“Mistress Amy,” said she, “this matter is not one whereof I may speak to you or any other. I was charged with a secret, and bidden not to disclose the same. Think you I can break my word?”
“Dear heart! I break mine many a time in the week,” cried Amy, with a laugh. “I’m not nigh so peevish as thou.”
“But, Mistress Amy, it is not right,” returned Elizabeth earnestly.
Before Amy could answer, Mrs Clere’s heavy step was heard approaching the door, and the key turned in the lock. Amy, who sat on the side of the bed swinging her feet to and fro for amusement, jumped down.
“Mother, you’ll get nought from her. I’ve essayed both last night and this morrow, and I might as well have held my tongue.”
“Go and light the fire,” said Mrs Clere sternly to Elizabeth. “I’ll have some talk with thee at after.”
Elizabeth obeyed in silence. She lighted the fire and buttered the eggs, and swept the house, and baked the bread, and washed the clothes, and churned the butter—all with a passionate longing to be free, hidden in her heart, and constant ejaculatory prayers—silent ones, of course—for the safely of her poor friends. Mrs Clere seemed to expect Elizabeth to run away if she could, and she did not let her go out of her sight the whole day. The promised scolding, however, did not come.
Supper was over, and the short winter day was drawing to its close, when Nicholas Clere came into the kitchen.
“Here’s brave news, Wife!” said he, “What thinkest? Here be an half-dozen in the town arrest of heresy—and some without, too.”
“Mercy on us! Who?” demanded Mrs Clere.