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 shecried, "Master, let me go!" in tones that might have melted any softerheart than that of Nicholas Clere.
"Step out!" was all he said, as he compelled Elizabeth to keep pace withhim 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 shehad cleaned and was about to hang up.
"Well, this is a proper time of night to come home, mistress! Marchedin, too, with thy master holding of thee, as if the constable had theein custody! This is our pious maid, that can talk nought but Bible, andsays her prayers once a day oftener nor other folks! I always do thinkthat 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 somemessage of dread import that somebody, that must not be named, hath senther on. I found her hasting with all speed across the High Street, thecontrary way from what it should have been. You'd best give her thestrap, wife. She deserves it, or will ere long."
Nicholas sat down in the chimney-corner, leaving Mistress Clere to dealwith the offender. Elizabeth well knew that the strap was no figure ofspeech, and that Mistress Clere when angry had no light hand. Girlswere beaten cruelly in those days, and grown women too, when theirmothers or mistresses chose to punish them for real or supposedoffences. But Elizabeth Foulkes thought very little of the pain shemight suffer, and very much of the needed warning which had not beengiven. And then, suddenly, the words flashed across her, "Thy will bedone on earth, as it is in Heaven." Then the warning was better letalone, if it were God's will. She rose with a calmer face, and followedMistress Clere to the next room to receive her penalty.
"There!" said that lady, when her arm began to ache with beatingElizabeth. "That'll do for a bit, I hope. Perhaps thou'lt not be soheadstrong next time. I vow, she looks as sweet as if I'd given her abox of sugar plums! I'm feared thou'd have done with a bit more, butI'm proper tired. Now, speak the truth: who sent thee on thiswild-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 everythingthat 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 upto think for themselves what was right and wrong, instead of hearkeningto the priest, and doing as they were bid, Thou'rt too proud, BessFoulkes, 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 comeand lock thee in. Dear heart, to see the masterfulness of these maids!"
"Mistress," said Elizabeth, pausing, "I pray you reckon me notdisobedient, for in very deed I have ever obeyed you, and yet will,touching all concerns of yours: but under your good leave, this matterconcerns 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, anddo intreat you of pardon that I took upon me so weighty a matter. Goget 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 employedin her customary but very unnecessary luxury of admiring herself in theglass.
"Amy, I'm going to turn the key. Here's an ill maid that I've had totake the strap to: see thou fall not in her ways. I'll let you out inthe morning."
So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girlstogether.
Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share ofcuriosity. The people who do the world's work, or who go about doinggood, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much MissSmith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday todinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, togive themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel theslightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people--poor pitiablethings!--who do not know what to do with themselves, are often veryready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itselfin their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and adelight to them.
No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifyingoccupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on theside of the bed.
"Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thoumayest tell me; I'll not make no mischief, and I'd love dearly to hearall about it."
If experience had assured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that shemight as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to AmyClere.
"I have offenced Mistress," said she, "and I am sorry thereat: yet I didbut what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, MistressAmy."
"But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me."
Elizabeth shook her head. "Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, Ipray 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 monstroustiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all aboutit."
"Maybe there'll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy," answeredElizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of whatmight be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy's fatherat any rate would be safe: thank God for that!
"Why will there? Hast been at one to-night?"
"No." Elizabeth checked herself from saying more. What a differencethere 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'rtas close shut as an oyster shell."
And she went back to the mirror, and began to plait her hair, the moreconveniently to tuck it under her night-cap. Oh, how Elizabeth longedfor a safe confidant that night! Sometimes she felt as though she mustpour out her knowledge and her fears--to Amy, if she could get no oneelse. But she knew too well that, without any evil intention, Amy wouldbe certain to make mischief from sheer love of gossip, the moment shemet 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," repliedAmy, with equal crossness and untruth, since, as she would herself haveexpressed it, she was dying to know what Elizabeth could have done tomake her mother so angry. But Amy was angry herself now. "Get theeabed, 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 safeConfidant, who could be relied upon for sympathy and secrecy: and Hemight be spoken to without words. It was well; for the words refused tocome. Only one thing would present itself to Elizabeth's weary heartand brain: and that was the speech of little Cissy, that, "it would beall right if she asked God to see to it." A sob broke from her, as shesent up to Heaven the one petition of which alone she felt capable justthen--"Lord, help me!" He would know how and when to help. Elizabethdropped her trouble into the Almighty hands, and left it there. Thenshe 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 shesaid to herself, that she was "not going to humble herself to thatcrusty Bess," so she turned round and went to sleep.
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