Once more the days wore on, and no fresh arrests were made; but no help
came to the prisoners in the Castle and the Moot Hall, nor to Elizabeth
Foulkes in the keeping of Mr Ashby. Two priests had talked to
Elizabeth, and the authorities were beginning to change their opinion
about her. They had fancied from her quiet, meek appearance, that she
would be easily prevailed upon to say what they wanted. Now they found
that under that external softness there was a will of iron, and a power
of endurance beyond anything they had imagined.
The day of examination for all the prisoners--the last day, when they
would be sentenced or acquitted--was appointed to be the 23rd of June.
On the previous day the Commissioners called Elizabeth Foulkes before
them. She came, accompanied by Mr Ashby and her uncle; and they asked
her only one question.
"Dost thou believe in a Catholic Church of Christ, or no?"
Of course Elizabeth replied "Yes," for the Bible has plenty to say of
the Church of Christ, though it never identifies it with the Church of
Rome. They asked her no more, for Boswell, the scribe, interposed, and
begged that she might be consigned to the keeping of her uncle. The
Commissioners assented, and Holt took her away. It looks very much as
if Boswell had wanted her to escape. She was much more carelessly
guarded in her uncle's house than in Mr Ashby's, and could have got
away easily enough if she had chosen. She was more than once sent to
open the front door, whence she might have slipped out after dark with
almost a certainty of escape. It was quite dark when she answered the
last rap.
"Pray you," asked an old man's voice, "is here a certain young maid, by
name Elizabeth Foulkes?"
"I am she, master. What would you with me?"
"A word apart," he answered in a whisper. "Be any ears about that
should not be?"
Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, and
her two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women then
wore.
"None that can harm. Say on, my master."
"Bessy, dost know my voice?"
"I do somewhat, yet I can scarce put a name thereto."
"I am Walter Purcas, of Booking."
"Robin's father! Ay, I know you well now, and I cry you mercy that I
did no sooner."
"Come away with me, Bessy!" he said, in a loud whisper. "I have walked
all the way from Booking to see if I might save thee, for Robin's sake,
for he loves thee as he loveth nought else save me. Mistress Wade shall
lend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o'er, in the house of
a good man that I know in a place unsuspect. O Bessy, my dear lass,
save thyself and come with me!"
"Save thyself!" The words had been addressed once before, fifteen
hundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came to
save the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions--one fair
and sweet enough, a vision of safety and comfort, of life and happiness,
which might be yet in state for her. But it was blotted out by the
other--a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One who
hung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory of
the Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that cross
a voice seemed to whisper to her--"If any man serve Me, let him follow
Me."
"Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought," said she, "but
indeed I cannot come with you, though I do thank you with all my heart.
I am set here in ward of mine uncle, and for me to 'scape away would
cause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. And
should not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage to
stand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this will
I not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of my
Christ."
"Bessy!" cried her aunt from the kitchen, "do come within and shut the
door, maid! Here's the wind a-blowing in till I'm nigh feared o' losing
my ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriest
chatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring her
in?"
"Bessy, _come_!" whispered Purcas earnestly.
But Elizabeth shook her head. "The Lord bless you! I dare not." And
she shut the door, knowing that by so doing, she virtually shut it upon
life and happiness--that is, happiness in this life. Elizabeth went
quietly back to the kitchen, and took up an iron. She scarcely knew
what she was ironing, nor how she answered her cousin Dorothy's rather
sarcastic observations upon the interesting conversation which she
seemed to have had. A few minutes later her eldest cousin, a married
woman, who lived in a neighbouring street, lifted the latch and came in.
"Good even, Mother!" said she. "Well, Doll, and Jenny! So thou gave in
at last, Bess? I'm fain for thee. It's no good fighting against a
stone wall."
"What dost thou mean, Chrissy?"
"What mean I? Why, didn't thou give in? Lots o' folks is saying so.
Set thy name, they say, to a paper that thou'd yield to the Pope, and be
obedient in all things. I hope it were true."
"True! that I yielded to the Pope, and promised to obey him!" cried
Elizabeth in fiery indignation. "It's not true, Christian Meynell!
Tell every soul so that asks thee! I'll die before I do it. Where be
the Commissioners?"
"Thank the saints, they've done their sitting," said Mrs Meynell,
laughing: "or I do believe this foolish maid should run right into the
lion's den. Mother, lock her up to-morrow, won't you, without she's
summoned?"
"Where are they?" peremptorily demanded Elizabeth.
"Sitting down to their supper at Mistress Cosin's," was the laughing
answer. "Don't thou spoil it by rushing in all of a--"
"I shall go to them this minute," said Elizabeth tying on her hood,
which she had taken down from its nail. "No man nor woman shall say
such words of me. Good-night, Aunt; I thank you for all your goodness,
and may the good Lord bless you and yours for ever Farewell!" And amid
a shower of exclamations and entreaties from her startled relatives, who
never expected conduct approaching to this, Elizabeth left the house.
She had not far to go on that last walk in this world. The White Hart,
where the Commissioners were staying, was full of light and animation
that night when she stepped into it from the dark street, and asked
leave to speak a few words to the Queen's Commissioners.
"What would you with them?" asked a red-cheeked maid who came to her.
"That shall they know speedily," was the answer.
The Commissioners were rather amused to be told that a girl wanted to
see them: but when they heard who it was, they looked at each other with
raised eyebrows, and ordered her to be called in. They had finished
supper, and were sitting over their wine, as gentlemen were then wont to
do rather longer than was good for them.
Elizabeth came forward to the table and confronted them. The
Commissioners themselves were two in number, Sir John Kingston and Dr
Chedsey; but the scribe, sheriff, and bailiffs were also present.
"Worshipful Sirs," she said in a clear voice, "I have been told it is
reported in this town that I have made this day by you submission and
obedience to the Pope. And since this is not true, nor by God's grace
shall never be, I call on you to do your duty, and commit me to the
Queen's Highness' prison, that I may yet again bear my testimony for my
Lord Christ."
There was dead silence for a moment. Dr Chedsey looked at the girl
with admiration which seemed almost reverence. Sir John Kingston knit
his brows, and appeared inclined to examine her there and then. Boswell
half rose as if he would once more have pleaded with or for her. But
Maynard, the Sheriff, whom nothing touched, and who was scarcely sober,
sprang to his feet and dashed his hand upon the table, with a cry that
"the jibbing jade should repent kicking over the traces this time!" He
seized Elizabeth, marched her to the Moot Hall, and thrust her into the
dungeon: and with a bass clang as if it had been the very gate of doom,
the great door closed behind her.