CHAPTER XXIX.
ON WHAT CONDITIONS?
In the morning I awoke with a lighter heart than I had known for along time. Benjamin was going to release our prisoners! I should goto meet Robin at the gate of his prison. All would be well, exceptthat my father would never recover. We should return to the villageand everything would go on as before. Oh! poor fond wretch! how wasI deluded! and, oh! miserable day that ended with such shame andsadness, yet began with so much hope.
Madam was already dressed. She was sitting at the window lookinginto the churchyard. She had been crying. Alas! how many women inSomersetshire were then weeping all day long!
'Madam,' I said, 'we now have hope. We must not weep and lamentany more. Oh! to have at last a little hope--when we have lived solong in despair--it makes one breathe again. Benjamin will save ourprisoners for us. Oh! after all, it is Benjamin who will help us. Wedid not use to love Benjamin, because he was rude and masterful andwanted everything for himself and would never give up anything. Yet,you see, he had, after all, a good heart.' Madam groaned. 'And hecannot forget, though he followeth not his grandfather's opinions,that he is his Honour's grandson--the son of his only daughter--andyour nephew, and first cousin to Robin, and second cousin onceremoved to Humphrey and Barnaby; playfellows of old. Why, these areties which bind him as if with ropes! He needs must bestir himselfto save their lives. And since he says that he can save them, ofcourse he must have bestirred himself to some purpose. Weep nomore, dear Madam; your son will be restored to us! We shall be happyagain--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 didI think that it must be a happy thing to be dead and at rest, and tofeel nothing and to know nothing!'
'But, Madam, the dead are not in their graves. There lie only thebodies. Their souls are above.'
'Then they still think and remember. Oh! can a time ever come whenthings can be forgotten? Will the dead ever cease to reproachthemselves?'
She wrung her hands in an ecstasy of grief, though I knew not whatshould move her so. Indeed, she was commonly a woman of sober andcontained disposition, entirely governed both in her temper and herwords. What was in her mind that she should accuse herself? Then,while I was dressing, she went on talking, being still full of thisstrong passion.
'I shall have my boy back again,' she said. 'Yes; he will comeback to me. And what will he say to me when I tell him all? Yet I_must_ have him back. Oh! to think of the hangman tying the ropeabout his neck'--she shuddered and trembled--'and afterwards thecruel knife'--she clasped her hands and could not say the words--'Isee the comely limbs of my boy. Oh! the thought tears my heart--ittears me through and through. I cannot think of anything else dayor night. And yet in the prison he is so patient and so cheerful. Imarvel that men can be so patient with this dreadful death beforethem.' She broke out again into another passion of sobbing andcrying. Then she became calmer, and tried to speak of things lessdreadful.
'When first I visited my boy in prison,' she said, 'Humphrey camehumbly 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 henot gone so far, should we have sat down when the rising began? Buthe doth still accuse himself of rashness and calls himself the causeof 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 hadbrought ruin upon us all. Then Robin begged me to raise him up andcomfort him, which I did, putting aside my hard thoughts and tellinghim that, being such stubborn Protestants, our lads could not choosebut 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 Ikissed him, and Robin took him by the hand and solemnly assured himthat his grandfather had no such thought in his mind.'
'Nay,' I said, 'my father and Barnaby would certainly have joinedthe Duke, Humphrey or not. Never were any men more eager forrebellion.'
'I have been to London,' she went on. ''Tis a long journey and Ieffected nothing; for the mind of the King, I was assured, is harderthan the nether millstone. My brother-in-law, Philip Boscorel, wentwith me, and I left him there. But I have no hope that he will beable to help us, his old friends being much scattered and many ofthem dead, and some hostile to the Court and in ill-favour. So Ireturned, seeing that, if I could not save my son I could be withhim until he died. The day before yesterday he was tried--if youcall that a trial when hundreds together plead guilty and are allalike 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--everyone--were crying and lamenting. And there were many women amongthem--their wives or their mothers--and these were shrieking andwringing their hands; so that it was a terrible spectacle. But someof the men called for drink, and began to carouse, so that theymight drown the thought of impending death. My dear, I never thoughtto look upon a scene so full of horror. As for our own boys, Robinwas patient and even cheerful; and Humphrey, leading us to the mostquiet spot in that dreadful place, exhorted us to lose no time inweeping or vain laments, but to cheer and console our hearts withthe thought that death--even violent death--is but a brief pangand life is but a short passage, and that heaven awaits us beyond.Humphrey should have been a godly minister, such is the naturalpiety and goodness of his heart. So he spoke of the happy meeting inthat place of blessedness where earthly love would be purged of itsgrossness, and our souls shall be so glorified that we shall eachadmire the beauty and the excellence of the other. Then Robin talkedof thee, my dear, and sent thee a loving message bidding thee grievefor him, but not without hope--and that a sure and certain hope--ofmeeting again. There are other things he bade me tell thee; but nowI 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 ofthe prison; for Benjamin will surely save him, and then we shalllove Benjamin all our lives.'
'He will, perhaps, save him. And yet'----she turned her head--'Oh,how can I tell _her_--we shall shed many more tears. How can I tell_her_? How can I tell _her_?'
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 tothe prison.
'The boys have been well, though the prison is full and the airis foul. Yet there hath been as yet no fever, for which they arethankful. They had no money, the soldiers who took them prisonershaving robbed them of their money, and indeed stripped them aswell to their shirts, telling them that shirts were good enough tobe hanged in. Yet the people of Exeter have treated the prisonerswith great humanity, bringing them daily food and drink, so thatthere has been nothing lacking. The time, however, doth hang uponhands in a place where there is nothing to do all day but to thinkof the past and to dread the future. One poor prisoner I was toldhad gone distracted with the terror of this thought. Child, everyday that I visited my son, while he talked with me, always cheerfuland smiling, my mind turned continually to the scaffold and thegibbet.' Then she returned to the old subject from which she couldin no way escape. 'I saw the hangman, I saw my son hanging to theshameful 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 overthe 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 armsfor 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 diesa thousand deaths in my mind. My child!'--she turned again to thechurchyard--'the rooks are cawing in their nests; the sparrows andthe robins hop among the graves; the dead hear nothing; all theirtroubles are over, all their sins are forgiven.'
I comforted her as well as I could. Indeed, I understood not at allwhat she meant, thinking that perhaps all her trouble had causedher to be in that frame of mind when a woman doth not know whetherto laugh or to cry. And then, taking my basket, I sallied forth toprovide the day's provisions for my prisoners.
'Barnaby,' I said, when he came to the wicket, 'I have good news forthee.'
'What good news? That I am to be flogged once a year in everymarket-town in Somersetshire, as will happen to young Tutchin?'
'No, no--not that kind of news, but freedom, Brother, hope forfreedom.'
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 forhimself. But if it is upon Ben that we are to rely we are truly wellsped. On Ben, quotha!'
'My Brother, he told me so himself.'
''Ware hawks, Sister. If Ben is a tone end of the rope and thehangman at the other, I think I know who will be stronger. Well,Child, believe Ben if thou wilt. Thy father looks strange thismorning. He opened his eyes and seemed to know me. I wonder if thereis a change. 'Tis wonderful how he lasts. There are six men sickenedsince yesterday of the fever. Three of them brought in last weekare already dead. As for the singing that we used to hear, it is allover, and if the men get drunk they are dumb drunk. Sir Christopherlooks but poorly this morning. I hope he will not take the fever. Hestaggered 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. Thereis some trick or lie at the bottom, unless Ben hath repented andchanged his disposition, which used to be two parts wolf, one partbear, 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 ina 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 carrywith us into the Court such a breath of jail fever as shall lay theJudge himself upon his back and end his days. In the next world hewill meet the men whom he has sentenced, and it will fare worse forhim in their hands than with fifty thousand devils.'
So he took a drink of the beer, and departed within the prison. Andfor 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 forthe conditions? It can only be something good for us, contrived byyour kind heart, Ben. I have told Barnaby, who will not believe inour good fortune.'
'It is, indeed, something very good for you, Alice, as you willfind. Come with me and walk in the meadows beyond the reach of thisdoleful place, where the air reeks with jail fever, and all day longthey are reading the Funeral Service.'
So he led me out upon the sloping sides of a hill, where we walked awhile upon the grass very pleasantly, my mind being now at rest.
'You have heard of nothing,' he said, 'of late, but of the Rebellionand 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 onewhich gives me an income far beyond my wants, which are simple. Giveme 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, Ishall be made a Judge; presently, I shall become Lord Chancellor.What did I tell thee, Child, long ago? Well, that time has nowarrived.'
Still I was so foolish, being so happy, that I could not understandwhat he meant.
'I am sure, Benjamin,' I said, 'that we at home shall ever rejoiceand be proud of your success. Nobody will be more happy to hear ofit 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 placewhich 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 companyall the way from Exeter for this only. Go back to her, and ask whatit is! Go back, I say, and make her tell! What! am I to take allthis trouble for nothing?'
His face became purple with sudden rage; his eyes grew swiftlyfierce, 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 andfind thee still in ignorance 'twill be the worse for all! Tell herthat _I_ say it. 'Twill else be worse for all!'
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