The King's Achievement. Robert Hugh Benson

done by conscientious rather than by unscrupulous persons.

      He talked to him now very freely about the conversations in his father's house, knowing that Cromwell did not want more than a general specimen sketch of public feeling in matters at issue.

      "They have great faith in the Maid of Kent, sir," he said. "My brother-in-law, Nicholas, spoke of her prophecy of his Grace's death. It is the devout that believe in her; the ungodly know her for a fool or a knave."

      "Filii hujus saeculi prudentiores sunt,"—quoted Cromwell gravely. "Your brother-in-law, I should think, was a child of light."

      "He is, sir."

      "I should have thought so. And what else did you hear?"

      "There is a good deal of memory of the Lady Katharine, sir. I heard the foresters talking one day."

      "What of the Religious houses?"

      Ralph hesitated.

      "My brother Christopher has just gone to Lewes," he said. "So I heard more of the favourable side, but I heard a good deal against them, too. There was a secular priest talking against them one day, with our chaplain, who is a defender of them."

      "Who was he?" asked Cromwell, with the same sharp, oblique glance.

      "A man of no importance, sir; the parson of Great Keynes."

      "The Holy Maid is in trouble," went on the other after a minute's silence. "She is in my Lord of Canterbury's hands, and we can leave her there. I suppose she will be hanged."

      Ralph waited. He knew it was no good asking too much.

      "What she said of the King's death and the pestilence is enough to cast her," went on Cromwell presently. "And Bocking and Hadleigh will be in his hands soon, too. They do not know their peril yet."

      They went on to talk of the friars, and of the disfavour that they were in with the King after the unfortunate occurrences of the previous spring, when Father Peto had preached at Greenwich before Henry on the subject of Naboth's vineyard and the end of Ahab the oppressor. There had been a dramatic scene, Cromwell said, when on the following Sunday a canon of Hereford, Dr. Curwin, had preached against Peto from the same pulpit, and had been rebuked from the rood-loft by another of the brethren, Father Elstow, who had continued declaiming until the King himself had fiercely intervened from the royal pew and bade him be silent.

      "The two are banished," said Cromwell, "but that is not the end of it. Their brethren will hear of it again. I have never seen the King so wrathful. I suppose it was partly because the Lady Katharine so cossetted them. She was always in the church at the night-office when the Court was at Greenwich, and Friar Forrest, you know, was her confessor. There is a rod in pickle."

      Ralph listened with all his ears. Cromwell was not very communicative on the subject of the Religious houses, but Ralph had gathered from hints of this kind that something was preparing.

      When supper was over and the servants were clearing away, Cromwell went to the window where the glass glowed overhead with his new arms and scrolls—a blue coat with Cornish choughs and a rose on a fess between three rampant lions—and stood there, a steady formidable figure, with his cropped head and great jowl, looking out on to the garden.

      When the men had gone he turned again to Ralph.

      "I have something for you," he said, "but it is greater than those other matters—a fool could not do it. Sit down."

      He came across the room to the fireplace, as Ralph sat down, and himself took a chair by the table, lifting the baudkin cushion and settling it again comfortably behind him.

      "It is this," he said abruptly. "You know that Master More has been in trouble. There was the matter of the gilt flagon which Powell said he had taken as a bribe, and the gloves lined with forty pound. Well, he disproved that, and I am glad of it, glad of it," he repeated steadily, looking down at his ring and turning it to catch the light. "But there is now another matter—I hear he has been practising with the Holy Maid and hearkening to her ravings, and that my Lord of Rochester is in it too. But I am not sure of it."

      Cromwell stopped, glanced up at Ralph a moment, and then down again.

      "I am not sure of it," he said again, "and I wish to be. And I think you can help me."

      Ralph waited patiently, his heart beginning to quicken. This was a great matter.

      "I wish you to go to him," said his master, "and to get him into talk.

       But I do not see how it can be managed."

      "He knows I am in your service, sir," suggested Ralph.

      "Yes, yes," said Cromwell a little impatiently, "that is it. He is no fool, and will not talk. This is what I thought of. That you should go to him from me, and feign that you are on his side in the matter. But will he believe that?" he ended gloomily, looking at the other curiously.

      There was silence for a minute, while Cromwell drummed his fingers softly on the table. Then presently Ralph spoke.

      "There is this, sir," he said. "I might speak to him about my brother Chris who, as I told you, has gone to Lewes at the Maid's advice, and then see what Master More has to say."

      Cromwell still looked at him.

      "Yes," he said, "that seems reasonable. And for the rest—well, I will leave that in your hands."

      They talked a few minutes longer about Sir Thomas More, and Cromwell told the other what a quiet life the ex-Chancellor had led since his resignation of office, of his house at Chelsea, and the like, and of the decision that he had apparently come to not to mix any further in public affairs.

      "There is thunder in the air," he said, "as you know very well, and

       Master More is no mean weather-prophet. He mis-liked the matter of the

       Lady Katharine, and Queen Anne is no friend of his. I think he is wise

       to be quiet."

      Ralph knew perfectly well that this tolerant language did not represent Cromwell's true attitude towards the man of whom they were speaking, but he assented to all that was said, and added a word or two about Sir Thomas More's learning, and of the pleasant manner in which he himself had been received when he had once had had occasion to see him before.

      "He was throwing Horace at me," said the other, with a touch of bitterness, "the last time that I was there. I do not know which he loves best, that or his prayers."

      Again Ralph recognised an animus. Cromwell had suffered somewhat from lack of a classical education.

      "But it is a good thing to love the classics and devotion," he went on presently with a sententious air, "they are solaces in time of trouble. I have found that myself."

      He glanced up at the other and down again.

      "I was caught saying our Lady matins one day," he said, "when the

       Cardinal was in trouble. I remember I was very devout that morning."

      He went on to talk of Wolsey and of his relations with him, and Ralph watched that heavy smooth face become reminiscent and almost sentimental.

      "If he had but been wiser;" he said. "I have noticed again and again the folly of wise men. There is always clay mixed with gold. I suppose nothing but the fire that Fryth denied can purge it out; and my lord's was ambition."

      He wagged his head in solemn reprobation, and Ralph did not know whether to laugh or to look grave. Then there fell a long silence, and Cromwell again fell to fingering his signet-ring, taking it off his thumb and rolling it on the smooth oak, and at last stood up with a brisker air.

      "Well," he said, "I have a thousand affairs, and my son Gregory is coming here soon. Then you will see about that matter. Remember I wish to know what Master More thinks of her, that—that I may know what to think."

      * * * * *

      Ralph