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.”