Chapter Twenty Six.

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

Once more the days wore on, and no fresh arrests were made; but no help came to the prisoners in the Castle and the Moot Hall, nor to Elizabeth Foulkes in the keeping of Mr Ashby. Two priests had talked to Elizabeth, and the authorities were beginning to change their opinion about her. They had fancied from her quiet, meek appearance, that she would be easily prevailed upon to say what they wanted. Now they found that under that external softness there was a will of iron, and a power of endurance beyond anything they had imagined.

The day of examination for all the prisoners—the last day, when they would be sentenced or acquitted—was appointed to be the 23rd of June. On the previous day the Commissioners called Elizabeth Foulkes before them. She came, accompanied by Mr Ashby and her uncle; and they asked her only one question.

“Dost thou believe in a Catholic Church of Christ, or no?”

Of course Elizabeth replied “Yes,” for the Bible has plenty to say of the Church of Christ, though it never identifies it with the Church of Rome. They asked her no more, for Boswell, the scribe, interposed, and begged that she might be consigned to the keeping of her uncle. The Commissioners assented, and Holt took her away. It looks very much as if Boswell had wanted her to escape. She was much more carelessly guarded in her uncle’s house than in Mr Ashby’s, and could have got away easily enough if she had chosen. She was more than once sent to open the front door, whence she might have slipped out after dark with almost a certainty of escape. It was quite dark when she answered the last rap.

“Pray you,” asked an old man’s voice, “is here a certain young maid, by name Elizabeth Foulkes?”

“I am she, master. What would you with me?”

“A word apart,” he answered in a whisper. “Be any ears about that should not be?”

Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, and her two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women then wore.

“None that can harm. Say on, my master.”

“Bessy, dost know my voice?”

“I do somewhat, yet I can scarce put a name thereto.”

“I am Walter Purcas, of Booking.”

“Robin’s father! Ay, I know you well now, and I cry you mercy that I did no sooner.”

“Come away with me, Bessy!” he said, in a loud whisper. “I have walked all the way from Booking to see if I might save thee, for Robin’s sake, for he loves thee as he loveth nought else save me. Mistress Wade shall lend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o’er, in the house of a good man that I know in a place unsuspect. O Bessy, my dear lass, save thyself and come with me!”

“Save thyself!” The words had been addressed once before, fifteen hundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came to save the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions—one fair and sweet enough, a vision of safety and comfort, of life and happiness, which might be yet in state for her. But it was blotted out by the other—a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One who hung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory of the Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that cross a voice seemed to whisper to her—“If any man serve Me, let him follow Me.”

“Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought,” said she, “but indeed I cannot come with you, though I do thank you with all my heart. I am set here in ward of mine uncle, and for me to ’scape away would cause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. And should not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage to stand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this will I not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of my Christ.”

“Bessy!” cried her aunt from the kitchen, “do come within and shut the door, maid! Here’s the wind a-blowing in till I’m nigh feared o’ losing my ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriest chatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring her in?”

“Bessy,come!” whispered Purcas earnestly.

But Elizabeth shook her head. “The Lord bless you! I dare not.” And she shut the door, knowing that by so doing, she virtually shut it upon life and happiness—that is, happiness in this life. Elizabeth went quietly back to the kitchen, and took up an iron. She scarcely knew what she was ironing, nor how she answered her cousin Dorothy’s rather sarcastic observations upon the interesting conversation which she seemed to have had. A few minutes later her eldest cousin, a married woman, who lived in a neighbouring street, lifted the latch and came in.

“Good even, Mother!” said she. “Well, Doll, and Jenny! So thou gave in at last, Bess? I’m fain for thee. It’s no good fighting against a stone wall.”

“What dost thou mean, Chrissy?”

“What mean I? Why, didn’t thou give in? Lots o’ folks is saying so. Set thy name, they say, to a paper that thou’d yield to the Pope, and be obedient in all things. I hope it were true.”

“True! that I yielded to the Pope, and promised to obey him!” cried Elizabeth in fiery indignation. “It’s not true, Christian Meynell! Tell every soul so that asks thee! I’ll die before I do it. Where be the Commissioners?”

“Thank the saints, they’ve done their sitting,” said Mrs Meynell, laughing: “or I do believe this foolish maid should run right into the lion’s den. Mother, lock her up to-morrow, won’t you, without she’s summoned?”

“Where are they?” peremptorily demanded Elizabeth.

“Sitting down to their supper at Mistress Cosin’s,” was the laughing answer. “Don’t thou spoil it by rushing in all of a—”

“I shall go to them this minute,” said Elizabeth tying on her hood, which she had taken down from its nail. “No man nor woman shall say such words of me. Good-night, Aunt; I thank you for all your goodness, and may the good Lord bless you and yours for ever Farewell!” And amid a shower of exclamations and entreaties from her startled relatives, who never expected conduct approaching to this, Elizabeth left the house.

She had not far to go on that last walk in this world. The White Hart, where the Commissioners were staying, was full of light and animation that night when she stepped into it from the dark street, and asked leave to speak a few words to the Queen’s Commissioners.

“What would you with them?” asked a red-cheeked maid who came to her.

“That shall they know speedily,” was the answer.

The Commissioners were rather amused to be told that a girl wanted to see them: but when they heard who it was, they looked at each other with raised eyebrows, and ordered her to be called in. They had finished supper, and were sitting over their wine, as gentlemen were then wont to do rather longer than was good for them.

Elizabeth came forward to the table and confronted them. The Commissioners themselves were two in number, Sir John Kingston and Dr Chedsey; but the scribe, sheriff, and bailiffs were also present.

“Worshipful Sirs,” she said in a clear voice, “I have been told it is reported in this town that I have made this day by you submission and obedience to the Pope. And since this is not true, nor by God’s grace shall never be, I call on you to do your duty, and commit me to the Queen’s Highness’ prison, that I may yet again bear my testimony for my Lord Christ.”

There was dead silence for a moment. Dr Chedsey looked at the girl with admiration which seemed almost reverence. Sir John Kingston knit his brows, and appeared inclined to examine her there and then. Boswell half rose as if he would once more have pleaded with or for her. But Maynard, the Sheriff, whom nothing touched, and who was scarcely sober, sprang to his feet and dashed his hand upon the table, with a cry that “the jibbing jade should repent kicking over the traces this time!” He seized Elizabeth, marched her to the Moot Hall, and thrust her into the dungeon: and with a bass clang as if it had been the very gate of doom, the great door closed behind her.

Chapter Twenty Seven.At the Bar.The great hall of the Moot Hall in Colchester was filling rapidly. Every townsman, and every townswoman, wanted to hear the examination, and to know the fate of the prisoners—of whom there were so many that not many houses were left in Colchester where the owners had not some family connection or friend among them. Into the hall, robed in judicial ermine, filed the Royal Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, and Dr Chedsey, followed by Boswell, the scribe, Robert Maynard and Robert Brown the Sheriffs, several priests, and many magistrates and gentlemen of the surrounding country. Having opened the Court, they first summoned before them William Bongeor, the glazier, of Saint Michael’s parish, aged sixty, then Thomas Benold, the tallow-chandler, and thirdly, Robert Purcas. They asked Purcas “what he had to say touching the Sacrament.”“When we receive the Sacrament,” he answered, “we receive bread in an holy use, that preacheth remembrance that Christ died for us.”The three men were condemned to death: and then Agnes Silverside was brought to the bar. She was some time under examination, for she answered all the questions asked her so wisely and so firmly, that the Commissioners themselves were disconcerted. They took refuge, as such men usually did, in abuse, calling her ugly names, and asking “if she wished to burn her rotten old bones?”Helen Ewring, the miller’s wife, followed: and both were condemned.Then the last of the Moot Hall prisoners, Elizabeth Foulkes, was placed at the bar.“Dost thou believe,” inquired Dr Chedsey, “that in the most holy Sacrament of the altar, the body and blood of Christ is really and substantially present?”Elizabeth’s reply, in her quiet, clear voice, was audible in every part of the hall.“I believe it to be a substantial lie, and a real lie.”“Shame! shame!” cried one of the priests on the bench.“Horrible blasphemy!” cried another.“What is it, then, that there is before consecration?” asked Dr Chedsey.“Bread.”“Well said. And what is there after consecration?”“Bread, still.”“Nothing more?”“Nothing more,” said Elizabeth firmly. “The receiving of Christ lies not in the bread, but is heavenly and spiritual only.”“What say you to confession?”“I will use none, seeing no priest hath power to remit sin.”“Will you go to mass?”“I will not, for it is idolatry.”“Will you submit to the authority of the Pope?”Elizabeth’s answer was even stronger than before.“I do utterly detest all such trumpery from the bottom of my heart!”They asked her no more. Dr Chedsey, for the sixth and last time, assumed the black cap, and read the sentence of death.“Thou shalt be taken from here to the place whence thou earnest, and thence to the place of execution, there to be burned in the fire till thou art dead.”Never before had Chedsey’s voice been known to falter in pronouncing that sentence. He had spoken it to white-haired men, and delicate women, ay, even to little children; but this once, every spectator looked up in amazement at his tone, and saw the judge in tears. And then, turning to the prisoner, they saw her face “as it were the face of an angel.”Before any one could recover from the sudden hush of awe which had fallen upon the Court, Elizabeth Foulkes knelt down, and carried her appeal from that unjust sentence to the higher bar of God Almighty.“O Lord our Father!” she said, “I thank and praise and glorify Thee that I was ever born to see this day—this most blessed and happy day, when Thou hast accounted me worthy to suffer for the testimony of Christ. And, Lord, if it be Thy will, forgive them that thus have done against me, for they know not what they do.”How many of us would be likely to thank God for allowing us to be martyrs? These were true martyrs who did so, men and women so full of the Holy Ghost that they counted not their lives dear unto them,—so upheld by God’s power that the shrinking of the flesh from that dreadful pain and horror was almost forgotten. We must always remember that it was not by their own strength, or their own goodness, but by the blood of the Lamb, that Christ’s martyrs have triumphed over Death and Satan.Then Elizabeth rose from her knees, and turned towards the Bench. Like an inspired prophetess she spoke—this poor, simple, humble servant-girl of twenty years—astonishing all who heard her.“Repent, all ye that sit there!” she cried earnestly, “and especially ye that brought me to this prison: above all thou, Robert Maynard, that art so careless of human life that thou wilt oft sit sleeping on the bench when a man is tried for his life. Repent, O ye halting Gospellers! and beware of blood-guiltiness, for that shall call for vengeance. Yea, if ye will not herein repent your wicked doings,”—and as Elizabeth spoke, she laid her hand upon the bar—“this very bar shall be witness against you in the Day of Judgment, that ye have this day shed innocent blood!”Oh, how England needs such a prophetess now! and above all, those “halting Gospellers,” the men who talk sweetly about charity and toleration, and sit still, and will not come to the help of the Lord against the mighty! They sorely want reminding that Christ has said, “He that is not with us is against us.” It is a very poor excuse to say, “Oh, I am not doing any harm.” Are you doing any good? That is the question. If not, a wooden post is as good as you are. And are you satisfied to be no better than a wooden post?What grand opportunities there are before boys and girls on the threshold of life! What are you going to do with your life? Remember, you have only one. And there are only two things you can do with it. You must give it to somebody—and it must be either God or Satan. All the lives that are not given to God fall into the hands of Satan. There are very few people who say to themselves deliberately, Now, I will not give my life to God. They only say, Oh, there’s plenty of time; I won’t do it just now; I want to enjoy myself. They don’t know that there is no happiness on earth like that of deciding for God. And so they go on day after day, not deciding either way, but just frittering their lives away bit by bit, until the last day comes, and the last bit of life, and then it is too late to decide. Would you like such a poor, mean, valueless thing as this to be the one life which is all you have? Would you not rather have a bright, rich, full life, with God Himself for your best friend on earth, and then a triumphal entry into the Golden City, and the singer’s harp, and the victor’s palm, and the prince’s crown, and the King’s “Well done, good and faithful servant?”Do you say, Yes. I would choose that, but I do not know how? Well, then, tell the Lord that. Say to Him, “Lord, I want to be Thy friend and servant, and I do not know how.” Keep on saying it till He shows you how. He is sure to do it, for He cares about it much more than you do. Never fancy for one minute that God does not want you to go to Heaven, and that it will be hard work to persuade Him to let you in. He wants you to come more than you want it. He gave His own Son that you might come. “Greater love hath no man than this.”Now, will you not come to Him—will you not say to Him, “Lord, here am I; take me”? Are you going to let the Lord Jesus feel that all the cruel suffering which He bore for you was in vain? He is ready to save you, if you will let Him; but He will not do it against your will. How shall it be?

The great hall of the Moot Hall in Colchester was filling rapidly. Every townsman, and every townswoman, wanted to hear the examination, and to know the fate of the prisoners—of whom there were so many that not many houses were left in Colchester where the owners had not some family connection or friend among them. Into the hall, robed in judicial ermine, filed the Royal Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, and Dr Chedsey, followed by Boswell, the scribe, Robert Maynard and Robert Brown the Sheriffs, several priests, and many magistrates and gentlemen of the surrounding country. Having opened the Court, they first summoned before them William Bongeor, the glazier, of Saint Michael’s parish, aged sixty, then Thomas Benold, the tallow-chandler, and thirdly, Robert Purcas. They asked Purcas “what he had to say touching the Sacrament.”

“When we receive the Sacrament,” he answered, “we receive bread in an holy use, that preacheth remembrance that Christ died for us.”

The three men were condemned to death: and then Agnes Silverside was brought to the bar. She was some time under examination, for she answered all the questions asked her so wisely and so firmly, that the Commissioners themselves were disconcerted. They took refuge, as such men usually did, in abuse, calling her ugly names, and asking “if she wished to burn her rotten old bones?”

Helen Ewring, the miller’s wife, followed: and both were condemned.

Then the last of the Moot Hall prisoners, Elizabeth Foulkes, was placed at the bar.

“Dost thou believe,” inquired Dr Chedsey, “that in the most holy Sacrament of the altar, the body and blood of Christ is really and substantially present?”

Elizabeth’s reply, in her quiet, clear voice, was audible in every part of the hall.

“I believe it to be a substantial lie, and a real lie.”

“Shame! shame!” cried one of the priests on the bench.

“Horrible blasphemy!” cried another.

“What is it, then, that there is before consecration?” asked Dr Chedsey.

“Bread.”

“Well said. And what is there after consecration?”

“Bread, still.”

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more,” said Elizabeth firmly. “The receiving of Christ lies not in the bread, but is heavenly and spiritual only.”

“What say you to confession?”

“I will use none, seeing no priest hath power to remit sin.”

“Will you go to mass?”

“I will not, for it is idolatry.”

“Will you submit to the authority of the Pope?”

Elizabeth’s answer was even stronger than before.

“I do utterly detest all such trumpery from the bottom of my heart!”

They asked her no more. Dr Chedsey, for the sixth and last time, assumed the black cap, and read the sentence of death.

“Thou shalt be taken from here to the place whence thou earnest, and thence to the place of execution, there to be burned in the fire till thou art dead.”

Never before had Chedsey’s voice been known to falter in pronouncing that sentence. He had spoken it to white-haired men, and delicate women, ay, even to little children; but this once, every spectator looked up in amazement at his tone, and saw the judge in tears. And then, turning to the prisoner, they saw her face “as it were the face of an angel.”

Before any one could recover from the sudden hush of awe which had fallen upon the Court, Elizabeth Foulkes knelt down, and carried her appeal from that unjust sentence to the higher bar of God Almighty.

“O Lord our Father!” she said, “I thank and praise and glorify Thee that I was ever born to see this day—this most blessed and happy day, when Thou hast accounted me worthy to suffer for the testimony of Christ. And, Lord, if it be Thy will, forgive them that thus have done against me, for they know not what they do.”

How many of us would be likely to thank God for allowing us to be martyrs? These were true martyrs who did so, men and women so full of the Holy Ghost that they counted not their lives dear unto them,—so upheld by God’s power that the shrinking of the flesh from that dreadful pain and horror was almost forgotten. We must always remember that it was not by their own strength, or their own goodness, but by the blood of the Lamb, that Christ’s martyrs have triumphed over Death and Satan.

Then Elizabeth rose from her knees, and turned towards the Bench. Like an inspired prophetess she spoke—this poor, simple, humble servant-girl of twenty years—astonishing all who heard her.

“Repent, all ye that sit there!” she cried earnestly, “and especially ye that brought me to this prison: above all thou, Robert Maynard, that art so careless of human life that thou wilt oft sit sleeping on the bench when a man is tried for his life. Repent, O ye halting Gospellers! and beware of blood-guiltiness, for that shall call for vengeance. Yea, if ye will not herein repent your wicked doings,”—and as Elizabeth spoke, she laid her hand upon the bar—“this very bar shall be witness against you in the Day of Judgment, that ye have this day shed innocent blood!”

Oh, how England needs such a prophetess now! and above all, those “halting Gospellers,” the men who talk sweetly about charity and toleration, and sit still, and will not come to the help of the Lord against the mighty! They sorely want reminding that Christ has said, “He that is not with us is against us.” It is a very poor excuse to say, “Oh, I am not doing any harm.” Are you doing any good? That is the question. If not, a wooden post is as good as you are. And are you satisfied to be no better than a wooden post?

What grand opportunities there are before boys and girls on the threshold of life! What are you going to do with your life? Remember, you have only one. And there are only two things you can do with it. You must give it to somebody—and it must be either God or Satan. All the lives that are not given to God fall into the hands of Satan. There are very few people who say to themselves deliberately, Now, I will not give my life to God. They only say, Oh, there’s plenty of time; I won’t do it just now; I want to enjoy myself. They don’t know that there is no happiness on earth like that of deciding for God. And so they go on day after day, not deciding either way, but just frittering their lives away bit by bit, until the last day comes, and the last bit of life, and then it is too late to decide. Would you like such a poor, mean, valueless thing as this to be the one life which is all you have? Would you not rather have a bright, rich, full life, with God Himself for your best friend on earth, and then a triumphal entry into the Golden City, and the singer’s harp, and the victor’s palm, and the prince’s crown, and the King’s “Well done, good and faithful servant?”

Do you say, Yes. I would choose that, but I do not know how? Well, then, tell the Lord that. Say to Him, “Lord, I want to be Thy friend and servant, and I do not know how.” Keep on saying it till He shows you how. He is sure to do it, for He cares about it much more than you do. Never fancy for one minute that God does not want you to go to Heaven, and that it will be hard work to persuade Him to let you in. He wants you to come more than you want it. He gave His own Son that you might come. “Greater love hath no man than this.”

Now, will you not come to Him—will you not say to Him, “Lord, here am I; take me”? Are you going to let the Lord Jesus feel that all the cruel suffering which He bore for you was in vain? He is ready to save you, if you will let Him; but He will not do it against your will. How shall it be?

Chapter Twenty Eight.The song of triumph.Elizabeth Foulkes was the last prisoner tried in the Moot Hall. The Commissioners then adjourned to the Castle. Here there were six prisoners, as before. The first arraigned was William Mount. He was asked, as they all were—it was the great test question for the Marian martyrs—what he had to say of the Sacrament of the altar, which was another name for the mass.“I say that it is an abominable idol,” was his answer.“Wherefore comest thou not to confession?”“Sirs, I dare not take part in any Popish doings, for fear of God’s vengeance,” said the brave old man.Brave! ay, for the penalty was death. But what are they, of whom there are so many, whose actions if not words say that they dare not refuse to take part in Popish doings, for fear of man’s scorn and ridicule? Poor, mean cowards!It was not worth while to go further. William Mount was sentenced to death, and John Johnson was brought to the bar. Neither were they long with him, for he had nothing to say but what he had said before. He too was sentenced to die.Then Alice Mount was brought up. She replied to their questions exactly as her husband had done. She was satisfied with his answers: they should be hers. Once more the sentence was read, and she was led away.Then Rose Allen was placed at the bar. So little had the past daunted her, that she did more than defy the Commissioners: she made fun of them. Standing there with her burnt hand still in its wrappings, she positively laughed Satan and all his servants to scorn.They asked her what she had to say touching the mass.“I say that it stinketh in the face of God! (see Note 1) and I dare not have to do therewith for my life.”“Are you not a member of the Catholic Church?”“I am no member of yours, for ye be members of Antichrist, and shall have the reward of Antichrist.”“What say you of the see of the Bishop of Rome?”“I am none of his. As for his see, it is for crows, kites, owls, and ravens to swim in, such as you be; for by the grace of God I will not swim in that sea while I live, neither will I have any thing to do therewith.”Nothing could overcome the playful wit of this indomitable girl. She punned on their words, she laughed at their threats, she held them up to ridicule. This must be ended.For the fourth time Dr Chedsey assumed the black cap. Rose kept silence while she was condemned to death. But no sooner had his voice ceased than, to the amazement of all who heard her, she broke forth into song. It was verily:“The shout of them that triumph,The song of them that feast.”She was led out of the court and down the dungeon steps, singing, till her voice filled the whole court.“Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale,Yet will I fear none ill;Thy rod, Thy staff doth comfort me,And Thou art with me still.”Which was the happier, do you think, that night? Dr Chedsey, who had read the sentence of death upon ten martyrs? or young Rose Allen, who was to be burned to death in five weeks?When Rose’s triumphant voice had died away, the gaoler was hastily bidden to bring the other two prisoners. The Commissioners were very much annoyed. It was a bad thing for the people who stood by, they thought, when martyrs insisted on singing in response to a sentence of execution. They wanted to make the spectators forget such scenes.“Well, where be the prisoners?” said Sir John Kingston.“Please, your Worships, they be at the bar!” answered the gaolor, with a grin.“At the bar, man? But I see nought. Be they dwarfs?”“Something like,” said the gaoler.He dragged up a form to the bar, and lifted on it, first, Will Johnson, and then Cissy.“Good lack! such babes as these!” said Sir John, in great perplexity.He felt it really very provoking. Here was a girl of twenty who had made fun of him in the most merciless manner, and had the audacity to sing when condemned to die, thus setting a shocking example, and awakening the sympathy of the public: and here, to make matters worse, were two little children brought up as heretics! This would never do. It was the more awkward from his point of view, that Cissy was so small that he took her to be much younger than she was.“I cannot examine these babes!” said he to Chedsey.Dr Chedsey, in answer, took the examination on himself.“How old art thou, my lad?” said he to Will.Will made no answer, and his sister spoke up for him.“Please, sir, he’s six.”“And what dost thou believe?” asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused.“Please, we believe what Father told us.”“Who is their father?” was asked of the gaoler.“Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentenced this morrow.”“Gramercy!” said Sir John. “Take them down, Wastborowe,—take them down, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!”Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her age naturally would.“Please, Sir, I’m not a baby! Baby’s a baby, but Will’s six, and I’m going in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind all Father said to us.”“Take them away—take them away!” cried Sir John.Wastborowe lifted Will down.“But please—” said Cissy piteously—“isn’t nothing to be done to us? Mayn’t we go ’long of Father?”“Ay, for the present,” answered Wastborowe, as he took a hand of each to lead them back.“But isn’t Father to be burned?”“Come along! I can’t stay,” said the gaoler hastily. Even his hard heart shrank from answering yes to that little pleading face.“But please, oh please, they mustn’t burn Father and not us! Wemustgo with Father.”“Wastborowe!” Sir John’s voice called back.“Take ’em down, Tom,” said Wastborowe to his man,—not at all sorry to go away from Cissy. He ran back to court.“We are of opinion, Wastborowe,” said Dr Chedsey rather pompously, “that these children are too young and ignorant to be put to the bar. We make order, therefore, that they be discharged, and set in care of some good Catholic woman, if any be among their kindred; and if not, let them be committed to the care of some such not akin to them.”“Please, your Worships, I know nought of their kindred,” said the gaoler scratching his head. “Jane Hiltoft hath the babe at this present.”“What, is there a lesser babe yet?” asked Dr Chedsey, laughing.“Ay, there is so: a babe in arms.”“Worshipful Sirs, might it please you to hear a poor woman?”“Speak on, good wife.”“Sirs,” said the woman who had spoken, coming forward out of the crowd, “my name is Ursula Felstede, and I dwell at Thorpe, the next door to Johnson. The babes know me, and have been in my charge aforetime. May I pray your good Worships to set them in my care? I have none of mine own, and would bring them up to mine utmost as good subjects and honest folks.”“Ay so? and how about good Catholics?”“Sirs, Father Tye will tell you I go to mass and confession both.”“So she doth,” said the priest: “but I misdoubt somewhat if she be not of the ‘halting Gospellers’ whereof we heard this morrow in the Moot Hall.”“Better put them in charge of the Black Sisters of Hedingham,” suggested Dr Chedsey. “Come you this even, good woman, to the White Hart, and you shall then hear our pleasure. Father Tye, I pray you come with us to supper.”Dr Chedsey had quite recovered from his emotions of the morning.“Meanwhile,” said Sir John, rising, “let the morrow of Lammas be appointed for the execution of those sentenced.” (See note 2.)Note 1. Rose’s words are given as she spoke them: but it must be remembered that they would not sound nearly so strong to those who heard them as they do to us.Note 2. Lammas is the second of August.

Elizabeth Foulkes was the last prisoner tried in the Moot Hall. The Commissioners then adjourned to the Castle. Here there were six prisoners, as before. The first arraigned was William Mount. He was asked, as they all were—it was the great test question for the Marian martyrs—what he had to say of the Sacrament of the altar, which was another name for the mass.

“I say that it is an abominable idol,” was his answer.

“Wherefore comest thou not to confession?”

“Sirs, I dare not take part in any Popish doings, for fear of God’s vengeance,” said the brave old man.

Brave! ay, for the penalty was death. But what are they, of whom there are so many, whose actions if not words say that they dare not refuse to take part in Popish doings, for fear of man’s scorn and ridicule? Poor, mean cowards!

It was not worth while to go further. William Mount was sentenced to death, and John Johnson was brought to the bar. Neither were they long with him, for he had nothing to say but what he had said before. He too was sentenced to die.

Then Alice Mount was brought up. She replied to their questions exactly as her husband had done. She was satisfied with his answers: they should be hers. Once more the sentence was read, and she was led away.

Then Rose Allen was placed at the bar. So little had the past daunted her, that she did more than defy the Commissioners: she made fun of them. Standing there with her burnt hand still in its wrappings, she positively laughed Satan and all his servants to scorn.

They asked her what she had to say touching the mass.

“I say that it stinketh in the face of God! (see Note 1) and I dare not have to do therewith for my life.”

“Are you not a member of the Catholic Church?”

“I am no member of yours, for ye be members of Antichrist, and shall have the reward of Antichrist.”

“What say you of the see of the Bishop of Rome?”

“I am none of his. As for his see, it is for crows, kites, owls, and ravens to swim in, such as you be; for by the grace of God I will not swim in that sea while I live, neither will I have any thing to do therewith.”

Nothing could overcome the playful wit of this indomitable girl. She punned on their words, she laughed at their threats, she held them up to ridicule. This must be ended.

For the fourth time Dr Chedsey assumed the black cap. Rose kept silence while she was condemned to death. But no sooner had his voice ceased than, to the amazement of all who heard her, she broke forth into song. It was verily:

“The shout of them that triumph,The song of them that feast.”

“The shout of them that triumph,The song of them that feast.”

She was led out of the court and down the dungeon steps, singing, till her voice filled the whole court.

“Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale,Yet will I fear none ill;Thy rod, Thy staff doth comfort me,And Thou art with me still.”

“Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale,Yet will I fear none ill;Thy rod, Thy staff doth comfort me,And Thou art with me still.”

Which was the happier, do you think, that night? Dr Chedsey, who had read the sentence of death upon ten martyrs? or young Rose Allen, who was to be burned to death in five weeks?

When Rose’s triumphant voice had died away, the gaoler was hastily bidden to bring the other two prisoners. The Commissioners were very much annoyed. It was a bad thing for the people who stood by, they thought, when martyrs insisted on singing in response to a sentence of execution. They wanted to make the spectators forget such scenes.

“Well, where be the prisoners?” said Sir John Kingston.

“Please, your Worships, they be at the bar!” answered the gaolor, with a grin.

“At the bar, man? But I see nought. Be they dwarfs?”

“Something like,” said the gaoler.

He dragged up a form to the bar, and lifted on it, first, Will Johnson, and then Cissy.

“Good lack! such babes as these!” said Sir John, in great perplexity.

He felt it really very provoking. Here was a girl of twenty who had made fun of him in the most merciless manner, and had the audacity to sing when condemned to die, thus setting a shocking example, and awakening the sympathy of the public: and here, to make matters worse, were two little children brought up as heretics! This would never do. It was the more awkward from his point of view, that Cissy was so small that he took her to be much younger than she was.

“I cannot examine these babes!” said he to Chedsey.

Dr Chedsey, in answer, took the examination on himself.

“How old art thou, my lad?” said he to Will.

Will made no answer, and his sister spoke up for him.

“Please, sir, he’s six.”

“And what dost thou believe?” asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused.

“Please, we believe what Father told us.”

“Who is their father?” was asked of the gaoler.

“Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentenced this morrow.”

“Gramercy!” said Sir John. “Take them down, Wastborowe,—take them down, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!”

Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her age naturally would.

“Please, Sir, I’m not a baby! Baby’s a baby, but Will’s six, and I’m going in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind all Father said to us.”

“Take them away—take them away!” cried Sir John.

Wastborowe lifted Will down.

“But please—” said Cissy piteously—“isn’t nothing to be done to us? Mayn’t we go ’long of Father?”

“Ay, for the present,” answered Wastborowe, as he took a hand of each to lead them back.

“But isn’t Father to be burned?”

“Come along! I can’t stay,” said the gaoler hastily. Even his hard heart shrank from answering yes to that little pleading face.

“But please, oh please, they mustn’t burn Father and not us! Wemustgo with Father.”

“Wastborowe!” Sir John’s voice called back.

“Take ’em down, Tom,” said Wastborowe to his man,—not at all sorry to go away from Cissy. He ran back to court.

“We are of opinion, Wastborowe,” said Dr Chedsey rather pompously, “that these children are too young and ignorant to be put to the bar. We make order, therefore, that they be discharged, and set in care of some good Catholic woman, if any be among their kindred; and if not, let them be committed to the care of some such not akin to them.”

“Please, your Worships, I know nought of their kindred,” said the gaoler scratching his head. “Jane Hiltoft hath the babe at this present.”

“What, is there a lesser babe yet?” asked Dr Chedsey, laughing.

“Ay, there is so: a babe in arms.”

“Worshipful Sirs, might it please you to hear a poor woman?”

“Speak on, good wife.”

“Sirs,” said the woman who had spoken, coming forward out of the crowd, “my name is Ursula Felstede, and I dwell at Thorpe, the next door to Johnson. The babes know me, and have been in my charge aforetime. May I pray your good Worships to set them in my care? I have none of mine own, and would bring them up to mine utmost as good subjects and honest folks.”

“Ay so? and how about good Catholics?”

“Sirs, Father Tye will tell you I go to mass and confession both.”

“So she doth,” said the priest: “but I misdoubt somewhat if she be not of the ‘halting Gospellers’ whereof we heard this morrow in the Moot Hall.”

“Better put them in charge of the Black Sisters of Hedingham,” suggested Dr Chedsey. “Come you this even, good woman, to the White Hart, and you shall then hear our pleasure. Father Tye, I pray you come with us to supper.”

Dr Chedsey had quite recovered from his emotions of the morning.

“Meanwhile,” said Sir John, rising, “let the morrow of Lammas be appointed for the execution of those sentenced.” (See note 2.)

Note 1. Rose’s words are given as she spoke them: but it must be remembered that they would not sound nearly so strong to those who heard them as they do to us.

Note 2. Lammas is the second of August.

Chapter Twenty Nine.Man proposes.Mrs Cosin, the landlady of the White Hart, prepared a very good supper for the Commissioners. These gentlemen did not fare badly. First, they had a dish of the oysters for which the town was famous, then some roast beef and a big venison pasty, then some boiled pigeons, then two or three puddings, a raspberry pie, curds and whey, cheese, with a good deal of Malmsey wine and old sack, finishing up with cherries and sweet biscuits.They had reached the cherry stage before they began to talk beyond mere passing remarks. Then the priest said:—“I am somewhat feared, Master Commissioners, you shall reckon Colchester an infected place, seeing there be here so many touched with the poison of heresy.”“It all comes of self-conceit,” said Sir John.“Nay,” answered Dr Chedsey. “Self-conceit is scarce wont to bring a man to the stake. It were more like to save him from it.”“Well, but why can’t they let things alone?” inquired Sir John, helping himself to a biscuit. “They know well enough what they shall come to if they meddle with matters of religion. Why don’t they leave the priest to think for them?”Dr Chedsey was silent: not because he did not know the answer. The time was when he, too, had been one of those now despised and condemned Gospellers. In Edward the Sixth’s day, he had preached the full, rich Gospel of the grace of God: and now he was a deserter to the enemy. Some of such men—perhaps most—grew very hard and stony, and seemed to take positive pleasure in persecuting those who were more faithful than themselves: but there were a few with whom the Spirit of God continued to strive, who now and then remembered from whence they had fallen, and to whom that remembrance brought poignant anguish when it came upon them. Dr Chedsey appears to have been one of this type. Let us hope that these wandering sheep came home at last in the arms of the Good Shepherd who sought them with such preserving tenderness. But the sad truth is that we scarcely know with certainty of one who did so. On the accession of Elizabeth, when we might have expected them to come forward and declare their repentance if it were sincere, they did no such thing: they simply dropped into oblivion, and we lose them there.It is a hard and bitter thing to depart from God: how hard, and how bitter, only those know in this world who try to turn round and come back. It will be known fully in that other world whence there is no coming back.Dr Chedsey, then, was silent: not because he did not understand the matter, but because he knew it too well. Sir John had said the Protestants “knew what they would come to”: that was the stake and the fire. But those who persecuted Christ in the person of His elect—what were they going to come to? It was not pleasant to think about that. Dr Chedsey was very glad that it was just then announced that a woman begged leave to speak with their Worships.“It shall be yon woman that would fain take the children, I cast no doubt,” said Sir John: “and we have had no talk thereupon. Shall she have them or no?”“What say you, Father Tye?”“Truly, that I have not over much trust in Felstede’s wife. She was wont of old time to have Bible-readings and prayer-meetings at her house; and though she feigneth now to be reconciled and Catholic, yet I doubt her repentance is but skin deep. The children were better a deal with the Black Nuns. Yet—there may be some time ere we can despatch them thither, and if you thought good, Felstede’s wife might have them till then.”“Good!” said Sir John. “Call the woman in.”Ursula Felstede was called in, and stood courtesying at the door. Sir John put on his stern and pompous manner in speaking to her.“It seemeth best to the Queen’s Grace’s Commission,” said he, “that these children were sent in the keeping of the Sisters of Hedingham: yet as time may elapse ere the Prioress cometh to town, we leave them in thy charge until she send for them. Thou shalt keep them well, learn them to be good Catholics, and deliver them to the Black Nuns when they demand it.”Ursula courtesied again, and “hoped she should do her duty.”“So do I hope,” said the priest. “But I give thee warning, Ursula Felstede, that thy duty hath not been over well done ere this: and ’tis high time thou shouldst amend if thou desire not to be brought to book.”Ursula dropped half-a-dozen courtesies in a flurried way.“Please it, your Reverence, I am a right true Catholic, and shall learn the children so to be.”“Mind thou dost!” said Sir John.Dr Chedsey meanwhile had occupied himself in writing out an order for the children to be delivered to Ursula, to which he affixed the seal of the Commission. Armed with this paper, and having taken leave of the Commissioners, with many protests that she would “do her duty,” Ursula made her way to the Castle gate.“Who walks so late?” asked the porter, looking out of his little wicket to see who it was.“Good den, Master Style. I am James Felstede’s wife of Thorpe, and I come with an order from their Worships the Commissioners to take Johnson’s children to me; they be to dwell in my charge till the Black Sisters shall send for them.”“Want ’em to-night?” asked the porter rather gruffly.“Well, what say you?—are they abed? I’m but a poor woman, and cannot afford another walk from Thorpe. I’d best take ’em with me now.”“You’re never going back to Thorpe to-night?”“Well, nay. I’m going to tarry the night at my brother’s outside East Gate.”“Bless the woman! then call for the children in the morning, and harry not honest folk out o’ their lives at bed-time.”And Style dashed the wicket to.“Now, then, Kate! be those loaves ready? The rogues shall be clamouring for their suppers,” cried he to his wife.Katherine Style, who baked the prison bread, brought out in answer a large tray, on which three loaves of bread were cut in thick slices, with a piece of cheese and a bunch of radishes laid on each. These were for the supper of the prisoners. Style shouted for the gaoler, and he came up and carried the tray into the dungeon, followed by the porter, who was in rather a funny mood, and—as I am sorry to say is often the case—was not, in his fun, careful of other people’s feelings.“Now, Johnson, hast thou done with those children?” said he. “Thou’d best make thy last dying speech and confession to ’em, for they’re going away to-morrow morning.”Johnson looked up with a grave, white face. Little Cissy, who was sitting by Rose Allen, at once ran to her father, and twined her arm in his, with an uneasy idea of being parted from him, though she did not clearly understand what was to happen.“Where?” was all Johnson seemed able to say.“Black Nuns of Hedingham,” said the porter. He did not say anything about the temporary sojourn with Ursula Felstede.Johnson groaned and drew Cissy closer to him.“Don’t be feared, Father,” said Cissy bravely, though her lips quivered till she could hardly speak. “Don’t be feared: we’ll never do anything you’ve told us not.”“God bless thee, my darling, and God help thee!” said the poor father. “Little Cissy, He must be thy Father now.” And looking upwards, he said, “Lord, take the charge that I give into Thine hands this night! Be Thou the Father to these fatherless little ones, and lead them forth by a smooth way or a rough, so it be the right way, whereby they shall come to Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle. Keep them as the apple of Thine eye; hide them under the covert of Thy wings! I am no more in the world; but these are in the world: keep them through Thy Name. Give them back safe to my Helen and to me in the land that is very far-off, whereinto there shall enter nothing that defileth. Lord, I trust them to no man, but only unto Thee! Here me, O Lord my God, for I rest on Thee. Let no man prevail against Thee. I have no might against this company that cometh against me, neither know I what to do; but mine eyes are upon Thee.”

Mrs Cosin, the landlady of the White Hart, prepared a very good supper for the Commissioners. These gentlemen did not fare badly. First, they had a dish of the oysters for which the town was famous, then some roast beef and a big venison pasty, then some boiled pigeons, then two or three puddings, a raspberry pie, curds and whey, cheese, with a good deal of Malmsey wine and old sack, finishing up with cherries and sweet biscuits.

They had reached the cherry stage before they began to talk beyond mere passing remarks. Then the priest said:—

“I am somewhat feared, Master Commissioners, you shall reckon Colchester an infected place, seeing there be here so many touched with the poison of heresy.”

“It all comes of self-conceit,” said Sir John.

“Nay,” answered Dr Chedsey. “Self-conceit is scarce wont to bring a man to the stake. It were more like to save him from it.”

“Well, but why can’t they let things alone?” inquired Sir John, helping himself to a biscuit. “They know well enough what they shall come to if they meddle with matters of religion. Why don’t they leave the priest to think for them?”

Dr Chedsey was silent: not because he did not know the answer. The time was when he, too, had been one of those now despised and condemned Gospellers. In Edward the Sixth’s day, he had preached the full, rich Gospel of the grace of God: and now he was a deserter to the enemy. Some of such men—perhaps most—grew very hard and stony, and seemed to take positive pleasure in persecuting those who were more faithful than themselves: but there were a few with whom the Spirit of God continued to strive, who now and then remembered from whence they had fallen, and to whom that remembrance brought poignant anguish when it came upon them. Dr Chedsey appears to have been one of this type. Let us hope that these wandering sheep came home at last in the arms of the Good Shepherd who sought them with such preserving tenderness. But the sad truth is that we scarcely know with certainty of one who did so. On the accession of Elizabeth, when we might have expected them to come forward and declare their repentance if it were sincere, they did no such thing: they simply dropped into oblivion, and we lose them there.

It is a hard and bitter thing to depart from God: how hard, and how bitter, only those know in this world who try to turn round and come back. It will be known fully in that other world whence there is no coming back.

Dr Chedsey, then, was silent: not because he did not understand the matter, but because he knew it too well. Sir John had said the Protestants “knew what they would come to”: that was the stake and the fire. But those who persecuted Christ in the person of His elect—what were they going to come to? It was not pleasant to think about that. Dr Chedsey was very glad that it was just then announced that a woman begged leave to speak with their Worships.

“It shall be yon woman that would fain take the children, I cast no doubt,” said Sir John: “and we have had no talk thereupon. Shall she have them or no?”

“What say you, Father Tye?”

“Truly, that I have not over much trust in Felstede’s wife. She was wont of old time to have Bible-readings and prayer-meetings at her house; and though she feigneth now to be reconciled and Catholic, yet I doubt her repentance is but skin deep. The children were better a deal with the Black Nuns. Yet—there may be some time ere we can despatch them thither, and if you thought good, Felstede’s wife might have them till then.”

“Good!” said Sir John. “Call the woman in.”

Ursula Felstede was called in, and stood courtesying at the door. Sir John put on his stern and pompous manner in speaking to her.

“It seemeth best to the Queen’s Grace’s Commission,” said he, “that these children were sent in the keeping of the Sisters of Hedingham: yet as time may elapse ere the Prioress cometh to town, we leave them in thy charge until she send for them. Thou shalt keep them well, learn them to be good Catholics, and deliver them to the Black Nuns when they demand it.”

Ursula courtesied again, and “hoped she should do her duty.”

“So do I hope,” said the priest. “But I give thee warning, Ursula Felstede, that thy duty hath not been over well done ere this: and ’tis high time thou shouldst amend if thou desire not to be brought to book.”

Ursula dropped half-a-dozen courtesies in a flurried way.

“Please it, your Reverence, I am a right true Catholic, and shall learn the children so to be.”

“Mind thou dost!” said Sir John.

Dr Chedsey meanwhile had occupied himself in writing out an order for the children to be delivered to Ursula, to which he affixed the seal of the Commission. Armed with this paper, and having taken leave of the Commissioners, with many protests that she would “do her duty,” Ursula made her way to the Castle gate.

“Who walks so late?” asked the porter, looking out of his little wicket to see who it was.

“Good den, Master Style. I am James Felstede’s wife of Thorpe, and I come with an order from their Worships the Commissioners to take Johnson’s children to me; they be to dwell in my charge till the Black Sisters shall send for them.”

“Want ’em to-night?” asked the porter rather gruffly.

“Well, what say you?—are they abed? I’m but a poor woman, and cannot afford another walk from Thorpe. I’d best take ’em with me now.”

“You’re never going back to Thorpe to-night?”

“Well, nay. I’m going to tarry the night at my brother’s outside East Gate.”

“Bless the woman! then call for the children in the morning, and harry not honest folk out o’ their lives at bed-time.”

And Style dashed the wicket to.

“Now, then, Kate! be those loaves ready? The rogues shall be clamouring for their suppers,” cried he to his wife.

Katherine Style, who baked the prison bread, brought out in answer a large tray, on which three loaves of bread were cut in thick slices, with a piece of cheese and a bunch of radishes laid on each. These were for the supper of the prisoners. Style shouted for the gaoler, and he came up and carried the tray into the dungeon, followed by the porter, who was in rather a funny mood, and—as I am sorry to say is often the case—was not, in his fun, careful of other people’s feelings.

“Now, Johnson, hast thou done with those children?” said he. “Thou’d best make thy last dying speech and confession to ’em, for they’re going away to-morrow morning.”

Johnson looked up with a grave, white face. Little Cissy, who was sitting by Rose Allen, at once ran to her father, and twined her arm in his, with an uneasy idea of being parted from him, though she did not clearly understand what was to happen.

“Where?” was all Johnson seemed able to say.

“Black Nuns of Hedingham,” said the porter. He did not say anything about the temporary sojourn with Ursula Felstede.

Johnson groaned and drew Cissy closer to him.

“Don’t be feared, Father,” said Cissy bravely, though her lips quivered till she could hardly speak. “Don’t be feared: we’ll never do anything you’ve told us not.”

“God bless thee, my darling, and God help thee!” said the poor father. “Little Cissy, He must be thy Father now.” And looking upwards, he said, “Lord, take the charge that I give into Thine hands this night! Be Thou the Father to these fatherless little ones, and lead them forth by a smooth way or a rough, so it be the right way, whereby they shall come to Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle. Keep them as the apple of Thine eye; hide them under the covert of Thy wings! I am no more in the world; but these are in the world: keep them through Thy Name. Give them back safe to my Helen and to me in the land that is very far-off, whereinto there shall enter nothing that defileth. Lord, I trust them to no man, but only unto Thee! Here me, O Lord my God, for I rest on Thee. Let no man prevail against Thee. I have no might against this company that cometh against me, neither know I what to do; but mine eyes are upon Thee.”

Chapter Thirty.“They won’t make me!”“What! Agnes Bongeor taken to the Moot Hall? Humph! they’ll be a-coming for me next. I must get on with my work. Let’s do as much as we can for the Lord, ere we’re called to suffer for Him. Thou tookest my message to Master Commissary, Doll?”Dorothy Denny murmured something which did not reach the ear of Mrs Wade.“Speak up, woman! I say, thou tookest my message?”“Well, Mistress, I thought—”“A fig for thy thought! Didst give my message touching Johnson’s children?”“N–o, Mistress, I,—”“Beshrew thee for an unfaithful messenger. Dost know what the wise King saith thereof? He says it is like a foot out of joint. Hadst ever thy foot out o’ joint? I have, and I tell thee, if thou hadst the one foot out of joint, thou wouldst not want t’other. I knew well thou wert an ass, but I did not think thee unfaithful. Why didst not give my message?”There were tears in Dorothy’s eyes.“Mistress,” said she, “forgive me, but I will not help you to run into trouble, though you’re sore set to do it. It shall serve no good purpose to keep your name for ever before the eyes of Master Commissary and his fellows. Do, pray, let them forget you. You’ll ne’er be safe, an’ you thrust yourself forward thus.”“Safe! Bless the woman! I leave the Lord to see to my safety. I’ve no care but to get His work done.”“Well, then He’s the more like to have a care of you; but, Mistress, won’t you let Dorothy Denny try to see to you a bit too?”“Thou’rt a good maid, Doll, though I’m a bit sharp on thee at times; and thou knows thou art mortal slow. Howbeit, tell me, what is come of those children? If they be in good hands, I need not trouble.”“Ursula Felstede has them, Mistress, till the Black Nuns of Hedingham shall fetch them away.”“Ursula Felstede! ‘Unstable as water.’ That for Ursula Felstede. Black Nuns shall not have ’em while Philippa Wade’s above ground. I tell thee, Dorothy, wherever those little ones go, the Lord’s blessing ’ll go with them. Dost mind what David saith? ‘I have been young, and now am old; and yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.’ And I want them, maid,—part because I feel for the little ones, and part because I want the blessing. Why, that poor little Cicely ’ll be crying her bits of eyes out to part with ‘Father.’ Doll, I’ll go down this even, if I may find leisure, to Ursula Felstede, and see if I cannot win her to give me the children. I shall tell her my mind first, as like as not: and much good may it do her! But I’ll have a try for ’em—I will.”“Folks saith, Mistress, the prisoners be in as good case as may be: always reading and strengthening one another, and praising God.”“I’m fain to hear it, Dorothy. Ah, they be not the worst off in this town. If the Lord were to come to judge the earth this even, I’d a deal liefer be one of them in the Moot Hall than be of them that have them in charge. I marvel He comes not. If he had been a man and not God, He’d have been down many a time afore now.”About six o’clock on a hot July evening, Ursula Felstede heard a tap at her door.“Come in! O Mistress Wade, how do you do? Will you sit? I’m sure you’re very welcome,” said Ursula, in some confusion.“I’m not quite so sure of it, Ursula Felstede: but let be. You’ve Johnson’s children here, haven’t you?”“Ay, I have so: and I tell you that Will’s a handful! Seems to me he’s worser to rule than he used. He’s getting bigger, trow.”“And Cicely?”“Oh, she’s quiet enough, only a bit obstinate. Won’t always do as she’s told. I have to look after her sharp, or she’d be off, I do believe.”“I’d like to see her, an’t please you.”“Well, to be sure! I sent ’em out to play them a bit. I don’t just know where they are.”“Call that looking sharp after ’em?”Ursula laughed a little uneasily.“Well, one can’t be just a slave to a pack of children, can one? I’ll look out and see if they are in sight.”“Thank you, I’ll do that, without troubling you. Now, Ursula Felstede, I’ve one thing to say to you, so I’ll say it and get it over. Those children of Johnson’s have the Lord’s wings over them: they’ll be taken care of, be sure: but if you treat them ill, or if you meddle with what their father learned them, you’ll have to reckon with Him instead of the Queen’s Commissioners. And I’d a deal sooner have the Commissioners against me than have the Lord. Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do but fear Him which after He hath killed, hath power to cast into Hell. Yea, I say unto thee, Fear Him!”And Mrs Wade walked out of the door without saying another word. She was going to look for the children. The baby she had already seen asleep on Ursula’s bed. Little Will she found in the midst of a group of boys down by the brook, one of whom, a lad twice his size, was just about to fight him when Mrs Wade came up.“Now, Jack Tyler, if thou dost not want to be carried to thy father by the scuff of thy neck, like a cat, and well thrashed to end with, let that lad alone.—Will, where’s thy sister?”Little Will, who looked rather sheepish, said,—“Over there.”“Where’sthere?”“On the stile. She’s always there when we’re out, except she’s looking after me.”“Thou lackest looking after.”“Philip Tye said he’d see to me: and then he went off with Jem Morris, bird-nesting.”“Cruel lads! well, you’re a proper lot! It’d do you good, and me too, to give you a caning all round. I shall have to let be to-night, for I want to find Cicely.”“Well, you’ll see her o’ top o’ the stile.”Little Will turned back to his absorbing amusement of bulrush-plaiting, and Mrs Wade went up to the stile which led to the way over the fields towards Colchester. As she came near, sheltered by the hedge, she heard a little voice.“Yea, though I walk in vale of death,Yet will I fear no ill:Thy rod, Thy staff, doth comfort me,And Thou art with me still.”Mrs Wade crept softly along till she could see through the hedge. The stile was a stone one, with steps on each side, such as may still be seen in the north of England: and on the top step sat Cissy, resting her head upon her hand, and looking earnestly in the direction of Colchester.“What dost there, my dear heart?” Mrs Wade asked gently.“I’m looking at Father,” said Cissy, rather languidly. She spoke as if she were not well, and could not care much about anything.“‘Looking at Father’! What dost thou mean, my child?”“Well, you see that belt of trees over yonder? When the sun shines, I can see All Hallows’ tower stand up against it. You can’t see it to-day: it does not shine; but it’s there for all that. And Father’s just behind in the Castle: so I haven’t any better way to look at him. Only God looks at him, you know; they can’t bar Him out. So I come here, and look as far as I can, and talk to God about Father. I can’t see Father, but he’s there: and I can’t see God, but He’s there too: and He’s got to see to Father now I can’t.”The desolate tone of utter loneliness in the little voice touched Mrs Wade to the core of her great warm heart.“My poor little Cicely!” she said. “Doth Ursula use thee well?”“Yes, I suppose so,” said Cissy, in a quiet matter-of-fact way; “only when I won’t pray to her big image, she slaps me. But she can’t make me do it. Father said not. It would never do for God to see us doing things Father forbade us, because he’s shut up and can’t come to us. I’m not going to pray to that ugly thing: never! And if it was pretty, it wouldn’t make any difference, when Father said not.”“No, dear heart, that were idolatry,” said Mrs Wade.“Yes, I know,” replied Cissy: “Father said so. But Ursula says the Black Sisters will make me, or they’ll put me in the well. I do hope God will keep away the Black Sisters. I ask Him every day, when I’ve done talking about Father. I shouldn’t like them to put me in the well!” and she shuddered. Evidently Ursula had frightened her very much with some story about this. “But God would be there, in the well, wouldn’t He? They won’t make me do it when Father said not!”

“What! Agnes Bongeor taken to the Moot Hall? Humph! they’ll be a-coming for me next. I must get on with my work. Let’s do as much as we can for the Lord, ere we’re called to suffer for Him. Thou tookest my message to Master Commissary, Doll?”

Dorothy Denny murmured something which did not reach the ear of Mrs Wade.

“Speak up, woman! I say, thou tookest my message?”

“Well, Mistress, I thought—”

“A fig for thy thought! Didst give my message touching Johnson’s children?”

“N–o, Mistress, I,—”

“Beshrew thee for an unfaithful messenger. Dost know what the wise King saith thereof? He says it is like a foot out of joint. Hadst ever thy foot out o’ joint? I have, and I tell thee, if thou hadst the one foot out of joint, thou wouldst not want t’other. I knew well thou wert an ass, but I did not think thee unfaithful. Why didst not give my message?”

There were tears in Dorothy’s eyes.

“Mistress,” said she, “forgive me, but I will not help you to run into trouble, though you’re sore set to do it. It shall serve no good purpose to keep your name for ever before the eyes of Master Commissary and his fellows. Do, pray, let them forget you. You’ll ne’er be safe, an’ you thrust yourself forward thus.”

“Safe! Bless the woman! I leave the Lord to see to my safety. I’ve no care but to get His work done.”

“Well, then He’s the more like to have a care of you; but, Mistress, won’t you let Dorothy Denny try to see to you a bit too?”

“Thou’rt a good maid, Doll, though I’m a bit sharp on thee at times; and thou knows thou art mortal slow. Howbeit, tell me, what is come of those children? If they be in good hands, I need not trouble.”

“Ursula Felstede has them, Mistress, till the Black Nuns of Hedingham shall fetch them away.”

“Ursula Felstede! ‘Unstable as water.’ That for Ursula Felstede. Black Nuns shall not have ’em while Philippa Wade’s above ground. I tell thee, Dorothy, wherever those little ones go, the Lord’s blessing ’ll go with them. Dost mind what David saith? ‘I have been young, and now am old; and yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.’ And I want them, maid,—part because I feel for the little ones, and part because I want the blessing. Why, that poor little Cicely ’ll be crying her bits of eyes out to part with ‘Father.’ Doll, I’ll go down this even, if I may find leisure, to Ursula Felstede, and see if I cannot win her to give me the children. I shall tell her my mind first, as like as not: and much good may it do her! But I’ll have a try for ’em—I will.”

“Folks saith, Mistress, the prisoners be in as good case as may be: always reading and strengthening one another, and praising God.”

“I’m fain to hear it, Dorothy. Ah, they be not the worst off in this town. If the Lord were to come to judge the earth this even, I’d a deal liefer be one of them in the Moot Hall than be of them that have them in charge. I marvel He comes not. If he had been a man and not God, He’d have been down many a time afore now.”

About six o’clock on a hot July evening, Ursula Felstede heard a tap at her door.

“Come in! O Mistress Wade, how do you do? Will you sit? I’m sure you’re very welcome,” said Ursula, in some confusion.

“I’m not quite so sure of it, Ursula Felstede: but let be. You’ve Johnson’s children here, haven’t you?”

“Ay, I have so: and I tell you that Will’s a handful! Seems to me he’s worser to rule than he used. He’s getting bigger, trow.”

“And Cicely?”

“Oh, she’s quiet enough, only a bit obstinate. Won’t always do as she’s told. I have to look after her sharp, or she’d be off, I do believe.”

“I’d like to see her, an’t please you.”

“Well, to be sure! I sent ’em out to play them a bit. I don’t just know where they are.”

“Call that looking sharp after ’em?”

Ursula laughed a little uneasily.

“Well, one can’t be just a slave to a pack of children, can one? I’ll look out and see if they are in sight.”

“Thank you, I’ll do that, without troubling you. Now, Ursula Felstede, I’ve one thing to say to you, so I’ll say it and get it over. Those children of Johnson’s have the Lord’s wings over them: they’ll be taken care of, be sure: but if you treat them ill, or if you meddle with what their father learned them, you’ll have to reckon with Him instead of the Queen’s Commissioners. And I’d a deal sooner have the Commissioners against me than have the Lord. Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do but fear Him which after He hath killed, hath power to cast into Hell. Yea, I say unto thee, Fear Him!”

And Mrs Wade walked out of the door without saying another word. She was going to look for the children. The baby she had already seen asleep on Ursula’s bed. Little Will she found in the midst of a group of boys down by the brook, one of whom, a lad twice his size, was just about to fight him when Mrs Wade came up.

“Now, Jack Tyler, if thou dost not want to be carried to thy father by the scuff of thy neck, like a cat, and well thrashed to end with, let that lad alone.—Will, where’s thy sister?”

Little Will, who looked rather sheepish, said,—

“Over there.”

“Where’sthere?”

“On the stile. She’s always there when we’re out, except she’s looking after me.”

“Thou lackest looking after.”

“Philip Tye said he’d see to me: and then he went off with Jem Morris, bird-nesting.”

“Cruel lads! well, you’re a proper lot! It’d do you good, and me too, to give you a caning all round. I shall have to let be to-night, for I want to find Cicely.”

“Well, you’ll see her o’ top o’ the stile.”

Little Will turned back to his absorbing amusement of bulrush-plaiting, and Mrs Wade went up to the stile which led to the way over the fields towards Colchester. As she came near, sheltered by the hedge, she heard a little voice.

“Yea, though I walk in vale of death,Yet will I fear no ill:Thy rod, Thy staff, doth comfort me,And Thou art with me still.”

“Yea, though I walk in vale of death,Yet will I fear no ill:Thy rod, Thy staff, doth comfort me,And Thou art with me still.”

Mrs Wade crept softly along till she could see through the hedge. The stile was a stone one, with steps on each side, such as may still be seen in the north of England: and on the top step sat Cissy, resting her head upon her hand, and looking earnestly in the direction of Colchester.

“What dost there, my dear heart?” Mrs Wade asked gently.

“I’m looking at Father,” said Cissy, rather languidly. She spoke as if she were not well, and could not care much about anything.

“‘Looking at Father’! What dost thou mean, my child?”

“Well, you see that belt of trees over yonder? When the sun shines, I can see All Hallows’ tower stand up against it. You can’t see it to-day: it does not shine; but it’s there for all that. And Father’s just behind in the Castle: so I haven’t any better way to look at him. Only God looks at him, you know; they can’t bar Him out. So I come here, and look as far as I can, and talk to God about Father. I can’t see Father, but he’s there: and I can’t see God, but He’s there too: and He’s got to see to Father now I can’t.”

The desolate tone of utter loneliness in the little voice touched Mrs Wade to the core of her great warm heart.

“My poor little Cicely!” she said. “Doth Ursula use thee well?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Cissy, in a quiet matter-of-fact way; “only when I won’t pray to her big image, she slaps me. But she can’t make me do it. Father said not. It would never do for God to see us doing things Father forbade us, because he’s shut up and can’t come to us. I’m not going to pray to that ugly thing: never! And if it was pretty, it wouldn’t make any difference, when Father said not.”

“No, dear heart, that were idolatry,” said Mrs Wade.

“Yes, I know,” replied Cissy: “Father said so. But Ursula says the Black Sisters will make me, or they’ll put me in the well. I do hope God will keep away the Black Sisters. I ask Him every day, when I’ve done talking about Father. I shouldn’t like them to put me in the well!” and she shuddered. Evidently Ursula had frightened her very much with some story about this. “But God would be there, in the well, wouldn’t He? They won’t make me do it when Father said not!”

Chapter Thirty One.Sumptuous apartments.“Well, be sure! who ever saw such a lad? Sent out to play at four o’ the clock, and all o’er mud at five! Where hast thou been, Will? Speak the truth, now!”“Been down by the brook rush-plaiting,” said little Will, looking as if his mind were not quite made up whether to cry or to be sulky.“The mischievousness of lads! Didn’t I tell thee to mind and keep thy clothes clean?”“You’re always after clothes! How could I plait rushes and keep ’em clean?”“And who told you to plait rushes, Master Impudence? Take that.”Thatwas a sound box on the ear which Ursula delivered by way of illustration to her remarks. “What’s become o’ Phil Tye? I thought he was going to look after thee.”“Well, he did, a bit: then he and Jem Morris went off bird-nesting.”“I’ll give it him when I see him! Where’s Cicely?”“She’s somewhere,” said Will, looking round the cottage, as if he expected to see her in some corner.“I reckon I could have told thee so much. Did Mistress Wade find you?”“She was down at the brook: but she went after Cis.”“Well, thou’lt have to go to bed first thing, for them clothes must be washed.”Will broke into a howl. “It isn’t bed-time nor it isn’t washing-day!”“It’s bed-time when thou’rt bidden to go. As to washing-day, it’s always washing-day where thou art. Never was such a boy, I do believe, for getting into the mud. Thou’rt worser ten times o’er than thou wert. I do wish lads ’d stop babes till they’re men, that one could tuck ’em in the cradle and leave ’em! There’s never a bit of peace! I would the Black Ladies ’d come for you. I shall be mighty thankful when they do, be sure.”“Mistress Wade ’ll have us,” suggested Master William, briskly, looking up at Ursula.“Hold that pert tongue o’ thine! Mistress Wade’s not like to have you. You’re in my care, and I’ve no leave to deliver you to any save the Black Ladies.”“Well! I wouldn’t mind camping out a bit, if you’re so set to be rid of us,” said Will, reflectively. “There’s a blanket you’ve got rolled up in the loft, that ’d make a tent, and we could cut down poles, if you’ll lend us an axe; and—”“You cut down poles! Marry come up! You’re not about to have any of my blankets, nor my axes neither.”“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Will went on, still in a meditative key, “only for dinner. I don’t see where we should get that.”“I see that you’re off to bed this minute, and don’t go maundering about tents and axes. You cut down poles! you’d cut your fingers off, more like. Now then, be off to the loft! Not another word! March!”Just as Ursula was sweeping Will upstairs before her, a rap came on the door.“There! didn’t I say a body never had a bit of peace?—Go on, Will, and get to bed; and mind thou leaves them dirty clothes on the floor by theirselves: don’t go to dirt everything in the room with ’em.—Walk in, Mistress Wade! So you found Cis?”“Ay, I found her,” said the landlady, as she and Cissy came in together.“Cis, do thou go up, maid, and see to Will a bit. He’s come in all o’er mud and mire, and I sent him up to bed, but there’s no trusting him to go. See he does, prithee, and cast his clothes into the tub yonder, there’s a good maid.”Cissy knew very well that Ursula spoke so amiably because Mrs Wade was there to hear her. She went up to look after her little brother, and the landlady turned to Ursula.“Now, Ursula Felstede, I want these children.”“Then you must ask leave from the Queen’s Commissioners, Mistress Wade. Eh, I couldn’t give ’em up if it were ever so! I daren’t, for the life o’ me!”Mrs Wade begged, coaxed, lectured, and almost threatened her, but for once Ursula was firm. She dared not give up the children, and she was quite honest in saying so. Mrs Wade had to go home without them.As she came up, very weary and unusually dispirited, to the archway of the King’s Head, she heard voices from within.“I tell you she’s not!” said Dorothy Denny’s voice in a rather frightened tone; “she went forth nigh four hours agone, and whither I know not.”“That’s an inquiry for me,” said Mrs Wade to herself, as she sprang down from her old black mare, and gave her a pat before dismissing her to the care of the ostler, who ran up to take her. “Good Jenny! good old lass!—Is there any company, Giles?” she asked of the ostler.“Mistress, ’tis Master Maynard the Sheriff and he’s making inquiration for you. I would you could ha’ kept away a bit longer!”“Dost thou so, good Giles? Well, I would as God would. The Sheriff had best have somebody else to deal with him than Doll and Bab.” And she went forward into the kitchen.Barbara, her younger servant, who was only a girl, stood leaning against a dresser, looking very white and frightened, with the rolling-pin in her hand; she had evidently been stopped in the middle of making a pie. Dorothy stood on the hearth, fronting the terrible Sheriff, who was armed with a writ, and evidently did not mean to leave before he had seen the mistress.“I am here, Mr Maynard, if you want me,” said Mrs Wade, quite calmly.“Well said,” answered the Sheriff, turning to her. “I have here a writ for your arrest, my mistress, and conveyance to the Bishop’s Court at London, there to answer for your ill deeds.”“I am ready to answer for all my deeds, good and ill, to any that have a right to question me. I will go with you.—Bab, go and tell Giles to leave the saddle on Jenny.—Doll, here be my keys; take them, and do the best thou canst. I believe thee honest and well-meaning, but I’m feared the house shall ne’er keep up its credit. Howbeit, that cannot be helped. Do thy best, and the Lord be with you! As to directions, I were best to leave none; maybe they should but hamper thee, and set thee in perplexity. Keep matters clean, and pay as thou goest—thou wist where to find the till; and fear God—that’s all I need say. And if it come in thy way to do a kind deed for any, and in especial those poor little children that thou wist of, do it, as I would were I here: ay, and let Cissy know when all’s o’er with her father. And pray for me, and I’ll do as much for thee—that we may do our duty and please God, and for bodily safety let it be according to His will.—Now, Master Maynard, I am ready.”Four days later, several strokes were rang on the great bell of the Bishop’s Palace at Fulham. The gaoler came to his gate when summoned by the porter.“Here’s a prisoner up from Colchester—Philippa Wade, hostess of the King’s Head there. Have you room?”“Room and to spare. Heresy, I reckon?”“Ay, heresy,—the old tale. There must be a nest of it yonder down in Essex.”“There’s nought else all o’er the country, methinks,” said the gaoler with a laugh. “Come in, Mistress; I’ll show you your lodging. His Lordship hath an apartment in especial, furnished of polished black oak, that he keepeth for such as you. Pray you follow me.”Mrs Wade followed the jocose gaoler along a small paved passage between two walls, and through a low door, which the gaoler barred behind her, himself outside, and then opened a little wicket through which to speak.“Pray you, sit down, my mistress, on whichsoever of the chairs you count desirable. The furniture is all of one sort, fair and goodly; far-fetched and dear-bought, which is good for gentlewomen, and liketh them: fast colours the broidery, I do ensure you.”Mrs Wade looked round, so far as she could see by the little wicket, everything was black—even the floor, which was covered with black shining lumps of all shapes and sizes. She touched one of the lumps. There, could be no doubt of its nature. The “polished black oak” furniture was cobs of coal, and the sumptuous apartment wherein she was to—lodged was Bishop Bonner’s coal-cellar.

“Well, be sure! who ever saw such a lad? Sent out to play at four o’ the clock, and all o’er mud at five! Where hast thou been, Will? Speak the truth, now!”

“Been down by the brook rush-plaiting,” said little Will, looking as if his mind were not quite made up whether to cry or to be sulky.

“The mischievousness of lads! Didn’t I tell thee to mind and keep thy clothes clean?”

“You’re always after clothes! How could I plait rushes and keep ’em clean?”

“And who told you to plait rushes, Master Impudence? Take that.”Thatwas a sound box on the ear which Ursula delivered by way of illustration to her remarks. “What’s become o’ Phil Tye? I thought he was going to look after thee.”

“Well, he did, a bit: then he and Jem Morris went off bird-nesting.”

“I’ll give it him when I see him! Where’s Cicely?”

“She’s somewhere,” said Will, looking round the cottage, as if he expected to see her in some corner.

“I reckon I could have told thee so much. Did Mistress Wade find you?”

“She was down at the brook: but she went after Cis.”

“Well, thou’lt have to go to bed first thing, for them clothes must be washed.”

Will broke into a howl. “It isn’t bed-time nor it isn’t washing-day!”

“It’s bed-time when thou’rt bidden to go. As to washing-day, it’s always washing-day where thou art. Never was such a boy, I do believe, for getting into the mud. Thou’rt worser ten times o’er than thou wert. I do wish lads ’d stop babes till they’re men, that one could tuck ’em in the cradle and leave ’em! There’s never a bit of peace! I would the Black Ladies ’d come for you. I shall be mighty thankful when they do, be sure.”

“Mistress Wade ’ll have us,” suggested Master William, briskly, looking up at Ursula.

“Hold that pert tongue o’ thine! Mistress Wade’s not like to have you. You’re in my care, and I’ve no leave to deliver you to any save the Black Ladies.”

“Well! I wouldn’t mind camping out a bit, if you’re so set to be rid of us,” said Will, reflectively. “There’s a blanket you’ve got rolled up in the loft, that ’d make a tent, and we could cut down poles, if you’ll lend us an axe; and—”

“You cut down poles! Marry come up! You’re not about to have any of my blankets, nor my axes neither.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Will went on, still in a meditative key, “only for dinner. I don’t see where we should get that.”

“I see that you’re off to bed this minute, and don’t go maundering about tents and axes. You cut down poles! you’d cut your fingers off, more like. Now then, be off to the loft! Not another word! March!”

Just as Ursula was sweeping Will upstairs before her, a rap came on the door.

“There! didn’t I say a body never had a bit of peace?—Go on, Will, and get to bed; and mind thou leaves them dirty clothes on the floor by theirselves: don’t go to dirt everything in the room with ’em.—Walk in, Mistress Wade! So you found Cis?”

“Ay, I found her,” said the landlady, as she and Cissy came in together.

“Cis, do thou go up, maid, and see to Will a bit. He’s come in all o’er mud and mire, and I sent him up to bed, but there’s no trusting him to go. See he does, prithee, and cast his clothes into the tub yonder, there’s a good maid.”

Cissy knew very well that Ursula spoke so amiably because Mrs Wade was there to hear her. She went up to look after her little brother, and the landlady turned to Ursula.

“Now, Ursula Felstede, I want these children.”

“Then you must ask leave from the Queen’s Commissioners, Mistress Wade. Eh, I couldn’t give ’em up if it were ever so! I daren’t, for the life o’ me!”

Mrs Wade begged, coaxed, lectured, and almost threatened her, but for once Ursula was firm. She dared not give up the children, and she was quite honest in saying so. Mrs Wade had to go home without them.

As she came up, very weary and unusually dispirited, to the archway of the King’s Head, she heard voices from within.

“I tell you she’s not!” said Dorothy Denny’s voice in a rather frightened tone; “she went forth nigh four hours agone, and whither I know not.”

“That’s an inquiry for me,” said Mrs Wade to herself, as she sprang down from her old black mare, and gave her a pat before dismissing her to the care of the ostler, who ran up to take her. “Good Jenny! good old lass!—Is there any company, Giles?” she asked of the ostler.

“Mistress, ’tis Master Maynard the Sheriff and he’s making inquiration for you. I would you could ha’ kept away a bit longer!”

“Dost thou so, good Giles? Well, I would as God would. The Sheriff had best have somebody else to deal with him than Doll and Bab.” And she went forward into the kitchen.

Barbara, her younger servant, who was only a girl, stood leaning against a dresser, looking very white and frightened, with the rolling-pin in her hand; she had evidently been stopped in the middle of making a pie. Dorothy stood on the hearth, fronting the terrible Sheriff, who was armed with a writ, and evidently did not mean to leave before he had seen the mistress.

“I am here, Mr Maynard, if you want me,” said Mrs Wade, quite calmly.

“Well said,” answered the Sheriff, turning to her. “I have here a writ for your arrest, my mistress, and conveyance to the Bishop’s Court at London, there to answer for your ill deeds.”

“I am ready to answer for all my deeds, good and ill, to any that have a right to question me. I will go with you.—Bab, go and tell Giles to leave the saddle on Jenny.—Doll, here be my keys; take them, and do the best thou canst. I believe thee honest and well-meaning, but I’m feared the house shall ne’er keep up its credit. Howbeit, that cannot be helped. Do thy best, and the Lord be with you! As to directions, I were best to leave none; maybe they should but hamper thee, and set thee in perplexity. Keep matters clean, and pay as thou goest—thou wist where to find the till; and fear God—that’s all I need say. And if it come in thy way to do a kind deed for any, and in especial those poor little children that thou wist of, do it, as I would were I here: ay, and let Cissy know when all’s o’er with her father. And pray for me, and I’ll do as much for thee—that we may do our duty and please God, and for bodily safety let it be according to His will.—Now, Master Maynard, I am ready.”

Four days later, several strokes were rang on the great bell of the Bishop’s Palace at Fulham. The gaoler came to his gate when summoned by the porter.

“Here’s a prisoner up from Colchester—Philippa Wade, hostess of the King’s Head there. Have you room?”

“Room and to spare. Heresy, I reckon?”

“Ay, heresy,—the old tale. There must be a nest of it yonder down in Essex.”

“There’s nought else all o’er the country, methinks,” said the gaoler with a laugh. “Come in, Mistress; I’ll show you your lodging. His Lordship hath an apartment in especial, furnished of polished black oak, that he keepeth for such as you. Pray you follow me.”

Mrs Wade followed the jocose gaoler along a small paved passage between two walls, and through a low door, which the gaoler barred behind her, himself outside, and then opened a little wicket through which to speak.

“Pray you, sit down, my mistress, on whichsoever of the chairs you count desirable. The furniture is all of one sort, fair and goodly; far-fetched and dear-bought, which is good for gentlewomen, and liketh them: fast colours the broidery, I do ensure you.”

Mrs Wade looked round, so far as she could see by the little wicket, everything was black—even the floor, which was covered with black shining lumps of all shapes and sizes. She touched one of the lumps. There, could be no doubt of its nature. The “polished black oak” furniture was cobs of coal, and the sumptuous apartment wherein she was to—lodged was Bishop Bonner’s coal-cellar.

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