The King's Daughters Part 16

"Father, you're not going nowhere without me!" said Cissy, creeping up to him, and slipping her hand in his. "You can leave Will and Baby with Neighbour Ursula: but I'll not be left unless you bid me--and you won't Father? You can never do without me? I must go where you go."

"She's safe, I reckon," said Robert, answering Johnson's look: "they'd never do no mischief to much as she. Only maybe she'd be more out of reach if I took her with me. They'll seek to breed her up in a convent, most like."

Cissy felt her father's hand tighten upon hers.

"I'm not going with you, nor n.o.body!" said she. "I'll go with Father.

n.o.body'll get me nowhere else, without they carry me."

Johnson seemed to wake up, as if till then he had scarcely understood what it all meant.

"G.o.d bless thee for the warning, lad!" he said. "Now hie thee quick, and get out of reach thyself Cis, go up and fetch a warm wrap for Baby, and all her clothes; I'll take her next door. I reckon Will must tarry there too. It'd be better for thee, Cis: but I'll not compel thee, if thy little heart's set on going with me. Thoul't have to rough it, little maid."

"I'll not stop nowhere!" was Cissy's determination.

Robert bade them good-bye with a smile, closed the door, and set off down the lane as fast as the darkness made it prudent. He did not think it wise to go through the village, so he made a _detour_ by some fields, and came into the road again on the other side of Thorpe. He had not gone many yards, when he became aware that a number of lights were approaching, accompanied by a noise of voices. Robert turned straight round. If he could get back to the stile which led into the fields, he would be safer: and if not, still it would be better to be overtaken than to meet a possible enemy face to face. He would be less likely to be noticed in the former case than in the latter--at least so he thought.

There must be a good number of people coming behind him, judging from the voices. At length they came up with him.

"Pray you, young man, how far be we from Thorpe?"

"You are very nigh, straight on," was Robert's answer.

"Do you belong there?"

"No, I'm nigh a stranger to these parts: I'm from the eastern side of the county. I can't tell you much about folks, if that be your meaning."

"And what do you here, if you be a stranger?"

"I've a job o' work at Saint Osyth, at this present."

"What manner of work?"

"I'm a fuller by trade."

Robert had already recognised that he was talking to the Bailiff's searching party. Every minute that he could keep them was a minute more for Johnson and the little ones.

"Know you a man named Johnson?"

"What, here?"

"Ay, at Thorpe."

Robert pretended to consider. "Well, let's see--there's Will Johnson the miller, and Luke Johnson the weaver, and--eh, there's ever so many Johnsons! I couldn't say to one or another, without I knew more."

"John Johnson; he's a labouring man."

"Well, there is Johnsons that lives up by the wood, but I'm none so sure of the man's name. I think it's Andrew, but I'll not say, certain. It may be John; I couldn't speak, not to be sure."

"Let him be, Gregory; he knows nought," said the Bailiff.

Robert touched his cap, and fell behind. The Bailiff suddenly turned round.

"What's your own name?"

It was a terrible temptation! If he gave a false name, the strong probability was that they would pa.s.s on, and he would very likely get safe away. It was Johnson of whom they were thinking, not himself. But that would enable them to reach Johnson's cottage a minute sooner, and it would be a cowardly lie. No! Robert Purcas had not so learned Christ. He gave his name honestly.

"Robert Purcas! If that's not on my list--" said the Bailiff, feeling in his pocket. "Ay, here it is--stay! _William_, Purcas, of Booking, fuller, aged twenty, single; is that you?"

"My name is Robert, not William," said the young man.

"But thou art a fuller? and single? and aged twenty?"

"Ay, all that is so."

"Dost thou believe the bread of the sacred host to be trans.m.u.ted after consecration into the body of Christ, so that no substance of bread is left there at all?"

"I do not. I cannot, for I see the bread."

"He's a heretic!" cried Simnel. "Robert or William, it is all one.

Take the heretic!"

And so Robert Purcas was seized, and carried to the Moot Hall in Colchester--a fate from which one word of falsehood would have freed him, but it would have cost him his Father's smile.

The Moot Hall of Colchester was probably the oldest munic.i.p.al building in England. It was erected soon after the Conquest, and its low circular arches and piers ornamented the High Street until 1843, when the town Vandals were pleased to destroy it because it impeded the traffic. Robert was taken into the dungeon, and the great door slammed to behind him. He could not see for a few minutes, coming fresh from the light of day: and before he was able to make anything out clearly, an old lady's voice accosted him.

"Robert Purcas, if I err not?" she said. "I am sorry to behold thee here, friend."

"Truly, Mistress, more than I am, that am come hither in Christ's cause."

"Ay? Then thou art well come."

"Methinks it is Mistress Silverside?"

"Thou sayest well. I shall have company now," said the old lady with a smile. "Methought some of my brethren and sisters should be like to have after."

"I reckon," responded Purcas, "we be sure at the least of our Father's company."

The great door just then rolled back, and they heard the gaoler's voice outside.

"Gramercy, but this is tidy work!" cried he. "Never had no such prisoners here afore. I don't know what to do with 'em. There, get you in! you aren't the first there."

There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs Silverside and Robert, who were looking to see what uncommon sort of prisoners could be at hand, found that their eyes had to come down considerably nearer the floor, as the gaoler let in, hand in hand, Cissy and Will Johnson, followed by their father.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

"FATHER'S COME TOO!"