The Commissioners who tried these prisoners were thoroughly worldly men,
who really cared nothing about the doctrines which they burned people
for not believing. Had it been otherwise, when Queen Elizabeth came to
the throne, less than two years afterwards, these men would have shown
themselves willing to suffer in their turn. But most of them did not do
this--seldom even to the extent of losing promotion, scarcely ever to
that of losing life. They simply wheeled round again to what they had
been in the reign of Edward the Sixth.
It is possible to respect men who are willing to lose their lives for
the sake of what they believe to be true, even though you may think them
quite mistaken. But how can you respect a man who will not run the risk
of losing a situation or a few pounds in defence of the truth? It is
not possible.
After the trial of the Colchester prisoners, the Commissioners passed on
to other places, and the town was quiet for a time. Mrs Silverside,
Johnson and the children, and Purcas, remained in prison in the Moot
Hall, and Elizabeth Foulkes was as truly a prisoner in the house of
Henry Ashby. At first she was very kindly treated, in the hope of
inducing her to recant. But as time went on, things were altered. Mr
Ashby found that what Elizabeth understood by "being shown God's true
way," was not being argued with by a priest, nor being commanded to obey
the Church, but being pointed to some passage in the Bible which agreed
with what he said; and since what he said was not in accordance with the
Bible, of course he could not show her any texts which agreed with it.
The Church of Rome herself admits that people who read the Bible for
themselves generally become Protestants. Does not common sense show
that in that case the Protestant doctrines must be the doctrines of the
Bible? Why should Rome be so anxious to shut up the Bible if her own
doctrines are to be found there?
Above four months passed on, and no change came to the prisoners, but
there had not been any fresh arrests. The other Gospellers began to
breathe more freely, and to hope that the worst had come already. Mrs
Wade was left at liberty; Mr Ewring had not been taken; surely all
would go well now!
How often we think the worst must be over, just a minute before it comes
upon us!
A little rap on Margaret Thurston's door brought her to open it.
"Why, Rose! I'm fain to see thee, maid. Come in."
"My mother bade me tell you, Margaret," said Rose, when the door was
shut, "that there shall be a Scripture reading in our house this even.
Will you come?"
"That will we, right gladly, dear heart. At what hour?"
"Midnight. We dare not afore."
"We'll be there. How fares thy mother to-day?"
"Why, not over well. She seems but ill at ease. Her hands burn, and
she is ever athirst. 'Tis an ill rheum, methinks."
"Ay, she has caught a bad cold," said Margaret. "Rose, I'll tell you
what--we'll come a bit afore midnight, and see if we cannot help you.
My master knows a deal touching herbs; he's well-nigh as good as any
apothecary, though I say it, and he'll compound an herb drink that shall
do her good, with God's blessing, while I help you in the house. What
say you? Have I well said?"
"Indeed, Margaret, and I'd be right thankful if you would, for it'll be
hard on Father if he's neither Mother nor me to do for him--she, sick
abed, and me waiting on her."
"Be sure it will! But I hope it'll not be so bad as that. Well, then,
look you, we'll shut up the hut and come after you. You haste on to
her, and when I've got things a bit tidy, and my master's come from
work--he looked to be overtime to-night--we'll run over to Bentley, and
do what we can."
Rose thanked her again, and went on with increased speed. She found her
mother no better, and urged her to go to bed, telling her that Margaret
was close at hand. It was now about five in the afternoon.
Alice agreed to this, for she felt almost too poorly to sit up. She
went to bed, and Rose flew about the kitchen, getting all finished that
she could before Margaret should arrive.
It was Saturday night, and the earliest hours of the Sabbath were to be
ushered in by the "reading." Only a few neighbours were asked, for it
was necessary now to be very careful. Half-a-dozen might be invited, as
if to supper; but the times when a hundred or more had assembled to hear
the Word of God were gone by. Would they ever come again? They dared
not begin to read until all prying eyes and ears were likely to be
closed in sleep; and the reader's voice was low, that nobody might be
roused next door. Few people could read then, especially among the
labouring class, so that, except on these occasions, the poorer
Gospellers had no hope of hearing the words of the Lord.
The reading was over, and one after another of the guests stole silently
out into the night--black, noiseless shadows, going up the lane into the
village, or down it on the way to Thorpe. At length the last was gone
except the Thurstons, who offered to stay for the night. John Thurston
lay down in the kitchen, and Margaret, finding Alice Mount apparently
better, said she would share Rose's bed.
Alice Mount's malady was what we call a bad feverish cold, and generally
we do not expect it to do anything more than make the patient very
uncomfortable for a week. But in Queen Mary's days they knew very much
less about colds than we do, and they were much more afraid of them. It
was only six years since the last attack of the terrible sweating
sickness--the last ever to be, but they did not know that--and people
were always frightened of anything like a cold turning to that dreadful
epidemic wherein, as King Edward the Sixth writes in his diary, "if one
took cold he died within three hours, and if he escaped, it held him but
nine hours, or ten at the most." It was, therefore, a relief to hear
Alice say that she felt better, and urge Rose to go to bed.
"Well, it scarce seems worth while going to bed," said Margaret. "What
time is it? Can you see the church clock, Rose?"
"We can when it's light," said Rose; "but I think you'll not see it
now."
Margaret drew back the little curtain, but all was dark, and she let it
drop again.
"It'll be past one, I reckon," said she.
"Oh, ay; a good way on toward two," was Rose's answer.
"Rose, have you heard aught of Bessy Foulkes of late?"
"Nought. I've tried to see her, but they keep hot so close at Master
Ashby's there's no getting to her."
"And those poor little children of Johnson's. They're yet in prison,
trow?"
"Oh, ay. I wish they'd have let us have the baby Jane Hiltoft has it.
She'll care it well enough for the body: but for the soul--"
"Oh, when Johnson's burned--as he will be, I reckon--the children 'll be
bred up in convents, be sure," was Margaret's answer.
"Nay! I'll be sure of nought so bad as that, as long as God's in
heaven."
"There's no miracles now o' days, Rose."
"There's God's care, just as much as in Elijah's days. And, Margaret,
they've burned little children afore now."
"Eh, don't, Rose! you give me the cold chills!"
"What's that?" Rose was listening intently.
"What's what?" said Margaret, who had heard nothing.
"That! Don't you hear the far-off tramp of men?"
They looked at each other fearfully. Margaret knew well enough of what
Rose thought--the Bailiff and his searching party. They stopped their
undressing. Nearer and nearer came that measured tread of a body of
men. It paused, went on, came close under the window, and paused again.
Then a thundering rattle came at the door.
"Open, in the Queen's name!"
Then they knew it had come--not the worst, but that which led to it--the
beginning of the end.
Rose quietly, but quickly, put her gown on again. Before she was ready,
she heard her step-father's heavy tread as he went down the stairs;
heard him draw the bolt, and say, as he opened the door, in calm tones--
"Good-morrow, Master Bailiff. Pray you enter with all honour, an' you
come in the Queen's name."
Just then the church clock struck two. Two o'clock on the Sabbath
morning!