Colt paid the deepest respect to his food. Why, he had his servants doff their hats with respect when the meat was brought in; his table was covered with so many dishes that it was almost impossible to make room for the wooden platters the family used. They had been at dinner, and Thomas had looked at his loved one, merrily chatting, delighting him with the quickness of her retorts. She had not been an educated girl. What girls were? Ah, that was a great mistake, as he had argued many times both with Colet and Erasmus. If women had souls, they also had brains, and it was as wrong to neglect the latter as the former. No, she was not educated, but he had appreciated her quick mind, that little display of wit. He had pictured his married life. They would sit after supper and he would teach her Latin; he would read her some of his epigrams and later perhaps those he was translating with Lily from the Greek anthology into Latin—but that was looking ahead. Then, when he had educated her, he would astonish his friends; and she would talk with them and be one of them. Yes, she should not only make a home for him, and give him children, she should join him and his friends in discussing theology, the need for reforming some of the old tenets of the Church; they would analyse the works of Plato, Socrates and Euripides; they themselves would write verses and essays, which they would read to one another. He had looked forward to those days. He saw himself not only caressing her beautiful body, but feeding her mind. It had been an enchanting picture.

And then, as his glance strayed from her, he had been aware of Jane. Jane, the quiet one whom they all twitted because she was not so ready with her tongue, because she was the eldest and because no man had sought her in marriage.

Jane had been looking at her sister with admiration and envy. Not malicious envy. Jane was of too gentle a nature to experience unadulterated envy. It was merely that she became more insignificant than usual when her sister chattered; and as he watched her, Thomas More found his love for the younger girl infringed by his pity for the elder one.

He had tried to draw her into conversation, but she would keep aloof like a frightened doe. He found her alone in the gardens and he said to her: “You must not be afraid to speak, little Jane. Tell me, why are you afraid to speak?”

She had said: “I have nothing to say.”

“But,” he had protested, “there must be something behind those eyes … some thought. Tell me what it is.”

“It would sound silly if I said it. Everyone would laugh.”

“I should not laugh.”

Then she told him how she thought the scent of gilly-flowers was the best in the world, and when she smelt it, she would always— no matter where she was—imagine that she was in the walled garden at New Hall. And she told him she feared she was a coward, for when they killed the animals in November, she shut herself in her room, stopped up her ears and wept. And sometimes she wept during the salting.

“Those are kindly thoughts, Jane,” he had said. “And thoughts that should be told.”

“But they would laugh if I told them. They would say that I am even sillier than they believed me to be.”

“I should not laugh, Jane,” he had told her. “I should never laugh.”

Then she had answered: “But you would laugh more than anyone because you are cleverer than any.”

“Nay. Because I know more of what is in books than do your brothers and sisters, the more I understand. For is not understanding knowledge? When people laugh at others it is often because those others differ from themselves. Therefore the ignorant think them strange. But if you study the ways of men, you learn much; and as your knowledge grows there is little to surprise you. The man who travels the world, in time becomes no longer astonished by the looks and customs of men of other lands. Yet the man who lives in his village all his life, is amazed by the habits of the man dwelling but ten miles away.”