Elizabeth Foulkes was almost in despair. Her master held her arm tight,
and he was a strong man--to break away from him was simply impossible--
and to persuade him to release her seemed about as unlikely. Still she
cried, "Master, let me go!" in tones that might have melted any softer
heart than that of Nicholas Clere.
"Step out!" was all he said, as he compelled Elizabeth to keep pace with
him till they reached Balcon Lane. Mrs Clere was busy in the kitchen.
She stopped short as they entered, with a gridiron in her hand which she
had cleaned and was about to hang up.
"Well, this is a proper time of night to come home, mistress! Marched
in, too, with thy master holding of thee, as if the constable had thee
in custody! This is our pious maid, that can talk nought but Bible, and
says her prayers once a day oftener nor other folks! I always do think
that sort no better than hypocrites. What hath she been about,
Nicholas? what saith she?"
"A pack o' lies!" said Nicholas, harshly. "Whined out a tale of some
message of dread import that somebody, that must not be named, hath sent
her on. I found her hasting with all speed across the High Street, the
contrary way from what it should have been. You'd best give her the
strap, wife. She deserves it, or will ere long."
Nicholas sat down in the chimney-corner, leaving Mistress Clere to deal
with the offender. Elizabeth well knew that the strap was no figure of
speech, and that Mistress Clere when angry had no light hand. Girls
were beaten cruelly in those days, and grown women too, when their
mothers or mistresses chose to punish them for real or supposed
offences. But Elizabeth Foulkes thought very little of the pain she
might suffer, and very much of the needed warning which had not been
given. And then, suddenly, the words flashed across her, "Thy will be
done on earth, as it is in Heaven." Then the warning was better let
alone, if it were God's will. She rose with a calmer face, and followed
Mistress Clere to the next room to receive her penalty.
"There!" said that lady, when her arm began to ache with beating
Elizabeth. "That'll do for a bit, I hope. Perhaps thou'lt not be so
headstrong next time. I vow, she looks as sweet as if I'd given her a
box of sugar plums! I'm feared thou'd have done with a bit more, but
I'm proper tired. Now, speak the truth: who sent thee on this
wild-goose chase?"
"Mistress, I was trusted with a secret. Pray you, ask me not."
"Secret me no secrets! I'll have it forth."
"Not of me," said Elizabeth, quietly, but firmly.
"Highty-tighty! and who art thou, my lady?"
"I am your servant, mistress, and will do your bidding in everything
that toucheth not my duty to God Almighty. But this I cannot."
"I'll tell thee what, hussy! it was never good world since folks set up
to think for themselves what was right and wrong, instead of hearkening
to the priest, and doing as they were bid, Thou'rt too proud, Bess
Foulkes, that's where it is, with thy pretty face and thy dainty ways.
Go thou up and get thee abed--it's on the stroke of nine: and I'll come
and lock thee in. Dear heart, to see the masterfulness of these maids!"
"Mistress," said Elizabeth, pausing, "I pray you reckon me not
disobedient, for in very deed I have ever obeyed you, and yet will,
touching all concerns of yours: but under your good leave, this matter
concerns you not, and I have no freedom to speak thereof."
"In very deed, my lady," said Mistress Clere, dropping a mock courtesy,
"I desire not to meddle with your ladyship's high matters of state, and
do intreat you of pardon that I took upon me so weighty a matter. Go
get thee abed, hussy, and hold thine idle tongue!"
Elizabeth turned and went upstairs in silence. Words were of no use.
Mistress Clere followed her. In the bedroom where they both slept,
which was a loft with a skylight, was Amy, half undressed, and employed
in her customary but very unnecessary luxury of admiring herself in the
glass.
"Amy, I'm going to turn the key. Here's an ill maid that I've had to
take the strap to: see thou fall not in her ways. I'll let you out in
the morning."
So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girls
together.
Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share of
curiosity. The people who do the world's work, or who go about doing
good, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much Miss
Smith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday to
dinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, to
give themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel the
slightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people--poor pitiable
things!--who do not know what to do with themselves, are often very
ready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itself
in their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and a
delight to them.
No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifying
occupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on the
side of the bed.
"Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thou
mayest tell me; I'll not make no mischief, and I'd love dearly to hear
all about it."
If experience had assured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that she
might as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to Amy
Clere.
"I have offenced Mistress," said she, "and I am sorry thereat: yet I did
but what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, Mistress
Amy."
"But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me."
Elizabeth shook her head. "Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, I
pray you, and me likewise, for of a truth I am sore wearied."
"Come, Bessy, don't be grumpy! let's know what it was. Life's monstrous
tiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all about
it."
"Maybe there'll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy," answered
Elizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of what
might be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy's father
at any rate would be safe: thank God for that!
"Why will there? Hast been at one to-night?"
"No." Elizabeth checked herself from saying more. What a difference
there was between Amy's fancies and the stern realities she knew!
"There's no lugging nought out of thee!" said Amy with a pout. "Thou'rt
as close shut as an oyster shell."
And she went back to the mirror, and began to plait her hair, the more
conveniently to tuck it under her night-cap. Oh, how Elizabeth longed
for a safe confidant that night! Sometimes she felt as though she must
pour out her knowledge and her fears--to Amy, if she could get no one
else. But she knew too well that, without any evil intention, Amy would
be certain to make mischief from sheer love of gossip, the moment she
met with any one who would listen to her.
"Mistress Amy, I'm right weary. Pray you, leave me be."
"Hold thy tongue if thou wilt. I want nought with thee, not I," replied
Amy, with equal crossness and untruth, since, as she would herself have
expressed it, she was dying to know what Elizabeth could have done to
make her mother so angry. But Amy was angry herself now. "Get thee
abed, Mistress Glum-face; I'll pay thee out some day: see if I don't!"
Elizabeth's reply was to kneel down for prayer. There was one safe
Confidant, who could be relied upon for sympathy and secrecy: and He
might be spoken to without words. It was well; for the words refused to
come. Only one thing would present itself to Elizabeth's weary heart
and brain: and that was the speech of little Cissy, that, "it would be
all right if she asked God to see to it." A sob broke from her, as she
sent up to Heaven the one petition of which alone she felt capable just
then--"Lord, help me!" He would know how and when to help. Elizabeth
dropped her trouble into the Almighty hands, and left it there. Then
she rose, undressed, and lay down beside Amy, who was already in bed.
Amy Clere was not an ill-natured girl, and her anger never lasted long.
When she heard Elizabeth's sob, her heart smote her a little: but she
said to herself, that she was "not going to humble herself to that
crusty Bess," so she turned round and went to sleep.