"What did she tell you about it, Cicely?"
"She were to Exeter,[[1a]] Mrs. Celia, and she lived till I was a matter of fifteen; and many a tale she's told me of their doings in them old times. But the one I always liked best was one her mother had told her. Her mother had been a young maid when the burnings was a-going on; she were to London,[[1b]] and was woman to a lady, one of them as was burnt."
"Tell me about it, Cicely," requested Celia, with feelings of curiosity and horror struggling for precedence.
"I'll tell you all I know about it, my dear. There! your ruffles is done. I'll take Mrs. Bell's next. Well, Mrs. Celia, her name, my great-grandmother's mistress, was Kyme; she was to Lincolnshire, leastwise her husband, for she was a London lady herself. An old family them Kymes be; they've dwelt in Lincolnshire ever since Moses, for aught I know. Mrs. Anne—that was her name—was a sweet, gentle lady; but her husband, Mr. Kyme, wasn't so likely: he'd a cruel rare temper, I've heard my grandmother say. Well, and after a while Mr. Kyme he came to use Mrs. Anne so hard, she couldn't live with him no longer, and she came back to her father and mother. She never went back to Lincolnshire; she took back her own name, and everybody called her Mrs. Anne Askew, instead of Madam Kyme. I never understood quite the rights of it, and I'm not sure my grandmother did herself; but however, some way Mrs. Anne she got hold of a Bible, and she fell a-reading it. And of course she couldn't but see with half an eye, when she come to read, that all them Papishes had taught her was all wrong, when she didn't find not one of their foolishnesses set down in the book. And by and by the priests came to hear of it. I don't just know how that were; I think somebody betrayed her, but I can't tell who: not my great-grandmother, I'm sure, for she held her lady dear. Ay, but there was a scrimmage when they knowed! Poor young lady! all turned against her, her own father and mother and all and the priests had their wicked will. They took her to Newgate, and tried first to talk her over; but when they found their talk was no good, but Mrs. Anne she held fast by what God had taught her, they had her into the torture-chamber."
Celia drew a long breath.
"Ah!" said old Cicely, slowly shaking her white head, "'tis easy to say 'God forgive them!' but truly I misdoubt whether God can forgive them that tear the flesh and rent the hearts of His saints! What they did to that poor young thing in that torture-chamber, God knoweth. I make no doubt 'tis all writ down in His book. But Mrs. Anne she stood firm, and not one word could they get out of her; and my Lord Chancellor, who was there, he was so mad angry with her, that he throwed off his gown and pulled the rack with his own hands. At last the doctors said—for they had doctors there, the devils! to tell them how much the poor wretches could bear—the doctors said that if Mrs. Anne had any more, she would be like to die under it. So then they took her down; but afore they let her be, they kept her two hours longer a-sitting on the bare floor, and my Lord Chancellor a-talking at her all that ever he could. Then at last, when they found her too much for them, they took her away and laid her to bed. 'As weary and painful bones,' quoth she to my great-grandmother, 'had I as ever had patient Job. I thank my Lord God therefor!'[[2]] And if that warn't a good Christian saying, my dear, I'd like to hear one. Well, for some months after that she laid in prison; the wicked priests for ever at her, wearying her life out with talk and such. So at the end of all, when they saw it was no good, they carried her out to Smithfield, there to die.
"They carried her out, really; for every bone in her was broken, and if she had lived fifty years after, she could never have set her foot to the ground again. But Mrs. Anne she went smiling, and they said which saw her, as joyful as if she were going to her bridal. There, at the stake, with the faggots round, they offered her, last thing, a pardon if she would come round to their evil ways. Ah! they knew not the strength within her! they saw not the angels waiting round, when that poor broken body should be ashes, to take up the glad soul to the Lord's rest. What was pardon to her, poor crushed thing? She had seen too much of the glory of the Lord to set any price on their pardons. So when they could do nought more with her, they burned her to ashes at the stake."
Old Cicely added no comment. Was any needed? But if she had known the words spoken at one such holocaust by the mother of the martyr, she might fitly have ended her tale with them:
"BLESSED BE JESUS CHRIST, AND HIS WITNESSES!"
"Bon jour, ma chère. You look a little better this morning—not quite so English. Et bien! you are ready to come?"