Chapter Twenty Two.
Gently handled.
When the Commissioners had tormented the priest’s widow as long as they thought proper, they called on her to answer the charges brought against her.
“Dost thou believe that in the blessed Sacrament of the altar the bread and wine becometh the very body and blood of Christ, so soon as the word of consecration be pronounced?”
“Nay: it is but bread and wine before it is received; and when it is received in faith and ministered by a worthy minister, then it is Christ flesh and blood spiritually, and not otherwise.”
“Dost though worship the blessed Sacrament?”
“Truly, nay: for ye make the Sacrament an idol. It ought not to be worshipped with knocking, kneeling or holding up of hands.”
“Wilt thou come to church and hear mass?”
“That will I not, so long as ye do worship to other than God Almighty. Nothing that is made can be the same thing as he that made it. They must needs be idolators, and of the meanest sort, that worship the works of their own hands.”
“Aroint thee, old witch! Wilt thou go to confession?”
“Neither will I that, for no priest hath power to remit sin that is against God. To Him surely will I confess: and having so done, I have no need to make confession to men.”
“Take the witch away!” cried the chief Commissioner. “She’s a froward, obstinate heretic, only fit to make firewood.”
The gaoler led her out of the court, and John Johnson was summoned next.
“What is thy name, and how old art thou?”
“My name is John Johnson; I am a labouring man, of the age of four and thirty years.”
“Canst read?”
“But a little.”
“Then how darest thou set thee up against the holy doctors of the Church, that can read Latin?”
“Cannot a man be saved without he read Latin?”
“Hold thine impudent tongue! It is our business to question, and thine to answer. Where didst learn thy pestilent doctrine?”
“I learned the Gospel of Christ Jesus, if that be what you mean by pestilent doctrine, from Master Trudgeon at the first. He learned me that the Sacrament, as ye minister it, is an idol, and that no priest hath power to remit sin.”
“Dost thou account of this Trudgeon as a true prophet?”
“Ay, I do.”
“What then sayest thou to our Saviour Christ’s word to His Apostles, ‘Whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them’?”
“Marry, I say nought, without you desire it.”
“What meanest by that?”
“Why, you are not apostles, nor yet the priests that be now alive. He said not, ‘Whosesoever sins Sir Thomas Tye shall remit, they are remitted unto them.’”
“Thou foolish man, Sir Thomas Tye is successor of the apostles.”
“Well, but it sayeth not neither, ‘Whosesoever sins ye and your successors do remit.’ I’ll take the words as they stand, by your leave. To apostles were they said, and to apostles will I leave them.”
“The man hath no reason in him!” said Kingston. “Have him away likewise.”
“Please your Worships,” said the gaoler, “here be all that are indicted. There is but one left, and she was presented only for not attending at mass nor confession.”
“Bring her up!”
And Elizabeth Foulkes stepped up to the table, and courtesied to the representatives of the Queen.
“What is thy name?”
“Elizabeth Foulkes.”
“How old art thou?”
“Twenty years.”
“Art thou a wife?”
Girls commonly married then younger than they do now. The usual length of human life was shorter: people who reached sixty were looked upon as we now regard those of eighty, and a man of seventy was considered much as one of ninety or more would be at the present time.
“Nay, I am a maid,” said Elizabeth.
The word maid was only just beginning to be used instead of servant; it generally meant an unmarried woman.
“What is thy calling?”
“I am servant to Master Nicholas Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane.”
“Art Colchester-born?”
“I was born at Stoke Nayland, in Suffolk.”
“And wherefore dost thou not come to mass?”
“Because I hold the Sacrament of the altar to be but bread and wine, which may not be worshipped under peril of idolatry.”
“Well, and why comest not to confession?”
“Because no priest hath power to remit sins.”
“Hang ’em! they are all in a story!” said the chief Commissioner, wrathfully. “But she’s a well-favoured maid, this: it were verily pity to burn her, if we could win her to recant.”
What a poor, weak, mean thing human nature is! The men who had no pity for the white hair of Agnes Silverside, or the calm courage of John Johnson, or even the helpless innocence of little Cissy: such things as these did not touch them at all—these very men were anxious to save Elizabeth Foulkes, not because she was good, but because she was beautiful.
It is a sad, sad blunder, which people often make, to set beauty above goodness. Some very wicked things have been done in this world, simply by thinking too much of beauty. Admiration is a good thing in its proper place; but a great deal of mischief comes when it gets into the wrong one. Whenever you admire a bad man because he is clever, or a foolish woman because she is pretty, you are letting admiration get out of his place. If we had lived when the Lord Jesus was upon earth, we should not have found people admiring Him. He was not beautiful. “His face was marred more than any man, and His form more than the sons of men.” And would it not have been dreadful if we had admired Pontius Pilate and Judas Iscariot, and had seen no beauty in Him who is “altogether lovely” to the hearts of those whom the Holy Ghost has taught to love Him? So take care what sort of beauty you admire, and make sure that goodness goes along with it. We may be quite certain that however much men thought of Elizabeth’s beautiful face, God thought very little of it. The beauty which He saw in her was her love to the Lord Jesus, and her firm stand against what would dishonour Him. This sort of beauty all of us can have. Oh, do ask God to make you beautiful in His eyes!
No sooner had the chief Commissioner spoken than a voice in the Court called out,—
“Pray you, Worshipful Sirs, save this young maid! I am her mother’s brother, Thomas Holt of Colchester, and I do you to wit she is of a right good inclination, and no wise perverse. I do entreat you, grant her yet another chance.”
Then a gentleman stepped forward from the crowd of listeners.
“Worshipful Sirs,” said he, “may I have leave to take charge of this young maiden, to the end that she may be reconciled to the Church, and obtain remission of her errors? Truly, as Master Commissioner saith, it were pity so fair a creature were made food for the fire.”
“Who are you?—and what surety give you?” asked Sir John.
Sir Thomas Tye rose from his seat on the Bench.
“Please it, your Worships, that is Master Ashby of this town, a good Catholic man, and well to be trusted. If your Worships be pleased to show mercy to the maid, as indeed I would humbly entreat you to do, there were no better man than he to serve you in this matter.”
The priest having spoken in favour of Mr Ashby the Commissioners required no further surety.
“Art thou willing to be reformed?” they asked Elizabeth.
“Sirs,” she answered cautiously, “I am willing to be shown God’s true way, if so be I err from it.”
This was enough for the Commissioners. They wanted to get her free, and they therefore accepted from her words which would probably have been used in vain by the rest. Mr Ashby was charged to keep and “reconcile” her, which he promised to do, or to feed her on barley bread if she proved obstinate.
As Elizabeth turned to follow him she passed close by Robert Purcas, whom the gaoler was just about to take back to prison.
“‘Thou hast set them in slippery places,’” whispered Purcas as she passed him. “Keep thou true to Christ. O Elizabeth, mine own love, keep true!”
The tears rose to Elizabeth’s eyes. “Pray for me, Robin,” she said. And then each was led away.