"Must you be gone, Bessy?" said Dorothy Denny, sitting down on the side
of her bed with a weary air. "Eh, I'm proper tired! Thought this day
'd never come to an end, I did. Couldn't you tarry a bit longer?"
"I don't think I ought, Dorothy. Your mistress looked to see Rose abed
by now, 'twas plain; and mine gave me leave but till eight o' the clock.
I'd better be on my way."
"Oh, you're one of that sort that's always thinking what they _ought_,
are you? That's all very well in the main; but, dear heart! one wants a
bit of what one would like by nows and thens."
"One gets that best by thinking what one ought," said Elizabeth.
"Ay, but it's all to come sometime a long way off; and how do I know
it'll come to me? Great folks doesn't take so much note of poor ones,
and them above 'll very like do so too."
"There's only One above that has any right to bid aught," answered
Elizabeth, "and He takes more note of poor than rich, Doll, as you'll
find by the Bible. Good-night, Rose; good-night, Dorothy."
And Elizabeth ran lightly down the stairs, and out so into the street.
She had a few minutes left before the hour at which Mrs Clere had
enjoined her to be back, so she did not need to hurry, and she went
quietly on towards Balcon Lane, carrying her lantern--for there were no
street lamps, and nobody could have any light on a winter evening except
what he carried with him. Just before she turned the corner of the lane
she met two women, both rather heavily laden. Elizabeth was passing on,
when her steps were arrested by hearing one of them say,--
"I do believe that's Bess Foulkes; and if it be--"
Elizabeth came to a standstill.
"Yes, I'm Bess Foulkes," she said. "What of that?"
"Why, then, you'll give me a lift, be sure, as far as the North Hill.
I've got more than I can carry, and I was casting about for a face I
knew."
"I've not much time to spare," said Elizabeth; "but I'll give you a lift
as far as Saint Peter's--I can't go further. Margaret Thurston, isn't
it? I must be in by eight; I'll go with you till then."
"I've only to go four doors past Saint Peter's, so that'll do well. You
were at the preaching, weren't you, this even?"
"Ay, and I thought I saw you."
"Yes, I was there. He talked full bravely. I marvel if he'd stand if
it came to it. I don't think many would."
"I misdoubt if any would, without God held them up."
"Margaret says she's sure she would," said the other woman.
"Oh, ay, I don't doubt myself," said Margaret.
"Then I cry you mercy, but I doubt you," replied Elizabeth.
"I'm sure you needn't! I'd never flinch for pope nor priest."
"Maybe not; but you might for rack or stake."
"It'll ne'er come to that here. Queen Mary's not like to forget how
Colchester folk all stood with her against Lady Jane."
"She mayn't; but think you the priests shall tarry at that? and she'll
do as the priests bid her."
"Ay, they say my Lord of Winchester, when he lived, had but to hold up
his finger, and she'd have followed him, if it were over London Bridge
into the Thames," said the other woman. "And the like with my Lord
Cardinal, that now is."
By "my Lord of Winchester" she meant Bishop Gardiner, who had been dead
rather more than a year. The Cardinal was Reginald Pole, the Queen's
third cousin, who had lately been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, in
the room of the martyred Cranmer, "Why, the Queen and my Lord Cardinal
were ever friends, from the time they were little children," answered
Margaret.
"Ay, there was talk once of her wedding with him, if he'd not become a
priest. But I rather reckon you're right, my maid: a priest's a priest,
without he's a Gospeller; and there's few of them will think more of
goodness and charity than of their own order and of the Church."
"Goodness and charity? Marry, there's none in 'em!" cried Margaret.
"Howbeit, here's the Green Sleeves, where I'm bound, and I'm beholden to
you, Bessy, for coming with me. Good even."
Elizabeth returned the greeting, and set off to walk back at a quick
pace to Balcon Lane. She had not gone many steps when she was once more
stopped, this time by a young man, named Robert Purcas, a fuller, who
lived in the neighbouring village of Booking.
"Bessy," said he. "It is thou, I know well, for I heard thee bid
Margaret Thurston good den, and I should know thy voice among a
thousand."
"I cannot 'bide, Robin. I'm late, even now."
"Tarry but one minute, Bessy. Trust me, thou wouldst if--"
"Well, then, make haste," said Elizabeth, pausing.
"Thou art friends with Alice Mount, of Bentley, and she knows Mistress
Ewring, the miller's wife."
"Ay; well, what so?"
"Bid Alice Mount tell Master Ewring there's like to be a writ out
against him for heresy and contumaciousness toward the Church. Never
mind how I got to know; I know it, and that's enough. He, and Mistress
Silverside, and Johnson, of Thorpe, be like enough to come into court.
Bessy, take heed to thy ways, I pray thee, that thou be not suspect."
No thought of herself had caused Elizabeth Foulkes to lay her hand
suddenly on the buttress of Saint Peter's, beside her. The father who
was so dear to little Cissy was in imminent danger; and Cissy had just
been asking God to send somebody to see after him. Elizabeth's voice
was changed when she spoke again.
"They must be warned," she said. "Robin, thou and I must needs do this
errand to-night. I shall be chidden, but that does not matter. Canst
thou walk ten miles for the love of God?"
"I'd do that for the love of thee, never name God."
Elizabeth did not answer the words. There was too much at stake to lose
time.
"Then go thou to Thorpe, and bid Johnson get away ere they take him.
Mistress Wade has the children, and she'll see to them, or Alice Mount
will. I must--"
"Thou'd best not put too much on Alice Mount, for Will Mount's as like
as not to be in the next batch."
"Lord, have mercy on us! I'll go warn them--they are with Mistress
Ewring at the mill; and then I'll go on to Mistress Silverside. Make
haste, Robin, for mercy's sake!"
And, without waiting for anything more, Elizabeth turned and ran up the
street as fast as she dared in the comparative darkness. Streets were
very rough in those days, and lanterns would not light far.
Old Mistress Silverside lived in Tenant's Lane, which was further off
than the mill. Elizabeth ran across from the North Hill to Boucher's
Street, and up that, towards the gate, beyond which the mill stood on
the bank of the Colne. Mr Ewring, the miller, was a man who kept early
hours; and, as Elizabeth ran up to the gate, she saw that the lights
were already out in the windows of the mill. The gate was closed.
Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window, and the shutter was opened, but,
all being dark inside, she could not see by whom.
"Prithee, let me through the gate. I've a message of import for Master
Ewring, at the mill."
"Gate's shut," said the gruff voice of the gatekeeper. "Can't let any
through while morning."
"Darnell, you'll let me through!" pleaded Elizabeth. "I'm servant to
Master Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane, and I'm sent with a message of
grave import to the mill."
"Tell Master Clere, if he wants his corn ground, he must send by
daylight."
And the wooden shutter was flung to. Elizabeth stood for an instant as
if dazed.
"I can't get to them," she said to herself. "There's no chance that
way. I must go to Tenant's Lane."
She turned away from the gate, and went round by the wall to the top of
Tenant's Lane.
"Pray God I be in time to warn somebody! We are all in danger, we who
were at the preaching to-night, and Mistress Wade most of all, for it
was in her house. I'll go to the King's Head ere I go home."
Thus thinking, Elizabeth reached Mrs Silverside's, and rapped at the
door. Once--twice--thrice--four times. Not a sound came from inside,
and she was at last sorrowfully compelled to conclude that nobody was at
home. Down the lane she went, and came out into High Street at the
bottom.
"Then I can only warn Mistress Wade. I dare be bound she'll let the
others know, as soon as morning breaks. I do trust that will be time
enough."
She picked her way across High Street, and had just reached the opposite
side, when her arm was caught as if in an iron vice, and she felt
herself held fast by greater strength than her own.
"Hussy, what goest thou about?" said the stern voice of her master,
Nicholas Clere.