“Mistress, I was trusted with a secret. Pray you, ask me not.”
“Secret me no secrets! I’ll have it forth.”
“Not of me,” said Elizabeth, quietly, but firmly.
“Highty-tighty! and who art thou, my lady?”
“I am your servant, mistress, and will do your bidding in everything that toucheth not my duty to God Almighty. But this I cannot.”
“I’ll tell thee what, hussy! it was never good world since folks set up to think for themselves what was right and wrong, instead of hearkening to the priest, and doing as they were bid, Thou’rt too proud, Bess Foulkes, that’s where it is, with thy pretty face and thy dainty ways. Go thou up and get thee abed—it’s on the stroke of nine: and I’ll come and lock thee in. Dear heart, to see the masterfulness of these maids!”
“Mistress,” said Elizabeth, pausing, “I pray you reckon me not disobedient, for in very deed I have ever obeyed you, and yet will, touching all concerns of yours: but under your good leave, this matter concerns you not, and I have no freedom to speak thereof.”
“In very deed, my lady,” said Mistress Clere, dropping a mock courtesy, “I desire not to meddle with your ladyship’s high matters of state, and do intreat you of pardon that I took upon me so weighty a matter. Go get thee abed, hussy, and hold thine idle tongue!”
Elizabeth turned and went upstairs in silence. Words were of no use. Mistress Clere followed her. In the bedroom where they both slept, which was a loft with a skylight, was Amy, half undressed, and employed in her customary but very unnecessary luxury of admiring herself in the glass.
“Amy, I’m going to turn the key. Here’s an ill maid that I’ve had to take the strap to: see thou fall not in her ways. I’ll let you out in the morning.”