The feast began with the reading of the Gospel; at the close, Mr. John struck with his hand upon the table as a signal for conversation; the doors opened; the servants came in, and a babble of talk broke out.  At the high table the master of the house presided, with the priest on his right, Mrs. Manners and Marjorie beyond him; on his left, Mrs. Fenton and her lord.  At the other two tables Mr. Thomas presided at one and Mr. Babington at the other.

The talk was, of course, within the bounds of discretion; though once and again sentences were spoken which would scarcely have pleased the minister of the parish.  For they were difficult times in which they lived; and it is no wonder at all if bitterness mixed itself with charity.  Here was Mr. John, for instance, come to Padley expressly for the selling of some meadows to meet his fines; here was his son Thomas, the heir now, not only to Padley, but to Norbury, whose lord, his uncle, lay in the Fleet Prison.  Here was Mr. Fenton, who had suffered the like in the matter of fines more than once.  Hardly one of the folk there but had paid a heavy price for his conscience; and all the worship that was permitted to them, and that by circumstance, and not by law, was such as they had engaged in that morning with shuttered windows and a sentinel for fear that, too, should be silenced.

They talked, then, guardedly of those things, since the servants were in and out continually, and though all professed the same faith as their masters, yet these were times that tried loyalty hard.  Mr. John, indeed, gave news, of his brother Sir Thomas, and said how he did; and read a letter, too, from Italy, from his younger brother Nicholas, who was fled abroad after a year’s prison at Oxford; but the climax of the talk came when dinner was over, and the muscadel, with the mould-jellies, had been put upon the tables.  It was at this moment that Mr. John nodded to his son, who went to the door, to see the servants out, and stood by it to see that none listened.  Then his father struck his hands together for silence, and himself spoke.

“Mr. Simpson,” he said, “has something to say to us all.  It is not a matter to be spoken of lightly, as you will understand presently....  Mr. Simpson.”

The priest looked up timidly, pulling out a paper from his pocket.

“You have heard of Mr. Nelson?” he said to the company.  “Well, he was a priest; and I have news of his death.  He was executed in London on the third of February for his religion.  And another man, a Mr. Sherwood, was executed a few days afterwards.”