Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Two.“Ready! Ay, Ready!”It was the evening of the first of August. The prisoners in the Castle, now reduced to four—the Mounts, Rose, and Johnson—had held their Bible-reading and their little evening prayer-meeting, and sat waiting for supper. John and Margaret Thurston, who had been with them until that day, were taken away in the morning to undergo examination, and had not returned. The prisoners had not yet heard when they were to die. They only knew that it would be soon, and might be any day. Yet we are told they remained in their dungeons “with much joy and great comfort, in continual reading and invocating the name of God, ever looking and expecting the happy day of their dissolution.”We should probably feel more inclined to call it a horrible day. But they called it a happy day. They expected to change their prison for a palace, and their prison bonds for golden harps, and the prison fare for the fruit or the Tree of Life, and the company of scoffers and tormentors for that of Seraphim and Cherubim, and the blessed dead: and above all, to see His Face who had laid down His life for them.Supper was late that evening. They could hear voices outside, with occasional exclamations of surprise, and now and then a peal of laughter. At length the door was unlocked, and the gaoler’s man came in with four trenchers, piled on each other, on each of which was laid a slice of rye-bread and a piece of cheese. He served out one to each prisoner.“Want your appetites sharpened?” said he with a sarcastic laugh. “Because, if you do, there’s news for you.”“Prithee let us hear it, Bartle,” answered Mount, quietly.“Well, first, writs is come down. Moot Hall prisoners suffer at six to-morrow, on the waste by Lexden Road, and you’ll get your deserving i’ th’ afternoon, in the Castle yard.”“God be praised!” solemnly responded William Mount, and the others added an Amen.“Well, you’re a queer set!” said Bartle, looking at them. “I shouldn’t want to thank nobody for it, if so be I was going to be hanged: and that’s easier of the two.”“We are only going Home,” answered William Mount. “The climb may be steep, but there is rest and ease at the end thereof.”“Well, you seem mighty sure on’t. I know nought. Priests say you’ll find yourselves in a worser place nor you think.”“Nay! God is faithful,” said Johnson.“Have it your own way. I wish you might, for you seem to me a deal tidier folks than most that come our way. Howbeit, my news isn’t all told. Alegar, your brats be gone to Hedingham.”“God go with them!” replied Johnson; but he seemed much sadder to hear this than he had done for his own doom.“And Margaret Thurston’s recanted. She’s reconciled and had to better lodging.”It was evident, though to Bartle’s astonishment, that the prisoners considered this the worst news of all.“And John Thurston?”“Ah, they aren’t so sure of him. They think he’ll bear a faggot, but it’s not certain yet.”“God help and strengthen him!”“And Mistress Wade, of the King’s Head, is had up to London to the Bishop.”“God grant her His grace!”“I’ve told you all now. Good-night.”The greeting was returned, and Bartle went out. He was commissioned to carry the writ down to the Moot Hall.Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ in his hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but the sight of that document brought silence without any need to call for it.“Hearken!” said Wastborowe. “At six o’clock in the morning, on the waste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law these men and women underwritten:—William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, RobertaliasWilliam Purcas, Agnes SilversidealiasDownesaliasSmithaliasMay, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer.”With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up and thanked God.“‘Agnes Bowyer’,” repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. “Your name’s not Bowyer; it’s Bongeor.”“Bongeor,” said its bearer. “Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, Mr Wastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out.”“I should think you’d be uncommon glad if you were!” said he.“Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore,” she replied earnestly. “Let there not be no mistake, I do entreat you.”“I’ll see to it,” said Wastborowe, as he left the prison.The prisoners had few preparations to make. Each had a garment ready—a long robe of white linen, falling straight from the neck to the ankles, with sleeves which buttoned at the wrist. There were many such robes made during the reign of Mary—types of those fairer white robes which would be “given to every one of them,” when they should have crossed the dark valley, and come out into the light of the glory of God. Only Agnes Bongeor and Helen Ewring had something else to part with. With Agnes in her prison was a little baby only a few weeks old, and she must bid it good-bye, and commit it to the care of some friend. Helen Ewring had to say farewell to her husband, who came to see her about four in the morning; and to the surprise of Elizabeth Foulkes, she found herself summoned also to an interview with her widowed mother and her uncle Holt.“Why, Mother!” exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment, “I never knew you were any where nigh.”“Didst thou think, my lass, that aught ’d keep thy mother away from thee when she knew? I’ve been here these six weeks, a-waiting to hear. Eh, my pretty mawther, (see note 1) but to see this day! I’ve looked for thee to be some good man’s wife, and a happy woman,—such a good maid as thou always wast!—and now! Well, well! the will of the Lord be done!”“A happy woman, Mother!” said Elizabeth with her brightest smile. “In all my life I never was so happy as this day! This is my wedding day—nay, this is my crowning day! For ere the sun be high this day, I shall have seen the Face of Christ, and have been by Him presented faultless before the light of the glory of God. Mother, rejoice with me, and rejoice for me, for I can do nothing save rejoice. Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!”There was glory to God, but little good-will towards men, when the six prisoners were marched out into High Street, on their way to martyrdom. Yet only one sorrowful heart was in the dungeon of the Moot Hall, and that was Agnes Bongeor’s, who lamented bitterly that owing to the mis-spelling of her name in the writ, she was not allowed to make the seventh. She actually put on her robe of martyrdom, in thehopethat she might be reckoned among the sufferers. Now, when she learned that she was not to be burned that day, her distress was poignant.“Let me go with them!” she cried. “Let me go and give my life for Christ! Alack the day! The Lord counts me not worthy.”The other six prisoners were led, tied together, two and two, through High Street and up to the Head Gate. First came William Bongeor and Thomas Benold; then Mrs Silverside and Mrs Ewring; last, Robert Purcas and Elizabeth Foulkes. They were led out of the Head Gate, to “a plot of ground hard by the town wall, on the outward side,” beside the Lexden Road. There stood three great wooden stakes, with a chain affixed to each. The clock of Saint Mary-at-Walls struck six as they reached the spot.Around the stakes a multitude were gathered to see the sight. Mr Ewring, with set face, trying to force a smile for his wife’s encouragement; Mrs Foulkes, gazing with clasped hands and tearful eyes on her daughter; Thomas Holt and all his family; Mr Ashby and all his; Ursula Felstede, looking very unhappy; Dorothy Denny, looking very sad; old Walter Purcas, leaning on his staff, from time to time shaking his white head as if in bitter lamentation; a little behind the others, Mrs Clere and Amy; and in front, busiest of the busy, Sir Thomas Tye and Nicholas Clere. There they all were, ready and waiting, to see the Moot Hall prisoners die.Note 1. Girl. This is a Suffolk provincialism.

It was the evening of the first of August. The prisoners in the Castle, now reduced to four—the Mounts, Rose, and Johnson—had held their Bible-reading and their little evening prayer-meeting, and sat waiting for supper. John and Margaret Thurston, who had been with them until that day, were taken away in the morning to undergo examination, and had not returned. The prisoners had not yet heard when they were to die. They only knew that it would be soon, and might be any day. Yet we are told they remained in their dungeons “with much joy and great comfort, in continual reading and invocating the name of God, ever looking and expecting the happy day of their dissolution.”

We should probably feel more inclined to call it a horrible day. But they called it a happy day. They expected to change their prison for a palace, and their prison bonds for golden harps, and the prison fare for the fruit or the Tree of Life, and the company of scoffers and tormentors for that of Seraphim and Cherubim, and the blessed dead: and above all, to see His Face who had laid down His life for them.

Supper was late that evening. They could hear voices outside, with occasional exclamations of surprise, and now and then a peal of laughter. At length the door was unlocked, and the gaoler’s man came in with four trenchers, piled on each other, on each of which was laid a slice of rye-bread and a piece of cheese. He served out one to each prisoner.

“Want your appetites sharpened?” said he with a sarcastic laugh. “Because, if you do, there’s news for you.”

“Prithee let us hear it, Bartle,” answered Mount, quietly.

“Well, first, writs is come down. Moot Hall prisoners suffer at six to-morrow, on the waste by Lexden Road, and you’ll get your deserving i’ th’ afternoon, in the Castle yard.”

“God be praised!” solemnly responded William Mount, and the others added an Amen.

“Well, you’re a queer set!” said Bartle, looking at them. “I shouldn’t want to thank nobody for it, if so be I was going to be hanged: and that’s easier of the two.”

“We are only going Home,” answered William Mount. “The climb may be steep, but there is rest and ease at the end thereof.”

“Well, you seem mighty sure on’t. I know nought. Priests say you’ll find yourselves in a worser place nor you think.”

“Nay! God is faithful,” said Johnson.

“Have it your own way. I wish you might, for you seem to me a deal tidier folks than most that come our way. Howbeit, my news isn’t all told. Alegar, your brats be gone to Hedingham.”

“God go with them!” replied Johnson; but he seemed much sadder to hear this than he had done for his own doom.

“And Margaret Thurston’s recanted. She’s reconciled and had to better lodging.”

It was evident, though to Bartle’s astonishment, that the prisoners considered this the worst news of all.

“And John Thurston?”

“Ah, they aren’t so sure of him. They think he’ll bear a faggot, but it’s not certain yet.”

“God help and strengthen him!”

“And Mistress Wade, of the King’s Head, is had up to London to the Bishop.”

“God grant her His grace!”

“I’ve told you all now. Good-night.”

The greeting was returned, and Bartle went out. He was commissioned to carry the writ down to the Moot Hall.

Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ in his hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but the sight of that document brought silence without any need to call for it.

“Hearken!” said Wastborowe. “At six o’clock in the morning, on the waste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law these men and women underwritten:—William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, RobertaliasWilliam Purcas, Agnes SilversidealiasDownesaliasSmithaliasMay, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer.”

With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up and thanked God.

“‘Agnes Bowyer’,” repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. “Your name’s not Bowyer; it’s Bongeor.”

“Bongeor,” said its bearer. “Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, Mr Wastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out.”

“I should think you’d be uncommon glad if you were!” said he.

“Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore,” she replied earnestly. “Let there not be no mistake, I do entreat you.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Wastborowe, as he left the prison.

The prisoners had few preparations to make. Each had a garment ready—a long robe of white linen, falling straight from the neck to the ankles, with sleeves which buttoned at the wrist. There were many such robes made during the reign of Mary—types of those fairer white robes which would be “given to every one of them,” when they should have crossed the dark valley, and come out into the light of the glory of God. Only Agnes Bongeor and Helen Ewring had something else to part with. With Agnes in her prison was a little baby only a few weeks old, and she must bid it good-bye, and commit it to the care of some friend. Helen Ewring had to say farewell to her husband, who came to see her about four in the morning; and to the surprise of Elizabeth Foulkes, she found herself summoned also to an interview with her widowed mother and her uncle Holt.

“Why, Mother!” exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment, “I never knew you were any where nigh.”

“Didst thou think, my lass, that aught ’d keep thy mother away from thee when she knew? I’ve been here these six weeks, a-waiting to hear. Eh, my pretty mawther, (see note 1) but to see this day! I’ve looked for thee to be some good man’s wife, and a happy woman,—such a good maid as thou always wast!—and now! Well, well! the will of the Lord be done!”

“A happy woman, Mother!” said Elizabeth with her brightest smile. “In all my life I never was so happy as this day! This is my wedding day—nay, this is my crowning day! For ere the sun be high this day, I shall have seen the Face of Christ, and have been by Him presented faultless before the light of the glory of God. Mother, rejoice with me, and rejoice for me, for I can do nothing save rejoice. Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!”

There was glory to God, but little good-will towards men, when the six prisoners were marched out into High Street, on their way to martyrdom. Yet only one sorrowful heart was in the dungeon of the Moot Hall, and that was Agnes Bongeor’s, who lamented bitterly that owing to the mis-spelling of her name in the writ, she was not allowed to make the seventh. She actually put on her robe of martyrdom, in thehopethat she might be reckoned among the sufferers. Now, when she learned that she was not to be burned that day, her distress was poignant.

“Let me go with them!” she cried. “Let me go and give my life for Christ! Alack the day! The Lord counts me not worthy.”

The other six prisoners were led, tied together, two and two, through High Street and up to the Head Gate. First came William Bongeor and Thomas Benold; then Mrs Silverside and Mrs Ewring; last, Robert Purcas and Elizabeth Foulkes. They were led out of the Head Gate, to “a plot of ground hard by the town wall, on the outward side,” beside the Lexden Road. There stood three great wooden stakes, with a chain affixed to each. The clock of Saint Mary-at-Walls struck six as they reached the spot.

Around the stakes a multitude were gathered to see the sight. Mr Ewring, with set face, trying to force a smile for his wife’s encouragement; Mrs Foulkes, gazing with clasped hands and tearful eyes on her daughter; Thomas Holt and all his family; Mr Ashby and all his; Ursula Felstede, looking very unhappy; Dorothy Denny, looking very sad; old Walter Purcas, leaning on his staff, from time to time shaking his white head as if in bitter lamentation; a little behind the others, Mrs Clere and Amy; and in front, busiest of the busy, Sir Thomas Tye and Nicholas Clere. There they all were, ready and waiting, to see the Moot Hall prisoners die.

Note 1. Girl. This is a Suffolk provincialism.

Chapter Thirty Three.How they went home.Arrived at the spot where they were to suffer, the prisoners knelt down to pray: “but not in such sort as they would, for the cruel tyrants would not suffer them.” Foremost of their tormentors at this last moment was Nicholas Clere, who showed an especial spite towards Elizabeth Foulkes, and interrupted her dying prayers to the utmost of his power. When Elizabeth rose from her knees and took off her outer garments—underneath which she wore the prepared robe—she asked the Bailiff’s leave to give her petticoat to her mother; it was all the legacy in her power to leave. Even this poor little comfort was denied her. The clothes of the sufferers were the perquisite of the Sheriffs’ men, and they would not give them up. Elizabeth smiled—she did nothing but smile that morning—and cast the petticoat on the ground.“Farewell, all the world!” she said. “Farewell, Faith! farewell, Hope!” Then she took the stake in her arms and kissed it. “Welcome, Love!”Ay, faith and hope were done with now. A few moments, and faith would be lost in sight; hope would be lost in joy; but love would abide for ever and ever.Her mother came up and kissed her.“My blessed dear,” she said, “be strong in the Lord!”They chained the two elder men at one stake; the two women at another: Elizabeth and Robert together at the last. The Sheriff’s men put the chain round them both, and hammered the other end fast, so that they should not attempt to escape.Escape! none of them dreamed of such a thing. They cared neither for pain nor shame. To their eyes Heaven itself was open, and the Lord Christ, on the right hand of the Father, would rise to receive His servants. Nor did they say much to each other. There would be time for that when all was over! Were they not going the journey together? would they not dwell in happy company, through the long years of eternity? The man who was nailing the chain close to where Elizabeth stood accidentally let his hammer slip. He had not intended to hurt her; but the hammer came down heavily upon her shoulder and made a severe wound. She turned her head to him and smiled on him. Then she lifted up her eyes to heaven and prayed. Her last few moments were spent in alternate prayer and exhortation of the crowd.The torch was applied to the firewood and tar-barrels heaped around them. As the flame sprang up, the six martyrs clapped their hands: and from the bystanders a great cry rose to heaven,—“The Lord strengthen them! the Lord comfort them! the Lord pour His mercies upon them!”Ah, it was not England, but Rome, who burned those Marian martyrs! The heart of England was sound and true; she was a victim, not a persecutor.Just as the flame reached its fiercest heat, there was a slight cry in the crowd, which parted hither and thither as a girl was borne out of it insensible. She had fainted after uttering that cry. It was no wonder, said those who stood near: the combined heat of the August sun and the fire was scarcely bearable. She would come round shortly if she were taken into the shade to recover.Half-an-hour afterwards nothing could be seen beside the Lexden Road but the heated and twisted chains, with fragments of charred wood and of grey ashes. The crowd had gone home.And the martyrs had gone home too. No more should the sun light upon them, nor any heat. The Lamb in the midst of the Throne had led them to living fountains of water, and they were comforted for evermore.“Who was that young woman that swooned and had to be borne away?” asked a woman in the crowd of another, as they made their way back into the town.The woman appealed to was Audrey Wastborowe.“Oh, it was Amy Clere of the Magpie,” said she. “The heat was too much for her, I reckon.”“Ay, it was downright hot,” said the neighbour.Something beside the heat had been too much for Amy Clere. The familiar face of Elizabeth Foulkes, with that unearthly smile upon it, had gone right to the girl’s heart. For Amy had a heart, though it had been overlaid by a good deal of rubbish.The crowd did not disperse far. They were gathered again in the afternoon in the Castle yard, when the Mounts and Johnson and Rose Allen were brought out to die. They came as joyfully as their friends had done, “calling upon the name of God, and exhorting the people earnestly to flee from idolatry.” Once more the cry rose up from the whole crowd,—“Lord, strengthen them, and comfort them, and pour Thy mercy upon them!”And the Lord heard and answered. Joyfully, joyfully they went home and the happy company who had stood true, and had been faithful unto death, were all gathered together for ever in the starry halls above.To two other places the cry penetrated: to Agnes Bongeor weeping in the Moot Hall because she was shut out from that blessed company; and to Margaret Thurston in her “better lodging” in the Castle, who had shut herself out, and had bought life by the denial of her Lord.The time is not far-off when we too shall be asked to choose between these two alternatives. Not, perhaps, between earthly life and death (though it may come to that): but between faith and unfaithfulness, between Christ and idols, between the love that will give up all and the self-love that will endure nothing. Which shall it be with you? Will you add your voice to the side which tamely yields the priceless treasures purchased for us by these noble men and women at this awful cost? or will you meet the Romanising enemy with a firm front, and a shout of “No fellowship with idols!—no surrender of the liberty which our fathers bought with their heart’s blood!” God grant you grace to choose the last!When Mrs Clere reached the Magpie, she went up to Amy’s room, and found her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall.“Amy! what ailed thee, my maid?—art better now?”“Mother, we’re all wrong!”“Dear heart, what does the child mean?” inquired the puzzled mother. “Has the sun turned thy wits out o’ door?”“The sun did nought to me, mother. It was Bessie’s face that I could not bear. Bessie’s face, that I knew so well—the face that had lain beside me on this pillow over and over again—and that smile upon her lips, as if she were half in Heaven already—Mother it was dreadful! I felt as if the last day were come, and the angels were shutting me out.”“Hush thee, child, hush thee! ’Tis not safe to speak such things. Heretics go to the ill place, as thou very well wist.”“Names don’t matter, do they, Mother? It is truth that signifies. Whatever names they please to call Bessie Foulkes, she had Heaven and not Hell in her face. That smile of hers never came from Satan. I know what his smiles are like: I’ve seen them on other faces afore now. He never had nought to do with her.”“Amy, if thy father hears thee say such words as those, he’ll be proper angry, be sure!”Amy sat up on the bed.“Mother, you know that Bessie Foulkes loved God, and feared Him, and cared to please Him, as you and I never did in all our lives. Do folks that love God go to Satan? Does He punish people because they want to please Him? I know little enough about it, alack-the-day! but if an angel came from Heaven to tell me Bessie wasn’t there this minute, I could not believe him.”“Well, well! think what you will, child, only don’t say it! I’ve nothing against Bess being in Heaven, not I! I hope she may be, poor lass. But thou knowest thy father’s right set against it all, and the priests too; and, Amy, I don’t want to seetheeon the waste by Lexden Road. Just hold thy tongue, wilt thou? or thou’lt find thyself in the wrong box afore long.”“Mother, I don’t think Bessie Foulkes is sorry for what happened this morning.”“Maybe not, but do hold thy peace!”“I can hold my peace if you bid me, Mother. I’ve not been a good girl, but I mean to try and be better. I don’t feel as if I should ever care again for the gewgaws and the merrymakings that I used to think all the world of. It’s like as if I’d had a glimpse into Heaven as she went in, and the world had lost its savour. But don’t be feared, Mother; I’ll not vex you, nor Father neither, if you don’t wish me to talk. Only—nobody ’ll keep me from trying to go after Bessie!”

Arrived at the spot where they were to suffer, the prisoners knelt down to pray: “but not in such sort as they would, for the cruel tyrants would not suffer them.” Foremost of their tormentors at this last moment was Nicholas Clere, who showed an especial spite towards Elizabeth Foulkes, and interrupted her dying prayers to the utmost of his power. When Elizabeth rose from her knees and took off her outer garments—underneath which she wore the prepared robe—she asked the Bailiff’s leave to give her petticoat to her mother; it was all the legacy in her power to leave. Even this poor little comfort was denied her. The clothes of the sufferers were the perquisite of the Sheriffs’ men, and they would not give them up. Elizabeth smiled—she did nothing but smile that morning—and cast the petticoat on the ground.

“Farewell, all the world!” she said. “Farewell, Faith! farewell, Hope!” Then she took the stake in her arms and kissed it. “Welcome, Love!”

Ay, faith and hope were done with now. A few moments, and faith would be lost in sight; hope would be lost in joy; but love would abide for ever and ever.

Her mother came up and kissed her.

“My blessed dear,” she said, “be strong in the Lord!”

They chained the two elder men at one stake; the two women at another: Elizabeth and Robert together at the last. The Sheriff’s men put the chain round them both, and hammered the other end fast, so that they should not attempt to escape.

Escape! none of them dreamed of such a thing. They cared neither for pain nor shame. To their eyes Heaven itself was open, and the Lord Christ, on the right hand of the Father, would rise to receive His servants. Nor did they say much to each other. There would be time for that when all was over! Were they not going the journey together? would they not dwell in happy company, through the long years of eternity? The man who was nailing the chain close to where Elizabeth stood accidentally let his hammer slip. He had not intended to hurt her; but the hammer came down heavily upon her shoulder and made a severe wound. She turned her head to him and smiled on him. Then she lifted up her eyes to heaven and prayed. Her last few moments were spent in alternate prayer and exhortation of the crowd.

The torch was applied to the firewood and tar-barrels heaped around them. As the flame sprang up, the six martyrs clapped their hands: and from the bystanders a great cry rose to heaven,—

“The Lord strengthen them! the Lord comfort them! the Lord pour His mercies upon them!”

Ah, it was not England, but Rome, who burned those Marian martyrs! The heart of England was sound and true; she was a victim, not a persecutor.

Just as the flame reached its fiercest heat, there was a slight cry in the crowd, which parted hither and thither as a girl was borne out of it insensible. She had fainted after uttering that cry. It was no wonder, said those who stood near: the combined heat of the August sun and the fire was scarcely bearable. She would come round shortly if she were taken into the shade to recover.

Half-an-hour afterwards nothing could be seen beside the Lexden Road but the heated and twisted chains, with fragments of charred wood and of grey ashes. The crowd had gone home.

And the martyrs had gone home too. No more should the sun light upon them, nor any heat. The Lamb in the midst of the Throne had led them to living fountains of water, and they were comforted for evermore.

“Who was that young woman that swooned and had to be borne away?” asked a woman in the crowd of another, as they made their way back into the town.

The woman appealed to was Audrey Wastborowe.

“Oh, it was Amy Clere of the Magpie,” said she. “The heat was too much for her, I reckon.”

“Ay, it was downright hot,” said the neighbour.

Something beside the heat had been too much for Amy Clere. The familiar face of Elizabeth Foulkes, with that unearthly smile upon it, had gone right to the girl’s heart. For Amy had a heart, though it had been overlaid by a good deal of rubbish.

The crowd did not disperse far. They were gathered again in the afternoon in the Castle yard, when the Mounts and Johnson and Rose Allen were brought out to die. They came as joyfully as their friends had done, “calling upon the name of God, and exhorting the people earnestly to flee from idolatry.” Once more the cry rose up from the whole crowd,—

“Lord, strengthen them, and comfort them, and pour Thy mercy upon them!”

And the Lord heard and answered. Joyfully, joyfully they went home and the happy company who had stood true, and had been faithful unto death, were all gathered together for ever in the starry halls above.

To two other places the cry penetrated: to Agnes Bongeor weeping in the Moot Hall because she was shut out from that blessed company; and to Margaret Thurston in her “better lodging” in the Castle, who had shut herself out, and had bought life by the denial of her Lord.

The time is not far-off when we too shall be asked to choose between these two alternatives. Not, perhaps, between earthly life and death (though it may come to that): but between faith and unfaithfulness, between Christ and idols, between the love that will give up all and the self-love that will endure nothing. Which shall it be with you? Will you add your voice to the side which tamely yields the priceless treasures purchased for us by these noble men and women at this awful cost? or will you meet the Romanising enemy with a firm front, and a shout of “No fellowship with idols!—no surrender of the liberty which our fathers bought with their heart’s blood!” God grant you grace to choose the last!

When Mrs Clere reached the Magpie, she went up to Amy’s room, and found her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall.

“Amy! what ailed thee, my maid?—art better now?”

“Mother, we’re all wrong!”

“Dear heart, what does the child mean?” inquired the puzzled mother. “Has the sun turned thy wits out o’ door?”

“The sun did nought to me, mother. It was Bessie’s face that I could not bear. Bessie’s face, that I knew so well—the face that had lain beside me on this pillow over and over again—and that smile upon her lips, as if she were half in Heaven already—Mother it was dreadful! I felt as if the last day were come, and the angels were shutting me out.”

“Hush thee, child, hush thee! ’Tis not safe to speak such things. Heretics go to the ill place, as thou very well wist.”

“Names don’t matter, do they, Mother? It is truth that signifies. Whatever names they please to call Bessie Foulkes, she had Heaven and not Hell in her face. That smile of hers never came from Satan. I know what his smiles are like: I’ve seen them on other faces afore now. He never had nought to do with her.”

“Amy, if thy father hears thee say such words as those, he’ll be proper angry, be sure!”

Amy sat up on the bed.

“Mother, you know that Bessie Foulkes loved God, and feared Him, and cared to please Him, as you and I never did in all our lives. Do folks that love God go to Satan? Does He punish people because they want to please Him? I know little enough about it, alack-the-day! but if an angel came from Heaven to tell me Bessie wasn’t there this minute, I could not believe him.”

“Well, well! think what you will, child, only don’t say it! I’ve nothing against Bess being in Heaven, not I! I hope she may be, poor lass. But thou knowest thy father’s right set against it all, and the priests too; and, Amy, I don’t want to seetheeon the waste by Lexden Road. Just hold thy tongue, wilt thou? or thou’lt find thyself in the wrong box afore long.”

“Mother, I don’t think Bessie Foulkes is sorry for what happened this morning.”

“Maybe not, but do hold thy peace!”

“I can hold my peace if you bid me, Mother. I’ve not been a good girl, but I mean to try and be better. I don’t feel as if I should ever care again for the gewgaws and the merrymakings that I used to think all the world of. It’s like as if I’d had a glimpse into Heaven as she went in, and the world had lost its savour. But don’t be feared, Mother; I’ll not vex you, nor Father neither, if you don’t wish me to talk. Only—nobody ’ll keep me from trying to go after Bessie!”

Chapter Thirty Four.Dorothy takes a message.“Now then, attend, can’t you? How much sugar?”“Please, Sister Mary, my head does ache so!”“No excuses, Cicely! Answer at once.”A long sobbing sigh preceded the words—“Half a pound.”“Now get to your sewing. Cicely, I must be obeyed; and you are a right perverse child as one might look for with the training you have had. Let me hear no more about headache: it’s nothing but nonsense.”“But my head does ache dreadfully, Sister.”“Well, it is your own fault, if it do. Two mortal hours were you crying last night,—the stars know what for!”“It was because I didn’t hear nothing about Father,” said poor Cissy sorrowfully. “Mistress Wade promised she—”“Mistress Wade—who is that?”“Please, she’s the hostess of the King’s Head: and she said she would let me know when—”“When what?”“When Father couldn’t have any pain ever any more.”“Do you mean that you wish to hear your Father is dead, you wicked child?”Cissy looked up wearily into the nun’s face. “He’s in pain now,” she said; “for he is waiting, and knows he will have more. But when it has come, he will have no more, never, but will live with God and be happy for ever and ever. I want to know that Father’s happy.”“How can these wicked heretics fall into such delusions?” said Sister Mary, looking across the room at Sister Joan, who shook her head in a way which seemed to say that there was no setting any bounds to the delusions of heretics. “Foolish child, thy father is a bad man, and bad men do not go to Heaven.”“Father’s not a bad man,” said Cissy, not angrily, but in a tone of calm persuasion that nothing would shake. “I cry you mercy, Sister Mary, but you don’t know him, and somebody has told you wrong. Father’s good, and loves God; and people are not bad when they love God and do what He says to them. You’re mistaken, please, Sister.”“But thy father does not obey God, child, because he does not obey the Church.”“Please, I don’t know anything about the Church. Father obeys the Bible, and that is God’s own Word which He spoke Himself. The Church can’t be any better than that.”“The Church, for thee, is the priest, who will tell thee how to please God and the Holy Mother, if thou wilt hearken.”“But the priest’s a man, Sister: and God’s Book is a great deal better than that.”“The priest is in God’s stead, and conveys His commands.”“But I’ve got the commands, Sister Mary, in the Book; and God hasn’t written a new one, has He?”“Silly child! the Church is above any Book.”“Oh no, it can’t be, Sister, please. What Father bade me do his own self must be better than what other people bid me; and so what God says in His own Book must be better than what other people say, and the Church is only people.”“Cicely, be silent! Thou art a very silly, perverse child.”“I dare say I am, Sister, but I am sure that’s true.”Sister Joan was on the point of bidding Cissy hold her tongue in a still more authoritative manner, when one of the lay Sisters entered the room, to say that a woman asked permission to speak with one of the teaching Sisters.“What is her name?”“She says her name is Denny.”“Denny! I know nobody of that name.”“Oh, please, is her name Dorothy?” asked Cissy, eagerly. “If it’s Dorothy Denny, Mrs Wade has sent her—she’s Mrs Wade’s servant. Oh, do let me—”“Silence!” said Sister Mary. “I will go and speak with the woman.”She found in the guest-chamber a woman of about thirty, who stood dropping courtesies as if she were very uncomfortable.Very uncomfortable Dorothy Denny was. She did not know what “nervous” meant, but she was exceedingly nervous for all that. In the first place, she felt extremely doubtful whether if she trusted herself inside a convent, she would ever have a chance of getting out again; and in the second she was deeply concerned about several things, of which one was Cissy.“What do you want, good woman?”“Please you, Madam, I cry you mercy for troubling of you, but if I might speak a word with the dear child—”“What dear child?” asked the nun placidly.Dorothy’s fright grew. Were they going to deny Cissy to her, or even to say that she was not there?“Please you, good Sister, I mean little Cis—Cicely Johnson, an’ it like you, that I was sent to with a message from my mistress, the hostess of the King’s Head in Colchester.”“Cicely Johnson is not now at liberty. You can give the message to me.”“May I wait till I can see her?”Plainly, Dorothy was no unfaithful messenger when her own comfort only was to be sacrificed. Sister Mary considered a moment; and then said she would see if Cicely could be allowed to have an interview with her visitor. Bidding Dorothy sit down, she left the room.For quite an hour Dorothy sat waiting, until she began to think the nuns must have forgotten her existence, and to look about for some means of reminding them of it. There were no bells in sitting-rooms at that time, except in the form of a little hand-bell on a table, and for this last Dorothy searched in vain. Then she tried to go out into the passage, in the hope of seeing somebody; but she was terrified to find herself locked in. She did not know what to do. The window was barred with an iron grating; there was no escape that way. Poor Dorothy began to wonder whether, if she found herself a prisoner, she could contrive to climb the chimney, and what would become of her after doing so, when she heard at last the welcome sound of approaching steps, and the key was turned in the lock. The next minute Cissy was in Dorothy’s arms.“O Dorothy! dear Dorothy! tell me quick—Father—” Cissy could get no further.“He is at rest, my dear heart, and shall die no more.”Cissy was not able to answer for the sobs that choked her voice, and Dorothy smoothed her hair and petted her.“Nay, grieve not thus, sweet heart,” she said.“Oh no, it is so wicked of me!” sobbed poor Cissy. “I thought I should have been so glad for Father: and I can only think of me and the children. We’ve got no father now!”“Nay, my dear heart, thou hast as much as ever thou hadst. He is only gone upstairs and left you down. He isn’t dead, little Cissy: he’s alive in a way he never was before, and he shall live for ever and ever.”Neither Dorothy nor Cissy had noticed that a nun had entered with her, and they were rather startled to hear a voice out of the dark corner by the door.“Take heed, good woman, how thou learn the child such errors. That is only true of great saints; and the man of whom you speak was a wicked heretic.”“I know not what sort of folks your saints are,” said Dorothy bravely: “but my saints are folks that love God and desire to please Him, and that John Johnson was, if ever a man were in this evil world. Aneviltree cannot bring forth good fruit.”The nun crossed herself, but she did not answer.“It would be as well if folks would be content to set the bad folks in prison, and let the good ones be,” said Dorothy. “Cissy, our mistress is up to London to the Bishop.”“Will they do somewhat to her?”“God knoweth!” said Dorothy, shaking her head sorrowfully. “I shall be fain if I may see her back; oh, I shall!”“Oh, I hope they won’t!” said Cissy, her eyes filling again with tears. “I love Mistress Wade.”

“Now then, attend, can’t you? How much sugar?”

“Please, Sister Mary, my head does ache so!”

“No excuses, Cicely! Answer at once.”

A long sobbing sigh preceded the words—“Half a pound.”

“Now get to your sewing. Cicely, I must be obeyed; and you are a right perverse child as one might look for with the training you have had. Let me hear no more about headache: it’s nothing but nonsense.”

“But my head does ache dreadfully, Sister.”

“Well, it is your own fault, if it do. Two mortal hours were you crying last night,—the stars know what for!”

“It was because I didn’t hear nothing about Father,” said poor Cissy sorrowfully. “Mistress Wade promised she—”

“Mistress Wade—who is that?”

“Please, she’s the hostess of the King’s Head: and she said she would let me know when—”

“When what?”

“When Father couldn’t have any pain ever any more.”

“Do you mean that you wish to hear your Father is dead, you wicked child?”

Cissy looked up wearily into the nun’s face. “He’s in pain now,” she said; “for he is waiting, and knows he will have more. But when it has come, he will have no more, never, but will live with God and be happy for ever and ever. I want to know that Father’s happy.”

“How can these wicked heretics fall into such delusions?” said Sister Mary, looking across the room at Sister Joan, who shook her head in a way which seemed to say that there was no setting any bounds to the delusions of heretics. “Foolish child, thy father is a bad man, and bad men do not go to Heaven.”

“Father’s not a bad man,” said Cissy, not angrily, but in a tone of calm persuasion that nothing would shake. “I cry you mercy, Sister Mary, but you don’t know him, and somebody has told you wrong. Father’s good, and loves God; and people are not bad when they love God and do what He says to them. You’re mistaken, please, Sister.”

“But thy father does not obey God, child, because he does not obey the Church.”

“Please, I don’t know anything about the Church. Father obeys the Bible, and that is God’s own Word which He spoke Himself. The Church can’t be any better than that.”

“The Church, for thee, is the priest, who will tell thee how to please God and the Holy Mother, if thou wilt hearken.”

“But the priest’s a man, Sister: and God’s Book is a great deal better than that.”

“The priest is in God’s stead, and conveys His commands.”

“But I’ve got the commands, Sister Mary, in the Book; and God hasn’t written a new one, has He?”

“Silly child! the Church is above any Book.”

“Oh no, it can’t be, Sister, please. What Father bade me do his own self must be better than what other people bid me; and so what God says in His own Book must be better than what other people say, and the Church is only people.”

“Cicely, be silent! Thou art a very silly, perverse child.”

“I dare say I am, Sister, but I am sure that’s true.”

Sister Joan was on the point of bidding Cissy hold her tongue in a still more authoritative manner, when one of the lay Sisters entered the room, to say that a woman asked permission to speak with one of the teaching Sisters.

“What is her name?”

“She says her name is Denny.”

“Denny! I know nobody of that name.”

“Oh, please, is her name Dorothy?” asked Cissy, eagerly. “If it’s Dorothy Denny, Mrs Wade has sent her—she’s Mrs Wade’s servant. Oh, do let me—”

“Silence!” said Sister Mary. “I will go and speak with the woman.”

She found in the guest-chamber a woman of about thirty, who stood dropping courtesies as if she were very uncomfortable.

Very uncomfortable Dorothy Denny was. She did not know what “nervous” meant, but she was exceedingly nervous for all that. In the first place, she felt extremely doubtful whether if she trusted herself inside a convent, she would ever have a chance of getting out again; and in the second she was deeply concerned about several things, of which one was Cissy.

“What do you want, good woman?”

“Please you, Madam, I cry you mercy for troubling of you, but if I might speak a word with the dear child—”

“What dear child?” asked the nun placidly.

Dorothy’s fright grew. Were they going to deny Cissy to her, or even to say that she was not there?

“Please you, good Sister, I mean little Cis—Cicely Johnson, an’ it like you, that I was sent to with a message from my mistress, the hostess of the King’s Head in Colchester.”

“Cicely Johnson is not now at liberty. You can give the message to me.”

“May I wait till I can see her?”

Plainly, Dorothy was no unfaithful messenger when her own comfort only was to be sacrificed. Sister Mary considered a moment; and then said she would see if Cicely could be allowed to have an interview with her visitor. Bidding Dorothy sit down, she left the room.

For quite an hour Dorothy sat waiting, until she began to think the nuns must have forgotten her existence, and to look about for some means of reminding them of it. There were no bells in sitting-rooms at that time, except in the form of a little hand-bell on a table, and for this last Dorothy searched in vain. Then she tried to go out into the passage, in the hope of seeing somebody; but she was terrified to find herself locked in. She did not know what to do. The window was barred with an iron grating; there was no escape that way. Poor Dorothy began to wonder whether, if she found herself a prisoner, she could contrive to climb the chimney, and what would become of her after doing so, when she heard at last the welcome sound of approaching steps, and the key was turned in the lock. The next minute Cissy was in Dorothy’s arms.

“O Dorothy! dear Dorothy! tell me quick—Father—” Cissy could get no further.

“He is at rest, my dear heart, and shall die no more.”

Cissy was not able to answer for the sobs that choked her voice, and Dorothy smoothed her hair and petted her.

“Nay, grieve not thus, sweet heart,” she said.

“Oh no, it is so wicked of me!” sobbed poor Cissy. “I thought I should have been so glad for Father: and I can only think of me and the children. We’ve got no father now!”

“Nay, my dear heart, thou hast as much as ever thou hadst. He is only gone upstairs and left you down. He isn’t dead, little Cissy: he’s alive in a way he never was before, and he shall live for ever and ever.”

Neither Dorothy nor Cissy had noticed that a nun had entered with her, and they were rather startled to hear a voice out of the dark corner by the door.

“Take heed, good woman, how thou learn the child such errors. That is only true of great saints; and the man of whom you speak was a wicked heretic.”

“I know not what sort of folks your saints are,” said Dorothy bravely: “but my saints are folks that love God and desire to please Him, and that John Johnson was, if ever a man were in this evil world. Aneviltree cannot bring forth good fruit.”

The nun crossed herself, but she did not answer.

“It would be as well if folks would be content to set the bad folks in prison, and let the good ones be,” said Dorothy. “Cissy, our mistress is up to London to the Bishop.”

“Will they do somewhat to her?”

“God knoweth!” said Dorothy, shaking her head sorrowfully. “I shall be fain if I may see her back; oh, I shall!”

“Oh, I hope they won’t!” said Cissy, her eyes filling again with tears. “I love Mistress Wade.”

Chapter Thirty Five.Nobody left for Cissy.“Please, Dorothy, what’s become of Rose Allen? and Bessy Foulkes? and Mistress Mount, and all of them?”“All gone, my dear heart—all with thy father.”“Are they all gone?” said Cissy with another sob, “Isn’t there one left?”“Not one of them.”“Then if we came out, we shouldn’t find nobody?”“Prithee reckon not, Cicely,” said the nun, “that thou art likely to come out. There is no such likelihood at all whilst our good Queen reigneth; and if it please God, she shall have a son after her that shall be true to the Catholic faith, as she is, and not suffer evil courses and naughty heretics to be any more in the realm. Ye will abide here till it be plainly seen whether God shall grant to thee and thy sister the grace of a vocation; and if not, it shall be well seen to that ye be in care of good Catholic folk, that shall look to it ye go in the right way. So prithee, suffer not thy fancy to deceive thee with any thought of going forth of this house of religion. When matters be somewhat better established, and the lands whereof the Church hath been robbed are given back to her, and all the religious put back in their houses, or new ones built, then will England be an Isle of Saints as in olden time, and men may rejoice thereat.”Cissy listened to this long speech, which she only understood in part, but she gathered that the nuns meant to keep her a prisoner as long as they could.“But Sister Joan,” said she, “you don’t know, do you, what God is going to do? Perhaps he will give us another good king or queen, like King Edward. I ask Him to do, every day. But, please, what is a vocation?”“Thou dost, thou wicked maid? I never heard thee.”“But I don’t ask you, Sister Joan. I ask God. And I think He’ll do it, too. What is a vocation, please?”“What I’m afeared thou wilt never have, thou sinful heretic child—the call to become a holy Sister.”“Who is to call me? I am a sister now; I’m Will’s and Baby’s sister. Nobody can’t call me to be a sister to nobody else,” said Cissy, getting very negative in her earnestness.Sister Joan rose from her seat. “The time is up,” said she. “Say farewell to thy friend.”“Farewell, Dorothy dear,” said Cissy, clinging to the one person she knew, who seemed to belong to her past, as she never would have thought of doing to Dorothy Denny in bygone days. “Please give Mistress Wade my duty, when she comes home, and say I’m trying to do as Father bade me, and I’ll never, never believe nothing he told me not. You see they couldn’t do nothing to me save burn me, as they did Father, and then I should go to Father, and all would be right directly. It’s much better for them all that they are safe there, and I’ll try to be glad—thought here’s nobody left for me. Father’ll have company: I must try and think of that. I thought he’d find nobody he knew but Mother, but if they’ve all gone too, there’ll be plenty. And I suppose there’ll be some holy angels to look after us, because God isn’t gone away, you see: He’s there and here too. He’ll help me still to look after Will and Baby, now I haven’t”—a sob interrupted the words—“haven’t got Father. Good-bye, Dolly! Kiss me, please. Nobody never kisses me now.”“Thou poor little dear!” cried Dorothy, fairly melted, and sobbing over Cissy as she gave her half-a-dozen kisses at least. “The Lord bless thee, and be good to thee! I’m sure He’ll take proper vengeance on every body as isn’t. I wouldn’t like to be them as ill-used thee. They’ll have a proper bill to pay in the next world, if they don’t get it in this. Poor little pretty dear!”“You will drink a cup of ale and eat a manchet?” asked Sister Joan of Dorothy.A manchet was a cake of the best bread.“No, I thank you, Sister, I am not a-hungered,” was the answer.“But, Dolly, you did not come all the way from Colchester?” said Cissy.“Ay, I did so, my dear, in the miller’s cart, and I’m journeying back in the same. I covenanted to meet him down at the end of yonder lane at three o’clock, and methinks I had best be on my way.”“Ay, you have no time to lose,” responded Sister Joan.Dorothy found Mr Ewring waiting for her at the end of the lane.“Have you had to eat, Dorothy?” was his first question when she had climbed up beside him.“Never a bite or sup inthathouse, Master, I thank you,” was Dorothy’s rejoinder. “If I’d been starving o’ hunger, I wouldn’t have touched a thing.”“Have you seen the children?”“I’ve seen Cissy. That was enough and to spare.”“What do they with her?”“They are working hard with both hands to make an angel of her at the soonest—that’s what they are doing. It’s not what they mean to do. They want to make her a devil, or one of the devil’s children, which comes to the same thing: but the Lord ’ll not suffer that, or I’m a mistaken woman. They are trying to bend her, and they never will. She’ll break first. So they’ll break her, and then there’ll be no more they can do. That’s about where it is, Master Ewring.”“Why, Dorothy, I never saw you thus stirred aforetime.”“Maybe not. It takes a bit to stir me, but I’ve got it this even, I can tell you.”“I could well-nigh mistake you for Mistress Wade,” said Mr Ewring with a smile.“Eh, poor Mistress! but if she could see that poor little dear, it would grieve her to her heart. Master Ewring, how long will the Lord bear with these sons of Satan!”“Ah, Dorothy, that’s more than you or I can tell. ‘Many shall be purified, and made white, and tried’: that is all we know.”“How much is many?” asked Dorothy almost bitterly.“Not one too many,” said the miller gravely: “and not one too few. We are called to wait until our brethren be accomplished that shall suffer. It may be shorter than we think. But, Dorothy, who set you among the prophets? I rather thought you had not over much care for such things.”“Master Ewring, I’ve heard say that when a soldier’s killed in battle, another steppeth up behind without delay to fill his place. There’s some places wants filling at Colchester, where the firing’s been fierce of late: and when most of the old warriors be killed, they’ll be like to fill the ranks up with new recruits. And if they be a bit awkward, and don’t step just up to pace, maybe they’ll learn by and by, and meantime the others must have patience.”“The Lord perfect that which concerneth thee!” said the miller, with much feeling. “Dorothy, was your mistress not desirous to have brought up these little ones herself?”“She was so, Master Ewring, and I would with all my heart she could. Poor little dears!”“I would have taken the lad, if it might have been compassed, when he was a bit older, and have bred him up to my own trade. The maids should have done better with good Mistress Wade.”“Eh, Master, little Cicely’s like to dwell in other keeping than either, and that’s with her good father and mother above.”“The Lord’s will be done!” responded Mr Ewring. “If so be, she at least will have little sorrow.”

“Please, Dorothy, what’s become of Rose Allen? and Bessy Foulkes? and Mistress Mount, and all of them?”

“All gone, my dear heart—all with thy father.”

“Are they all gone?” said Cissy with another sob, “Isn’t there one left?”

“Not one of them.”

“Then if we came out, we shouldn’t find nobody?”

“Prithee reckon not, Cicely,” said the nun, “that thou art likely to come out. There is no such likelihood at all whilst our good Queen reigneth; and if it please God, she shall have a son after her that shall be true to the Catholic faith, as she is, and not suffer evil courses and naughty heretics to be any more in the realm. Ye will abide here till it be plainly seen whether God shall grant to thee and thy sister the grace of a vocation; and if not, it shall be well seen to that ye be in care of good Catholic folk, that shall look to it ye go in the right way. So prithee, suffer not thy fancy to deceive thee with any thought of going forth of this house of religion. When matters be somewhat better established, and the lands whereof the Church hath been robbed are given back to her, and all the religious put back in their houses, or new ones built, then will England be an Isle of Saints as in olden time, and men may rejoice thereat.”

Cissy listened to this long speech, which she only understood in part, but she gathered that the nuns meant to keep her a prisoner as long as they could.

“But Sister Joan,” said she, “you don’t know, do you, what God is going to do? Perhaps he will give us another good king or queen, like King Edward. I ask Him to do, every day. But, please, what is a vocation?”

“Thou dost, thou wicked maid? I never heard thee.”

“But I don’t ask you, Sister Joan. I ask God. And I think He’ll do it, too. What is a vocation, please?”

“What I’m afeared thou wilt never have, thou sinful heretic child—the call to become a holy Sister.”

“Who is to call me? I am a sister now; I’m Will’s and Baby’s sister. Nobody can’t call me to be a sister to nobody else,” said Cissy, getting very negative in her earnestness.

Sister Joan rose from her seat. “The time is up,” said she. “Say farewell to thy friend.”

“Farewell, Dorothy dear,” said Cissy, clinging to the one person she knew, who seemed to belong to her past, as she never would have thought of doing to Dorothy Denny in bygone days. “Please give Mistress Wade my duty, when she comes home, and say I’m trying to do as Father bade me, and I’ll never, never believe nothing he told me not. You see they couldn’t do nothing to me save burn me, as they did Father, and then I should go to Father, and all would be right directly. It’s much better for them all that they are safe there, and I’ll try to be glad—thought here’s nobody left for me. Father’ll have company: I must try and think of that. I thought he’d find nobody he knew but Mother, but if they’ve all gone too, there’ll be plenty. And I suppose there’ll be some holy angels to look after us, because God isn’t gone away, you see: He’s there and here too. He’ll help me still to look after Will and Baby, now I haven’t”—a sob interrupted the words—“haven’t got Father. Good-bye, Dolly! Kiss me, please. Nobody never kisses me now.”

“Thou poor little dear!” cried Dorothy, fairly melted, and sobbing over Cissy as she gave her half-a-dozen kisses at least. “The Lord bless thee, and be good to thee! I’m sure He’ll take proper vengeance on every body as isn’t. I wouldn’t like to be them as ill-used thee. They’ll have a proper bill to pay in the next world, if they don’t get it in this. Poor little pretty dear!”

“You will drink a cup of ale and eat a manchet?” asked Sister Joan of Dorothy.

A manchet was a cake of the best bread.

“No, I thank you, Sister, I am not a-hungered,” was the answer.

“But, Dolly, you did not come all the way from Colchester?” said Cissy.

“Ay, I did so, my dear, in the miller’s cart, and I’m journeying back in the same. I covenanted to meet him down at the end of yonder lane at three o’clock, and methinks I had best be on my way.”

“Ay, you have no time to lose,” responded Sister Joan.

Dorothy found Mr Ewring waiting for her at the end of the lane.

“Have you had to eat, Dorothy?” was his first question when she had climbed up beside him.

“Never a bite or sup inthathouse, Master, I thank you,” was Dorothy’s rejoinder. “If I’d been starving o’ hunger, I wouldn’t have touched a thing.”

“Have you seen the children?”

“I’ve seen Cissy. That was enough and to spare.”

“What do they with her?”

“They are working hard with both hands to make an angel of her at the soonest—that’s what they are doing. It’s not what they mean to do. They want to make her a devil, or one of the devil’s children, which comes to the same thing: but the Lord ’ll not suffer that, or I’m a mistaken woman. They are trying to bend her, and they never will. She’ll break first. So they’ll break her, and then there’ll be no more they can do. That’s about where it is, Master Ewring.”

“Why, Dorothy, I never saw you thus stirred aforetime.”

“Maybe not. It takes a bit to stir me, but I’ve got it this even, I can tell you.”

“I could well-nigh mistake you for Mistress Wade,” said Mr Ewring with a smile.

“Eh, poor Mistress! but if she could see that poor little dear, it would grieve her to her heart. Master Ewring, how long will the Lord bear with these sons of Satan!”

“Ah, Dorothy, that’s more than you or I can tell. ‘Many shall be purified, and made white, and tried’: that is all we know.”

“How much is many?” asked Dorothy almost bitterly.

“Not one too many,” said the miller gravely: “and not one too few. We are called to wait until our brethren be accomplished that shall suffer. It may be shorter than we think. But, Dorothy, who set you among the prophets? I rather thought you had not over much care for such things.”

“Master Ewring, I’ve heard say that when a soldier’s killed in battle, another steppeth up behind without delay to fill his place. There’s some places wants filling at Colchester, where the firing’s been fierce of late: and when most of the old warriors be killed, they’ll be like to fill the ranks up with new recruits. And if they be a bit awkward, and don’t step just up to pace, maybe they’ll learn by and by, and meantime the others must have patience.”

“The Lord perfect that which concerneth thee!” said the miller, with much feeling. “Dorothy, was your mistress not desirous to have brought up these little ones herself?”

“She was so, Master Ewring, and I would with all my heart she could. Poor little dears!”

“I would have taken the lad, if it might have been compassed, when he was a bit older, and have bred him up to my own trade. The maids should have done better with good Mistress Wade.”

“Eh, Master, little Cicely’s like to dwell in other keeping than either, and that’s with her good father and mother above.”

“The Lord’s will be done!” responded Mr Ewring. “If so be, she at least will have little sorrow.”

Chapter Thirty Six.Into the Lion’s Mouth.“Give you good den, Master Hiltoft! May a man have speech of your prisoner, Mistress Bongeor?”“You’re a bold man, Master Ewring.”“Wherefore?”“Wherefore! Sotting your head in the lion’s mouth! I should have thought you’d keep as far from Moot Hall as you could compass. Yourself not unsuspected, and had one burned already from your house—I marvel at you that you hide not yourself behind your corn-measures and flour-sacks, and have a care not to show your face in the street. And here up you march as bold as Hector, and desire to have speech of a prisoner! Well—it’s your business, not mine.”“Friend, mine hearth is desolate, and I have only God to my friend. Do you marvel that I haste to do His work whilst it is day, or that I desire to be approved of Him?”“You go a queer way about it. I reckon you think with the old saw, (Proverb.) ‘The nearer the church the further from Heaven’!”“That is true but in some sense. Verily, the nearer some churches, and some priests, so it is. May I see Mistress Bongeor?”“Ay, you would fain not commit yourself, I see, more than may be. Come, you have a bit of prudence left. So much the better for you. Come in, and I’ll see if Wastborowe’s in a reasonable temper, and that hangs somewhat on the one that Audrey’s in.”The porter shut the gate behind Mr Ewring, and went to seek Wastborowe. Just then Jane Hiltoft, coming to her door, saw him waiting, and invited him to take a seat.“Fine morning, Master.”“Ay, it is, Jane. Have you yet here poor Johnson’s little maid?”“I haven’t, Master, and I feel fair lost without the dear babe. A rare good child she was—never see a better. The Black Ladies of Hedingham has got her, and I’m all to pieces afeard they’ll not tend her right way. How should nuns (saving their holy presences) know aught about babes and such like? Eh dear! they’d better have left her with me. I’d have taken to her altogether, if Simon’d have let me—and I think he would after a bit. And she’d have done well with me, too.”“Ay, Jane, you’d have cared her well for the body, I cast no doubt.”“Dear heart, but it’s sore pity, Master Ewring, such a good man as you cannot be a good Catholic like every body else! You’d save yourself ever so much trouble and sorrow. I cannot think why you don’t.”“We should save ourselves a little sorrow, Jane; but we should have a deal more than we lost.”“But how so, Master? It’s only giving up an opinion.”“Maybe so, with some: but not with us. They that have been taught this way by others, and never knew Christ for themselves—with them, as you say, it were but the yielding of opinion: but to us that know Him, and have heard His voice, it would be the betraying of the best Friend in earth or Heaven. And we cannot do that, Jane Hiltoft—not even for life.”“Nay, that stands to reason if it were so, Master Ewring; but, trust me, I know not what you mean, no more than if you spake Latin.”“Read God’s Book, and pray for His Spirit, and you shall find out, Jane.—Well, Hiltoft?”“Wastborowe says you may see Mistress Bongeor if you’ll give him a royal farthing, but he won’t let you for a penny less. He’s had words with their Audrey, and he’s as savage as Denis of Siccarus.”“Who was he, Hiltoft?” answered Mr Ewring with a smile, as he felt in his purse for the half-crown which was to be the price of his visit to Agnes Bongeor.“Eh, I don’t know: I heard Master Doctor say the other day that his dog was as fierce as him.”“Art sure he said not ‘Syracuse’?”“Dare say he might. Syracuse or Siccarus, all’s one to me.”At the door of the dungeon stood the redoubtable Wastborowe, his keys hanging from his girdle, and looking, to put it mildly, not particularly amiable.“Want letting out again by and by?” he inquired with grim satire, as Mr Ewring put the coin in his hand.“If you please, Wastborowe. You’ve no writ to keep me, have you?”“Haven’t—worse luck! Only wish I had. I’ll set a match to the lot of you with as much pleasure as I’d drink a pot of ale. It’ll never be good world till we’re rid of heretics!”“There’ll be Satan left then, methinks, and maybe a few rogues and murderers to boot.”“Never a one as bad as you Lutherans and Gospellers! Get you in. You’ll have to wait my time to come out.”“Very well,” said Mr Ewring quietly, and went in.He found Agnes Bongeor seated in a corner of the window recess, with her Bible on her knee; but it was closed, and she looked very miserable.“Well, my sister, and how is it with you?”“As ’tis like to be, Master Ewring, with her whom the Lord hath cast forth, and reckons unworthy to do Him a service.”“Did he so reckon Abraham, then, at the time of the offering up of Isaac? Isaac was not sacrificed: he was turned back from the same. Yet what saith the Lord unto him? ‘Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thou shalt be blessed, because thou hast obeyed My voice.’ See you, his good will thereto is reckoned as though he had done the thing. ‘The Lord looketh on the heart.’ Doubt thou not, my good sister, but firmly believe, that to thee also faith is counted for righteousness, and the will passeth for the deed, with Him who saith that ‘if thou be Christ’s then art thou Abraham’s seed.’”“That’s comforting, in truth,” said poor Agnes. “But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back! Is there no hope?”Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such as are faithful unto death. Not faithfultilldeath, butuntoit.“I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying in this dungeon after fifty years’ imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly.”Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment.“You have the right, Master Ewring,” said she, when she looked up again. “I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord’s will be done, and His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should.”“Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go—when as it shall please Wastborowe,” added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement, and then growing grave,—“to visit one in far sorer trouble than thyself.”“Eh, Master, who is that?”“It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought life by recanting.”“Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the grace yet to be His witnesses.”Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other prisoners,—all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some crime,—and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe’s voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not sound particularly sober,—“Where’s yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?”“I am here, Wastborowe,” said Mr Ewring, rising. “Good den, friends. The Lord bless and comfort thee, my sister!”And out he went into the summer evening air, to meet the half-tipsy gaoler’s farewell of,—“There! Take to thy heels, old shortbread, afore thou’rt done a bit too brown. Thou’lt get it some of these days!”

“Give you good den, Master Hiltoft! May a man have speech of your prisoner, Mistress Bongeor?”

“You’re a bold man, Master Ewring.”

“Wherefore?”

“Wherefore! Sotting your head in the lion’s mouth! I should have thought you’d keep as far from Moot Hall as you could compass. Yourself not unsuspected, and had one burned already from your house—I marvel at you that you hide not yourself behind your corn-measures and flour-sacks, and have a care not to show your face in the street. And here up you march as bold as Hector, and desire to have speech of a prisoner! Well—it’s your business, not mine.”

“Friend, mine hearth is desolate, and I have only God to my friend. Do you marvel that I haste to do His work whilst it is day, or that I desire to be approved of Him?”

“You go a queer way about it. I reckon you think with the old saw, (Proverb.) ‘The nearer the church the further from Heaven’!”

“That is true but in some sense. Verily, the nearer some churches, and some priests, so it is. May I see Mistress Bongeor?”

“Ay, you would fain not commit yourself, I see, more than may be. Come, you have a bit of prudence left. So much the better for you. Come in, and I’ll see if Wastborowe’s in a reasonable temper, and that hangs somewhat on the one that Audrey’s in.”

The porter shut the gate behind Mr Ewring, and went to seek Wastborowe. Just then Jane Hiltoft, coming to her door, saw him waiting, and invited him to take a seat.

“Fine morning, Master.”

“Ay, it is, Jane. Have you yet here poor Johnson’s little maid?”

“I haven’t, Master, and I feel fair lost without the dear babe. A rare good child she was—never see a better. The Black Ladies of Hedingham has got her, and I’m all to pieces afeard they’ll not tend her right way. How should nuns (saving their holy presences) know aught about babes and such like? Eh dear! they’d better have left her with me. I’d have taken to her altogether, if Simon’d have let me—and I think he would after a bit. And she’d have done well with me, too.”

“Ay, Jane, you’d have cared her well for the body, I cast no doubt.”

“Dear heart, but it’s sore pity, Master Ewring, such a good man as you cannot be a good Catholic like every body else! You’d save yourself ever so much trouble and sorrow. I cannot think why you don’t.”

“We should save ourselves a little sorrow, Jane; but we should have a deal more than we lost.”

“But how so, Master? It’s only giving up an opinion.”

“Maybe so, with some: but not with us. They that have been taught this way by others, and never knew Christ for themselves—with them, as you say, it were but the yielding of opinion: but to us that know Him, and have heard His voice, it would be the betraying of the best Friend in earth or Heaven. And we cannot do that, Jane Hiltoft—not even for life.”

“Nay, that stands to reason if it were so, Master Ewring; but, trust me, I know not what you mean, no more than if you spake Latin.”

“Read God’s Book, and pray for His Spirit, and you shall find out, Jane.—Well, Hiltoft?”

“Wastborowe says you may see Mistress Bongeor if you’ll give him a royal farthing, but he won’t let you for a penny less. He’s had words with their Audrey, and he’s as savage as Denis of Siccarus.”

“Who was he, Hiltoft?” answered Mr Ewring with a smile, as he felt in his purse for the half-crown which was to be the price of his visit to Agnes Bongeor.

“Eh, I don’t know: I heard Master Doctor say the other day that his dog was as fierce as him.”

“Art sure he said not ‘Syracuse’?”

“Dare say he might. Syracuse or Siccarus, all’s one to me.”

At the door of the dungeon stood the redoubtable Wastborowe, his keys hanging from his girdle, and looking, to put it mildly, not particularly amiable.

“Want letting out again by and by?” he inquired with grim satire, as Mr Ewring put the coin in his hand.

“If you please, Wastborowe. You’ve no writ to keep me, have you?”

“Haven’t—worse luck! Only wish I had. I’ll set a match to the lot of you with as much pleasure as I’d drink a pot of ale. It’ll never be good world till we’re rid of heretics!”

“There’ll be Satan left then, methinks, and maybe a few rogues and murderers to boot.”

“Never a one as bad as you Lutherans and Gospellers! Get you in. You’ll have to wait my time to come out.”

“Very well,” said Mr Ewring quietly, and went in.

He found Agnes Bongeor seated in a corner of the window recess, with her Bible on her knee; but it was closed, and she looked very miserable.

“Well, my sister, and how is it with you?”

“As ’tis like to be, Master Ewring, with her whom the Lord hath cast forth, and reckons unworthy to do Him a service.”

“Did he so reckon Abraham, then, at the time of the offering up of Isaac? Isaac was not sacrificed: he was turned back from the same. Yet what saith the Lord unto him? ‘Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thou shalt be blessed, because thou hast obeyed My voice.’ See you, his good will thereto is reckoned as though he had done the thing. ‘The Lord looketh on the heart.’ Doubt thou not, my good sister, but firmly believe, that to thee also faith is counted for righteousness, and the will passeth for the deed, with Him who saith that ‘if thou be Christ’s then art thou Abraham’s seed.’”

“That’s comforting, in truth,” said poor Agnes. “But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back! Is there no hope?”

Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such as are faithful unto death. Not faithfultilldeath, butuntoit.

“I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying in this dungeon after fifty years’ imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly.”

Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment.

“You have the right, Master Ewring,” said she, when she looked up again. “I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord’s will be done, and His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should.”

“Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go—when as it shall please Wastborowe,” added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement, and then growing grave,—“to visit one in far sorer trouble than thyself.”

“Eh, Master, who is that?”

“It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought life by recanting.”

“Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the grace yet to be His witnesses.”

Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other prisoners,—all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some crime,—and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe’s voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not sound particularly sober,—

“Where’s yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?”

“I am here, Wastborowe,” said Mr Ewring, rising. “Good den, friends. The Lord bless and comfort thee, my sister!”

And out he went into the summer evening air, to meet the half-tipsy gaoler’s farewell of,—

“There! Take to thy heels, old shortbread, afore thou’rt done a bit too brown. Thou’lt get it some of these days!”

Chapter Thirty Seven.“Remember!”Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe’s uncivil farewell by a nod, as he walked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant’s Lane he turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see the prisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter and the gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority. At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, on condition that he would not mention the subject of religion.The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk about that and nothing else.“Then you’d best go home,” said Bartle. “Can’t do to have matters set a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret Thurston’s reconciled, and we’ve hopes for John, though he’s been harder of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting ’em all wrong side up. Do you want to see ’em burned, my master?”“I want to see them true,” was Mr Ewring’s answer, “The burning doesn’t much matter.”“Oh, doesn’t it?” sneered Bartle. “You’ll sing another tune, Master Ewring, the day you’re set alight.”“Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt thou be singing then?”“Time enough to say when I’ve got it pricked, Master,” said Bartle: but Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told.People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady was thought very poorly educated if she could not “set”—that is, write down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called “pricking” it.Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and walked up Tenant’s Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the Castle.Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see who was there.“Good lack! you’re come again!”“I’m come again,” said Mr Ewring, smiling. “Bartle, wilt take a message to the Thurstons for me?”“Depends,” said Bartle with a knowing nod. “What’s it about? If you want to tell ’em price of flour, I don’t mind.”“I only want you to say one word to either of them.”“Come, that’s jolly! What’s the word?”“Remember!”Bartle scratched his head. “Remember what? There’s the rub!”“Leave that to them,” said Mr Ewring.“Well,—I—don’t—know,” said Bartle very slowly. “MayhapIsha’n’t remember.”“Mayhap that shall help you,” replied the miller, holding up an angelet, namely, a gold coin, value 3 shillings 4 pence—the smallest gold coin then made.“Shouldn’t wonder if that strengthened my wits,” said Bartle with a grin, as the little piece of gold was slipped through the wicket. “That’s over a penny a letter, bain’t it?”“Fivepence. It’s good pay.”“It’s none so bad. I’m in hopes you’ll have a few more messages, Master Ewring. They’re easy to carry when they come in a basket o’ that metal.”“Ah, Bartle! wilt thou do that for a gold angelet which thou wouldst not for the love of God or thy neighbour? Beware that all thy good things come not to thee in this life—which can only be if they be things that pertain to this life alone.”“This life’s enough for me, Master: it’s all I’ve got.”“Truth, friend. Therefore cast it not away in folly.”“In a good sooth, Master Ewring, I love your angelets better than your preachment, and you paid me not to listen to a sermon, but to carry a message. Good den!”“Good den, Bartle. May the Lord give thee good ending!”Bartle stood looking from the wicket until the miller had turned the corner.“Yon’s a good man, I do believe,” said he to himself. “I marvel what they burn such men for! They’re never found lying or cheating or murdering. Why couldn’t folks let ’em alone? We shouldn’t want to hurt ’em, if the priests would let us alone. Marry, this would be a good land if there were no priests!”Bartle shut the wicket, and prepared to carry in supper to his prisoners. John and Margaret Thurston were not together. The priests were afraid to let them be so, lest John, who stood more firmly of the two, should talk over Margaret. They occupied adjoining cells. Bartle opened a little wicket in the first, and called John to receive his rations of brown bread, onions, and weak ale.“I promised to give you a message,” said he, “but I don’t know as it’s like to do you much good. It’s only one word.”“Should be a weighty one,” said John. “What is it?”“‘Remember!’”“Ah!” John Thurston’s long-drawn exclamation, which ended with a heavy sigh, astonished Bartle.“There’s more in it than I reckoned, seemingly,” said he as he turned to Margaret’s cell, and opened her wicket to pass in the supper.“Here’s a message for you, Meg, from Master Ewring the miller. Let’s see whatyou’llsay to it—‘Remember!’”“‘Remember!’” cried Margaret in a pained tone. “Don’t I always remember? isn’t it misery to me to remember? And can’t I guess what he means—‘Remember from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works’? Eh, then there’s repentance yet for them that have fallen! ‘I will fight against thee,exceptthou repent.’ God bless you, Bartle: you’ve given me a buffet and yet a hope.”“That’s a proper powerful word, is that!” said Bartle. “Never knew one word do so much afore.”There was more power in that one word from Holy Writ than Bartle guessed. The single word, sent home to their consciences by the Holy Ghost, brought quit different messages to the two to whom it was sent. To John Thurston it did not say, “Remember from whence thou hast fallen.” That was the message with which it was charged for Margaret. But to John it said, “Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after that ye were illuminated, ye endured a great flight of afflictions ... knowing in yourselves that ye have in Heaven a better and an enduring substance. Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward.” That was John’s message, and it found him just on the brink of casting his confidence away, and stopped him.Mr Ewring had never spent an angelet better than in securing the transmission of that one word, which was the instrument in God’s hand to save two immortal souls.As he reached the top of Tenant’s Lane, he met Ursula Felstede, carrying a large bundle, with which she tried to hide her face, and to slink past. The miller stopped.“Good den, Ursula. Wither away?”“Truly, Master, to the whitster’s with this bundle.”The whitster meant what we should now call a dyer and cleaner.“Do you mind, Ursula, what the Prophet Daniel saith, that ‘many shall be purified and made white’? Methinks it is going on now. White, as no fuller on earth can white them! May you and I be so cleansed, friend! Good den.”Ursula courtesied and escaped, and Mr Ewring passed through the gate, and went up to his desolated home. He stood a moment in the mill-door, looking back over the town which he had just left.“‘The night cometh, when no man can work,’” he said to himself. “Grant me, Lord, to be about Thy business until the Master cometh!”And he knew, while he said it, that in all likelihood to him that coming would be in a chariot of fire, and that to be busied with that work would bring it nearer and sooner.

Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe’s uncivil farewell by a nod, as he walked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant’s Lane he turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see the prisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter and the gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority. At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, on condition that he would not mention the subject of religion.

The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk about that and nothing else.

“Then you’d best go home,” said Bartle. “Can’t do to have matters set a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret Thurston’s reconciled, and we’ve hopes for John, though he’s been harder of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting ’em all wrong side up. Do you want to see ’em burned, my master?”

“I want to see them true,” was Mr Ewring’s answer, “The burning doesn’t much matter.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” sneered Bartle. “You’ll sing another tune, Master Ewring, the day you’re set alight.”

“Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt thou be singing then?”

“Time enough to say when I’ve got it pricked, Master,” said Bartle: but Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told.

People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady was thought very poorly educated if she could not “set”—that is, write down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called “pricking” it.

Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and walked up Tenant’s Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the Castle.

Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see who was there.

“Good lack! you’re come again!”

“I’m come again,” said Mr Ewring, smiling. “Bartle, wilt take a message to the Thurstons for me?”

“Depends,” said Bartle with a knowing nod. “What’s it about? If you want to tell ’em price of flour, I don’t mind.”

“I only want you to say one word to either of them.”

“Come, that’s jolly! What’s the word?”

“Remember!”

Bartle scratched his head. “Remember what? There’s the rub!”

“Leave that to them,” said Mr Ewring.

“Well,—I—don’t—know,” said Bartle very slowly. “MayhapIsha’n’t remember.”

“Mayhap that shall help you,” replied the miller, holding up an angelet, namely, a gold coin, value 3 shillings 4 pence—the smallest gold coin then made.

“Shouldn’t wonder if that strengthened my wits,” said Bartle with a grin, as the little piece of gold was slipped through the wicket. “That’s over a penny a letter, bain’t it?”

“Fivepence. It’s good pay.”

“It’s none so bad. I’m in hopes you’ll have a few more messages, Master Ewring. They’re easy to carry when they come in a basket o’ that metal.”

“Ah, Bartle! wilt thou do that for a gold angelet which thou wouldst not for the love of God or thy neighbour? Beware that all thy good things come not to thee in this life—which can only be if they be things that pertain to this life alone.”

“This life’s enough for me, Master: it’s all I’ve got.”

“Truth, friend. Therefore cast it not away in folly.”

“In a good sooth, Master Ewring, I love your angelets better than your preachment, and you paid me not to listen to a sermon, but to carry a message. Good den!”

“Good den, Bartle. May the Lord give thee good ending!”

Bartle stood looking from the wicket until the miller had turned the corner.

“Yon’s a good man, I do believe,” said he to himself. “I marvel what they burn such men for! They’re never found lying or cheating or murdering. Why couldn’t folks let ’em alone? We shouldn’t want to hurt ’em, if the priests would let us alone. Marry, this would be a good land if there were no priests!”

Bartle shut the wicket, and prepared to carry in supper to his prisoners. John and Margaret Thurston were not together. The priests were afraid to let them be so, lest John, who stood more firmly of the two, should talk over Margaret. They occupied adjoining cells. Bartle opened a little wicket in the first, and called John to receive his rations of brown bread, onions, and weak ale.

“I promised to give you a message,” said he, “but I don’t know as it’s like to do you much good. It’s only one word.”

“Should be a weighty one,” said John. “What is it?”

“‘Remember!’”

“Ah!” John Thurston’s long-drawn exclamation, which ended with a heavy sigh, astonished Bartle.

“There’s more in it than I reckoned, seemingly,” said he as he turned to Margaret’s cell, and opened her wicket to pass in the supper.

“Here’s a message for you, Meg, from Master Ewring the miller. Let’s see whatyou’llsay to it—‘Remember!’”

“‘Remember!’” cried Margaret in a pained tone. “Don’t I always remember? isn’t it misery to me to remember? And can’t I guess what he means—‘Remember from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works’? Eh, then there’s repentance yet for them that have fallen! ‘I will fight against thee,exceptthou repent.’ God bless you, Bartle: you’ve given me a buffet and yet a hope.”

“That’s a proper powerful word, is that!” said Bartle. “Never knew one word do so much afore.”

There was more power in that one word from Holy Writ than Bartle guessed. The single word, sent home to their consciences by the Holy Ghost, brought quit different messages to the two to whom it was sent. To John Thurston it did not say, “Remember from whence thou hast fallen.” That was the message with which it was charged for Margaret. But to John it said, “Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after that ye were illuminated, ye endured a great flight of afflictions ... knowing in yourselves that ye have in Heaven a better and an enduring substance. Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward.” That was John’s message, and it found him just on the brink of casting his confidence away, and stopped him.

Mr Ewring had never spent an angelet better than in securing the transmission of that one word, which was the instrument in God’s hand to save two immortal souls.

As he reached the top of Tenant’s Lane, he met Ursula Felstede, carrying a large bundle, with which she tried to hide her face, and to slink past. The miller stopped.

“Good den, Ursula. Wither away?”

“Truly, Master, to the whitster’s with this bundle.”

The whitster meant what we should now call a dyer and cleaner.

“Do you mind, Ursula, what the Prophet Daniel saith, that ‘many shall be purified and made white’? Methinks it is going on now. White, as no fuller on earth can white them! May you and I be so cleansed, friend! Good den.”

Ursula courtesied and escaped, and Mr Ewring passed through the gate, and went up to his desolated home. He stood a moment in the mill-door, looking back over the town which he had just left.

“‘The night cometh, when no man can work,’” he said to himself. “Grant me, Lord, to be about Thy business until the Master cometh!”

And he knew, while he said it, that in all likelihood to him that coming would be in a chariot of fire, and that to be busied with that work would bring it nearer and sooner.

Chapter Thirty Eight.Filling the ranks.As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gate towards the mill—a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot or very tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watched her coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere. What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see.“Good den, Mistress Amy,” said he, as she came nearer.Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed.“Good den, Master Ewring. Father’s sending some corn to be ground, and he desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for his liking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an’ it please you?”“I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?”“Ay, right fair,” replied Amy in that manner which shows that the speaker’s thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; she lingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something to say which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out.“You seem weary,” said Mr Ewring, kindly; “pray you, sit and rest you a space in the porch.”Amy took the seat suggested at once.“Master Clere is well, I trust?—and Mistress Clere likewise?”“They are well, I thank you.”Mr Ewring noticed suddenly that Amy’s eyes were full of tears.“Mistress Amy,” said he, “I would not by my good-will be meddlesome in matters that concern me not, but it seemeth me all is scarce well with you. If so be that I can serve you any way, I trust you will say so much.”“Master Ewring, I am the unhappiest maid in all Colchester.”“Truly, I am right sorry to hear it.”“I lack one to help me, and I know not to whom to turn. You could, if—”“Then in very deed I will. Pray give me to wit how?”Amy looked up at him. “Master Ewring, I set out for Heaven, and I have lost the way.”“Why, Mistress Amy! surely you know well enough—”“No, I don’t,” she said, cutting him short. “Lack-a-day! I never took no heed when I might have learned it: and now have I no chance to learn, and everything to hinder. I don’t know a soul I could ask about it.”“The priest,” suggested Mr Ewring a little constrainedly. This language astonished him from Nicholas Clere’s daughter.“I don’t want the priest’s way. He isn’t going himself; or if he is, it’s back foremost. Master Ewring, help me! I mean it. I never wist a soul going that way save Bessy Foulkes: and she’s got there, and I want to goherway. What am I to do?”Mr Ewring did not speak for a moment. He was thinking, in the first place, how true it was that “the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church”; and in the second, what very unlikely subjects God sometimes chooses as the recipients of His grace. One of the last people in Colchester whom he would have expected to fill Elizabeth Foulkes’ vacant place in the ranks was the girl who sat in the porch, looking up at him with those anxious, earnest eyes.“Mistress Amy,” he said, “you surely know there is peril in this path? It were well you should count the cost afore you enter on it.”“Where is there not peril?” was the answer. “I may be slain of lightning to-morrow, or die of some sudden malady this next month. Can you say surely that there is more peril of burning than of that? If not, come to mine help. I must find the way somehow. Master Ewring, I want to besafe! I want to feel that it will not matter how or when I go, because I know whither it shall be. And I have lost the way. I thought I had but to do well and be as good as I could, and I should sure come out safe. And I have tried that way awhile, and it serves not. First, I can’t be good when I would: and again, the better I am—as folks commonly reckon goodness—the worser I feel. There’s somewhat inside me that won’t do right; and there’s somewhat else that isn’t satisfied when I have done right; it wants something more, and I don’t know what it is. Master Ewring, you do. Tell me!”“Mistress Amy, what think you religion to be?”“Nay, I always thought it were being good. If it’s not that, I know not what it is.”“But being good must spring out of something. That is the flower. What is the seed—that which is to make you ‘be good,’ and find it easy and pleasant?”“Tell me!” said Amy’s eyes more than her words.“My dear maid, religion is fellowship; living fellowship with the living Lord. It is neither being good nor doing good, though both will spring out of it. It is an exchange made between you and the Lord Christ: His righteousness for your iniquity; His strength for your weakness; His rich grace for your bankrupt poverty of all goodness. Mistress Amy, you want Christ our Lord, and the Holy Ghost, which He shall give you—the new heart and the right spirit which be His gift, and which He died to purchase for you.”“That’s it!” said Amy, with a light in her eyes. “But how come you by them?”“You may have them for the asking—if you do truly wish it. ‘Whosoeverwill, let him take the water of life.’ Know you what Saint Austin saith? ‘Thou would’st not now be setting forth to find God, if He had not first set forth to find thee.’ ‘For by grace ye are saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.’ Keep fast hold of that, Mistress Amy.”“That ’ll do!” said Amy, under her breath. “I’ve got what I want now—if He’ll hearken to me. But, O Master Ewring, I’m not fit to keep fellowship with Him!”“Dear maid, you are that which the best and the worst man in the world are—a sinner that needeth pardon, a sinner that can be saved only through grace. Have you the chance to get hold of a Bible, or no?”“No! Father gave up his to the priest, months agone. I never cared nought about it while I had it, and now I’ve lost the chance.”“Trust the Lord to care for you. He shall send you, be sure, either the quails or the manna. He’ll not let you starve. He has bound Himself to bring all safe that trust in Him. And—it looks not like it, verily, yet it may be that times of liberty shall come again.”“Master Ewring, I’ve given you a deal of trouble,” said Amy, rising suddenly, “and taken ever so much time. But I’m not unthankful, trust me.”“My dear maid, how can Christian men spend time better than in helping a fellow soul on his way towards Heaven? It’s not time wasted, be sure.”“No, it’s not time wasted!” said Amy, with more feeling than Mr Ewring had ever seen her show before.“Farewell, dear maid,” said he. “One thing I pray you to remember: what you lack is the Holy Ghost, for He only can show Christ unto you. I or others can talk of Him, but the Spirit alone can reveal Him to your own soul. And the Spirit is promised to them that ask Him.”“I’ll not forget, Master. Good even, and God bless you!”Mr Ewring stood a moment longer to watch Amy as she ran down the road, with a step tenfold more light and elastic than the weary, languid one with which she had come up.“God bless the maid!” he said half aloud, “and may He ‘stablish, strengthen, settle’ her! ‘He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy.’ But we on whom He has had it aforetime, how unbelieving and hopeless we are apt to be! Verily, the last recruit that I looked to see join Christ’s standard was Nicholas Clere’s daughter.”

As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gate towards the mill—a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot or very tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watched her coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere. What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see.

“Good den, Mistress Amy,” said he, as she came nearer.

Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed.

“Good den, Master Ewring. Father’s sending some corn to be ground, and he desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for his liking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an’ it please you?”

“I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?”

“Ay, right fair,” replied Amy in that manner which shows that the speaker’s thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; she lingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something to say which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out.

“You seem weary,” said Mr Ewring, kindly; “pray you, sit and rest you a space in the porch.”

Amy took the seat suggested at once.

“Master Clere is well, I trust?—and Mistress Clere likewise?”

“They are well, I thank you.”

Mr Ewring noticed suddenly that Amy’s eyes were full of tears.

“Mistress Amy,” said he, “I would not by my good-will be meddlesome in matters that concern me not, but it seemeth me all is scarce well with you. If so be that I can serve you any way, I trust you will say so much.”

“Master Ewring, I am the unhappiest maid in all Colchester.”

“Truly, I am right sorry to hear it.”

“I lack one to help me, and I know not to whom to turn. You could, if—”

“Then in very deed I will. Pray give me to wit how?”

Amy looked up at him. “Master Ewring, I set out for Heaven, and I have lost the way.”

“Why, Mistress Amy! surely you know well enough—”

“No, I don’t,” she said, cutting him short. “Lack-a-day! I never took no heed when I might have learned it: and now have I no chance to learn, and everything to hinder. I don’t know a soul I could ask about it.”

“The priest,” suggested Mr Ewring a little constrainedly. This language astonished him from Nicholas Clere’s daughter.

“I don’t want the priest’s way. He isn’t going himself; or if he is, it’s back foremost. Master Ewring, help me! I mean it. I never wist a soul going that way save Bessy Foulkes: and she’s got there, and I want to goherway. What am I to do?”

Mr Ewring did not speak for a moment. He was thinking, in the first place, how true it was that “the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church”; and in the second, what very unlikely subjects God sometimes chooses as the recipients of His grace. One of the last people in Colchester whom he would have expected to fill Elizabeth Foulkes’ vacant place in the ranks was the girl who sat in the porch, looking up at him with those anxious, earnest eyes.

“Mistress Amy,” he said, “you surely know there is peril in this path? It were well you should count the cost afore you enter on it.”

“Where is there not peril?” was the answer. “I may be slain of lightning to-morrow, or die of some sudden malady this next month. Can you say surely that there is more peril of burning than of that? If not, come to mine help. I must find the way somehow. Master Ewring, I want to besafe! I want to feel that it will not matter how or when I go, because I know whither it shall be. And I have lost the way. I thought I had but to do well and be as good as I could, and I should sure come out safe. And I have tried that way awhile, and it serves not. First, I can’t be good when I would: and again, the better I am—as folks commonly reckon goodness—the worser I feel. There’s somewhat inside me that won’t do right; and there’s somewhat else that isn’t satisfied when I have done right; it wants something more, and I don’t know what it is. Master Ewring, you do. Tell me!”

“Mistress Amy, what think you religion to be?”

“Nay, I always thought it were being good. If it’s not that, I know not what it is.”

“But being good must spring out of something. That is the flower. What is the seed—that which is to make you ‘be good,’ and find it easy and pleasant?”

“Tell me!” said Amy’s eyes more than her words.

“My dear maid, religion is fellowship; living fellowship with the living Lord. It is neither being good nor doing good, though both will spring out of it. It is an exchange made between you and the Lord Christ: His righteousness for your iniquity; His strength for your weakness; His rich grace for your bankrupt poverty of all goodness. Mistress Amy, you want Christ our Lord, and the Holy Ghost, which He shall give you—the new heart and the right spirit which be His gift, and which He died to purchase for you.”

“That’s it!” said Amy, with a light in her eyes. “But how come you by them?”

“You may have them for the asking—if you do truly wish it. ‘Whosoeverwill, let him take the water of life.’ Know you what Saint Austin saith? ‘Thou would’st not now be setting forth to find God, if He had not first set forth to find thee.’ ‘For by grace ye are saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.’ Keep fast hold of that, Mistress Amy.”

“That ’ll do!” said Amy, under her breath. “I’ve got what I want now—if He’ll hearken to me. But, O Master Ewring, I’m not fit to keep fellowship with Him!”

“Dear maid, you are that which the best and the worst man in the world are—a sinner that needeth pardon, a sinner that can be saved only through grace. Have you the chance to get hold of a Bible, or no?”

“No! Father gave up his to the priest, months agone. I never cared nought about it while I had it, and now I’ve lost the chance.”

“Trust the Lord to care for you. He shall send you, be sure, either the quails or the manna. He’ll not let you starve. He has bound Himself to bring all safe that trust in Him. And—it looks not like it, verily, yet it may be that times of liberty shall come again.”

“Master Ewring, I’ve given you a deal of trouble,” said Amy, rising suddenly, “and taken ever so much time. But I’m not unthankful, trust me.”

“My dear maid, how can Christian men spend time better than in helping a fellow soul on his way towards Heaven? It’s not time wasted, be sure.”

“No, it’s not time wasted!” said Amy, with more feeling than Mr Ewring had ever seen her show before.

“Farewell, dear maid,” said he. “One thing I pray you to remember: what you lack is the Holy Ghost, for He only can show Christ unto you. I or others can talk of Him, but the Spirit alone can reveal Him to your own soul. And the Spirit is promised to them that ask Him.”

“I’ll not forget, Master. Good even, and God bless you!”

Mr Ewring stood a moment longer to watch Amy as she ran down the road, with a step tenfold more light and elastic than the weary, languid one with which she had come up.

“God bless the maid!” he said half aloud, “and may He ‘stablish, strengthen, settle’ her! ‘He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy.’ But we on whom He has had it aforetime, how unbelieving and hopeless we are apt to be! Verily, the last recruit that I looked to see join Christ’s standard was Nicholas Clere’s daughter.”

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