When the morning came, Amy's good temper was restored by her night's
rest, and she was inclined to look on her locking-in as a piece of
amusement.
"I vow, Bess, this is fun!" said she, "I've twenty minds to get out on
the roof, and see if I can reach the next window. It would be right
jolly to wake up Ellen Mallory--she's always lies abed while seven; and
I do think I could. Wilt aid me?"
Ellen Mallory was the next neighbour's daughter, a girl of about Amy's
age; and seven o'clock was considered a shocking late hour for rising in
1556.
"Mistress Amy, I do pray you never think of such a thing," cried
Elizabeth, in horror. "You'll be killed!"
"Well, I'm not wishful to be killed," answered Amy lightly: "I only want
some fun while we are shut up here. I marvel when Mother shall come to
let us out. She'll have to light the fire herself if she does not;
that's one good thing!"
Elizabeth thought it a very undutiful idea; but she was silent. If she
had but had wings like a dove, how gladly would she have flown to warn
her friends! She well knew that Mrs Clere was not likely to be in the
mood to grant a favour and let her go, after what had happened the night
before. To go without leave was a thing which Elizabeth never
contemplated. That would be putting herself in the wrong. But her poor
friends, would they escape? How if Robert Purcas had been stopped, as
she had? I was strange, but her imagination did not dwell nearly so
much upon her own friend, Rose, as on little Cissy. If Johnson were
taken, if he were martyred, what would become of little Cissy? The
child had crept into Elizabeth's heart, before she was aware. Suddenly
Amy's voice broke in upon her thoughts.
"Come, Bess, art in a better mood this morrow? I'll forgive thee thy
miss-words last night, if thou'lt tell me now."
All the cross words there had been the night before had come from Amy
herself; but Elizabeth let that pass.
"Mistress Amy," said she, "this matter is not one whereof I may speak to
you or any other. I was charged with a secret, and bidden not to
disclose the same. Think you I can break my word?"
"Dear heart! I break mine many a time in the week," cried Amy, with a
laugh. "I'm not _nigh_ so peevish as thou."
"But, Mistress Amy, it is not right," returned Elizabeth earnestly.
Before Amy could answer, Mrs Clere's heavy step was heard approaching
the door, and the key turned in the lock. Amy, who sat on the side of
the bed swinging her feet to and fro for amusement, jumped down.
"Mother, you'll get nought from her. I've essayed both last night and
this morrow, and I might as well have held my tongue."
"Go and light the fire," said Mrs Clere sternly to Elizabeth. "I'll
have some talk with thee at after."
Elizabeth obeyed in silence. She lighted the fire and buttered the
eggs, and swept the house, and baked the bread, and washed the clothes,
and churned the butter--all with a passionate longing to be free, hidden
in her heart, and constant ejaculatory prayers--silent ones, of course--
for the safely of her poor friends. Mrs Clere seemed to expect
Elizabeth to run away if she could, and she did not let her go out of
her sight the whole day. The promised scolding, however, did not come.
Supper was over, and the short winter day was drawing to its close, when
Nicholas Clere came into the kitchen.
"Here's brave news, Wife!" said he, "What thinkest? Here be an
half-dozen in the town arrest of heresy--and some without, too."
"Mercy on us! Who?" demanded Mrs Clere.
"Why, Master Benold, chandler, and Master Bongeor, glazier, and old
Mistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring at the mill--these did I hear.
I know not who else." And suddenly turning to Elizabeth, he said,
"Hussy, was this thine errand, or had it ought to do therewith?"
All the passionate pain and the earnest longing died out of the heart of
Elizabeth Foulkes. She stood looking as calm as a marble statue, and
almost as white.
"Master," she said, quietly enough, "mine errand was to warn these my
friends. God may yet save them, if it be His will. And may He not lay
to your charge the blood that will otherwise be shed!"
"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs Clere again, dropping her duster. "Why, the
jade's never a bit better than these precious friends of hers!"
"I'm sore afeared we have been nourishing a serpent in our bosoms," said
Nicholas, in his sternest manner. "I had best see to this."
"Well, I wouldn't hurt the maid," said his wife, in an uneasy tone;
"but, dear heart! we must see to ourselves a bit. We shall get into
trouble if such things be tracked to our house."
"So we shall," answered her husband. "I shall go, speak with the
priest, and see what he saith. Without"--and he turned to
Elizabeth--"thou wilt be penitent, and go to mass, and do penance for
thy fault."
"I am willing enough to do penance for my faults, Master," said
Elizabeth, "but not for the warning that I would have given; for no
fault is in it."
"Then must we need save ourselves," replied Nicholas: "for the innocent
must not suffer for the guilty. Wife, thou wert best lock up this hussy
in some safe place; and, daughter, go thou not nigh her. This manner of
heresy is infectious, and I would not have thee defiled therewith."
"Nay, I'll have nought to do with what might get me into trouble," said
Amy, flippantly. "Bessy may swallow the Bible if she likes; I shan't."
Elizabeth was silent, quietly standing to hear her doom pronounced. She
knew it was equivalent to a sentence of death. No priest, consulted on
such a subject would dare to leave the heretic undenounced. And she had
no friends save that widowed mother at Stoke Nayland--a poor woman,
without money or influence; and that other Friend who would be sure to
stand by her,--who, that He might save others, had not saved Himself.
Nicholas took up his hat and marched out, and Mrs Clere ordered
Elizabeth off to a little room over the porch, generally used as a
lumber room, where she locked her up.
"Now then, think on thy ways!" said she. "It'll mayhap do thee good.
Bread and water's all thou'lt get, I promise thee, and better than thy
demerits. Dear heart! to turn a tidy house upside-down like this, and
all for a silly maid's fancies, forsooth! I hope thou feels ashamed of
thyself; for I do for thee."
"Mistress, I can never be ashamed of God's truth. To that will I stand,
if He grant me grace."
"Have done with thy cant! I've no patience with it."
And Mistress Clere banged the door behind her, locked it, and left
Elizabeth alone till dinner-time, when she carried up a slice of bread--
only one, and that the coarsest rye-bread--and a mug of water.
"There!" said she. "Thou shouldst be thankful, when I've every bit of
work on my hands in all this house, owing to thy perversity!"
"I do thank you, Mistress," said Elizabeth, meekly. "Would you suffer
me to ask you one favour? I have served you well hitherto, and I never
disobeyed you till now."
It was true, and Mrs Clere knew it.
"Well, the brazen-facedness of some hussies!" cried she. "Prithee,
what's your pleasure, mistress? Would you a new satin gown for your
trial, and a pearl-necklace? or do you desire an hundred pounds given to
the judges to set you free? or would you a petition to the Queen's
Majesty, headed by Mr Mayor and my Lord of Oxenford?"
Elizabeth let the taunts go by her like a summer breeze. She felt them
keenly enough. Nobody enjoys being laughed at; but he is hardly worth
calling a man who allows a laugh to turn him out of the path of duty.
"Mistress," she said, quietly, "should you hear of any being arrested
for heresy, would you do me so much grace as to let me know the name?
and the like if you hear of any that have escaped?"
Mrs Clere looked down into the eyes that were lifted to her, as
Elizabeth stood before her. Quiet, meek, tranquil eyes, without a look
of reproach in them, with no anxiety save that aroused for the fate of
her friends. She was touched in spite of herself.
"Thou foolish maid!" said she. "Why couldst thou not have done as other
folks, and run no risks? I vow I'm well-nigh sorry for thee, for all
thy perversity. Well, we'll see. Mayhap I will, if I think on't."
"Thank you, Mistress!" said Elizabeth gratefully, as Mistress Clere took
the mug from her, and left the little porch-chamber as before, locking
her prisoner in the prison.