"All be in danger," was the startling answer, "that hold with us. But the one only name that I have heard beside yours, is mine hostess of the White Hart."

"Mistress Final? I reckoned so much. I will have a word with her, if it may be, on my way back to Cranbrook, and bid her send word to the others. Alack the day! how long is Satan to reign, and wrong to triumph?"

"So long as God will," replied Mrs Collenwood. "So long as His Church hath need of the cleansing physic shall it be ministered to her. When she is made clean, and white, and tried, then—no longer. God grant, friend, that you and I may not fail Him when the summons cometh for us—'The Master calleth for thee.'"

"Amen!" said Roger Hall.

In the parlour Pandora said to Christabel—

"Dear child, thou mayest speak freely to me of thine Aunt Alice. I know all touching her."

"O Mistress Pandora! wot you where she is?"

Pandora was grieved to find from Christie's eager exclamation that she had, however innocently, roused the child's hopes only to be disappointed.

"No, my dear heart," she said tenderly, "not that, truly. I did but signify that I knew the manner of her entreatment, and where she hath been lodged."

"Father can't find her anywhere," said Christie sorrowfully. "He went about two whole days, but he could hear nothing of her at all."

"Our Father in Heaven knows where she is, my child. He shall not lose sight of her, be well assured."

"But she can't see Him!" urged Christie tearfully.

"Truth, sweeting. Therefore rather 'blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.' Consider how hard the blessed Paul was tried, and how hard he must have found faith, and yet how fully he did rely on our Saviour Christ."

"I don't think Saint Paul was ever tried this way," said Christie in her simplicity. "And his sister's son knew where he was, and could get at him. They weren't as ill off as me and Father."

"Poor old Jacob did not know where Joseph was," suggested Pandora.

"Well, ay," admitted Christie. "But Jacob was an old man; he wasn't a little maid. And Joseph came all right, after all. Beside, he was a lad, and could stand things. Aunt Alice isn't strong. And she hasn't been nobody's white child [favourite] as Joseph was; I am sure Uncle Edward never made her a coat of many colours. Mistress Pandora, is it very wicked of me to feel as if I could not bear to look at Uncle Edward, and hope that he will never, never, never come to see us any more?"

"'Tis not wicked to hate a man's sinful deeds, dear heart; but we have need to beware that we hate not the sinner himself."

"I can't tell how to manage that," said Christie. "I can't put Uncle Edward into one end of my mind, and the ill way he hath used dear Aunt Alice into the other. He's a bad, wicked man, or he never could have done as he has."

"Suppose he be the very worst man that ever lived, Christie—and I misdoubt if he be so—but supposing it, wouldst thou not yet wish that God should forgive him?"

"Well; ay, I suppose I would," said Christie, in a rather uncertain tone; "but if Uncle Edward's going to Heaven, I do hope the angels will keep him a good way off Aunt Alice, and Father, and me. I don't think it would be so pleasant if he were there."

Pandora smiled.

"We will leave that, sweet heart, till thou be there," she said.

And just as she spoke Mrs Collenwood returned to the parlour. She chatted pleasantly for a little while with Christie, and bade her not lose heart concerning her Aunt Alice.

"The Lord will do His best for His own, my child," she said, as they took leave of Christabel; "but after all, mind thou, His best is not always our best. Nay; at times it is that which seems to us the worst. Yet I cast no doubt we shall bless Him for it, and justify all His ways, when we stand on the mount of God, and look back along the road that we have traversed. 'All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth unto such as keep His covenant and his testimonies.'"

Some such comfort as those words of God can give was sorely needed by Roger Hall. To use a graphic expression of his day, he was "well-nigh beat out of heart." He had visited all the villages within some distance, and had tramped to and fro in Canterbury, and could hear nothing. He had not as yet hinted to any one his own terrible apprehension that Alice might have been removed to London for trial. If so, she would come into the brutal and relentless hands of Bishop Bonner, and little enough hope was there in that case. The only chance, humanly speaking, then lay in the occasional visits paid by Cardinal Pole to Smithfield, for the purpose of rescuing, from Bonner's noble army of martyrs, the doomed who belonged to his own diocese. And that was a poor hope indeed.

There were two important holy-days left in February, and both these Roger spent in Canterbury, despite the warning of his impending arrest if he ventured in that direction. On the latter of these two he paid special attention to the cathedral precincts. It was possible that Alice might be imprisoned in the house of one of the canons or prebendaries; and if so, there was a faint possibility that she might be better treated than in the gaol. Everywhere he listened for her voice. At every window he gazed earnestly, in the hope of seeing her face. He saw and heard nothing.

As he turned away to go home, on the evening of Saint Matthias', it struck him that perhaps, if he were to come very early in the morning, the town would be more silent, and there might be a better likelihood of detecting the sound of one voice among many. But suppose she were kept in solitary confinement—how then could he hope to hear it?

Very, very down-hearted was Roger as he rode home. He met two or three friends, who asked, sympathetically, "No news yet, Master Hall?" and he felt unable to respond except by a mournful shake of the head.

"Well, be sure! what can have come of the poor soul?" added Emmet Wilson. And Roger could give no answer.

What could have become of Alice Benden?



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

EUREKA!

In the court where the prebendaries' chambers were situated, within the Cathedral Close at Canterbury, was an underground vault, known as Monday's Hole. Here the stocks were kept, but the place was very rarely used as a prison. A paling, four feet and a half in height, and three feet from the window, cut off all glimpses of the outer world from any person within. A little short straw was strewn on the floor, between the stocks and the wall, which formed the only bed of any one there imprisoned. It was a place where a man of any humanity would scarcely have left his dog; cold, damp, dreary, depressing beyond measure.

That litter of straw, on the damp stones, had been for five weary weeks the bed of Alice Benden. She was allowed no change of clothes, and all the pittance given her for food was a halfpenny worth of bread, and a farthing's worth of drink. At her own request she had been permitted to receive her whole allowance in bread; and water, not over clean nor fresh, was supplied for drinking. No living creature came near her save her keeper, who was the bell-ringer at the cathedral—if we except the vermin which held high carnival in the vault, and were there in extensive numbers. It was a dreadful place for any human being to live in; how dreadful for an educated and delicate gentlewoman, accustomed to the comforts of civilisation, it is not easy to imagine.

But to the coarser tortures of physical deprivation and suffering had been added the more refined torments of heart and soul. During four of those five weeks all God's waves and billows had gone over Alice Benden. She felt herself forsaken of God and man alike—out of mind, like the slain that lie in the grave—forgotten even by the Lord her Shepherd.

One visitor she had during that time, who had by no means forgotten her. Satan has an excellent memory, and never lacks leisure to tempt God's children. He paid poor Alice a great deal of attention. How, he asked her, was it possible that a just God, not to say a merciful Saviour, could have allowed her to come into such misery? Had the Lord's hand waxed short? Here were the persecutors, many of them ungodly men, robed in soft silken raiment, and faring sumptuously every day; their beds were made of the finest down, they had all that heart could wish; while she lay upon dirty straw in this damp hole, not a creature knowing what had become of her. Was this all she had received as the reward of serving God? Had she not tried to do His will, and to walk before Him with a perfect heart? and this was what she got for it, from Him who could have swept away her persecutors by a word, and lifted her by another to the height of luxury and happiness.

Poor Alice was overwhelmed. Her bodily weakness—of which Satan may always be trusted to take advantage—made her less fit to cope with him, and for a time she did not guess who it was that suggested all these wrong and miserable thoughts. She "grievously bewailed" herself, and, as people often do, nursed her distress as if it were something very dear and precious.

But God had not forgotten Alice Benden. She was not going to be lost— she, for whom Christ died. She was only to be purified, and made white, and tried. He led her to find comfort in His own Word, the richest of earthly comforters. One night Alice began to repeat to herself the forty-second Psalm. It seemed just made for her. It was the cry of a sore heart, shut in by enemies, and shut out from hope and pleasure. Was not that just her case?

"Why art thou so full of heaviness, O my soul? and why art thou so disquieted within me? Put thy trust in God!"

A little relieved, she turned next to the seventy-seventh Psalm. She had no Bible; nothing but what her well-stored memory gave her. Ah! what would have become of Alice Benden in those dark hours, had her memory been filled with all kinds of folly, and not with the pure, unerring Word of God? This Psalm exactly suited her.

"Will the Lord absent Himself for ever?—and will He be no more entreated? Is His mercy clean gone for ever?—and is His promise come utterly to an end for evermore? Hath God forgotten to be gracious?—and will He shut up His loving-kindness in displeasure? And I said, It is mine infirmity: but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most Highest."

A light suddenly flashed, clear and warm, into the weak, low, dark heart of poor lonely Alice. "It is mine infirmity!" Not God's infirmity—not God's forgetfulness! "No, Alice, never that," it seemed just as if somebody said to her: "it is only your poor blind heart here in the dark, that cannot see the joy and deliverance that are coming to you— that must come to all God's people: but He who dwells in the immortal light, and beholds the end from the beginning, knows how to come and set you free—knows when to come and save you."

The tune changed now. Satan was driven away. The enemy whom Alice Benden had seen that day, and from whom she had suffered so sorely, she should see again no more for ever. From that hour all was joy and hope.

"I will magnify Thee, O God my King, and praise Thy name for ever and ever!"

That was the song she sang through her prison bars in the early morning of the 25th of February. The voice of joy and thanksgiving reached where the moan of pain had not been able to penetrate, to an intently listening ear a few yards from the prison. Then an answering voice of delight came to her from without.

"Alice! Alice! I have found thee!"

Alice looked up, to see her brother Roger's head and shoulders above the paling which hid all but a strip of sky from her gaze.

"Hast thou been a-searching for me all these weeks, Roger?"

"That have I, my dear heart, ever since thou wast taken from the gaol. How may I win at thee?"

"That thou canst not, Hodge. But we may talk a moment, for my keeper, that is the bell-ringer of the minster, is now at his work there, and will not return for an half-hour well reckoned. Thou wert best come at those times only, or I fear thou shalt be taken."

"I shall not be taken till God willeth," said Roger. "I will come again to thee in a moment."

He ran quickly out of the precincts, and into the first baker's shop he saw, where he bought a small loaf of bread. Into it he pushed five fourpenny pieces, then called groats, and very commonly current. Then he fixed the loaf on the end of his staff, and so passed it through the bars to Alice. This was all he could do.

"My poor dear heart, hast thou had no company in all this time?"

"I have had Satan's company a weary while," she answered, "but this last night he fled away, and the Lord alone is with me."

"God be praised!" said Roger. "And how farest thou?"

"Very ill touching the body; very well touching the soul."

"What matter can I bring thee to thy comfort?"

"What I lack most is warmth and cleanly covering. I have no chance even to wash me, and no clothes to shift me. But thou canst bring me nought, Hodge, I thank thee, and I beseech thee, essay it not. How fares little Christie?—and be all friends well?"

"All be well, I thank the Lord, and Christie as her wont is. It shall do her a power of good to hear thou art found. Dost know when thou shalt appear before the Bishop?"

"That do I not, Hodge. It will be when God willeth, and to the end He willeth; and all that He willeth is good. I have but to endure to the end: He shall see to all the rest. Farewell, dear brother; it were best that thou shouldst not tarry."

As Roger came within sight of Staplehurst on his return, he saw a woman walking rapidly along the road to meet him, and when he came a little nearer, he perceived that it was Tabitha. Gently urging his horse forward, they met in a few minutes. The expression of Tabitha's face alarmed Roger greatly. She was not wont to look so moved and troubled. Grim and sarcastic, even angry, he had seen her many times; but grieved and sorrowful—this was not like Tabitha. Roger's first fear was that she had come to give him some terrible news of Christie. Yet her opening words were not those of pain or terror.

"The Lord be thanked you were not here this day, Roger Hall!" was Tabitha's strange greeting.

"What hath happed?" demanded Roger, stopping his horse.

"What hath happed is that Staplehurst is swept nigh clean of decent folks. Sheriffs been here—leastwise his man, Jeremy Green—and took off a good dozen of Gospellers."

"Tom—Christie?" fell tremulously from Roger's lips.

"Neither of them. I looked to them, and old Jeremy knows me. I heard tell of their coming, and I had matters in readiness to receive them. I reckon Jerry had an inkling of that red-hot poker and the copper of boiling water I'd prepared for his comfort; any way, he passed our house by, and at yours he did but ask if you were at home, and backed out, as pleasant as you please, when Nell made answer 'Nay.'"

"Then whom have they taken?"

"Mine hostess of the White Hart gat the first served. Then they went after Nichol White, and Nichol Pardue."

"Pardue!" exclaimed Roger.

"Ay, Nichol: did not touch Collet. But they took Emmet Wilson, and Fishwick, butcher, and poor Sens Bradbridge, of all simple folks."

"And what became of her poor little maids?" asked Roger pityingly.

"Oh, Collet's got them. I'd have fetched 'em myself if she hadn't. They've not taken Jack Banks, nor Mall. Left 'em for next time, maybe."

"Well, I am thankful they took not you, Tabitha."

"Me? They'd have had to swallow my red-hot poker afore they took me. I count they frighted Christie a bit, fearing they'd have you; but I went to see after the child, and peaced her metely well ere I came thence."

"I am right thankful to you, sister. Tabitha, I have found Alice."

"You have so?—and where is she?"

Roger gave a detailed account of the circumstances.

"Seems to me they want a taste of the poker there," said Tabitha in her usual manner. "I'll buy a new one, so that I run not out of stock ere customers come. But I scarce think old Jeremy'll dare come a-nigh me; it'll be Sheriff himself, I reckon, when that piece of work's to be done. If they come to your house, just you bid Nell set the poker in the fire, and run over for me, and you keep 'em in talk while I come. Or a good kettle of boiling water 'd do as well—I'm no wise nice which it is—or if she'd a kettle of hot pitch handy, that's as good as anything."

"I thank you for your counsel, Tabitha. I trust there may be no need."

"And I the like: but you might as well have the pitch ready."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

UNSTABLE AS WATER.

"And I hope, my dear son," said the Rev. Mr Bastian, with a face and voice as mellifluous as a honeycomb, "that all the members of your household are faithful, and well affected towards the Church our mother?"

The Rev. Mr Bastian chose his words well. If he had said, "as faithful as yourself," Mr Roberts might have assented, with an interior conviction that his own faithfulness was not without its limits. He left no such loophole of escape. Mr Roberts could only reply that he entertained a similar hope. But whatever his hopes might be, his expectations on that score were not extensive. Mr Roberts had the nature of the ostrich, and imagined that if he shut his eyes to the thing he wished to avoid seeing, he thereby annihilated its existence. Deep down in his heart he held considerable doubts as concerned more than one member of his family; but the doubts were uncomfortable: so he put them to bed, drew the curtains, and told them to be good doubts and go to sleep. When children are treated in this manner, mothers and nurses know that sometimes they go to sleep. But sometimes they don't. And doubts are very much like children in that respect. Occasionally they consent to be smothered up and shelved aside; at other times they break out and become provokingly noisy. A good deal depends on the vitality of both the doubts and the children.

Mr Roberts's doubts and fears—for they went together—that all his household were not in a conformable state of mind, had hitherto gone to sleep at his bidding; but lately they had been more difficult to manage. He was uneasy about his sister, Mrs Collenwood; and with no diminution of his affection for her, was beginning to realise that his mind would be relieved when she ended her visit and went home. He feared her influence over Pandora. For Gertrude he had no fears. He knew, and so did the priest, that Gertrude was not the sort of girl to indulge in abstract speculations, religious or otherwise. So long as her new gown was not made in last year's fashion, and her mantua-maker did not put her off with Venice ribbon when she wanted Tours, it mattered nothing at all to Gertrude whether she attended mass or went to the nearest conventicle. Nor had the fears spread yet towards Mistress Grena, who still appeared at mass on Sunday and holy-days, though with many inward misgivings which she never spoke.

Perhaps the priest had sharper eyes than the easy-tempered master of Primrose Croft. But his tongue had lost nothing of its softness when he next inquired—

"And how long, my son, does your sister, Mistress Collenwood, abide with you?"

"Not much longer now, Father," replied the unhappy Mr Roberts, with a private resolution that his answer should be true if he could make it so.

Mr Bastian left that unpleasant topic, and proceeded to carry his queries into the servants' department, Mr Roberts growing more relieved as he proceeded. He had never observed any want of conformity among his servants, he assured the priest; so far as he knew, all were loyal to the Catholic Church. By that term both gentlemen meant, not the universal body of Christian believers (the real signification of the word), but that minority which blindly obeys the Pope, and being a minority, is of course not Catholic nor universal. When Mr Roberts's apprehensions had thus been entirely lulled to rest, the wily priest suddenly returned to the charge.

"I need not, I am fully ensured," he said in his suave manner, "ask any questions touching your daughters."

"Of that, Father," answered Mr Roberts quickly, "you must be a better judge than I. But I do most unfeignedly trust that neither of my maids hath given you any trouble by neglect of her religious duties? Gertrude, indeed, is so—"

"Mistress Gertrude hath not given me trouble," replied the priest. "Her worst failing is one common to maidens—a certain lack of soberness. But I cannot conceal from you, my son, that I am under some uneasiness of mind as touching her sister."

Mr Bastian's uneasiness was nothing to that of the man he was engaged in tormenting. The terrified mouse does not struggle more eagerly to escape the claws of the cat, than the suffering father of Pandora to avoid implicating her in the eyes of his insinuating confessor.

"Forsooth, Father, you do indeed distress me," said he. "If Pandora have heard any foolish talk on matters of religion, I would gladly break her from communication with any such of her acquaintance as can have been thus ill-beseen. Truly, I know not of any, and methought my sister Grena kept the maids full diligently, that they should not fall into unseemly ways. I will speak, under your good leave, with both of them, and will warn Pandora that she company not with such as seem like to have any power over her for evil."

"Well said, my son!" responded the priest, with a slight twinkle in his eye. "Therein shall you do well; and in especial if you report to me the names of any that you shall suspect to have ill-affected the maiden. And now, methinks, I must be on my way home."

Mr Roberts devoutly thanked all the saints when he heard it. The priest took up his hat, brushed a stray thread from its edge, and said, as he laid his hand upon his silver-headed stick—said it as though the idea had just occurred to him—

"You spake of Mistress Holland. She, of course, is true to holy Church beyond all doubts?"

Mr Roberts went back to his previous condition of a frightened mouse.

"In good sooth, Father, I make no question thereof, nor never so did. She conformeth in all respects, no doth she?"

The cat smiled to itself at the poor mouse's writhings under its playful pats.

"She conformeth—ay: but I scarce need warn you, my son, that there be many who conform outwardly, where the heart is not accordant with the actions. I trust, in very deed, that it were an unjust matter so to speak of Mistress Holland."

Saying which, the cat withdrew its paw, and suffered the mouse to escape to its hole until another little excitement should be agreeable to it. In other words, the priest said good-bye, and left Mr Roberts in a state of mingled relief for the moment and apprehension for the future. For a few minutes that unhappy gentleman sat lost in meditation. Then rising with a muttered exclamation, wherein "meddlesome praters" were the only words distinguishable, he went to the foot of the stairs, and called up them, "Pandora!"

"There, now! You'll hear of something!" said Gertrude to her sister, as she stood trying on a new apron before the glass. "You'd best go down. When Father's charitably-minded he says either 'Pan' or 'Dorrie.' 'Pandora' signifies he's in a taking."

"I have done nought to vex him that I know of," replied Pandora, rising from her knees before a drawer wherein she was putting some lace tidily away.

"Well, get not me in hot water," responded Gertrude. "Look you, Pan, were this lace not better to run athwart toward the left hand?"

"I cannot wait to look, True; I must see what Father would have."

As Pandora hastened downstairs, her aunt, Mrs Collenwood, came out of her room and joined her.

"I hear my brother calling you," she said. "I would fain have a word with him, so I will go withal."

The ladies found Mr Roberts wandering to and fro in the dining-room, with the aspect of a very dissatisfied man. He turned at once to his daughter.

"Pandora, when were you at confession?"

Pandora's heart beat fast. "Not this week, Father."

"Nor this month, maybe?"

"I am somewhat unsure, Father."

"Went you to mass on Saint Chad's Day?"

"Yes, Father."

"And this Saint Perpetua?"

"No, Father; I had an aching of mine head, you mind."

"Thomas," interjected Mrs Collenwood, before the examination could proceed further, "give me leave, pray you, to speak a word, which I desire to say quickly, and you can resume your questioning of Pandora at after. I think to return home Thursday shall be a se'nnight; and, your leave granted, I would fain carry Pan with me. Methinks this air is not entirely wholesome for her at this time; and unless I err greatly, it should maybe save her some troublement if she tarried with me a season. I pray you, consider of the same, and let me know your mind thereon as early as may stand with your conveniency: and reckon me not tedious if I urge you yet again not to debar the same without right good reason. I fear somewhat for the child, without she can change the air, and that right soon."

Pandora listened in astonishment. She was quite unconscious of bodily ailment, either present or likely to come. What could Aunt Frances mean? But Mr Roberts saw, what Pandora did not, a very significant look in his sister's eyes, which said, more plainly than her words, that danger of some kind lay in wait for her niece if she remained in Kent, and was to be expected soon. He fidgeted up and down the room for a moment, played nervously with an alms-dish on the side-board, took up Cicero's Orations and laid it down again, and at last said, in a tone which indicated relief from vexation—

"Well, well! Be it so, if you will. Make thee ready, then, child, to go with thine aunt. Doth Grena know your desire, Frank?"

"Grena and I have taken counsel," replied Mrs Collenwood, "and this is her avisement no less than mine."

"Settle it so, then. I thank you, Frank, for your care for the maid. When shall she return?"

"It were better to leave that for time to come. But, Thomas, I go about to ask a favour of you more."

"Go to! what is it?"

"That you will not name to any man Pandora's journey with me. Not to any man," repeated Mrs Collenwood, with a stress on the last two words.

Mr Roberts looked at her. Her eyes conveyed serious warning. He knew as well as if she had shouted the words in his ears that the real translation of her request was, "Do not tell the priest." But it was not safe to say it. Wherever there are Romish priests, there must be silent looks and tacit hints and unspoken understandings.

"Very good, Frances," he said: "I will give no man to wit thereof."

"I thank you right heartily, Tom. Should Dorrie abide here for your further satisfying, or may she go with me?"

"Go with you, go with you," answered Mr Roberts hastily, waving Pandora away. "No need any further—time presseth, and I have business to see to."

Mrs Collenwood smiled silently as she motioned to Pandora to pass out. Mr Roberts could scarcely have confessed more plainly that the priest had set him to a catechising of which he was but too thankful to be rid. "Poor Tom!" she said to herself.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

CHECK!

Pandora would have spoken as soon as they left the dining-room, but she was stopped by a motion of her aunt's hand. Mrs Collenwood took her into her own bedroom, shut and barred the door, glanced inside a hanging closet to see that no one was secreted there, and seating herself on the cushioned seat which ran round the inside of the bay window, signed to her niece to take a seat beside her.

"Now, Dorrie, speak thy desire."

"Aunt Frances, I am surprised with wonder! Pray you, what ail I, that I must quit home thus suddenly? I feel right well, and knew not there was aught ado with mine health."

Pandora's voice betrayed a little alarm. It certainly was a startling thing for a girl who felt and believed herself in excellent health, to hear suddenly that unless she had instant change of air, serious consequences might be expected to ensue.

Mrs Collenwood smiled—an affectionate, almost compassionate smile—as she patted Pandora's shoulder.

"Take thine heart to thee, Dorrie. Thou art not sick, and if I can have thee away in sufficient time, God allowing, thou shalt not be. But I fear, if thou tarry, thou mayest have an attack of a certain pestilence that is rife in Kent at this season."

"Pestilence, Aunt Frances! I never heard of no such going about. But if so, why I alone? There be Father, and True, and Aunt Grena—should they not go likewise?"

"No fear for Gertrude," answered Mrs Collenwood, almost sadly. "And not much, methinks, for thy father. I am lesser sure of thine Aunt Grena: but I have not yet been able to prevail with her to accompany us."

"But what name hath this pestilence, under your good leave, Aunt Frances?"

"It is called, Dorrie—persecution."

The colour rose slowly in Pandora's cheeks, until her whole face was suffused.

"Methinks I take you now, Aunt," she said. "But, if I may have liberty to ask at you, wherefore think you Father and True to be safer than Aunt Grena and I?"

"Because they would yield, Dorrie. I misdoubt any charge brought against Gertrude; 'tis not such as she that come before religious tribunals. They will know they have her safe enough."

"Aunt Frances," said Pandora in a whisper, "think you I should not yield?"

"I hope thou wouldst not, Dorrie."

"But how wist you—how could you know," asked the girl passionately, "what I had kept so carefully concealed? How could you know that I hated to go to mass, and availed myself of every whit of excuse that should serve my turn to stay away from confession?—that I besought God every night, yea, with tears, to do away this terrible state of matters, and to grant us rulers under whom we might worship Him without fear, according to His will and word? I counted I had hidden mine heart from every eye but His. Aunt Frances, how could you know?"

Mrs Collenwood drew Pandora into her arms.

"Because, my child, I had done the same."

The girl's arms came round her aunt's neck, and their cheeks were pressed close.

"O Aunt Frances, I am so glad! I have so lacked one to speak withal herein! I have thought at times, if I had but one human creature to whom I might say a word!—and then there was nobody but God—I seemed driven to Him alone."

"That is blessed suffering, my dear heart, which drives souls to God; and there he will come with nought lesser. Dorrie, methinks thou scarce mindest thy mother?"

"Oh, but I do, Aunt! She was the best and dearest mother that ever was. True loves not to talk of her, nor of any that is dead; so that here also I had to shut up my thoughts within myself; but I mind her—ay, that I do!"

"Niece, when she lay of her last sickness, she called me to her, and quoth she—'Frances, I have been sore troubled for my little Dorrie: but methinks now I have let all go, and have left her in the hands of God. Only if ever the evil days should come again, and persecution arise because of the witness of Jesus, and the Word of God, and the testimony which we hold—tell her, if you find occasion, as her mother's last dying word to her, that she hold fast the word of the truth of the Gospel, and be not moved away therefrom, neither by persuading nor threatening. 'Tis he that overcometh, and he only, that shall have the crown of life.' Never till now, Pandora, my dear child, have I told thee these words of thy dead and saintly mother. I pray God lay them on thine heart, that thou mayest stand in the evil day—yea, whether thou escape these things or no, thou mayest stand before the Son of Man at His coming."

Pandora had hidden her face on Mrs Collenwood's shoulder.

"Oh, do pray, Aunt Frances!" she said, with a sob.

The days for a week after that were very busy ones. Every day some one or two bags were packed, and quietly conveyed at nightfall by Mrs Collenwood's own man to an inn about four miles distant. Pandora was kept indoors, except one day, when she went with Mrs Collenwood to take leave of Christie. That morning the priest called and expressed a wish to speak to her: but being told that she was gone to see a friend, said he would call again the following day. Of this they were told on their return. Mrs Collenwood's cheeks paled a little; then, with set lips, and a firm step, she sought her brother in his closet, or as we should say, his study.

"Tom," she said, when the door was safely shut, "we must be gone this night."

Mr Roberts looked up in considerable astonishment.

"This night!—what mean you, Frances? The clouds be gathering for rain, and your departure was fixed for Thursday."

"Ay, the clouds be gathering," repeated Mrs Collenwood meaningly, "and I am 'feared Pandora, if not I, may be caught in the shower. Have you not heard that Father Bastian desired to speak with her whilst we were hence this morrow? We must be gone, Tom, ere he come again."

Mr Roberts, who was busy with his accounts, set down a five as the addition of eight and three, with a very faint notion of what he was doing.

"Well!" he said, in an undecided manner. "Well! it is—it is not—it shall look—"

"How should it look," replied Mrs Collenwood, with quiet incisiveness, "to see Pandora bound to the stake for burning?"

Mr Roberts threw out his hands as if to push away the terrible suggestion.

"It may come to that, Tom, if we tarry. For, without I mistake, the girl is not made of such willowy stuff as—some folks be."

She just checked herself from saying, "as you are."

Mr Roberts passed his fingers through his hair, in a style which said, as plainly as words, that he was about at his wits' end. Perhaps he had not far to go to reach that locality.

"Good lack!" he said. "Dear heart!—well-a-day!"

"She will be safe with me," said her aunt, "for a time at least. And if danger draw near there also, I can send her thence to certain friends of mine in a remote part amongst the mountains, where a priest scarce cometh once in three years. And ere that end, God may work changes in this world."

"Well, if it must be—"

"It must be, Tom; and it shall be for the best."

"It had been better I had wist nought thereof. They shall be sure to question me."

Mrs Collenwood looked with a smile of pitying contempt on the man who was weaker than herself. The contempt predominated at first: then it passed into pity.

"Thou shalt know nought more than now, Tom," she said quietly. "Go thou up, and get thee a-bed, but leave the key of the wicket-gate on this table."

"I would like to have heard you had gat safe away," said poor Mr Roberts, feeling in his pockets for the key.

"You would speedily hear if we did not," was the answer.

Mr Roberts sighed heavily as he laid down the key.

"Well, I did hope to keep me out of this mess. I had thought, by outward conforming, and divers rich gifts to the priest, and so forth— 'Tis hard a man cannot be at peace in his own house."

"'Tis far harder when he is not at peace in his own soul."

"Ah!" The tone of the exclamation said that was quite too good to expect, at any rate for the speaker.

Mrs Collenwood laid her hand on her brother's shoulder.

"Tom, we are parting for a long season—it may be for all time. Suffer me speak one word with thee, for the sake of our loving mother, and for her saintly sake that sleepeth in All Saints' churchyard, whose head lay on my bosom when her spirit passed to God. There will come a day, good brother, when thou shalt stand before an higher tribunal than that of my Lord Cardinal, to hear a sentence whence there shall be none appeal. What wouldst thou in that day that thou hadst done in this? As thou wilt wish thou hadst done then, do now."

"I—can't," faltered the unhappy waverer.

"I would as lief be scalded and have done with it, Tom, as live in such endless terror of hot water coming nigh me. Depend on it, it should be the lesser suffering in the end."

"There's Gertrude," he suggested in the same tone.

"Leave Gertrude be. They'll not touch her. Gertrude shall be of that religion which is the fashion, to the end of her days—without the Lord turn her—and folks of that mettle need fear no persecution. Nay, Tom, 'tis not Gertrude that holdeth thee back from coming out on the Lord's side. God's side is ever the safest in the end. It is thine own weak heart and weak faith, wherein thou restest, and wilt not seek the strength that can do all things, which God is ready to grant thee but for the asking."

"You are a good woman, Frances," answered her brother, with more feeling than he usually showed, "and I would I were more like you."

"Tarry not there, Tom: go on to 'I would I were more like Christ.' There be wishes that fulfil themselves; and aspirations after God be of that nature. And now, dear brother, I commend thee to God, and to the word of His grace. Be thou strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might!"

They kissed each other for the last time, and Mrs Collenwood stood listening to the slow, heavy step which passed up the stairs and into the bedroom overhead. When Mr Roberts had shut and barred his door, she took up the key, and with a sigh which had reference rather to his future than to her present, went to seek Pandora. Their little packages of immediate necessaries were soon made up. When the clock struck midnight—an hour at which in 1557 everybody was in bed—two well cloaked and hooded women crept out of the low-silled window of the dinning-room, and made their silent and solitary way through the shrubs of the pleasure-ground to the little wicket-gate which opened on the Goudhurst road.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

POTS AND PANS.

Mrs Collenwood unlocked the little wicket, and let herself and Pandora out into the public road. Then she relocked the gate, and after a moment's thought, feeling in the darkness, she hung the key on a bush close to the gate, where it could not be seen from the road. Both ladies carried lanterns, for the omission of this custom would have raised more suspicion than its observance, had they been met by any one, and there were no public street lamps in those days. They were bound first for the little hostelry, called the Nun's Head, in the village of Lamberhurst, where Mrs Collenwood had desired her servant to await her; the landlady of which was known to those in the secret to be one of "the brethren," and was therefore sure to befriend and not betray them, if she guessed the truth. Slowly and painfully they made their way by a circuitous route, to avoid passing through Goudhurst, and Pandora, who was not much accustomed to walking, began to be very tired before half the way was traversed. They had just reached the road again, and were making their way slowly through the ruts and puddles—for English roads at that date were in a state which happily we can do little more than imagine—when they heard the sound of hoofs a little way behind them. Mrs Collenwood laid her hand on Pandora's arm.

"Hide the lantern under thy cloak," she whispered; "and we will creep into this field and 'bide quat under the hedge, till the party shall have passed by."

The advice was put into practice. The hoofs drew near, accompanied by a jingling sound which seemed to come from pottery. It was now near one o'clock. The ladies kept as still as mice. They were not reassured when the sound came to a stand-still, just before the gate of the field where they were hidden, and a man's voice, strange to them, said—

"It was just here I lost the sight of the lanterns. They cannot be far off."

Mrs Collenwood felt Pandora's hand clasp her wrist tight in the darkness.

"Bide a moment, Tom, and I will search in the field," said another voice.

Mrs Collenwood gave all up for lost.

"Mistress Pandora, are you there?" said the voice which had last spoken.

"Aunt Frances, 'tis Mr Hall!" cried Pandora joyfully.

"Ah! I am right glad I have found you," said Roger, as he came up to them. "I have been searching you this hour, being confident, from what I heard, that you would attempt to get away to-night. I pray you to allow of my company."

"In good sooth, Mr Hall, we be right thankful of your good company," answered Mrs Collenwood. "'Tis ill work for two weak women such as we be."

"Truly, my mistress, methinks you must both have lion-like hearts, so much as to think of essaying your escape after this fashion. You will be the safer for my presence. I have here an ass laden with pots and pans, and driven by a good man and true, a Gospeller to boot—one of your own men from the cloth-works, that is ready to guard his master's daughter at the hazard of his life if need be. If you be willing, good my mistress, to sell tins and pitchers in this present need—"

"Use me as you judge best, Master Hall," said Mrs Collenwood heartily. "I am willing to sell tins, or scour them, or anything, the better to elude suspicion."

"Well said. Then my counsel is that we turn right about, and pass straight through Goudhurst, so soon as the dawn shall break. The boldest way is at times the safest."

"But is not that to lose time?"

"To lose time is likewise sometimes to gun it," said Roger, with a smile. "There is one danger, my mistresses, whereof you have not thought. To all that see you as you are, your garb speaks you gentlewomen, and gentlewomen be not wont to be about, in especial unattended, at this hour of the night. If it please you to accept of my poor provision, I have here, bound on the ass, two women's cloaks and hoods of the common sort, such as shall better comport with the selling of pots than silken raiment; and if I may be suffered to roll up the cloaks you bear in like manner, you can shift you back to them when meet is so to do."

"Verily, 'tis passing strange that had never come to my mind!" replied Mrs Collenwood. "Mr Hall, we owe you more thanks than we may lightly speak."

They changed their cloaks, rolling up those they took off, and tying them securely on the donkey, covered by a piece of canvas, with which Roger was provided. The hoods were changed in like manner. The donkey was driven into the field in charge of Tom Hartley, who pulled his forelock to his ladies; and the trio sat down to await daylight.

"And if it like you, my mistresses," added Roger, "if it should please Mistress Collenwood to speak to me by the name of Hodge, and Mistress Pandora by that of father or uncle, methinks we should do well."

"Nay, Mr Hall; but I will call you brother," said Pandora, smiling; "for that is what you truly are, both in the Gospel and in descent from Adam."

In perfect quiet they passed the five hours which elapsed ere the sun rose. As soon as ever the light began to break, Roger led forth the donkey; Tom trudging behind with a stick, and the ladies walked alongside.

Rather to their surprise, Roger took his stand openly in the market place of Goudhurst, where he drove a brisk trade with his pots and pans; Mrs Collenwood taking up the business as if she had been to the manner born, and much to Pandora's admiration.

"Brown pitchers, my mistress? The best have we, be sure. Twopence the dozen, these; but we have cheaper if your honour wish them."

Another time it was, "What lack you, sweet sir? Chafing-dishes, shaving-basins, bowls, goblets, salts? All good and sound—none of your trumpery rubbish!"

And Roger and Tom both lifted up sonorous voices in the cry of—

"Pots and pans! Pots and pa-ans! Chargers, dishes, plates, cups, bowls, por-ring-ers! Come buy, come buy, come buy!"

The articles were good—Roger had seen to that—and they went off quickly. Ladies, country housewives, farmers, substantial yeomen, with their wives and daughters, came up to buy, until the donkey's load was considerably diminished. At length a priest appeared as a customer. Pandora's heart leaped into her mouth; and Mrs Collenwood, as she produced yellow basins for his inspection, was not entirely without her misgivings. But the reverend gentleman's attention seemed concentrated on the yellow basins, of which he bought half-a-dozen for a penny, and desired them to be delivered at the Vicarage. Roger bowed extra low as he assured the priest that the basins should be there, without fail, in an hour, and having now reduced his goods to a load of much smaller dimensions, he intimated that they "might as well be moving forward." The goods having been duly delivered, Roger took the road to Lamberhurst, and they arrived without further misadventure at the Nun's Head, where Mrs Collenwood's servant, Zachary, was on the look-out for them.

To Mrs Collenwood's amusement, Zachary did not recognise her until she addressed him by name; a satisfactory proof that her disguise was sufficient for the purpose. They breakfasted at the Nun's Head, on Canterbury brawn (for which that city was famous) and a chicken pie, and resumed their own attire, but carrying the cloaks of Roger's providing with them, as a resource if necessity should arise.

"Aunt Frances," said Pandora, as they sat at breakfast, "I never thought you could have made so good a tradeswoman. Pray you, how knew you what to say to the folks?"

"Why, child!" answered Mrs Collenwood, laughing, "dost reckon I have never bought a brown pitcher nor a yellow basin, that I should not know what price to ask?"

"Oh, I signified not that so much, Aunt; but—all the talk, and the fashion wherein you addressed you to the work."

"My mother—your grandmother, Dorrie—was used to say to me, 'Whatever thou hast ado with, Frank, put thine heart and thy wits therein.' 'Tis a good rule, and will stand a woman in stead for better things than selling pots."

Zachary had made full provision for his mistress's journey. The horses were ready, and the baggage-mules also. He rode himself before Mrs Collenwood, and an old trustworthy man-servant was to sit in front of Pandora. All was ready for proceeding at half-an-hour's notice, and Mrs Collenwood determined to go on at once.

When it came to the leave-taking, she drew a gold ring from her finger, and gave it to Tom Hartley, with a promise that his master should hear through Roger Hall, so soon as the latter deemed it safe, of the very essential service which he had rendered her. Then she turned to Roger himself.

"But to you, Mr Hall," she said, "how can I give thanks, or in what words clothe them? Verily, I am bankrupt therein, and can only thank you to say I know not how."

"Dear mistress," answered Roger, "have you forgot that 'tis I owe thanks to you, that you seek to magnify my simple act into so great deserving? They that of their kindness cheer my little suffering Christie's lonely life, deserve all the good that I can render them. My little maid prayed me to say unto you both that she sent you her right loving commendations, and that she would pray for your safe journey every day the whilst it should last, and for your safety and good weal afterward. She should miss you both sorely, quoth she; but she would pray God to bless you, and would strive to her utmost to abide by all your good and kindly counsel given unto her."

"Dear little Christie!" said Pandora affectionately. "I pray you, Master Hall, tell her I shall never forget her, and I trust God may grant us to meet again in peace."

"I cast no doubt of that, Mistress Pandora," was the grave answer, "though 'twill be, very like, in a better land than this."

"And I do hope," added she, "that Mistress Benden may ere long be set free."

Roger shook his head.

"I have given up that hope," he said; "yea, well-nigh all hopes, for this lower world."

"There is alway hope where God is," said Mrs Collenwood.

"Truth, my mistress," he replied; "but God is in Heaven, and hope is safest there."

It was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning when the travellers set out from the Nun's Head. Roger Hall stood in the doorway, looking after them, until the last glimpse could no longer be perceived. Then, with a sigh, he turned to Tom Hartley, who stood beside him.

"Come, Tom!" he said, "let us, thou and I, go home and do God's will."

"Ay, master, and let God do His will with us," was the cheery answer.

Then the two men and the donkey set out for Cranbrook.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

CAT AND MOUSE.

It was Mr Roberts's custom to go down to the cloth-works every Tuesday—saints' days excepted—and in pursuance of this habit he made his appearance in the counting-house on the morning after the departure of the two ladies. Roger Hall was at his post as usual, waited on his master, gave in his accounts, and received his orders. When the other business was over, Roger said, in the same tone and manner as before—

"Those two parcels of rare goods, master, sent forth yester-even, that you wot of, I saw myself so far as Lamberhurst, and they be in safe hands for the further journey."

Mr Roberts did not at once, as might now be done, ask Roger what he was talking about. The days of Romish ascendency in England were days when everybody knew that if a man's meaning were not simple and apparent, there was probably some reason why he dared not speak too plainly, and it was perilous to ask for an explanation. Mr Roberts looked up into his manager's face, and at once guessed his meaning. He was seriously alarmed to see it. How had Roger Hall become possessed of that dangerous secret, which might bring him to prison if it were known? For the penalty for merely "aiding and abetting" a heretic was "perpetual prison." Those who gave a cup of cold water to one of Christ's little ones did it at the peril of their own liberty.

Let us pause for a moment and try to imagine what that would be to ourselves. Could we run such risks for Christ's sake—knowing that on every hand were spies and enemies who would be only too glad to bring us to ruin, not to speak of those idle gossiping people who do much of the world's mischief, without intending harm? It would be hard work to follow the Master when He took the road to Gethsemane. Only love could do it. Would our love stand that sharp test?

All this passed in a moment. What Mr Roberts said was only—"Good. Well done." Then he bent his head over the accounts again; raising it to say shortly—"Hall, prithee shut yon door; the wind bloweth in cold this morrow." Roger Hall obeyed silently: but a change came over Mr Roberts as soon as the door was shut on possible listening ears. He beckoned Roger to come close to him.

"How wist you?" he whispered.

"Guessed it, Master." It was desirable to cut words as short as possible. "Saw him go up to your house. Thought what should follow."

"You followed them?"

"No; came too late. Searched, and found them in a field near Goudhurst."

A shudder came over Pandora's father at the thought of what might have been, if the priest had been the searcher.

"Any one else know?"

"Tom Hartley—true as steel, Master. Two were needful for my plan. Mistress bade me commend him to you, as he that had done her right good service."

"He shall fare the better for it. And you likewise."

Roger smiled. "I did but my duty, Master."

"How many folks do so much?" asked Mr Roberts, with a sigh. He could not have said that. After a moment's thought he added—"Raise Hartley twopence by the week; and take you twenty pounds by the year instead of sixteen as now."

"I thank you, Master," said Roger warmly: "but it was not for that."

"I know—I know!" answered the master, as he held out his hand to clasp that of his manager—a rare and high favour at that time. And then, suddenly, came one of those unexpected, overpowering heart-pourings, which have been said to be scarcely more under the control of the giver than of the recipient. "Hall, I could not have done this thing. How come you to have such strength and courage? Would I had them!"

"Master, I have neither, save as I fetch them from Him that hath. 'I can do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me.'"

"He doth not strengthen me!" moaned the weak man.

"Have you asked Him, Master?" quietly replied the strong one.

Mr Roberts made no answer, and Roger knew that meant a negative. In his heart the master was conscious that he had not asked. He had said multitudinous "paters" and "aves," had repeated "Hail Marys" by the score—all the while half thinking of something else; but never once in his inmost soul had he said to the Lord—"Saviour, I am weak; make me strong." A few minutes' silence, and Mr Roberts turned back to the accounts, half-ashamed that he had allowed that glimpse of his true self to be seen. And Roger Hall said no more, except to God.

The master went home to supper at four o'clock. Ten was then the hour for dinner, four for supper; people who kept late hours made it eleven and five. As Mr Roberts came in sight of his own door, his heart sank down into his shoes. On the door-step stood a black-robed figure which he knew only too well, and which he would gladly have given a handful of gold to know he might have no chance of seeing for a month to come. A faint idea of hiding himself in the shrubs crossed his mind for a moment; but he could not stay there for an indefinite time, and the priest would in all probability wait for him, if it were he whom he meant to see. No, it would be better to go forward and get it over; but it was with a fervid wish that it were over that Mr Roberts went on and deferentially saluted his Rector.

That reverend gentleman thoroughly understood his man. Had it been possible to gauge the human soul with a thermometer, he could have guessed with accuracy how it would read. He met him, not with severity, but with a deep gravity which conveyed the idea that something serious required discussion, and that he earnestly hoped the culprit would be able to clear himself of the charge.

In the hall they were met by Mistress Grena and Gertrude, who had seen them coming, and who came forward, as in duty bound, to show extra respect to their spiritual pastor. The genuine spirituality was more than dubious: but that did not matter. He was a "spiritual person"— though the person was exceedingly unspiritual!

The priest gave a blessing to the ladies with two fingers extended in a style which must require some practice, and at Mistress Grena's request sat down with them to supper. During the meal the conversation was general, though the priest retained his serious aspect of something unpleasant to come. The heavy part of the supper was over, and cheese, with late apples, Malaga raisins, and Jordan almonds, had made their appearance; the ladies prepared to withdraw.

"Mistress Holland," said the Rector, "I beseech you to tarry yet a little season"—adding to Gertrude, "I need not detain you, my daughter."

Gertrude escaped with great satisfaction. "Those two are going to catch it!" she said to herself; "I am glad I am out of it!" Mr Roberts knew sorrowfully that the surmise was woefully true, but he was rather relieved to find that his sister-in-law was "going to catch it" with him. Her presence was a sort of stick for him to lean on.

"My son," said the Rector to Mr Roberts, with an air of sorrowful reluctance to begin a distasteful piece of work, "it troubleth me sorely to do that I must needs do, but necessity hath no law. Remember, I pray you, that as yesterday I called here, desiring to have speech of your youngest daughter, and was told by Osmund your butler that she was visiting a friend."

"That was fully truth, Father," said Mistress Grena, as if she supposed that the Rector was about to complain of some duplicity on the part of Osmund.

Mr Bastian waved aside the assurance.

"I left word," he continued, repeating the words with emphasis, "I left word that I would call to see her this morrow. Here am I; and what have I now learned? That she left this house yester-even, without so much as a word of excuse, not to say a beseechment of pardon, when she knew that I purposed having speech of her." His voice became more stern. "Is this the manner wherein ye deal with the ministers of holy Church? Truly, had I just cause to suspect your fidelity to her, this were enough to proceed on. But trusting ye may yet have ability to plead your excuse"—a slightly more suave tone was allowed to soften the voice—"I wait to hear it, ere I take steps that were molestous to you, and truly unwelcome unto me. What say ye in extenuation thereof?"

"We are verily sorry, Father," came quietly from Mistress Grena, "that no meet apology hath been offered unto you for this discourtesy, and we pray you of your grace and goodness right gentilly to accept the same even now. Truly the matter stands thus: Our sister, Mistress Collenwood, had in purpose to tarry with us divers days longer; but yester-even tidings came unto her the which caused her to hasten her departure, not tarrying so much as one night more; and as she had desired to take Pandora withal, it was needful that her departure should be hastened likewise. You wot well, good Father, I am assured, the bustle and business caused by such sudden resolve, and the little time left for thought therein: but for any consequent lack of respect unto yourself and your holy office, we are full sorry, and do right humbly entreat you of pardon."

Mr Roberts breathed more freely. He thought the woman's wit was about to prevail, and to salve over the offence.

The priest, on his part, perceived with regret that he had made a mistake in retaining Mistress Grena. Her representations were very plausible, and she was not so easily cowed as her brother-in-law. He considered a moment how to proceed.

"In truth, my daughter," he said, addressing her, "you have fully made your excuse, and I allow it right gladly. I may well conceive that in the haste and labour of making ready on so sudden summons, both you and your niece may easily have forgat the matter. I need not keep you longer from your household duties. God grant you a good even!"

Mistress Grena had no resource but to withdraw in answer to this dismissal, her heart filled with sore forebodings. She had hoped the excuse might be held to cover the whole family; but it was evident the priest had no intention of accepting it as including the male portion thereof. As she passed Mr Roberts, with her back to the priest, she gave him a warning look; but her hope that he would take the warning was as small as it could well be.

"And now, my son," said the Rector softly, turning to his remaining victim, "how say you? Were you likewise busied in preparing the gentlewomen for their journey?"



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

COUNTERPLOT.

A man to be very much pitied was poor Mr Roberts. Not only had he to pacify the priest, but Mistress Grena's line of defence, plausible as it sounded, had unhappily crossed and invalidated the excuse he had intended to make for himself. His faint, hazy purpose up to that time had been to deny any knowledge of the escape; but after it had been thus represented as a natural, every-day occurrence, how was he to keep up the story? Yet he had no other ready.

"No, Father—ay, it—I was a-bed," was his blundering reply.

The priest's voice was sweet as a newly-tuned piano.

"Was it not strange, my son, that you heard no sounds from beneath? Or went you up, knowing what was passing?"

What was the poor man to do? If he acknowledged that he knew of the escape of the fugitives, he laid himself open to the charge of "aiding and abetting"; if he denied it, he practically denied also the truth of Grena's defence. At that moment he would have given every acre and shilling in his possession to be free from this horrible cross-questioning.

The cat watched the poor mouse wriggle with grim satisfaction. Either way, it would come to its claws at last.

Suddenly the scene of the morning was reproduced to the mind's eye of the tortured man. Roger Hall's voice seemed to say again—"Have you asked Him, Master?" Faintly, tremblingly in the unwontedness of the act, the request was made, and even that slight contact with the unchanging Rock steadied the wavering feet. He must speak truth, and uphold Grena.

"Father," he said in a changed tone, "my sister told you true. The journey was hastened, and that suddenly."

The change in his tone puzzled the priest. What had come to the man, in that momentary interval, to nerve him thus anew?

"How came the news, my son?"

Mr Roberts was thankfully able to answer that he knew not.

"But surely, with so much baggage as Mistress Collenwood must have borne withal, the number of horses that left your house could not but be noted of them in the vicinage. Yet I am told no sound was heard."

"My sister sent the most part of her baggage away before her," was the answer.

"Remember," said the Rector sternly, "the sin you incur if you deceive a priest!"

"I have not spoken one untrue word, Father."

At that moment the door-bell was rung, and answered by Osmund, who, coming into the room, deferentially informed the priest that my Lord Cardinal had sent his sumner to the Rectory, with a command that he, Mr Bastian, should attend his court at eight o'clock on the following morning. The interruption was welcome to both parties. The priest was perplexed, and wanted time to think, no less than Mr Roberts. He had anticipated an easy victory, and found himself unaccountably baffled.

In the present day, no English gentleman would bear such questioning by a priest. The latter would very soon be told, in however civil language, that an Englishman's house was his castle, and that he held himself responsible for his actions to God alone. But the iron terror of Rome was then over every heart. No priest could be defied, nor his questions evaded, with impunity. If those days ever come back, it will be the fault and the misery of Englishmen who would not take warning by the past, but who suffered the enemy to creep in again "while men slept." The liberties of England, let us never forget, were bought with the blood of the Marian martyrs.

No sooner had the priest departed than Mistress Grena silently slid into the room. She had evidently been on the watch.

"Brother," she said, in a voice which trembled with doubt and fear, "what have you told him?"

"What you told him, Grena."

"Oh!" The exclamation spoke of intense relief.

"But you may thank Roger Hall for it."

"Roger Hall!—what ado had he therewith?"

"If you ask at him," answered Mr Roberts with a smile, "methinks he will scarce know."

"Will he come again?" she asked fearfully—not alluding to Roger Hall.

"I wis not. Very like he will—maybe till he have consumed us. Grena, I know not how it hath been with you, but for me, I have been an arrant coward. God aiding me, I will be thus no longer, but will go forth in the strength of the Lord God. Believe you these lying wonders and deceitful doctrines? for I do not, and have never so done, though I have made believe to do it. I will make believe no longer. I will be a man, and no more a puppet, to be moved at the priest's pleasure. Thank God, Pan is safe, and Gertrude is not like to fall in trouble. How say you? Go you with me, or keep you Gertrude's company?"

Then Grena Holland broke down. All her little prim preciseness vanished, and the real woman she was came out of her shell and showed herself.

"O Tom!" she said, sobbing till she could hardly speak: for when restrained, self-contained natures like hers break down, they often do it utterly. "O Tom! God bless thee, and help me to keep by thee, and both of us to be faithful to the end! I too have sinned and done foolishly, and set evil ensample. Forgive me, my brother, and God forgive us both!"

Mr Roberts passed his arm round her, and gave her the kiss of peace.

"Methinks we had best forgive each the other, Grena; and I say Amen to thy 'God forgive us both!'"

When Mr Bastian arrived at Canterbury a little after daybreak the next morning, he found, as he had expected, that while the message had been sent in the name of Cardinal Pole, it was really the Bishop of Dover who required his attendance. The Bishop wanted to talk with the parish priest concerning the accused persons from his parish. He read their names from a paper whereon he had them noted down—"John Fishcock, butcher; Nicholas White, ironmonger; Nicholas Pardue, cloth-worker; Alice Benden, gentlewoman; Barbara Final, widow, innkeeper; Sens Bradbridge, widow; Emmet Wilson, cloth-worker's wife."

"Touching Alice Benden," said the Bishop, "I require no note at your hands; I have divers times spoken with her, and know her to be a right obstinate heretic, glorying in her errors. 'Tis the other concerning whom I would have some discourse with you. First, this John Fishcock, the butcher: is he like to be persuaded or no?"

"Methinks, nay, my Lord: yet am I not so full sure of him as of some other. The two Nicholases, trow, are surer of the twain. You should as soon shake an ancient oak as White; and Pardue, though he be a man of few words, is of stubborn conditions."

"Those men of few words oft-times are thus. And how for the women, Brother? Barbara Final—what is she?"

"A pleasant, well-humoured, kindly fashion of woman; yet methinks not one to be readily moved."

"Sens Bradbridge?"

"A poor creature—weakly, with few wits. I should say she were most like of any to recant, save that she hath so little wit, it were scarce to our credit if she so did."

The Bishop laughed. "Emmet Wilson?"

"A plain woman, past middle age, of small learning, yet good wit by nature. You shall not move her, holy Father, or I mistake."

"These heretics, what labour they give us!" said Dick of Dover, rather testily. "'Tis passing strange they cannot conform and have done with it, and be content to enjoy their lives and liberties in peace."

Having no principle himself, the Bishop was unable to comprehend its existence in other people. Mr Bastian was a shade wiser—not that he possessed much principle, but that he could realise the fact of its existence.

"There is one other point, holy Father," said he, seeing that the Bishop was about to dismiss him, "whereon, if it stand with your Lordship's pleasure, I would humbly seek your counsel."

The Bishop rubbed his hands, and desired Mr Bastian to proceed. The labour which the heretics gave him was very well to complain of, but to him the excitement of discovering a new heretic was as pleasurable as the unearthing of a fox to a keen sportsman. Dick of Dover, having no distinct religious convictions, was not more actuated by personal enmity to the persecuted heretic than the sportsman to the persecuted fox. They both liked the run, the excitement, the risks, and the glory of the sport.

"To tell truth, my Lord," continued Mr Bastian, dropping his voice, "I am concerned touching a certain parishioner of mine, a gentleman, I am sorry to say, of name and ancient family, cousin unto Mr Roberts of Glassenbury, whose name you well know as one of the oldest houses in Kent."

The Bishop nodded assent.

"'Tis true, during King Edward's time, he went for one of the new learning; but he conformed when the Queen came in, and ever sithence have I regarded him as a good Catholic enough, till of late, when I am fallen to doubt it, to my great concern." And Mr Bastian proceeded to relate to the Bishop all that he knew respecting the flight of the ladies, and his subsequent unsatisfactory interview with the heads of the family. The Bishop listened intently.

"This young maid," said he, when the narrative was finished, "what said you was her name—Gertrude?—this Gertrude, then, you account of as faithful to holy Church?"

"She hath ever been regular at mass and confession, my Lord, and performeth all her duties well enough. For other matter, methinks, she is somewhat light-minded, and one that should cast more thought to the colour of her sleeves than to the length of her prayers."

"None the worse for that," said Dick of Dover—adding hastily, as the unclerical character of his remark struck him—"for this purpose, of course, I signify; for this purpose. Make you a decoy of her, Brother, to catch the other."

"I cry your Lordship mercy, but I scarce take you. Her father and aunt do come to confession—somewhat irregularly, 'tis true; but they do come; and though the woman be cautious and wily, and can baffle my questions if she will, yet is the man transparent as glass, and timid as an hare. At least, he hath been so until this time; what turned him I wis not, but I am in hopes it shall not last."

"Move this girl Gertrude to listen behind the arras, when as they talk together," suggested the Bishop. "Make her promises—of anything she valueth, a fine horse, a velvet gown, a rich husband—whatever shall be most like to catch her."

Mr Bastian smiled grimly, as he began to see the plot develop.

"'Tis an easy matter to beguile a woman," said the Bishop, who, being very ignorant of women, believed what he said: "bait but your trap with something fine enough, and they shall walk in by shoals like herrings. Saving these few obstinate simpletons such as Alice Benden, that you can do nought with, they be light enough fish to catch. Catch Gertrude, Brother."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

BEFORE DICK OF DOVER.

"Perkins!" said a rather pompous voice.

Perkins was the Cathedral bell-ringer, and the gaoler of Alice Benden. He obeyed the summons of the pompous voice with obsequious celerity, for it belonged to no less a person than the Lord Bishop of Dover. His Lordship, having caught sight of the bell-ringer as he crossed the precincts, had called him, and Perkins came up, his hat in one hand, and pulling his forelock with the other.

"I desire to know, Perkins," said the Bishop, "if that man that is your prisoner's brother hath yet been arrested, as I bade?"

"Well, nay, my Lord, he haven't," said Perkins, his heart fluttering and his grammar questionable.

"And wherefore no?" asked the Bishop sternly.

"Well, my Lord, truth is, I haven't chanced on him since."

"He hath not visited his sister, then?"

"Well," answered Perkins, who seemed to find that word a comfort, "ay, he have; but him and me, we hasn't been at same time, not yet."

"Call you that diligence in the keeping of your prisoner?"

"Please your Lordship, she's there, all safe."

"I bade you arrest him," insisted the Bishop.

Perkins chewed a sprig of dried lavender, and kept silence.

"I am sore displeased with you, Perkins!"

Perkins looked provokingly obtuse. If the Bishop had only known it, he was afraid of vexing him further by saying anything, and accordingly he said nothing.

"Keep diligent watch for the man, and seize him when he cometh again. As for the woman, bring her before me to-morrow at nine o' the clock. Be careful what you do, as you value my favour."

Perkins pulled his forelock again, and departed.

"The man is hard as a stone," said the Bishop to one of the Canons, with whom he was walking: "no impression can be made upon him."

"He is scantly the worse gaoler for that, under your Lordship's correction," said the Canon carelessly.

"He makes an hard keeper, I cast no doubt," answered the Bishop.

Perkins's demeanour changed as soon as his Lordship had passed out of sight and hearing.

"Dick o' Dover's in a jolly fume!" he said to one of the vergers whom he met.

"Why, what's angered him?"

"I have, belike, that I catched not yon man, Mistress Benden's brother, a-coming to see her. Why, the loon's full o' wiles—never comes at after sunrise. It'd take an eel to catch him. And I'm not his thief-catcher, neither. I works hard enough without that. Old Dick may catch his eels his self if he lacks 'em."

"Work 'll never kill thee, Jack Perkins," replied the verger, with a laugh. "Thou'dst best not get across with Dick o' Dover; he's an ugly customer when he's in the mind."

The right reverend prelate to whom allusion was thus unceremoniously made, was already seated on his judgment bench when, at nine o'clock the next morning, Perkins threw open the door of Monday's Hole.

"Come forth, Mistress; you're to come afore the Bishop."

"You must needs help me up, then, for I cannot walk," said Alice Benden faintly.

Perkins seized her by the arm, and dragged her up from the straw on which she was lying. Alice was unable to repress a slight moan.

"Let be," she panted; "I will essay to go by myself; only it putteth me to so great pain."

With one hand resting on the wall, she crept to the door, and out into the passage beyond. Again Perkins seized her—this time by the shoulder.

"You must make better speed than this, Mistress," he said roughly. "Will you keep the Lord Bishop a-waiting?"

Partly limping by herself, partly pulled along by Perkins, and at the cost of exquisite suffering, for she was crippled by rheumatism, Alice reached the hall wherein the Bishop sat. He received her in the suavest manner.

"Now, my good daughter, I trust your lesson, which it was needful to make sharp, hath been well learned during these weeks ye have had time for meditation. Will you now go home, and go to church, and conform you to the Catholic religion as it now is in England? If you will do this, we will gladly show you all manner of favour; ye shall be our white child, I promise you, and any requests ye may prefer unto us shall have good heed. Consider, I pray you, into what evil case your obstinacy hath hitherto brought you, and how blissful life ye might lead if ye would but renounce your womanish opinions, and be of the number of the Catholics. Now, my daughter, what say you?"

Then Alice Benden lifted her head and answered.

"I am thoroughly persuaded, by the great extremity that you have already showed me, that you are not of God, neither can your doings be godly; and I see that you seek mine utter destruction. Behold, I pray you, how lame I am of cold taken, and lack of food, in that painful prison wherein I have lain now these nine weary weeks, that I am not able to move without great pain."

"You shall find us right different unto you, if you will but conform," replied the Bishop, who, as John Bunyan has it, had "now all besugared his lips."

"Find you as it list you, I will have none ado with you!" answered the prisoner sturdily.

But at that moment, trying to turn round, the pain was so acute that it brought the tears to her eyes, and a groan of anguish to her lips. The Bishop's brows were compressed.

"Take her to West Gate," he said hastily. "Let her be clean kept, and see a physician if she have need."

The gaoler of West Gate was no brutal, selfish Perkins, but a man who used his prisoners humanely. Here Alice once again slept on a bed, was furnished with decent clean clothing and sufficient food. But such was the effect of her previous suffering, that after a short time, we are told, her skin peeled off as if she had been poisoned.

One trouble Alice had in her new prison—that she must now be deprived of Roger's visits. She was not even able to let him know of the change. But Roger speedily discovered it, and it was only thanks to the indolence of Mr Perkins, who was warm in bed, and greatly indisposed to turn out of it, that he was not found out and seized on that occasion. Once more he had to search for his sister. No secret was made of the matter this time; and by a few cautious inquiries Roger discovered that she had been removed to West Gate. His hopes sprang up on hearing it, not only because, as he knew, she would suffer much less in the present, but also because he fondly trusted that it hinted at a possibility of release in the future. It was with a joyful heart that he carried the news home to Christabel, and found her Aunt Tabitha sitting with her.

"O Father, how delightsome!" cried Christie, clapping her hands. "Now if those ill men will only let dear Aunt Alice come home—"

"When the sky falleth, we may catch many larks," said Tabitha, in her usual grim fashion. "Have you told him?"

"Whom?—Edward Benden? No, I'm in no haste to go near him."

"I would, if I knew it should vex him."

"Tabitha!" said Roger, with gentle reproval.

"Roger Hall, if you'd had to stand up to King Ahab, you'd have made a downright poor Elijah!"

"Very like, Tabitha. I dare say you'd have done better."

"Father," said Christie, "did you hear what should come of Master White, and Mistress Final, and all the rest."

"No, my dear heart: I could hear nought, save only that they were had up afore my Lord of Dover, and that he was very round with them, but all they stood firm."

"What, Sens Bradbridge and all?" said Tabitha. "I'd have gone bail that poor sely hare should have cried off at the first shot of Dick o' Dover's arrow. Stood she firm, trow?"

"All of them, I heard. Why, Tabitha, the Lord's grace could hold up Sens Bradbridge as well as Tabitha Hall."

"There'd be a vast sight more wanted, I promise you!" said Tabitha self-righteously. "There isn't a poorer creature in all this 'varsal world, nor one with fewer wits in her head than Sens Bradbridge. I marvel how Benedick stood her; but, dear heart! men are that stupid! Christie, don't you never go to marry a man. I'll cut you off with a shilling an' you do."

"Cut me off what, Aunt Tabitha?" inquired Christie, with some alarm in her tone.

"Off my good-will and favour, child."

"Thank you, Aunt Tabitha, for telling me I didn't know I was on," said Christie simply.

"Good lack!" exclaimed Tabitha, in a tone which was a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Did the child think I cared nought about her, forsooth?"

"O Aunt Tabitha, do you?" demanded Christie, in a voice of innocent astonishment. "I am so glad. Look you, whenever you come, you always find fault with me for something, so I thought you didn't."

"Bless the babe! Dost think I should take all that trouble to amend thee, if I loved thee not?"

"Well, perhaps—" said Christie hesitatingly.

"But Aunt Alice always tried to mend me, and so does Father: but somehow they don't do it like you, Aunt Tabitha."

"They're both a deal too soft and sleek with thee," growled Aunt Tabitha. "There's nought 'll mend a child like a good rattling scolding, without 'tis a thrashing, and thou never hast neither."

"Art avised [are you sure] o' that, Tabitha?" asked Roger. "God sends not all His rain in thunderstorms."

"Mayhap not; but He does send thunderstorms, and earthquakes too," returned Tabitha triumphantly.

"I grant you; but the thunderstorms are rare, and the earthquakes yet rarer; and the soft dew cometh every night. And 'tis the dew and the still small rain, not the earthquakes, that maketh the trees and flowers to grow."

"Ah, well, you're mighty wise, I cast no doubt," answered Tabitha, getting up to go home. "But I tell you I was well thrashed, and scolded to boot, and it made a woman of me."

"I suppose, Father," said Christie, when Tabitha had taken her departure, "that the scolding and beating did make a woman of Aunt Tabitha; but please don't be angry if I say that it wasn't as pleasant a woman as Aunt Alice."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

"A RUCK OF TROUBLE."

"Well, be sure! if there ever was a woman in such a ruck of trouble!" said poor Collet Pardue, wiping her eyes. "Here's my man took to prison, saints knows what for—my man 'at was as quiet as ever a mouse, and as good to me as if he'd ha' been a cherubim, and me left with all them childre—six lads and four lasses—eight o' my own, and two of poor Sens's—and the lads that mischievous as I scarce knows whether I'm on my head or my heels one half o' the day! Here's that Silas a-been and took and dropped the bucket down the well, and never a drop o' water can we get. And Aphabell he's left the gate open, and nine out o' my fourteen chicken strayed away. And I sent Toby for a loaf o' biscuit-bread, a-thinking it'd be a treat for the little uns, and me not having a mite o' time to make it—and if the rogue hasn't been and ate it all up a-coming home—there's the crumbs on his jacket this minute!"

"I didn't!" shouted Tobias resentfully, in answer to this unjust accusation. "I didn't eat it all up! I gave half on it to Esdras—a good half." The last words were uttered in a tone of conscious virtue, the young gentleman evidently feeling that his self-denial was not meeting its due reward.

"Ha' done then, thou runagate!" returned his mother, aiming a slap at him, which Tobias dodged by a dip of his head. "Eh, deary me, but they are a weary lot, these childre!"

"Why stand you not up to them better, Collet Pardue?" asked the neighbour who was the listener to poor Collet's list of grievances. "Can't you rouse yourself and see to them?"

"Seems to me, Mistress Hall, I've got no rouse left in me, wi' all these troubles a-coming so thick," said poor Collet, shaking her head. "If you'd six lads and four maids, and your man in prison for nought, and the bucket down the well, and the chicken strayed, and your poor old mother sick a-bed, and them pies in the oven a-burning this minute—Oh me!"

Collet made a rush at the oven, having to push Charity Bradbridge out of her way, who was staring open-mouthed at the brilliant parrot wrought in floss silks on the exterior of Mrs Tabitha's large work-bag.

"I've told you twenty times, Collet Pardue, you lack method," pursued Mrs Hall, with a magisterial air. "Why set you not Esdras to hunt the chicken, and Noah to fish up the bucket, and Beatrice to wait on your mother, and Penuel to see to the pies, and leave yourself freer? I make my childre useful, I can tell you. The more children, the more to wait on you."

"Well, Mistress Hall, I've always found it t'other way about—the more childre, the more for you to wait on. Pen, she's ironing, and Beatie is up wi' mother. But as to Esdras hunting up the chicks, why, he'd come home wi' more holes than he's got, and that's five, as I know to my cost; and set Noah to get up the bucket, he'd never do nought but send his self a-flying after it down the well, and then I should have to fish him up. 'Tis mighty good talking, when you've only three, and them all maids; maids can be ruled by times; but them lads, they're that cantankerous as— There now, I might ha' known Noah was after some mischief; he's never quiet but he is! Do 'ee look, how he's tangled my blue yarn 'at I'd wound only last night—twisted it round every chair and table in the place, and— You wicked, sinful boy, to go and tangle the poor cat along with 'em! I'll be after you, see if I'm not! You'll catch some'at!"

"Got to catch me first!" said Noah, with a grin, darting out of the door as his over-worried mother made a grab at him.

Poor Collet sat down and succumbed under her sufferings, throwing her apron over her face for a good cry. Beatrice, who came down the ladder which led to the upper chambers, took in the scene at a glance. She was a bright little girl of ten years old. Setting down the tray in her hand, she first speedily delivered the captive pussy, and then proceeded deftly to disentangle the wool, rolling it up again in a ball.

"Prithee, weep not, Mother, dear heart!" she said cheerily. "Granny sleeps, and needs no tending at this present. I've set pussy free, I shall soon have the yarn right again. You're over-wrought, poor Mother!"

Her child's sympathetic words seemed to have the effect of making Collet cry the harder; but Tabitha's voice responded for her.

"Well said, Beatrice, and well done! I love to see a maid whose fingers are not all thumbs. But, dear me, Collet, what a shiftless woman are you! Can't you pack those lads out o' door, and have a quiet house for your work? I should, for sure!"

"You'd find you'd got your work cut out, Mistress Hall, I can tell you. 'Pack 'em out o' door' means just send 'em to prey on your neighbours, and have half-a-dozen angry folks at you afore night, and a sight o' damage for to pay."

"Set them to weed your garden, can't you? and tie up that trailing honeysuckle o'er the porch, that's a shame to be seen. Make 'em useful—that's what I say."

"And 'tis what I'd be main thankful to do if I could—that I'll warrant you, Mistress Hall; but without I stood o'er 'em every minute of the time, the flowers 'd get plucked up and the weeds left, every one on 'em. That'd be useful, wouldn't it?"

"You've brought them up ill, Collet, or they'd be better lads than that. I'd have had 'em as quat as mice, the whole six, afore I'd been their mother a week."

"I cast no doubt, Mistress Hall," said Collet, driven to retort as she rarely did, "if you'd had the world to make, it'd ha' been mortal grand, and all turned out spic-span: look you, the old saw saith, 'Bachelors' wives be always well-learned,' and your lads be angels, that's sure, seein' you haven't ne'er a one on 'em; but mine isn't so easy to manage as yourn, looking as I've six to see to."

"You've lost your temper, Collet Pardue," said Mrs Tabitha, with calm complacency; "and that's a thing a woman shouldn't do who calls herself a Christian."

Before Collet could reply, a third person stood in the doorway. She looked up, and saw her landlord, Mr Benden.

As it happened, that gentleman was not aware of the presence of his sister-in-law, who was concealed from him by the open door behind which she was sitting, as well as by a sheet which was hanging up to air in the warm atmosphere of the kitchen. He had not, therefore, the least idea that Tabitha heard his words addressed to Collet.

"So your husband has been sent to prison, Mistress, for an heretic and a contemner of the blessed Sacrament?"

"My husband contemns not the blessed Sacrament that our Lord Jesus Christ instituted," answered Collet, turning to face her new assailant; "but he is one of them that will not be made to commit idolatry unto a piece of bread."

"Well said, indeed!" sneered Mr Benden. "This must needs be good world when cloth-workers' wives turn doctors of religion! How look you to make my rent, Mistress, with nought coming in, I pray you?"

"Your rent's not due, Master, for five weeks to come."

"And when they be come, I do you to wit, I will have it—or else forth you go. Do you hear, Mistress Glib-tongue?"

"Dear heart, Master Benden!" cried Collet, in consternation. "Sure you can never have the heart to turn us adrift—us as has always paid you every farthing up to the hour it was due!"

"Ay, and I'll have this, every farthing up to the hour 'tis due! I'll have no canting hypocrites in my houses, nor no such as be notorious traitors to God and the Queen's Majesty! I'll—"

"O Master, we're no such, nor never was—" began the sobbing Collet.

But both speeches were cut across by a third voice, which made the landlord turn a shade paler and stop his diatribe suddenly; for it was the voice of the only mortal creature whom Edward Benden feared.

"Then you'd best turn yourself out, Edward Benden, and that pretty sharp, before I come and make you!" said the unexpected voice of the invisible Tabitha. "I haven't forgot, if you have, what a loyal subject you were in King Edward's days, nor how you essayed to make your court to my Lord of Northumberland that was, by proclaiming my Lady Jane at Cranbrook, and then, as soon as ever you saw how the game was going, you turned coat and threw up your cap for Queen Mary. If all the canting hypocrites be bundled forth of Staplehurst, you'll be amongst the first half-dozen, I'll be bound! Get you gone, if you've any shame left, and forbear to torture an honest woman that hath troubles enow."

"He's gone, Mistress Hall," said little Beatrice. "I count he scarce heard what you last spake."

"O Mistress Hall, you are a good friend, and I'm for ever bounden to you!" said poor Collet, when she was able to speak for tears. "And if it please you, I'm main sorry I lost my temper, and if I said any word to you as I shouldn't, I'll take 'em back every one, and may God bless you!"

"Well said, old friend!" answered Tabitha, in high good-humour.

"And, O Mistress, do you think, an' it like you, that Master Benden will turn us forth on Saint Austin's morrow?—that's when our rent's due."

"What is your rent, neighbour?"

"'Tis thirteen-and-fourpence, the house, Mistress—but then we've the bit o' pasture land behind, for our horse and cow—that's eight shillings more by the year. And I've only"—Collet went to a chest, and lifted out an old black stocking—"I haven't but sixteen shillings laid by towards it, and look you, there'll be no wages coming in save Toby's and Esdras' and Aphabell's, and we've to live. With 'leven of us to eat and be clad, we can't save many pence for rent, and I did hope Master Benden 'd be pleased to wait a while. Of course he must have his own, like any other; but if he would ha' waited—"

"He'll wait," said Tabitha, and shut her mouth with a snap. "But lest he should not, Collet, come by Seven Roads as you go to pay your rent, and whatso you may be short for the full amount, I'll find you."

"Eh dear, Mistress Hall, I could cut my tongue in leches [slices] that it ever spake a word as didn't please you!" cried the grateful Collet, though Tabitha had spoken a multitude of words which were by no means pleasing to her. "And we'll all pray God bless you when we're on our knees to-night, and all your folks belike. And I will essay to keep the lads better-way, though in very deed I don't know how," concluded she, as Tabitha rose, well pleased, patted Charity on the head, told Beatrice to be a good maid and help her mother, and in a mood divided between gratification and grim plans for giving Mr Benden the due reward of his deeds, set out on her walk home.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

COMPANY IN DISTRESS.

"Now then, stir up, Mistress Benden! You are to be shifted to the Castle."

Alice Benden looked up as the keeper approached her with that news. The words sounded rough, but the tone was not unkind. There was even a slight tinge of pity in it.

What that transfer meant, both the keeper and the prisoner knew. It was the preparatory step to a sentence of death.

All hope for this world died out of the heart of Alice Benden. No more possibility of reconciliation and forgiveness for Edward!—no more loving counsels to Christabel—no more comforting visits from Roger. Instead of them, one awful hour of scarcely imaginable anguish, and then, from His seat on the right hand of God, Christ would rise to receive His faithful witness—the Tree of Life would shade her, and the Water of Life would refresh her, and no more would the sun light upon her, nor any heat: she should be comforted for evermore. The better hope was to be made way for by the extinction of the lower. She lifted up her heart unto the Lord, and said silently within herself the ancient Christian formula of the early Church—

"Amen, Lord Christ!—so let it be."

In a chair, for she was too crippled to walk, Alice was carried by two of the gaoler's men outside the Cathedral precincts. She had not been in the open air for a month. They carried her out eastwards, across Burgate Street (which dates from the days of King Ethelred), down by the city wall, past Saint George's Gate and the Grey Friars, up Sheepshank's Lane, and so to the old Norman Castle, the keep of which is the third largest of Norman keeps in England, and is now, to the glory of all the Huns and Vandals, converted into a gasometer! In the barbican sat several prisoners in chains, begging their bread. But Alice was borne past this, and up the north-east staircase, from the walls of which looked out at her verses of the Psalms in Hebrew—silent, yet eloquent witnesses of the dispersion and suffering of Judah—and into a small chamber, where she was laid down on a rude bed, merely a frame with sacking and a couple of blankets upon it.

"Nights be cold yet," said the more humane of her two bearers. "The poor soul 'll suffer here, I'm feared."

"She'll be warm enough anon," said the other and more brutal of the pair. "I reckon the faggots be chopped by now that shall warm her."

Alice knew what he meant. He passed out of the door without another word, but the first man lingered to say in a friendly tone—"Good even to you, Mistress!" It was his little cup of cold water to Christ's servant.

"Good even, friend," replied Alice; "and may our Saviour Christ one day say to thee, 'Inasmuch'!"

Yes, she would be warm enough by-and-by. There should be no more pain nor toil, no more tears nor terrors, whither she was going. The King's "Well done, good and faithful servant!" would mark the entrance on a new life from which the former things had passed away.

She lay there alone till the evening, when the gaoler's man brought her supper. It consisted of a flat cake of bread, a bundle of small onions, and a pint of weak ale. As he set it down, he said—"There'll be company for you to-morrow."

"I thank you for showing it to me," said Alice courteously; "pray you, who is it?"

"'Tis a woman from somewhere down your way," he answered, as he went out; "but her name I know not."

Alice's hopes sprang up. She felt cheered by the prospect of the company of any human creature, after her long lonely imprisonment; and it would be a comfort to have somebody who would help her to turn on her bed, which, unaided, it gave her acute pain to do. Beside, there was great reason to expect that her new companion would be a fellow-witness for the truth. Alice earnestly hoped that they would not—whether out of intended torture or mere carelessness—place a criminal with her. Deep down in her heart, almost unacknowledged to herself, lay a further hope. If it should be Rachel Potkin!

Of the apprehension of the batch of prisoners from Staplehurst Alice had heard nothing. She had therefore no reason to imagine that the woman "from somewhere down her way" was likely to be a personal friend. The south-western quarter of Kent was rather too large an area to rouse expectations of that kind.

It was growing dusk on the following evening before the "company" arrived. Alice had sung her evening Psalms—a cheering custom which she had kept up through all the changes and sufferings of her imprisonment— and was beginning to feel rather drowsy when the sound of footsteps roused her, stopping at her door.

"Now, Mistress! here you be!" said the not unpleasant voice of the Castle gaoler.

"Eh, deary me!" answered another voice, which struck Alice's ear as not altogether strange.

"Good even, friend!" she hastened to say.

"Nay, you'd best say 'ill even,' I'm sure," returned the newcomer. "I've ne'er had a good even these many weeks past."

Alice felt certain now that she recognised the voice of an old acquaintance, whom she little expected to behold in those circumstances.

"Why, Sens Bradbridge, is that you?"

"Nay, sure, 'tis never Mistress Benden? Well, I'm as glad to see you again as I can be of aught wi' all these troubles on me. Is't me? Well, I don't justly know whether it be or no; I keep reckoning I shall wake up one o' these days, and find me in the blue bed in my own little chamber at home. Eh deary, Mistress Benden, but this is an ill look-out! So many of us took off all of a blow belike—"