Chapter III: Father and Son

IT is possible that if Miles had been able to go to his brother's funeral feast, and take his part in the business and bustle he was sent for to undertake, the changes that he had noticed in the village, and heard of since, would not have made so deep an impression upon his mind. But, as it was, he could only lie in bed for some weeks and think over all he had heard and seen, varied with reading his precious Greek Testament, until at last he began to make comparison between the teaching of Christ in its pages and the practice of the world as exhibited by his father in the disposal of the land.

There was no opportunity to discuss this with his father, and Margery was the first to whom he had unburdened his mind upon the subject, but, now it had once been spoken of, he longed to talk to his father about the matter, and a few days after he had his talk with his sister the opportunity occurred.

His father came, to his room one morning to pay his customary visit, but instead of leaving him a few minutes afterwards, he said, "I want a talk with you, Miles, for John's death has put some of my business into confusion, and as you are my only son now you must do what you can to help me."

"Thank you; I shall be glad enough to help you, for time passes slowly here, so if you can give me some scrivener's work to do I will be careful to follow all your commands," said Miles.

His father smiled. "I have not much scrivener's work for you, it is but to write your name a few times. Perhaps you have not heard of the usage among the Patons in the matter of the land, but it is necessary if any changes are to be made in the letting and leasing that not only the landlord himself, but his heir, be he son, or brother, or nephew, shall conjoin with him in all such signing. Now you may have heard that we can make a good deal more by the land now than letting it at a low rent to a few yeomen to grow wheat and rye and oats."

"Did they fail to pay the rent when it fell due?" asked Miles, with a tremble in his voice, for he had never heard of this custom before, but he began to see that he would not be so powerless as he thought.

"Oh, yes, the knaves paid well enough," said his father, carelessly, "but the rent was small, and I began to see that they got far more profit out of the land than I did. They managed to bring up sons and daughters, feeding them well while they lived at home, and giving them as much as five pounds when they married."

"But—but was this more than fair?" asked Miles.

His father fidgetted on his stool. "It is not needful to talk about that. I am only doing what other landlords have done. I told Rankin that I must double his rent or turn the land into a sheep farm."

"But was there nothing less than doubling the rent, father? That—"

"Now, Miles, you are a scholar, and know all about Greek and Latin Testaments I daresay," interrupted his father, "but they have nothing to do with English land, and you cannot be expected to understand it either, and I don't ask you to trouble your wits about the matter. You enjoy yourself as much as you can while you are at home, and if you like to go back to Oxford for another year you shall do so, but if you like to take poor Jack's place at once, why, you have the right to it, and there will be plenty of hunting and hawking by-and-bye."

"Thank you, father, but we were talking about the land, and you seemed to think that my Greek New Testament could have nothing to say about such a matter as English land. But we have in this new book not a set of dogmas, but the very teaching of Christ Himself, and He says that we should do to others as we would they should do to us if we were in their place. Now, father, if we were yeomen like the Rankins and the Clarks, who have been turned off the land, do you think we should like such treatment?"

Sir Thomas sat and gazed at his son with parted lips and widely opened eyes, as though he thought he was crazed. "Is—is this the new learning I have heard you talk about?" he managed to say at last, in a sneering tone.

"It is the new light God bath given to the world through the New Testament of Erasmus," said Miles, firmly.

"Then it will turn the world upside down, and must be resisted at all costs," said his father. "We owners of English land know nothing about this foreigner and his books, so you need not tell me anything about them."

"Father, father, but you call yourself a Christian man," said Miles, in a tone of protest.

"To be sure I am a good Christian. See what it hath cost me for candles for poor Jack's funeral; why—"

"But buying candles for Jack's funeral is altogether another matter," said Miles, quickly. "The Lady Audrey and her family would probably require that that should be done."

But Miles found that the Lady Audrey and her family were a disagreeable topic to his father just now, for he fumed, and fretted, and swore a good many oaths before he grew calm again, and then it was to say, "I have promised to pay a hundred pounds to the holy Fathers at the monastery to say Masses for him. What more would you have? If I am not a Christian man I should like to see one."

"My father, people in olden time were called Christians because they tried to follow the example of the Christ and live as He taught them they should, and the first commandment he gave them was to love, or do to, their neighbour as they would have the neighbour do to them if they could exchange places. This is to be a Christian man, and I have resolved to make this the rule of my life."

"Then I shall have to build an iron cage for you as they do for madmen," said his father, with a mocking smile, and yet there was a threatening look in his eye that made Miles recall the horror he had once seen, of a madman confined in such a cage in an outhouse on his own estate. It was the ordinary treatment dealt out to maniacs in that age, and it warned him to be careful how he acted just now, for, above all things, he must be able to prove that he was perfectly sane, and no madman, if he was to do anything to help those who had always been dependents of the Paton family.

So after a pause he said, quite calmly, "I think you will find I am no madman, father, but—"

"Tut, tut, lad, I want no further talk on these matters; the scrivener will be here anon, and then I shall require you to affix your name to some parchments concerning matters that were to have been settled before John died."

"May I see these writings, and know what they are?" asked Miles.

Sir Thomas drew himself up, and looked angrily at the lad. "Am I to be dictated to by you?" he demanded.

"Nay, nay, father, but as you said the custom of the Patons was to make the heir responsible—"

"I take that responsibility," interrupted his father, loftily, "you do my bidding, I will see to the rest."

"Nay, but I cannot in this matter, father; since the law of this estate requires that I assent to what is done before it can be legally performed I must know whereof I—I am called upon to assent."

His father swore a good many oaths over this, but as Miles was rather singular in having given up this custom of the day, it did not hurt or surprise him much, though he hoped the matter might be settled amicably; but he began to fear that his refusal to sign parchments that would drive the tenants from their holdings would bring trouble upon him, and so he waited with some anxiety the coming of the scrivener from the monastery, for one of the monks drew up all the legal documents that were required in the management of the estate.

He did not see his father again that day, but his mother had evidently been told something of what had passed, for she was tearfully tender over him when he went down to her room the next morning. "Miles, I hope you will remember how much sorrow and trouble we have had of late," she said, plaintively.

Miles took her hand, and bowed his head as he raised it to his lips with all due reverence, not venturing to sit down in her presence until she bade him. But when he had seated himself upon the stool to which she pointed, he said, "My mother, I am sorely grieved for you and my father, and the more so that I can do so little to spare you."

"Yes, it bath fallen out sorely awry that you should be hurt at this time, and perchance some of those witless knaves may have had a hand in it."

"No, no, it was a fellow-student who struck me down," said Miles, quickly.

His mother waved her hand in deprecation of the interruption.

"It is not seemly to speak thus to me," she said. "Hear what I have to say. There is talk of witchcraft being at work, for it is passing strange that you and my poor John should both be struck down. But I shall pay little heed to such talk if you prove to us that you are not bewitched."

"How can I prove this, my mother?" asked Miles, seeing she waited for him to answer.

"How? By acting as an obedient son should to a loving father and mother. You know what I mean, Miles; John's signature would have been affixed to these parchments if he had lived a day longer. It was only the illness of Father Ralph that delayed their being signed a month before, and therefore I desire that you shall do without question what your brother would have done gladly."

"Will you tell me what these parchments are, and all about them?"

But the lady was saved from doing this by the announcement that Father Ralph had come, and was waiting to see Sir Thomas.

"Send him in here," said Lady Paton, and at the same moment she rose and went out of the room.

Miles bowed to the holy father as he took his seat at the table.

"My lady has bidden me read these parchments to you," said the monk, with scant ceremony, and the next minute he began mumbling over the legal phrases of a lease. But before he had read far Miles said,—

"Who is this Giles Morpeth who is to have three farms, and expel the present holders on so short a notice?"

"A citizen of London, I believe, who bath a mind to make money in wool. Is there aught to be said against that?"

"Yea, indeed! a good deal," said Miles, with a flash of anger, for the monk spoke in a sneering tone which he would not have used to his brother John. "In the first place these yeomen, who are to be driven forth, have done naught to deserve such treatment at our hands. They have dwelt on the land as long as we have, and wherefore should they be driven to the trade of thieves and beggars?"

"Is not the land your father's, and may he not do as he will with his own?"

"Nay, but it is not wholly his own, or the law would not give me a share in its disposal; and wherefore should I strip myself of my right to the disposal of the land for forty years, and give it to a stranger? Nay, I will have no hand in such robbery," said Miles.

This aspect of the case had not struck him before, but he saw at once that he was much more likely to be able to help the tenants if he made common cause with them. And, indeed, as he spoke, the look on the monk's face changed, and he said, "I thought it was this accursed Erasmus and his New Testament that made you unwilling to obey the command of Sir Thomas."

"Then my father hath told you of my objection to expel these poor people?"

"Nay, he told me you had gone mad over this new learning that threatened to turn the world upside down."

"Well, I am not so mad as to affix my name to that which will deprive me of all power over my own land for forty years. My father is an old man now, and worn with his service in the King's wars, and that he is not likely to live many years longer. Why then should he want me to do this thing?"

"Because he would fain see you a wealthy man. It was your brother's desire above all things, and this knight of the shambles—this London butcher—offered him a goodly rent for the land."

"I would not part with the land if the King himself offered me double what this butcher is offering," said Miles. "Not a rood shall be cut off from the rest with my assent," concluded Miles.

The monk sighed. "Wilt tell me what it is about, this New Testament side of the question?" he said, in a wheedling tone.

"Aye, and you can read it in your own Scriptorium, I doubt not,—'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.' Hast heard this before?"

"Yes, but this command is for the Church, that thou shalt not rob her of her dues, or be chary of help to her servants,—holy brethren like myself and brethren of the monastery."

Miles shook his head, but his father's words about the iron cage had warned him to be cautious what he said, and so, pointing to the roll of parchments, he asked, "Did these dispose of all the land but what my father holds for the pasture of sheep?"

"Yea; it is less trouble and expense to use the land so," said the monk.

"And where are we to buy corn if none is grown on our own English land?"

"I have nought to do with that, nor have you, Master Miles. It is your duty to obey your father, and not consider questions of State,—how the nation is to be fed."

"Nay, but I may consider how I am myself to be fed by-and-bye, I trow. Of what use is a goodly store of wool if there is no corn to make bread?"

"Corn can be bought in the Low Countries, whither we send our wool; but that is not the question we have to consider, but the signing these parchments for Master Morpeth, who is in haste to take possession."

"I have told you what I think of the matter: that I will not sell my birthright for a sack of wool or gold either. It will be mine own inheritance in a few years' time, and I may then sorely sorrow over it if I should give mine inheritance to a stranger now."

"And is this the answer I am to take to Sir Thomas?" asked the monk.

"Nay, I will talk with my father over the matter, but I shall not alter my present will about it."

"Nay, Sir Thomas will not talk again with thee upon this matter, but he bade me warn you that he should go to Diccon, the blacksmith, without delay," and as he spoke the monk watched Miles closely, to see what effect this threat had upon him.

Try as he would the lad could not keep the look of horror out of his eyes, or his cheeks from paling as he sat and looked at the rolls of parchment, which the monk deliberately put up while he watched the effect of his words upon the lad.

The result seemed to satisfy him, for, with a low chuckle, he said, as he bade Miles good morning, "You will sign these to-morrow."

Miles made no reply to this, but as soon as the monk had left the house, and he saw him striding back to the monastery, he went up to his sister's room—not to trouble her with what had passed—but to have one more talk with her, for when the monk said, "You will send for me again to-morrow," he resolved to go back to Oxford while he was able to do so, for he feared his father might carry out his threat in his anger and disappointment at his refusal to sign the parchments.

Fortunately he had a good sum of money that his father had given him the day before, and so he went to his sister's room first, and then to the stable to tell his servant to have the horses ready in a few minutes, as he intended to ride to the town of Woodstock.

He made no secret of this intention, and, meeting his mother, he told her of it, and bade her good-bye with all the affectionate deference she would permit.

As he rode through the park he looked back at his sister's window, and waved his hand to her in token of farewell, and then bade his servant ride on with all speed possible, as he hoped to reach Oxford by nightfall.

"Oxford?" queried the servant in a tone of amazement.

"Aye; did'st ever hear of mad Sir Philip Warren and his cage?" said Miles.

"Aye, I have, master," said the young fellow, with a shudder.

"Well, Oxford must save me from that fate. My father will have it that I am mad over some matters in which we cannot agree, and so I must leave home until his anger cools or his purpose changes, for I know not but they might drive me mad, and then put me in such a cage."

"And is that the business Diccon the blacksmith was to see about in such haste, Master Miles?"

"Then my father hath seen Diccon?" said the lad.

"Aye, he went to the forge while the monk was at the Hall," said the servant, and then both of them urged their horses into a canter, fur they must push on with all speed possible that the shelter of the college might be reached with as little delay as possible.