“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.