CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
SHUTTING THE DOOR.
Once more the days wore on, and no fresh arrests were made; but no helpcame to the prisoners in the Castle and the Moot Hall, nor to ElizabethFoulkes in the keeping of Mr Ashby. Two priests had talked toElizabeth, and the authorities were beginning to change their opinionabout her. They had fancied from her quiet, meek appearance, that shewould be easily prevailed upon to say what they wanted. Now they foundthat under that external softness there was a will of iron, and a powerof endurance beyond anything they had imagined.
The day of examination for all the prisoners--the last day, when theywould be sentenced or acquitted--was appointed to be the 23rd of June.On the previous day the Commissioners called Elizabeth Foulkes beforethem. She came, accompanied by Mr Ashby and her uncle; and they askedher 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 ofthe Church of Christ, though it never identifies it with the Church ofRome. They asked her no more, for Boswell, the scribe, interposed, andbegged that she might be consigned to the keeping of her uncle. TheCommissioners assented, and Holt took her away. It looks very much asif Boswell had wanted her to escape. She was much more carelesslyguarded in her uncle's house than in Mr Ashby's, and could have gotaway easily enough if she had chosen. She was more than once sent toopen the front door, whence she might have slipped out after dark withalmost a certainty of escape. It was quite dark when she answered thelast rap.
"Pray you," asked an old man's voice, "is here a certain young maid, byname Elizabeth Foulkes?"
"I am she, master. What would you with me?"
"A word apart," he answered in a whisper. "Be any ears about thatshould not be?"
Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, andher two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women thenwore.
"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 Idid no sooner."
"Come away with me, Bessy!" he said, in a loud whisper. "I have walkedall 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 shalllend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o'er, in the house ofa 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, fifteenhundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came tosave the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions--one fairand 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 theother--a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One whohung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory ofthe Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that crossa voice seemed to whisper to her--"If any man serve Me, let him followMe."
"Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought," said she, "butindeed 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 wouldcause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. Andshould not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage tostand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this willI not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of myChrist."
"Bessy!" cried her aunt from the kitchen, "do come within and shut thedoor, maid! Here's the wind a-blowing in till I'm nigh feared o' losingmy ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriestchatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring herin?"
"Bessy, _come_!" whispered Purcas earnestly.
But Elizabeth shook her head. "The Lord bless you! I dare not." Andshe shut the door, knowing that by so doing, she virtually shut it uponlife and happiness--that is, happiness in this life. Elizabeth wentquietly back to the kitchen, and took up an iron. She scarcely knewwhat she was ironing, nor how she answered her cousin Dorothy's rathersarcastic observations upon the interesting conversation which sheseemed to have had. A few minutes later her eldest cousin, a marriedwoman, who lived in a neighbouring street, lifted the latch and came in.
"Good even, Mother!" said she. "Well, Doll, and Jenny! So thou gave inat last, Bess? I'm fain for thee. It's no good fighting against astone 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 beobedient in all things. I hope it were true."
"True! that I yielded to the Pope, and promised to obey him!" criedElizabeth in fiery indignation. "It's not true, Christian Meynell!Tell every soul so that asks thee! I'll die before I do it. Where bethe Commissioners?"
"Thank the saints, they've done their sitting," said Mrs Meynell,laughing: "or I do believe this foolish maid should run right into thelion's den. Mother, lock her up to-morrow, won't you, without she'ssummoned?"
"Where are they?" peremptorily demanded Elizabeth.
"Sitting down to their supper at Mistress Cosin's," was the laughinganswer. "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 saysuch 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 amida shower of exclamations and entreaties from her startled relatives, whonever 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 animationthat night when she stepped into it from the dark street, and askedleave 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 tosee them: but when they heard who it was, they looked at each other withraised eyebrows, and ordered her to be called in. They had finishedsupper, and were sitting over their wine, as gentlemen were then wont todo rather longer than was good for them.
Elizabeth came forward to the table and confronted them. TheCommissioners themselves were two in number, Sir John Kingston and DrChedsey; but the scribe, sheriff, and bailiffs were also present.
"Worshipful Sirs," she said in a clear voice, "I have been told it isreported in this town that I have made this day by you submission andobedience to the Pope. And since this is not true, nor by God's graceshall never be, I call on you to do your duty, and commit me to theQueen's Highness' prison, that I may yet again bear my testimony for myLord Christ."
There was dead silence for a moment. Dr Chedsey looked at the girlwith admiration which seemed almost reverence. Sir John Kingston knithis brows, and appeared inclined to examine her there and then. Boswellhalf rose as if he would once more have pleaded with or for her. ButMaynard, 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!" Heseized Elizabeth, marched her to the Moot Hall, and thrust her into thedungeon: and with a bass clang as if it had been the very gate of doom,the great door closed behind her.