The King's Daughters Part 13

"Will you, of your grace, Master, let me leave my message with some other to take instead of me? May I have leave to speak, but one moment, with Mistress Wade, of the King's Head? She would find a trusty messenger to go forward."

"Tell me thy message, and if it be truly of any weight, then shall it be sent," answered Nicholas, still coldly, but less angrily than before.

Could she tell him the message? Would it not go straight to the priest, and all hope of escape be thus cut off? Like Nehemiah, Elizabeth cried for wisdom.

"Master, I cry you mercy yet again, but I may not tell the message."

"Yet thou wouldst fain tell Mistress Wade! Thou wicked hussy, thou canst be after no good. What message is this, which thou canst tell Mistress Wade, but mayest not tell me? I crede thee not a word. Have forward, and thy mistress shall deal with thee."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

SILENCE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Elizabeth Foulkes was almost in despair. Her master held her arm tight, and he was a strong man--to break away from him was simply impossible-- and to persuade him to release her seemed about as unlikely. Still she cried, "Master, let me go!" in tones that might have melted any softer heart than that of Nicholas Clere.

"Step out!" was all he said, as he compelled Elizabeth to keep pace with him till they reached Balcon Lane. Mrs Clere was busy in the kitchen.

She stopped short as they entered, with a gridiron in her hand which she had cleaned and was about to hang up.

"Well, this is a proper time of night to come home, mistress! Marched in, too, with thy master holding of thee, as if the constable had thee in custody! This is our pious maid, that can talk nought but Bible, and says her prayers once a day oftener nor other folks! I always do think that sort no better than hypocrites. What hath she been about, Nicholas? what saith she?"

"A pack o' lies!" said Nicholas, harshly. "Whined out a tale of some message of dread import that somebody, that must not be named, hath sent her on. I found her hasting with all speed across the High Street, the contrary way from what it should have been. You'd best give her the strap, wife. She deserves it, or will ere long."

Nicholas sat down in the chimney-corner, leaving Mistress Clere to deal with the offender. Elizabeth well knew that the strap was no figure of speech, and that Mistress Clere when angry had no light hand. Girls were beaten cruelly in those days, and grown women too, when their mothers or mistresses chose to punish them for real or supposed offences. But Elizabeth Foulkes thought very little of the pain she might suffer, and very much of the needed warning which had not been given. And then, suddenly, the words flashed across her, "Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven." Then the warning was better let alone, if it were G.o.d's will. She rose with a calmer face, and followed Mistress Clere to the next room to receive her penalty.

"There!" said that lady, when her arm began to ache with beating Elizabeth. "That'll do for a bit, I hope. Perhaps thou'lt not be so headstrong next time. I vow, she looks as sweet as if I'd given her a box of sugar plums! I'm feared thou'd have done with a bit more, but I'm proper tired. Now, speak the truth: who sent thee on this wild-goose chase?"

"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 G.o.d 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 gla.s.s.

"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."

So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girls together.

Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share of curiosity. The people who do the world's work, or who go about doing good, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much Miss Smith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday to dinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, to give themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel the slightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people--poor pitiable things!--who do not know what to do with themselves, are often very ready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itself in their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and a delight to them.

No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifying occupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on the side of the bed.

"Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thou mayest tell me; I'll not make no mischief, and I'd love dearly to hear all about it."

If experience had a.s.sured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that she might as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to Amy Clere.

"I have offenced Mistress," said she, "and I am sorry thereat: yet I did but what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, Mistress Amy."

"But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, I pray you, and me likewise, for of a truth I am sore wearied."

"Come, Bessy, don't be grumpy! let's know what it was. Life's monstrous tiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all about it."

"Maybe there'll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy," answered Elizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of what might be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy's father at any rate would be safe: thank G.o.d for that!

"Why will there? Hast been at one to-night?"

"No." Elizabeth checked herself from saying more. What a difference there was between Amy's fancies and the stern realities she knew!

"There's no lugging nought out of thee!" said Amy with a pout. "Thou'rt as close shut as an oyster sh.e.l.l."

And she went back to the mirror, and began to plait her hair, the more conveniently to tuck it under her night-cap. Oh, how Elizabeth longed for a safe confidant that night! Sometimes she felt as though she must pour out her knowledge and her fears--to Amy, if she could get no one else. But she knew too well that, without any evil intention, Amy would be certain to make mischief from sheer love of gossip, the moment she met with any one who would listen to her.

"Mistress Amy, I'm right weary. Pray you, leave me be."

"Hold thy tongue if thou wilt. I want nought with thee, not I," replied Amy, with equal crossness and untruth, since, as she would herself have expressed it, she was dying to know what Elizabeth could have done to make her mother so angry. But Amy was angry herself now. "Get thee abed, Mistress Glum-face; I'll pay thee out some day: see if I don't!"

Elizabeth's reply was to kneel down for prayer. There was one safe Confidant, who could be relied upon for sympathy and secrecy: and He might be spoken to without words. It was well; for the words refused to come. Only one thing would present itself to Elizabeth's weary heart and brain: and that was the speech of little Cissy, that, "it would be all right if she asked G.o.d to see to it." A sob broke from her, as she sent up to Heaven the one pet.i.tion of which alone she felt capable just then--"Lord, help me!" He would know how and when to help. Elizabeth dropped her trouble into the Almighty hands, and left it there. Then she rose, undressed, and lay down beside Amy, who was already in bed.

Amy Clere was not an ill-natured girl, and her anger never lasted long.

When she heard Elizabeth's sob, her heart smote her a little: but she said to herself, that she was "not going to humble herself to that crusty Bess," so she turned round and went to sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE STORM BREAKS.

When the morning came, Amy's good temper was restored by her night's rest, and she was inclined to look on her locking-in as a piece of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I vow, Bess, this is fun!" said she, "I've twenty minds to get out on the roof, and see if I can reach the next window. It would be right jolly to wake up Ellen Mallory--she's always lies abed while seven; and I do think I could. Wilt aid me?"

Ellen Mallory was the next neighbour's daughter, a girl of about Amy's age; and seven o'clock was considered a shocking late hour for rising in 1556.