II t was the evening of September the Sixteenth, about nine of the clock. I was sitting alone in my lodging. Downstairs I heard the voice of the poor widow, Mrs. Prior, who had received us. She was praying aloud with some godly friends for the safety of her sons. These young men, as I have said, were never more heard of, and were therefore already, doubtless, past praying for. I, who ought to have been praying with them, held Robin's last letter in my hands. I knew it by heart; but I must still be reading it again and again; thinking it was his voice which was indeed speaking to me, trying to feel his presence near me, to hear his breath, to see his very eyes. In the night, waking or sleeping, I still would hear him calling to me aloud. 'My heart! my life! my love!' he would cry. I heard him, I say, quite plainly. By special mercy and grace this power was accorded to me; because I have no doubt that in his mind, while lying in his noisome prison, he did turn his thoughts, yea, and the yearnings of his fond heart, to the maid he loved. But now the merciless Judge who had sentenced three hundred men to one common doom—three hundred men!—was such a sentence ever known?—had left Dorchester, and was already, perhaps, at Exeter. Oh!—perhaps Robin had by this time stood his trial: what place was left for prayer? For if the poor, ignorant clowns were condemned to death, how much more the gentlemen, the officers of Monmouth's army! Perhaps he was already executed—my lover, my boy, my Robin!—taken out and hanged, and now a cold and senseless corpse! Then the wailings and prayers of the poor woman below, added to the distraction of these thoughts, made me feel as if I was indeed losing my senses. At this time, it was blow upon blow—line upon line. The sky was black—the heavens were deaf. Is there—can there be—a more miserable thing than to feel that the very heavens are deaf? The mercy of the Lord—His kindly hearkening to our cries and prayers—these we believe as we look for the light of day and the warmth of the sun. Nay, this belief is the very breath of our life; so that there is none but the most hardened and abandoned sinner who doth not still feel that he hath in the Lord a Father as well as a Judge. To lose that belief—'twere better to be a lump of senseless clay. The greatest misery of the lost soul, even greater than his continualtorment of fire, and his never-ending thirst, and the gnawing of remorse, must be to feel that the heavens are deaf to his prayers—deaf for ever and for ever!
I t was the evening of September the Sixteenth, about nine of the clock. I was sitting alone in my lodging. Downstairs I heard the voice of the poor widow, Mrs. Prior, who had received us. She was praying aloud with some godly friends for the safety of her sons. These young men, as I have said, were never more heard of, and were therefore already, doubtless, past praying for. I, who ought to have been praying with them, held Robin's last letter in my hands. I knew it by heart; but I must still be reading it again and again; thinking it was his voice which was indeed speaking to me, trying to feel his presence near me, to hear his breath, to see his very eyes. In the night, waking or sleeping, I still would hear him calling to me aloud. 'My heart! my life! my love!' he would cry. I heard him, I say, quite plainly. By special mercy and grace this power was accorded to me; because I have no doubt that in his mind, while lying in his noisome prison, he did turn his thoughts, yea, and the yearnings of his fond heart, to the maid he loved. But now the merciless Judge who had sentenced three hundred men to one common doom—three hundred men!—was such a sentence ever known?—had left Dorchester, and was already, perhaps, at Exeter. Oh!—perhaps Robin had by this time stood his trial: what place was left for prayer? For if the poor, ignorant clowns were condemned to death, how much more the gentlemen, the officers of Monmouth's army! Perhaps he was already executed—my lover, my boy, my Robin!—taken out and hanged, and now a cold and senseless corpse! Then the wailings and prayers of the poor woman below, added to the distraction of these thoughts, made me feel as if I was indeed losing my senses. At this time, it was blow upon blow—line upon line. The sky was black—the heavens were deaf. Is there—can there be—a more miserable thing than to feel that the very heavens are deaf? The mercy of the Lord—His kindly hearkening to our cries and prayers—these we believe as we look for the light of day and the warmth of the sun. Nay, this belief is the very breath of our life; so that there is none but the most hardened and abandoned sinner who doth not still feel that he hath in the Lord a Father as well as a Judge. To lose that belief—'twere better to be a lump of senseless clay. The greatest misery of the lost soul, even greater than his continualtorment of fire, and his never-ending thirst, and the gnawing of remorse, must be to feel that the heavens are deaf to his prayers—deaf for ever and for ever!
At this time, my prayers were all for safety. 'Safety, good Lord! give them safety! Save them from the executioner? Give them safety?' Thus, as Barnaby said, the shipwrecked mariner clinging to the mast asks not for a green, pleasant, and fertile shore, but for land—only for land. I sat there, musing sadly, the Bible on the table and a lighted candle. I read not in the Bible, but listened to the wailing of the poor soul below, and looked at the churchyard without, the moonlight falling upon the fresh mounds which covered the graves of the poor dead prisoners. Suddenly I heard a voice—a loud and harsh voice—and footsteps. I knew both footsteps and voice, and I sprang to my feet trembling, because I was certain that some new disaster had befallen us.
Then the steps mounted the stairs; the door was opened, and Benjamin—none other than Benjamin—appeared. What did he here? He was so big, with so red a face, that his presence seemed to fill the room. And with him—what did this mean?—came Madam herself, who I thought to have been at Exeter. Alas! her eyes were red with weeping; her cheeks were thin and wasted with sorrow; her lips were trembling.
'Alice!' she cried, holding out her hands. 'Child, these terrible things are done, and yet we live! Alas! we live! Are our hearts made of stone that we still live? As for me, I cannot die, though I lose all—all—all!'
'Dear Madam, what hath happened? More misery! More disaster! Oh! tell me! tell me!'
'Oh! my dear, they have been tried—they have been tried, and they are condemned to die—both Robin—my son Robin—and with him Humphrey, who dragged him into the business and alone ought to suffer for both. But there is now no justice in the land. No—no more justice can be had. Else Humphrey should have suffered for all.'
There was something strange in her eyes—she did not look like a mother robbed of her children; she gazed upon me as if there was something else upon her mind. As if the condemnation of her son was not enough.
'Robin will be hanged,' she went on. 'He hath been the only comfort of my life since my husband was taken from me, when he was left an infant in my arms. Robin will be hanged like any common gipsy caught stealing a sheep. He will be hanged, and drawn and quartered, and those goodly limbs of his will be stuck upon poles for all to see!'
Truly I looked for nothing less. Barnaby bade me look for nothing less than this; but at the news I fell into a swoon. So one who knoweth beforehand that he is to feel the surgeon's knife, and thinks to endure the agony without a cry, is fain to shriek and scream when the moment comes.
When I recovered I was sitting at the open window, Madam applying a wet cloth to my forehead.
'Have no fear,' Benjamin was saying. 'She will do what you command her, so only that he may go free.'
'Is there no way but that?' she asked.
'None!' And then he swore a great oath.
My eyes being opened and my sense returned, I perceived that Mrs. Prior was also in the room. And I wondered (in such moments the mind finds relief in trifles) that Benjamin's face should have grown so red and his cheeks so fat.
'Thou hast been in a swoon, my dear,' said Madam. 'But 'tis past.' 'Why is Benjamin here?' I asked.
He looked at Madam, who cast down her eyes, I knew not why.
'Benjamin is now our only friend,' she replied without looking up. 'It is out of his kindness—yes—his kindness of heart that he hath come.'
'I do not understand. If Robin is to die what kindness can he show?'
'Tell her, Benjamin,' said Madam, 'tell her of the trials at Exeter.'
'His Lordship came to Exeter,' Benjamin began, 'on the evening of September the Thirteenth, escorted by many country gentlemen and a troop of horse. I had the honour of riding with him. The trials began the day before yesterday, the Fourteenth.'
'Pray, good Sir,' asked the poor woman who had lost her sons, 'did you observe my boys among the prisoners?'
'How the devil should I know your boys?' he replied, turning upon her roughly, so that she asked no more questions. 'If they were rebels they deserve hanging'—here she shrieked aloud, and fled the room. 'The trials began with two fellows who pleaded "Not guilty," but were quickly proved to have been in arms, and were condemned to death, one of them being sent out to instant execution. The rest who were brought up that day—among whom were Robin and Humphrey—pleaded "Guilty," being partly terrified and partly persuaded that it was their only chance of escape. So they, too, were condemned—two hundred and forty in all—every man Jack of them, to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and their limbs to be afterwards stuck on poles for the greater terror of evildoers'—he said these words with such a fire in his eyes, and in such a dreadful threatening voice, as made me tremble. 'Then they were all taken back to jail, where they will lie until the day of execution, and the Lord have mercy upon their souls!'
The terrible Judge Jeffreys himself could not look more terrible than Benjamin when he uttered the prayer with which a sentence to death is concluded.
'Benjamin, were you in the court to see and hear the condemnation of your own cousins?'
'I was. I sat in the body of the court, in the place reserved for Counsel.'
'Could you say nothing that would help them?'
'Nothing. Not a word from anyone could help them. Consider—one of them was an officer, and one a surgeon in the army. The ignorant rustics whom they led may some of them escape, but the officers can look for no mercy.'
'Madam,' I cried, 'I must see Robin before he dies; though, God knows, there are those here who want my services daily. Yet I must see Robin. He will not die easy unless he can see me and kiss me once.'
Madam made no reply.
'For a week,' said Benjamin, 'they are safe. I do not think they will be executed for a week at least. But it is not wise to reckon on a reprieve even for an hour: the Judge may at any time order their execution.'
'I will go to-morrow.'
'That will be seen,' said Benjamin.
'My dear,' said Madam, 'my nephew Benjamin is a friend of the Judge, Lord Jeffreys.'
'Say rather a follower and admirer of that great, learned, and religious man. One who is yet but a member of the Outer Bar must not assume the style and title of friend to a man whose next step must be the Woolsack.'
'Heavens! He called the inhuman wretch who had sentenced an innocent old woman of seventy to be burned alive, and five hundred persons to be hanged, and one knows not how many to be inhumanly flogged—great and religious!'
'If interest can save any,' Madam said softly, 'Benjamin can command that interest, and he is on the side of mercy, especially where his cousins are concerned.'
I now observed that Madam, who had not formerly been wont to regard her nephew with much affection, behaved towards him with the greatest respect and submission.
'Madam,' he replied, 'you know the goodness of my heart. What man can do shall be done by me, not only for Robin, but for the others who are involved with him in common ruin. But there are conditions with which I have taken pains to acquaint you.'
Madam sighed heavily, and looked as if she would speak, but refrained; and I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.
'What conditions, Benjamin?' I asked him. 'Conditions for trying to save your own cousins and your own grandfather! Conditions? Why, you should be moving heaven and earth for them instead of making conditions.'
'It needs not so much exertion,' he replied with an unbecoming grin. 'First, Alice, I must own, Child, that the two years or thereabouts since I saw thee last have added greatly to thy charms; at which I rejoice.'
'Oh! what have my charms to do with the business?'
'Much; as thou wilt presently discover. But let me remind you both that there threaten—nay, there are actually overhanging—disasters, the like of which never happen save in time of civil war and of rebellion. My grandfather is in prison, and will be tried on a charge of sending men and horses to join Monmouth. Nay, the Duke's Proclamation was found in his house; he will be certainly condemned and his estates confiscated. So there will be an end of as old a family as lives in Somerset. Then there is thy father, Child, who was Preacher to the army, and did make mischief in stirring up the fanatical zeal of many. Think you that he can escape? Then there is thy brother Barnaby, who was such a fool as to meddle in what concerned him not, and now will hang therefor. What can we expect? Are men to go unpunished who thus rebel against the Lord's anointed? Is treason—rank treason—the setting up of a Pretender Prince (who is now lying headless in his coffin) as the rightful heir, to be forgiven? We must not look for it. Alas! Madam, had I been with you instead of that conceited, fanatical, crookback Humphrey, whom I did ever detest, none of these things should have happened.'
'Humphrey,' I said, 'has more worth in one finger than you in all your great body, Benjamin.'
'My dear, my dear, do not anger Benjamin. Oh, do not anger our only friend!'
'She may say what she pleases. My time will come. Listen then. They must all be hanged unless I can succeed in getting them pardoned.'
'Nay—but—forgive my rudeness, Benjamin; they are your own cousins—it is your own grandfather. What need of conditions? Oh! what does this mean? Are you a man of flesh and blood?'
'My conditions, Child'—why did he laugh?—'will assure you that such is truly the nature of my composition.'
'If money is wanted'—I thought of my bag of gold and of Mr. Penne's hints—'how much will suffice?'
'I know not. If it comes to buying them off, more thousands than could be raised on the Bradford Orcas estates. Put money out of mind.'
'Then, Benjamin, save them if thou canst.'
'His Lordship knows that I have near relations concerned in the Rebellion. Yet, he assured me if his own brothers were among the prisoners he would hang them all.'
'Nay, then, Benjamin; I say no more. Tell me what are these conditions, and, if we can grant or contrive them, we will comply.' I had no thought of what was meant by his conditions, nor did I even guess until the morning, when Madam told me. 'Oh! Madam, is there anything in the world—anything that we would not do to save them?'
Madam looked at me with so much pity in her eyes that I wondered. It was pity for me and not for her son that I read in that look. Why did she pity me?
I understood not.
'My dear,' she said, 'there are times when women are calledupon to make sacrifices which they never thought to make, which seem impossible to be even asked——'
'Oh! there are no sacrifices which we would not gladly make. What can Benjamin require that we should not gladly do for him? Nay, he is Robin's cousin, and your nephew, and Sir Christopher's grandson. He will, if need be, join us in making these sacrifices.'
'I will,' said Benjamin—again, why did he laugh?—'I will join you in making one sacrifice at least, with a willing heart.'
'I will tell her to-morrow,' said Madam. 'No, I cannot tell her to-night. Let us first rest. Go, Sir; leave us to our sorrow. It may be that we may yet think the sacrifice too great even for the lives and the safety of those we love. Go, Sir, for to-night, and return to-morrow.'
'Surely, Child,' said Madam presently, when he was gone, and we were alone, 'we are the most unhappy women in the world.'
'Nay,' I replied. 'There have been other women before us who have been ruined and widowed by civil wars and rebellions. If it be any comfort to think that others have suffered like ourselves, then we may comfort ourselves. But the thought brings no consolation to me.'
'Hagar,' said Madam, 'was a miserable woman because she was cast out by the man she loved, even the father of her son; but she saved her son. Rachel was unhappy until the Lord gave her a son. Jephthah's daughter was unhappy—my dear, there is no case except hers which may be compared with ours—and Jephthah's daughter was happy in one circumstance: that she was permitted to die. Ah! happy girl, she died! That was all her sacrifice—to die for the sake of her father! But what is ours?'
So she spoke in riddles or dark sayings, of which I understood nothing. Nevertheless, before lying down, I did solemnly and, in her presence and hearing, aloud, upon my knees, offer unto Almighty God myself—my very life—if so that Robin could be saved. And then, with lighter heart than I had known for long, I lay down and slept.
At midnight, or thereabouts, Madam woke me up.
'Child,' she said, 'I cannot sleep. Tell me truly: is there nothing that thou wouldest refuse for Robin's sake?'
'Nothing, verily! Ah, Madam, can you doubt it?'
'Even if it were a sacrifice of which he would not approve?'
'Believe me, Madam, there is nothing that I would not do for Robin's safety.'
'Child, if we were living in the days of persecution wouldest thou hear the Mass and adopt the Catholic religion to save thy lover's life?'
'Oh, Madam, the Lord will never try us above our strength!'
'Sleep, my child, sleep; and pray that, as thy temptation, so may be thy strength!'
In
In the morning I awoke with a lighter heart than I had known for a long time. Benjamin was going to release our prisoners! I should go to meet Robin at the gate of his prison. All would be well, except that my father would never recover. We should return to the village and everything would go on as before. Oh! poor fond wretch! how was I deluded! and, oh! miserable day that ended with such shame and sadness, yet began with so much hope.
Madam was already dressed. She was sitting at the window looking into the churchyard. She had been crying. Alas! how many women in Somersetshire were then weeping all day long!
'Madam,' I said, 'we now have hope. We must not weep and lament any more. Oh! to have at last a little hope—when we have lived so long in despair—it makes one breathe again. Benjamin will save our prisoners for us. Oh! after all, it is Benjamin who will help us. We did not use to love Benjamin, because he was rude and masterful and wanted everything for himself and would never give up anything. Yet, you see, he had, after all, a good heart.' Madam groaned. 'And he cannot forget, though he followeth not his grandfather's opinions, that he is his Honour's grandson—the son of his only daughter—and your nephew, and first cousin to Robin, and second cousin once removed to Humphrey and Barnaby; playfellows of old. Why, these are ties which bind him as if with ropes! He needs must bestir himself to save their lives. And since he says that he can save them, of course he musthave bestirred himself to some purpose. Weep no more, dear Madam; your son will be restored to us! We shall be happy again—thanks to Benjamin!'
'Child,' she replied, 'my heart is broken! It is broken, I say! Oh, to be lying dead and at peace in yonder churchyard! Never before did I think that it must be a happy thing to be dead and at rest, and to feel nothing and to know nothing!'
'But, Madam, the dead are not in their graves. There lie only the bodies. Their souls are above.'
'Then they still think and remember. Oh! can a time ever come when things can be forgotten? Will the dead ever cease to reproach themselves?'
She wrung her hands in an ecstasy of grief, though I knew not what should move her so. Indeed, she was commonly a woman of sober and contained disposition, entirely governed both in her temper and her words. What was in her mind that she should accuse herself? Then, while I was dressing, she went on talking, being still full of this strong passion.
'I shall have my boy back again,' she said. 'Yes; he will come back to me. And what will he say to me when I tell him all? Yet Imusthave him back. Oh! to think of the hangman tying the rope about his neck'—she shuddered and trembled—'and afterwards the cruel knife'—she clasped her hands and could not say the words—'I see the comely limbs of my boy. Oh! the thought tears my heart—it tears me through and through. I cannot think of anything else day or night. And yet in the prison he is so patient and so cheerful. I marvel that men can be so patient with this dreadful death before them.' She broke out again into another passion of sobbing and crying. Then she became calmer, and tried to speak of things less dreadful.
'When first I visited my boy in prison,' she said, 'Humphrey came humbly to ask my pardon. Poor lad! I have had hard thoughts of him. It is certain that he was in the plot from the beginning. Yet had he not gone so far, should we have sat down when the rising began? But he doth still accuse himself of rashness and calls himself the cause of all our misfortunes. He fell upon his knees, in the sight of all, to ask forgiveness, saying that it was he and none other who had brought ruin upon us all. Then Robin begged me to raise him up and comfort him, which I did, putting aside my hard thoughts and telling him that, being such stubborn Protestants, our lads could not choose but join the Duke, whether he advised it or whether he did not. Nay, I told him that Robin would have dragged him willy nilly. And so I kissed him, and Robin took him by the hand and solemnly assured him that his grandfather had no such thought in his mind.'
'Nay,' I said, 'my father and Barnaby would certainly have joined the Duke, Humphrey or not. Never were any men more eager for rebellion.'
'I have been to London,' she went on. ''Tis a long journeyand I effected nothing; for the mind of the King, I was assured, is harder than the nether millstone. My brother-in-law, Philip Boscorel, went with me, and I left him there. But I have no hope that he will be able to help us, his old friends being much scattered and many of them dead, and some hostile to the Court and in ill-favour. So I returned, seeing that, if I could not save my son I could be with him until he died. The day before yesterday he was tried—if you call that a trial when hundreds together plead guilty and are all alike sentenced to death.'
'Have you seen him since the trial?'
'I went to the prison as soon as they were brought back from Court. Some of the people—for they were all condemned to death—every one—were crying and lamenting. And there were many women among them—their wives or their mothers—and these were shrieking and wringing their hands; so that it was a terrible spectacle. But some of the men called for drink, and began to carouse, so that they might drown the thought of impending death. My dear, I never thought to look upon a scene so full of horror. As for our own boys, Robin was patient and even cheerful; and Humphrey, leading us to the most quiet spot in that dreadful place, exhorted us to lose no time in weeping or vain laments, but to cheer and console our hearts with the thought that death—even violent death—is but a brief pang and life is but a short passage, and that heaven awaits us beyond. Humphrey should have been a godly minister, such is the natural piety and goodness of his heart. So he spoke of the happy meeting in that place of blessedness where earthly love would be purged of its grossness, and our souls shall be so glorified that we shall each admire the beauty and the excellence of the other. Then Robin talked of thee, my dear, and sent thee a loving message bidding thee grieve for him, but not without hope—and that a sure and certain hope—of meeting again. There are other things he bade me tell thee; but now I cannot!—oh, I must not!'
'Nay, Madam; but if they are words that he wished me to hear'——
'Why, they were of his constant love—and—no, I cannot tell them!'
'Well,' I said, 'fret not thy poor heart with thinking any more of the prison; for Benjamin will surely save him, and then we shall love Benjamin all our lives.'
'He will, perhaps, save him. And yet'——she turned her head—'Oh, how can I tellher—we shall shed many more tears. How can I tellher? How can I tellher?'
So she broke off again, but presently recovered and went on talking. In time of great trouble the mind wanders backwards and forwards, and though one talks still, it is disjointedly. So she went back to the prison.
'The boys have been well, though the prison is full and the air is foul. Yet there hath been as yet no fever, for which they arethankful. They had no money, the soldiers who took them prisoners having robbed them of their money, and indeed stripped them as well to their shirts, telling them that shirts were good enough to be hanged in. Yet the people of Exeter have treated the prisoners with great humanity, bringing them daily food and drink, so that there has been nothing lacking. The time, however, doth hang upon hands in a place where there is nothing to do all day but to think of the past and to dread the future. One poor prisoner I was told had gone distracted with the terror of this thought. Child, every day that I visited my son, while he talked with me, always cheerful and smiling, my mind turned continually to the scaffold and the gibbet.' Then she returned to the old subject from which she could in no way escape. 'I saw the hangman, I saw my son hanging to the shameful tree—oh! my son! my son!—till I could bear it no longer, and would hurry away from the prison and walk about the town over the fields—yea, all night long—to escape the dreadful thought. Oh! to be blessed with such a son and to have him torn from my arms for such a death! If he had been killed upon the field of battle 'twould have been easier to bear. But now he dies daily—he dies a thousand deaths in my mind. My child!'—she turned again to the churchyard—'the rooks are cawing in their nests; the sparrows and the robins hop among the graves; the dead hear nothing; all their troubles are over, all their sins are forgiven.'
I comforted her as well as I could. Indeed, I understood not at all what she meant, thinking that perhaps all her trouble had caused her to be in that frame of mind when a woman doth not know whether to laugh or to cry. And then, taking my basket, I sallied forth to provide the day's provisions for my prisoners.
'Barnaby,' I said, when he came to the wicket, 'I have good news for thee.'
'What good news? That I am to be flogged once a year in every market-town in Somersetshire, as will happen to young Tutchin?'
'No, no—not that kind of news, but freedom, Brother, hope for freedom.'
He laughed. 'Who is to give us freedom?'
'Benjamin hath found a way for the enlargement of all.'
'Ben Boscorel? What! will he stir finger for the sake of anybody? Then, Sis, if I remember Ben aright, there will be something for himself. But if it is upon Ben that we are to rely we are truly well sped. On Ben, quotha!'
'My Brother, he told me so himself.'
''Ware hawks, Sister. If Ben is a tone end of the rope and the hangman at the other, I think I know who will be stronger. Well, Child, believe Ben if thou wilt. Thy father looks strange this morning. He opened his eyes and seemed to know me. I wonder if there is a change. 'Tis wonderful how he lasts. There are six men sickened since yesterday of the fever. Three of them broughtin last week are already dead. As for the singing that we used to hear, it is all over, and if the men get drunk they are dumb drunk. Sir Christopher looks but poorly this morning. I hope he will not take the fever. He staggered when he arose, which is a bad sign.'
'Tell mother, Barnaby, what Benjamin hath undertaken to do.'
'Nay, that shall I not, because, look you, I believe it not. There is some trick or lie at the bottom, unless Ben hath repented and changed his disposition, which used to be two parts wolf, one part bear, and the rest fox. If there were anything left it was serpent. Well, Sister, I am no grumbler, but I expect this job to be over in a fortnight or so, when they say the Wells Assizes will be held. Then we shall all be swinging, and I only hope that we may carry with us into the Court such a breath of jail fever as shall lay the Judge himself upon his back and end his days. In the next world he will meet the men whom he has sentenced, and it will fare worse for him in their hands than with fifty thousand devils.'
So he took a drink of the beer, and departed within the prison. And for many months I saw him no more.
On my way home I met Benjamin.
'Hath Madam told you yet of my conditions?' he asked eagerly.
'Not yet; she will doubtless tell me presently. Oh! what matter for the conditions? It can only be something good for us, contrived by your kind heart, Ben. I have told Barnaby, who will not believe in our good fortune.'
'It is, indeed, something very good for you, Alice, as you will find. Come with me and walk in the meadows beyond the reach of this doleful place, where the air reeks with jail fever, and all day long they are reading the Funeral Service.'
So he led me out upon the sloping sides of a hill, where we walked a while upon the grass very pleasantly, my mind being now at rest.
'You have heard of nothing,' he said, 'of late, but of the Rebellion and its consequences. Let us talk about London.'
So he discoursed concerning his own profession and his prospects, which, he said, were better than those of any other young lawyer, in his own opinion. 'For my practice,' he said, 'I already have one which gives me an income far beyond my wants, which are simple. Give me plain fare, and for the evening a bottle or two of good wine, with tobacco, and friends who love a cheerful glass. I ask no more. My course lies clear before me: I shall become a King's Counsel, I shall be made a Judge; presently, I shall become Lord Chancellor. What did I tell thee, Child, long ago? Well, that time has now arrived.'
Still I was so foolish, being so happy, that I could not understand what he meant.
'I am sure, Benjamin,' I said, 'that we at home shall ever rejoice and be proud of your success. Nobody will be more happy to hear of it than Robin and I.'
Here he turned very red and muttered something.
'You find your happiness in courts and clubs and London,' I went on; 'as for Robin and myself, we shall find ours in the peaceful place which we have always decided to have.'
'What the Devil!' he cried, 'she will not tell you the conditions? She came with me for no other purpose. I have borne with her company all the way from Exeter for this only. Go back to her, and ask what it is! Go back, I say, and make her tell! What! am I to take all this trouble for nothing?'
His face became purple with sudden rage; his eyes grew swiftly fierce, and he roared and bawled at me. Why, what had I said?
'Benjamin,' I cried, 'what is the matter? How have I angered you?'
'Go back!' he roared again. 'Tell her that if I presently come and find thee still in ignorance 'twill be the worse for all! Tell her thatIsay it. 'Twill else be worse for all!'
SSo I left Benjamin much frightened, and marvelling, both at his violent passion, and at the message which he sent to Madam.
So I left Benjamin much frightened, and marvelling, both at his violent passion, and at the message which he sent to Madam.
She was waiting for me at the lodging.
'Madam,' I said, 'I have seen Benjamin. He is very angry. He bade me go home and ask you concerning his conditions. We must not anger our best friend, dear Madam.'
She rose from her chair and began to walk about, wringing her hands as if torn by some violent emotion.
'Oh! my child,' she cried; 'Alice, come to my arms—if it is for the last time—my daughter. More than ever mine, though I must never call thee daughter.'
She held me in her arms, kissing me tenderly. 'My dear, we agreed that no sacrifice could be too great for the safety of our boy. Yes, we agreed to that. Let us kiss each other before we do a thing after which we can never kiss each other again. No, never again.'
'Why not again, Madam?'
'Oh,' she pushed me from her, 'it is now eight of the clock, he will be here at ten! I promised I would tell thee before he came! And all is in readiness.'
'For what, Madam?'
Why, even then I guessed not her meaning, though I might have done so; but I never thought that so great a wickedness was possible!
'No sacrifice should be too great for us!' she cried, clasping her head with her hands and looking wildly about. 'None too great! Not even the sacrifice of my own son's love—no; not that! Why, let us think of the sacrifices men make for their country, for their religion. Abraham was ready to offer his son, Isaac; Jephthah sacrificed his daughter; King Mesha slew his eldest son for a burnt offering. Thousands of men die every year in battle for their country. What have we to offer? If we give ourselves, it is but a slight thing that we offer at the best.'
'Surely, Madam,' I cried, 'you know that we would willingly die for the sake of Robin?'
'Yes, Child; to die—to die were nothing. It is to live—we must live—for Robin.'
'I understand not, Madam.'
'Listen then—for the time presses, and if he arrives and finds that I have not broken the thing to thee, he will perhaps ride back to Exeter in a rage. When I left my son after the trial, being very wretched and without hope, I found Benjamin waiting for me at the prison gates. He walked with me to my lodging, and on the way he talked of what was in my mind. First, he said, that for the better sort there was little hope, seeing that the King was revengeful and the Judge most wrathful, and in a mood which allowed of no mercy. Therefore, it would be best to dismiss all hopes of pardon or of safety either to these two or to the prisoners of Ilminster. Now, when he had said this a great many times, we being now arrived at my lodging, he told me that there was in my case a way out of the trouble—and one way only: that if we consented to follow that way, which, he said, would do no manner of harm to either of us or to our prisoners, he would undertake and faithfully engage to secure the safety of all our prisoners. I prayed him to point out this way, and, after much entreaty, he consented.'
'What is the way?' I asked, having not the least suspicion. And yet the look in her eyes should have told me what was coming.
'Is it true, Child, that long ago you were betrothed to Benjamin?'
'No, Madam, that is most untrue.'
'He says that when you were quite a little child he informed you of his intention to marry you, and none but you.'
'Why, that is true, indeed.' And now I began to understand the way that was proposed; and my heart sank within me. 'That is true. But to tell a child such a thing is not a betrothal.'
'He says that only three or four years ago he renewed that assurance.'
'So he did, but I gave him no manner of encouragement.'
'He says that he promised to return and marry you when he had arrived at some practice, and that he engaged to become Lord Chancellor and make you a Peeress of the Realm.'
'All that he said, and more. Yet did I never give him the least encouragement, but quite the contrary, for always have I feared and disliked Benjamin. Never at any time was it possible for me to think of him in that way. That he knows, and cannot pretend otherwise. Madam, doth Benjamin wish evil to Robin because I am betrothed to him?'
'He also says, in his rude way—Benjamin was always a rude and coarse boy—that he had warned you, long ago, that if anyone else came in his way he would break the head of that man.'
'Yes: I remember, now, that he threatened some violence.'
'My dear'—Madam took my hand—'his time of revenge is come. He says that he has the life of the man whom you love in his own hands; and he will, he swears, break his head for him, and so keep the promise made to you by tying the rope round his neck. My dear, Benjamin has always been stubborn and obstinate from his birth. Stubborn and obstinate was he as a boy; stubbornand obstinate is he now. He cares for nobody in the world except himself; he has no heart; he has no tenderness; he has no scruples; if he wants a thing, he will trample on all the world to get it, and break all the laws of God. I know what manner of life he leads. He is the friend and companion of the dreadful Judge who goeth about like a raging lion. Every night do they drink together until they are speechless and cannot stand. Their delight it is to drink, and smoke tobacco, with unseemly jests and ribald songs which would disgrace the playhouse or the country fair. Oh! 'tis the life of a hog that he delights in! Yet, for all that, he is, like his noble friend, full of ambition. Nothing will do but he must rise in the world. Therefore, he works hard at his profession—and'——
'Madam—the condition!—what is the condition? For Heaven's sake tell me quickly! Is it—is it!—oh! no—no—no! Anything but that!'
'My child—my daughter'—she laid her hand upon my head. 'It is that condition—that, and none other. Oh! my dear, it is laid upon thee to save us!—it is to be thy work alone—and by such a sacrifice as, I think, no woman ever yet had to make! Nay, perhaps it is better not to make it, after all. Let all die together, and let us live out our allotted lives in sorrow. I thought of it all night, and it seemed better so—better even that thou wert lying in thy grave. His condition! Oh! he must be a devil thus to barter for the lives of his grandfather and his cousins—no human being, surely, would do such a thing: the condition, my dear, is that thou must marry him—now: this very morning—and this once done, he will at once take such steps—I know not what they may be, but I take it that his friend the Judge will grant him the favour—such steps, I say, as will release unto us all our prisoners.'
At first I made no answer.
'If not,' she added after a while, 'they shall all be surely hanged.'
I remained silent. It is not easy at such a moment to collect one's thoughts and understand what things mean. I asked her presently if there was no other way.
'None,' she said: 'there was no other way.'
'What shall I do? What shall I do?' I asked. 'God, it seems, hath granted my daily prayer; but how? Oh! what shall I do?'
'Think of what thou hast in thy power.'
'But to marry him—to marry Benjamin—oh! to marry him! How should I live? How should I look the world in the face?'
'My dear, there are many other unhappy wives. There are other husbands brutal and selfish; there are other men as wicked as my nephew. Thou wilt swear in church to love, honour, and obey him. Thy love is already hate; thy honour is contempt; thy obedience will be the obedience of a slave. Yet death cometh at length, even to a slave and to the harsh task-master.'
'Oh! Madam, miserable indeed is the lot of those whose only friend is death.'
She was silent, leaving me to think of this terrible condition.
'What would Robin say? What would Humphrey say? Nay, what would his Honour himself say?'
'Why, Child,' she replied, with a kind of laugh, 'it needs not a wizard to tell what they would say. For one and all, they would rather go to the gallows than buy their lives at such a price. Thy brother Barnaby would mount the ladder with a cheerful heart rather than sell his sister to buy his life. That we know already. Nay, we know more. For Robin will never forgive his mother who suffered thee to do such a thing. So shall I lose what I value more than life—the love of my only son. Yet would I buy his life at such a price. My dear, if you lose your lover I lose my son. Yet, we will save him whether he will or no.' She took my hands and pressed them in her own. 'My dear, it will be worse for me than for you. You will have a husband, it is true, whom you will loathe; yet you will not see him, perhaps, for half the day at least; and, perhaps, he will leave thee to thyself for the other half. But for me, I shall have to endure the loss of my son's affections all my life, because I am very sure and certain that he can never forgive me. Think, my dear! Shall they all die?—all!—think of father and brother, and of your mother!—or will you willingly endure a life of misery with this man for husband in order that they may live?'
'Oh, Madam,' I said, 'as for the misery—any other kind of misery I would willingly endure; but it is marriage—marriage! Yet who am I that I should choose my sacrifice? Oh, if good works were of any avail, then would the way to heaven be opened wide for me by such an act and such a life! Oh, what will Robin say of me? What will he think of me? Will he curse me and loathe me for being able to do this thing? Should I do it? Is it right? Doth God command it? Yet to save their dear lives—only to set them free—to send that good old man back to his home—to suffer my father to die in peace!—I must do it—I must do it! Yet Robin could never forgive me. Oh! he told me that betrothal was a sacrament. I have sworn to be his. Yet, to save his life, I cannot hesitate. If it is wrong, I pray that Robin will forgive me. Tell him—oh, tell him that it is I who am to die instead of him. Perhaps the Lord will suffer me to die quickly. Tell him that I loved him, and only him; that I would rather have died; that for his life alone I would not have done this thing, because he would not have suffered it. But it is for all—it is for all! Oh! he must forgive me! Some day you will send me a message of forgiveness from him. But I must go away and live in London, far from all of you; never to see him or any one of you again—not even my own mother. It is too shameful a thing to do. And you will tell his Honour, who hath always loved me and would willingly have called me his granddaughter. It was not that Iloved not Robin—God knoweth that; but for all—for him and Robin and all—to save his grey hairs from the gallows, and to send him back to his home. Oh! tell him that'——
'My dear—my dear,' she replied, but could say no more.
Then for a while we sat in silence, with beating hearts.
'I am to purchase the lives of five honest men,' I said presently, 'by my own dishonour. I know very well that it is by my dishonour and my sin that their lives are to be bought. It doth not save me from dishonour that I am first to stand in the church and be married according to the Prayer Book. Nay, does it not make the sin greater and the dishonour more certain that I shall first swear what I cannot ever perform—to love and honour that man?'
'Yes, girl—yes!' said Madam. 'But the sin is mine more than yours. Oh! let me bear the sin upon myself.'
'You cannot, it is my sin and my dishonour; nay, it is a most dreadful wicked thing that I am to do. It is all the sins in one: I do not honour my parents in thus dishonouring myself; I kill myself—the woman that my Robin loved; I steal the outward form which belonged to Robin and give it to another; I live in a kind of adultery. It is truly a terrible sin in the sight of Heaven. Yet I will do it!—I must do it! I love him so that I cannot let him die; rather let me be overwhelmed with shame and reproach if only he can live!'
'Said I not, my dear, that we two could never kiss each other again? When two men have conspired together to commit a crime they consort no more together, it is said, but go apart and loathe each other. So it is now with us.'
So I promised to do this thing. The temptation was beyond my strength. Yet had I possessed more faith I should have refused. And then great, indeed, would have been my reward. Alas! how was I punished for my want of faith! Well, it was to save my lover. Love makes us strong for evil as well as strong for good.
And all the time, to think that we never inquired or proved his promises! To think that we never thought of doubting or of asking how he, a young barrister, should be able to save the lives of four active rebels, and one who had been zealous in the cause! That two women should have been so simple is now astonishing.
When the clock struck ten I saw Benjamin walking across the churchyard. It was part of the brutal nature of the man that he should walk upon the graves, even those newly-made and not covered up with turf. He swung his great burly form, and looked up at the window with a grin which made Madam tremble and shrink back. But for me, I was not moved by the sight of him, for now I was strong in resolution. Suppose one who hath made up her mind to go to the stake for her religion, as would doubtless have happened unto many had King James been allowed to continue in his course, do you think that such a woman would beginto tremble at the sight of her executioner? Not so. She would arise and go forth to meet him, with pale face, perhaps (because the agony is sharp), but with a steady eye. Benjamin opened the door, and stood looking from one to the other.
'Well,' he said to Madam, roughly, 'you have by this time told her the condition?'
'I have told her—alas! I have told her, and already I repent me that I have told her.'
'Doth she consent?'
'She does. It shall be as you desire.'
'Ha!' Benjamin drew a long breath. 'Said I not, Sweetheart'—he turned to me—'that I would break the head of any who came between us? What? Have I not broken the head of my cousin when I take away his girl? Very well, then. And that to good purpose. Very well, then. It remains to carry out the condition.'
'The condition,' I said, 'I understand to be this. If I become your wife, Benjamin, you knowing full well that I love another man and am already promised to him'——
'Ta—ta—ta!' he said. 'That you are promised to another man matters not one straw. That you love another man I care nothing. What! I promise, Sweetheart, that I will soon make thee forget that other man. And as for loving any other man after marrying me, that, d'ye see, my pretty, will be impossible. Oh! thou shalt be the fondest wife in the Three Kingdoms.'
'Nay: if such a thing cannot move your heart, I say no more. If I marry you, then all our prisoners will be enlarged?'
'I swear'—he used a great round oath, very horrid from the lips of a Christian man—'I swear that, if you marry me, the three—Robin, Humphrey, and Barnaby—shall all save their lives. And as for Sir Christopher and thy father, they also shall be enlarged. Can I say aught in addition?'
I suspected no deceit. I understood, and so did Madam, that this promise meant the full and free forgiveness of all. Yet there was something of mockery in his eyes, which should have made us suspicious. But I, for one, was young and ignorant, and Madam was country-bred and truthful.
'Benjamin,' I cried, falling on my knees before him, 'think what it is you ask! Think what a wicked thing you would have me do!—to break my vows, who am promised to your cousin! And would you leave your grandfather to perish all for a whim about a silly girl? Benjamin, you are playing with us. You cannot—you could not sell the lives—the very lives of your grandfather and your cousins for such a price as this! The play has gone far enough, Benjamin. Tell us that it is over, and that you never meant to be taken seriously, and we will forgive you the anguish you have caused us.'
'Get up,' he said, 'get up, I say, and stop this folly.' He then began to curse and to swear. 'Playing, is it? You shall quickly discover that it is no play, but serious enough to please you all,Puritans though you be. Playing! Get up, I say, and have done.'
'Then,' I said, 'there is not in the whole world a more inhuman monster than yourself.'
'Oh! my dear—my dear, do not anger him!' cried Madam.
'All is fair in love, my pretty,' said Benjamin with a grin. 'Before marriage call me what you please—inhuman monster—anything that you please. After marriage my wife will have to sing a different tune.'
'Oh! Benjamin, treat her kindly,' Madam cried.
'I mean not otherwise. Kindness is my nature, I am too kind for my own interests. Obedience I expect, and good temper and a civil tongue, with such respect as is due to one who intends to be Lord Chancellor. Come, Child, no more hard words. Thou shalt be the happiest woman, I say, in the world. What? Monmouth's rebellion was only contrived to make thy happiness. Instead of a dull country house thou shalt have a house in London; instead of the meadows, thou shalt have the parks; instead of skylarks, the singers at the playhouse; in due course thou shalt be My Lady'——
'Oh! stop—stop; I must marry you since you make me, but the partner in your ambitions will I never be.'
'My dear,' Madam whispered, 'speak him fair. Be humble to him. Remember he holds in his hands the lives of all.'
'Yes,' Benjamin overheard her. 'The lives of all. The man who dares to take my girl from me—mine—deserves to die. Yet so clement, so forgiving, so generous am I, that I am ready to pardon him. He shall actually save his life. If, therefore, it is true that (before marriage) you love that man and are promised to him, come to church with me, out of your great love to him, in order to save his life; but if you love him not, then you can love me, and, therefore, can come to please yourself, willy nilly. What! am I to be thwarted in such a trifle? Willy nilly, I say, I will marry thee. Come—we waste the time.'
He seized my wrist as if he would have dragged me towards the door.
'Benjamin,' cried Madam, 'be merciful! she is but a girl, and she loves my poor boy—be merciful! Oh! it is not yet too late.' She snatched me from his grasp and stood between us, her arms outstretched. 'It is not too late; they may die and we will go in sorrow, but not in shame. They may die. Go! murderer of thy kith and kin! Go, send thy grandfather to die upon the scaffold; but, at least, leave us in peace.'
'No, Madam,' I said. 'With your permission, if there be no other way, I will save their lives.'
'Well, then,' Benjamin said sulkily, 'there must be an end of this talk and no further delay; else, by the Lord! I know not what may happen. Will Tom Boilman delay to prepare his cauldron of hot pitch? If we wait much longer, Robin's arms and legswill be seething in that broth! Doth the Judge delay with his warrant? Already he signs it—already they are putting up the gibbet on which he will hang! Come, I say.'
Benjamin was sure of his prey, I suppose, because we found the clergyman waiting for us in the church, ready with surplice and book. The clerk was standing beside him, also with his book, open at the Service for Marriage. While they read the Service Madam threw herself prostrate on the Communion steps, her head in her hands, as one who suffers the last extremities of remorse and despair for sin too grievous to be ever forgiven. Let us hope that sometimes we may judge ourselves more harshly than Heaven itself doth judge us.
The clerk gave me away, and was the only witness of the marriage besides that poor distracted mother.
'Twas a strange wedding. There had been no banns put up; the bride was pale and trembling; the bridegroom was gloomy; the only other person present wept upon her knees while the parson read through his ordered prayer and psalm and exhortation; there was no sign of rejoicing.
'So,' said Benjamin, when all was over, 'now thou art my wife. They shall not be hanged therefor. Come, wife, we will this day ride to Exeter, where thou shalt thyself bear the joyful news of thy marriage and their safety to my cousins. They will own that I am a loving and a careful cousin.'
He led me, thus talking, out of church. Now, as we left the churchyard, there passed through the gates—oh, baleful omen!—four men carrying between them a bier. Upon it was the body of another poor prisoner, dead of jail fever. I think that even the hard heart of Benjamin—now my husband!—oh! merciful Heavens! he was my husband!—quailed, and was touched with fear at meeting this most sure and certain sign of coming woe, for he muttered something in his teeth, and cursed the bearers aloud for not choosing another time.
My husband, then—I must needs call him my husband—told me, brutally, that I must ride with him to Exeter, where I should myself bear the joyful news of their safety to his cousins. I did not take that journey, nor did I bear the news, nor did I ever after that moment set eyes upon him again, nor did I ever speak to him again. His wife I remained, I suppose, because I was joined to him in church. But I never saw him after that morning. And the reason why you shall now hear.
At the door of our lodging, which was, you know, hard by the church, stood Mr. Boscorel himself.
'What means this?' he asked, with looks troubled and confused. 'What doth it mean, Benjamin? What hath happened, in the name of God?'
'Sir,' said Benjamin, 'you know my character. You will acknowledge that I am not one of those who are easily turned fromtheir purpose. Truly, the occasion is not favourable for a wedding, but yet I present to you my newly-married wife.'
'Thywife! Child,hethy husband? Why, thou art betrothed to Robin! Hath the world gone crazy? Do I hear aright? Is this—this—this—a time to be marrying? Hast thou not heard? Hast thou not heard, I say?'
'Brother-in-law,' said Madam, 'it is to save the lives of all that this is done.'
'"To save the lives of all?"' Mr. Boscorel repeated. 'Why—why—hath not Benjamin, then, told what hath happened, and what hath been done?'
'No, Sir, I have not,' said his son. 'I had other fish to fry.'
'Not told them? Is it possible?'
'Benjamin hath promised to save all their lives if this child would marry him. To save their lives hath Alice consented, and I with her. He will save them through his great friendship with Judge Jeffreys.'
'Benjamin to save their lives? Sirrah'—he turned to his son with great wrath in his face—'what villainy is this? Thou hast promised to save their lives? What villainy, I say, is this? Sister-in-law, did he not tell you what hath been done?'
'He has told us nothing. Oh! is there new misery?'
'Child'—Mr. Boscorel spoke with the tears running down his cheeks—'thou art betrayed—alas! most cruelly and foully betrayed. My son—would to God that I had died before I should say so—is a villain! For, first, the lives of these young men are already saved, and he hath known it for a week and more. Learn, then, that with the help of certain friends I have used such interests at Court that for these three I have received the promise of safety. Yet they will not be pardoned. They are given, among other prisoners, to the courtiers and the ladies-in-waiting. One Mr. Jerome Nipho hath received and entered on his list the names of Robin and Humphrey Challis and Barnaby Eykin; they will be sold by him, and transported to Jamaica or elsewhere for a term of years.'
'They were already saved!' cried Madam. 'He knew, then, when they were tried and sentenced, that their lives were already spared. Oh, child! poor child! Oh, Alice! Oh, my daughter! what misery have we brought upon thee!'
Benjamin said nothing. On his face lay a scowl of obstinacy. As for me, I was clinging to Madam's arm. This man was my husband—and Robin was already saved—and by lies and villainy he had cheated us!
'They were already saved,' Mr. Boscorel continued. 'Benjamin knew it—I sent him a letter that he might tell his cousins. My son—alas!—I say again, my only son—my only son—my son is a villain!'
'No one shall take my girl,' said Benjamin sullenly. 'What? All is fair in love.'
'He has not told you, either, what hath happened in the prison? Thou hadst speech, I hear, with Barnaby, early this morning, Child. The other prisoners'—he lowered his voice and folded his hands, as in prayer—'they have since been enlarged.'
'How?' Madam asked. 'Is Sir Christopher free?'
'He hath received his freedom—from One who never fails to set poor prisoners free. My father-in-law fell dead in the courtyard at nine o'clock this morning—weep not for him. But, Child, there is much more; about that same time thy father breathed his last. He, too, is dead; he, too, hath his freedom, Benjamin knew of this as well, Alice, my child'—the kindly tears of compassion rolled down his face. 'I have loved thee always, my dear; and it is my son who hath wrought this wickedness—my own son—my only son'——he shook his cane in Benjamin's face. 'Oh, villain!' he cried; 'oh, villain!'
Benjamin made no reply; but his face was black and his eyes obstinate.
'There is yet more—oh! there is more. Alas! my child, there is more. Thou hast lost thy mother as well. For at the sight of her husband's death, his poor, patient wife could no longer bear the trouble, but she, too, fell dead—of a broken heart; yea, she fell dead upon his dead body—the Lord showed her this great and crowning mercy—so that they all died together. This, too, Benjamin knew. Oh! villain! villain!'
Benjamin heard unmoved, except that his scowl grew blacker.
'Go,' his father continued, 'I load thee not, my son, with a father's curse. Thy wickedness is so great that thy punishment will be exemplary. The judgments of God descend upon the most hardened. Get thee gone out of my sight. Let me never more behold thee until thou hast felt the intolerable pangs of remorse. Get thee hence I say! begone!'
'I go not,' said Benjamin, 'without my loving wife. I budge not, I say, without my tender and loving wife. Come, my dear.'
He advanced with outstretched hands, but I broke away and fled shrieking. As I ran, Mr. Boscorel stood before his son and barred the way, raising his right hand.
'Back, boy! Back!' he said, solemnly. 'Back, I say! Before thou reachest thy most unhappy wife, first shalt thou pass over thy father's body!'