“But, Mercy, if that love which is between us two is as strong as the love which is between me and the daughters of my own body, what difference can there be! You delight me, Mercy. You are all that I could wish for in a daughter. You must not wish for something which is already yours … in all that matters. I remember when you were a little girl and I took you to task for some small fault, your distress hurt me as much as the distress of any of the others would have done.”

She caught his hand and kissed it. “In those days,” she said, “I sometimes committed those faults that you might talk to me alone … even though it was to reprimand me.”

“Poor little Mercy! You felt you were left out then? You were the foster child? You wished to have attention … even if, to gain it, you must seem at fault?”

“It was that,” she answered. “But it was also that I might have the pleasure of standing before you and that you should be thinking of me … me … alone. Me … by myself, without Margaret.”

“Oh, Mercy … Mercy … you must not have such a high opinion of me. We must not set up gods on Earth, you know.”

She said: “I have set up nothing. I have lifted up my eyes and seen.”

He laughed. “Now to talk sense. Your wish was that you could be my true daughter. Now that you know there was no need for such a wish, what other wish have you, my child? Suppose I were a king with all the wealth in the world at my disposal, and I said I would grant you a favor, what would you say?”

She did not hesitate. “I would ask for a big house to which I could bring the sick and care for them, and gradually learn more and more, that I should know not only how to cure but prevent disease.”

“That's a noble wish, Mercy. Would I were a king… solely that I might grant it.”

So he watched her with John Clement, and his heart warmed toward them both; for he wished his girls to marry and have families. That was the happiest life, he was sure; he had proved it. And while Thomas was preparing to depart on his embassy, Mercy and John Clement were often together, and they talked of the terrible sickness which had taken a hold of the City.

“ 'Tis a marvelous thing,” said Mercy, “that there is not a single case of sickness here in Bucklersbury.”

“I have a theory on that matter,” said John Clement eagerly. “This street lacks the maleficent odors of other streets. Here we do not smell unpleasantness, but sweetness … the smell of musk, the smell of spices and perfumes and unguents.”

“Do you think, then, that the sickness comes from evil smells?”

“I believe this may be so; and if this street, as I believe has been the case in past epidemics, has not a single sufferer of the sweat while scarce a house in the rest of the City escapes, then might there not be something in the theory?”

Mercy was excited.

“Why,” she cried, “when Erasmus was here he condemned our houses. He did not like them at all. He said the rooms were built in such a way as to allow no ventilation. Our casements let in light, but not air; and the houses are so drafty. He said our custom of covering our floors with clay on which we laid rushes was a harmful one—particularly as in the poor cottages those rushes are not changed for twenty years. I know how angry Mother used to be when he complained about our rushes, although they were changed once a week. He said we should have windows that opened wide. He said that we ate too much—too many salted meats. He said our streets were filthy and a disgrace to a country that called itself civilized.”

“He sounds a very fierce gentleman.”

“He was … in some ways. In others he was mild. But I think there may be something in what he said about our houses, do you not, Master Clement?”

“I do indeed.”

“I am terrified that the sickness will come to this house. But I am glad that Father is leaving the country just now. He at least will get away from these pestiferous streets. You also, Master Clement…. But… it would be terrible if anything happened here … while he is gone. What should I do if any take die sickness?”

“You can do nothing about the drafts and the lack of good air in the house, of course. But I believe more frequent sweetening would prevent the disease coming here. Here is a good mixture for any afflicted: marigold, endive, sowthistle and nightshade—three handfuls of all; seethe them in conduit water—a quart of this; strain into a vessel with a little sugar. This will remove the sourness. Let the patient drink it. The patient should keep warm and lie in his bed when first the sweat takes him. If he is dressed, keep him dressed; and if he is undressed let him stay undressed, but cover up the bed… cover it well. I have known men and women recover when so treated.”

“Marigold, endive, nightshade and sowthistle. I will remember that.”

“I will tell you how to make the philosophers egg. Now, that is an excellent remedy for the sweat. It can be prepared in advance and you can keep it for years. In fact, it improves with keeping.”

“That would delight me greatly. Do tell me.”

“You take an egg and break a hole in it and take the yolk from the white as cleanly as you can. Fill the shell with the yolk and some saffron; then close the ends with eggshell. Put it in the embers and leave it until it be hard and can be made into a fine powder.”

Ailie came over to where they sat; she eyed them mischievously.

“What is it that interests you so much that you forget aught else?” she wanted to know.

“Master Clement is telling me how to make the philosopher's egg.”

“The philosophers egg! You mean that which changes base metals into gold or silver? Oh, Master Clement, I beg of you to tell me your secret.”

“You misunderstand,” said John Clement soberly.

“The philosophers egg” explained Mercy. “You think of the philosophers stone”

“And what magic powers hath this egg?”

“It cures the sick,” said Mercy.

“I would rather the stone,” said Ailie.

“Heed her not,” said Mercy with some impatience. “She loves to jest.”

Ailie stood by smiling at them, and John Clement went on: “You will need white mustard, dittony and termontell with a dram of crownuts; you must also add angelica and pimpernel, four grains of unicorns horn if you can get it. All these must be mixed with treacle until they hang to the pestle. I will write this out for you to keep. When this substance is made it can be put into glass boxes, and kept for years. Its great virtue is that the longer you keep it the better.”

“Oh thank you. I shall never forget your kindness.”

Ailie went to Cecily and whispered: “See how friendly they are becoming.”

“What is it he gives her?” asked Cecily.

“It is a love letter,” said Ailie. “To think that Mercy should have a lover before me.”

“Love letter! You are wrong, Ailie. It is a recipe for some medicine, I'll swear.”

“Ah, my dear little Cecily, that may be. But there are many kinds of love letters.”

And Ailie pouted, for she said she liked it not that any of the girls should have a lover before she did.

Alice laughed at the two young people. “Master More, what strange daughters you have! They love Latin verse better than fine clothes, and exchange recipes when other youths and maidens exchange love tokens.”

“That may be,” said Thomas, “but with my family—and this fits every member of it—with my family, I am well pleased.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice; but she herself was no less pleased.


* * *

THOMAS WROTE home regularly while he was away from them.

They must write to him for, he said, he missed them sorely, and it was only when he received their letters that he could be happy. He wanted to hear everything, no matter how trivial it seemed to them; if it concerned his home, that was enough to delight him. “There is no excuse for you girls,” he wrote. “Cannot girls always find something to chatter about? That is what I want you to do, my darlings. Take up your pens and chatter to your father.”

There was always a special compliment if Jack wrote anything. Poor Jack, now that he was growing up he was beginning to realize how difficult it was for a normal, healthy boy to compete with such brilliant sisters. Alice said it was God's rebuke on his father for having prated so much and so consistently about the equality of men's and women's brains when all the rest of the world opined that men were meant to be the scholars. Here are your brilliant daughters, perhaps God had said. And your son shall be a dullard.

Not that Jack was a dullard by any means; he was merely normal. He could not love lessons as he loved the outdoor life. Therefore his father wrote to his son very tenderly and cherished his efforts with the pen, encouraging him, understanding that all cannot love learning as some do.

He wrote enthusiastically to Margaret. He could not help it if writing to Margaret gave him pleasure which was greater than anything else he could enjoy during his sojourn abroad.

He was writing a book, which had long been in his mind, he told her. It consisted of imaginary conversations between himself and a man who had come from a strange land, which was called Utopia. They discussed the manners and customs of this land. The writing of this book was giving him great pleasure, and when he came home he would enjoy reading it to her.

“I showed one of your Latin essays to a very great man, Margaret. He is a great scholar, and you will be gratified when I tell you who he is. Reginald Pole. My dearest, he was astonished. He said that but for the fact that I assured him this was so, he would not have believed a girl—or anyone your age, boy or girl—could have done such work unaided. My dearest child, how can I explain to you my pride?”

He was a very proud man. He kept his children's writings with him, that he might read them through when he felt dejected and homesick; nor could he refrain from showing them to his friends and boasting a little. His pride and joy in his family was profound. He wrote to them:

My dearest children,

I hope that a letter to you all may find you in good health and that your father's good wishes may keep you so. In the meantime, while I make a long journey, drenched by soaking rain, and while my mount too frequently is bogged down in the mud, I compose this for you to give you pleasure. You will then gather an indication of your father's feelings for you—how much more than his own eyes he loves you; for the mud, the miserable weather and the necessity for driving a small horse through deep waters have not been able to distract my thoughts from you.…

Then he went on to tell them how he had always loved them and how he longed to be with them:

At the moment my love has increased so much that it seems to me that I used not to love you at all. Your characteristics tug at my heart, so bind me to you, that my being your father (the only reason for many a father's love) is hardly a reason at all for my love for you. Therefore, most dearly beloved children, continue to endear yourselves to your father, and by those same accomplishments, which make me think that I had not loved you before, make me think hereafter (for you can do it) that I do not love you now….

And so they waited, while the sweating sickness passed over Bucklersbury, for the return of the father whom they loved.


* * *

ONE DAY after his return when the family were gathered at the table, Thomas said to them: “I have a surprise for you all. There is to be a new addition to our family. I hope you will all make him welcome. I find him an interesting and charming person. I am sure you will too.”

“Is it a man?” asked Ailie, her eyes sparkling.

“It is, daughter.”

“Not a gray-bearded scholar this time, Father!”

“Half right and half wrong. A scholar but not a gray-bearded one. He is, I gather, some twenty years of age.”

“It is to be hoped he has not the finical manners of that Erasmus,” said Alice. “I want no more such foreigners in the house.”

“Nay, Alice, he is not a foreigner. He is an Englishman; and I doubt you will find him overfinical. He is of a very good family, I must tell you, and he comes to study the law with me.”

“Father,” cried Margaret, “how will you have time to help a young man with his studies, do your law work and serve the King and the Cardinal? You do too much. We shall never have you with us.”