Chapter Thirty Nine.
The last martyrdom.
“Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! Any placards of black velvet have you?”
A placard with us means a large handbill for pasting on walls: in Queen Mary’s time they meant by it a double stomacher,—namely an ornamentation for the front of a dress, put on separate from it, which might either be plain silk or velvet, or else worked with beautiful embroidery, gold twist, sometimes even pearls and precious stones.
Mrs Clere came in all haste and much obsequiousness, for it was no less a person than the Mayoress of Colchester who thus inquired for a black velvet placard.
“We have so, Madam, and right good ones belike. Amy, fetch down yonder box with the bettermost placards.”
Amy ran up the little ladder needful to reach the higher shelves, and brought down the box. It was not often that Mrs Clere was asked for her superior goods, for she dealt chiefly with those whose purses would not stretch so far.
“Here, Madam, is a fine one of carnation velvet—and here a black wrought in gold twist; or what think you of this purple bordered in pearls?”
“That liketh me the best,” said the Mayoress taking up the purple velvet. “What cost it, Mistress Clere?”
“Twenty-six and eightpence, Madam, at your pleasure.”
“’Tis dear.”
“Nay, Madam! Pray you look on the quality—velvet of the finest, and pearls of right good colour. You shall not find a better in any shop in the town.” And Mrs Clere dexterously turned the purple placard to the light in such a manner that a little spot on one side of it should not show. “Or if this carnation please you the better—”
“No, I pass not upon that,” said the Mayoress; which meant, that she did not fancy it. “Will you take four-and-twenty shillings, Mistress Clere?”
It was then considered almost a matter of course that a shopkeeper must be offered less than he asked; and going from shop to shop to “cheapen” the articles they wanted was a common amusement of ladies.
Mrs Clere looked doubtful. “Well, truly, Madam, I should gain not a penny thereby; yet rather than lose your good custom, seeing for whom it is—”
“Very good,” said the Mayoress, “put it up.”
Amy knew that the purple placard had cost her mother 16 shillings 8 pence, and had been slightly damaged since it came into her hands. She knew also that Mrs Clere would confess the fraud to the priest, would probably be told to repeat the Lord’s Prayer three times over as a penance for it, would gabble through the words as fast as possible, and would then consider her sin quite done away with, and her profit of 7 shillings 4 pence cheaply secured. She knew also that the Mayoress, in all probability, was aware that Mrs Clere’s protestation about not gaining a single penny was a mere flourish of words, not at all meant to be accepted as a fact.
“Is there aught of news stirring, an’ it like you, Madam?” asked Mrs Clere, as she rolled up the placard inside out, and secured it with tape.
“I know of none, truly,” answered the Mayoress, “save to-morrow’s burning, the which I would were over for such spectacles like me not—not that I would save evil folks from the due penalty of their sins, but that I would some less displeasant manner of execution might be found. Truly, what with the heat, and the dust, and the close crowds that gather, ’tis no dainty matter to behold.”
“You say truth, Madam. Indeed, the last burning we had, my daughter here was so close pressed in the crowd, and so near the fire, she fair swooned, and had to be borne thence. But who shall suffer to-morrow, an’ it like you? for I heard nought thereabout.”
Mrs Clere presented the little parcel as she spoke.
“Only two women,” said the Mayoress, taking her purchase: “not nigh so great a burning as the last—so very likely the crowd shall be less also.”
The crowd was not much less on the waste place by the Lexden Road, when on the 17th of September, 1557, those two martyrs were brought forth to die: Agnes Bongeor, full of joy and triumph, praising God that at length she was counted worthy to suffer for His Name’s sake; Margaret Thurston, the disciple who had denied Him, and for whom therefore there could be no triumph; yet, even now, a meek and fervent appeal from the heart’s core, of “Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee!”
As the chain was being fastened around them a voice came from the crowd—one of those mysterious voices never to be traced to a speaker, perpetually heard at martyrdoms.
“‘He remembered that they were but flesh.’ ‘He hath remembered His covenant forever.’ ‘According to Thy mercy, remember Thou me!’”
Only Margaret Thurston knew who spoke three times that word never to be forgotten, once a terrible rebuke, now and evermore a benediction.
So went home the last of the Colchester martyrs.
As Mr Ewring turned back, he caught sight of Dorothy Denny, and made his way back to her.
“You come to behold, do you, Dorothy?” said he, when they had turned into a quiet side street, safe from hostile ears.
“Ay, Master, it strengthens me,” she said.
“Thou’rt of the right stuff, then,” he answered. “It weakens such as be not.”
“Eh, I’m as weak as any one,” replied Dorothy. “What comforts me is to see how the good Lord can put strength into the very feeblest lamb of all His flock. It seems like as if the Shepherd lifted the lamb into His arms, so that it had no labour to carry itself.”
“Ay, ’tis easy to bear a burden, when you and it be borne together,” said Mr Ewring. “Dorothy, have you strength for that burden?”
“Master Ewring, I’ve given up thinking that I’ve any strength for any thing, and then I just go and ask for it for everything, and methinks I get along best that way.”
“Ay, so? You are coming on fast, Dorothy. Many Christian folks miss that lesson half their lives.”
“Well, I don’t know but they do the best that are weak,” said Dorothy. “Look you, they know it, and know they must fetch better strength than their own; so they don’t get thinking they can manage the little things themselves, and only need ask the Lord to see to the greet ones.”
“It’s true, Dorothy. I can’t keep from thinking of poor Jack Thurston; he must be either very hard or very miserable. Let us pray for him, Dorothy. I’m afeared it’s a bad sign that he isn’t with them this morrow.”
“You think he’s given in, Master Ewring?”
“I’m doubtful of it, Dorothy.”
They walked on for a few minutes without speaking.
“I’ll try to see Jack again, or pass in a word to him,” said Mr Ewring reflectively.
“Eh, Master Ewring don’t you go into peril! The Lord’s cause can’t afford to lose you. Don’t ’ee, now!”
“Dorothy,” said Mr Ewring with a smile, “if the Lord’s cause can’t afford to lose me, you may be very sure it won’t lose me. ‘The Lord reigneth, be the people never so impatient.’ He is on the throne, not the priests. But in truth, Dorothy, the Lord can afford anything: He is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham. ‘He Himself knew what He would do,’ touching the miracle of the loaves: Andrew didn’t know, and Philip hadn’t a notion. Let us trust Him, Dorothy, and just go forward and do our duty. We shall not die one moment before the Master calleth us.”