"And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer.
The sneer passed by Cissy quite harmlessly.
"God takes care of all of us," she said. "He helps Father to take care
of me, and He helps me to take care of Father."
"He'll be taken goodly care of when he's burned," said the gaoler
coarsely, taking another draught out of the tankard.
Cissy considered that point.
"Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn't expect to be taken better care of
than the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won't
signify when we get to Heaven, I suppose."
"Heretics don't go to Heaven!" replied Wastborowe.
"I don't know what heretics are," said Cissy; "but every body who loves
the Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, you
know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look after
us, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?"
"Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his
hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with
Cissy.
"Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on her
head.
"Is he angry, Father?" asked Cissy, looking up. "I said nothing wrong,
did I?"
"There's somewhat wrong," responded he, "but it's not thee, child."
Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug in
hand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with the
short command, "Fill that."
"You may tarry till I've done," answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. She
was the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. In
fact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she "was wrong side
up."
"Come, wife! I can't wait," replied Wastborowe in a tone which he never
used to any living creature but Audrey or a priest.
Audrey coolly set down the iron on its stand, folded up the shirt which
she had just finished, and laid another on the board.
"You can, wait uncommon well, John Wastborowe," said she; "you've had as
much as is good for you already, and maybe a bit to spare. I can't
leave my ironing."
"Am I to get it myself, then?" asked the gaoler, sulkily.
"Just as you please," was the calm response. "I'm not going."
Wastborowe took up his jug, went to the cellar, and drew the ale for
himself, in a meek, subdued style, very different indeed from the aspect
which he wore to his prisoners. He had scarcely left the door when a
shrill voice summoned him to--
"Come back and shut the door, thou blundering dizzard! When will men
ever have a bit of sense?"
The gaoler came back to shut the door, and then, returning to the
dungeon, showed himself so excessively surly and overbearing, that his
men whispered to one another that "he'd been having it out with his
mistress." Before he recovered his equanimity, the Bailiff returned and
called him into the courtyard.
"Hearken, Wastborowe: how many of these have you now in ward? Well-nigh
all, methinks." And he read over the list. "Elizabeth Wood, Christian
Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, Margaret Simson, Robert
Purcas, Agnes Silverside, John Johnson, Elizabeth Foulkes."
"Got 'em all save that last," said Wastborowe, "Who is she? I know not
the name. By the same token, what didst with the babe? There were
three of Johnson's children, and one in arms."
"Left it wi' Jane Hiltoft," said the gaoler, gruffly. "I didn't want it
screeching here."
The Bailiff nodded. "Maybe she can tell us who this woman is," said he;
and stepping a little nearer the porter's lodge, he summoned the
porter's wife.
Mrs Hiltoft came to the door with little Helen Johnson in her arms.
"Well, I don't know," said she. "I'll tell you what: you'd best ask
Audrey Wastborowe; she's a bit of a gossip, and I reckon she knows
everybody in Colchester, by name and face, if no more. She'll tell you
if anybody can."
The Bailiff stepped across the court, and rapped at the gaoler's door.
He was desired by a rather shrill voice to come in. He just opened the
door about an inch, and spoke through it.
"Audrey, do you know aught of one Elizabeth Foulkes?"
"Liz'beth What-did-you-say?" inquired Mrs Wastborowe, hastily drying
her arms on her apron, and coming forward.
"Elizabeth Foulkes," repeated the Bailiff.
"What, yon lass o' Clere's the clothier? Oh, ay, you'll find her in
Balcon Lane, at the Magpie. A tall, well-favoured young maid she is--
might be a princess, to look at her. What's she been doing, now?"
"Heresy," said the Bailiff, shortly.
"Heresy! dear, dear, to think of it! Well, now, who could have thought
it? But Master Clere's a bit unsteady in that way, his self, ain't he?"
"Oh nay, he's reconciled."
"Oh!" The tone was significant.
"Why, was you wanting yon maid o' Mistress Clere's?" said the porter's
wife. "You'll have her safe enough, for I met Amy Clere this even, and
she said her mother was downright vexed with their Bess, and had turned
the key on her. I did not know it was her you meant. I've never heard
her called nought but Bess, you see."
"Then that's all well," said Maynard. "I'll tarry for her till the
morrow, for I'm well wearied to-night."