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.