"Have there been more arrests, then, at Staplehurst? Be my brethren taken?"

"Not as I knows of: but a lot of us was catched up all to oncet—Nichol White, ironmonger, and mine hostess of the White Hart, and Emmet Wilson, and Collet Pardue's man, and Fishwick, the flesher, and me. Eh, but you may give thanks you've left no childre behind you! There's my two poor little maids, that I don't so much as know what's come of 'em, or if they've got a bite to eat these hard times! Lack-a-daisy-me! but why they wanted to take a poor widow from her bits of childre, it do beat me, it do!"

"I am sorry for Collet Pardue," said Alice gravely. "But for your maids, Sens, I am sure you may take your heart to you. The neighbours should be safe to see they lack not, be sure."

"I haven't got no heart to take, Mistress Benden—never a whit, believe me. Look you, Mistress Final she had 'em when poor Benedick departed: and now she's took herself. Eh, deary me! but I cannot stay me from weeping when I think on my poor Benedick. He was that staunch, he'd sure ha' been took if he'd ha' lived! It makes my heart fair sore to think on't!"

"Nay, Sens, that is rather a cause for thanksgiving."

"You always was one for thanksgiving, Mistress Benden."

"Surely; I were an ingrate else."

"Well, I may be a nigrate too, though I wis not what it be without 'tis a blackamoor, and I'm not that any way, as I knows: but look you, good Mistress, that's what I alway wasn't. 'Tis all well and good for them as can to sing psalms in dens o' lions; but I'm alway looking for to be ate up. I can't do it, and that's flat."

"The Lord can shut the lions' mouths, Sens."

"Very good, Mistress; but how am I to know as they be shut?"

"'They that trust in the Lord shall not want any good thing.'" A sudden moan escaped Alice's lips just after she had said this, the result of an attempt to move slightly. Sens Bradbridge was on her knees beside her in a moment.

"Why, my dear heart, how's this, now? Be you sick, or what's took you?"

"I was kept nine weeks, Sens, on foul straw, with never a shift of clothes, and no meat save bread and water, the which has brought me to this pass, being so lame of rheumatic pains that I cannot scarce move without moaning."

"Did ever man hear the like! Didn't you trust in the Lord, then, Mistress, an't like you?—or be soft beds and well-dressed meat and clean raiment not good things?"

Alice Benden's bright little laugh struck poor desponding Sens as a very strange thing.

"Maybe a little of both, old friend. Surely there were four sore weeks when I was shut up in Satan's prison, no less than in man's, and I trusted not the Lord as I should have done—"

"Well, forsooth, and no marvel!"

"And as to beds and meat and raiment—well, I suppose they were not good things for me at that time, else should my Father have provided them for me."

Poor Sens shook her head slowly and sorrowfully.

"Nay, now, Mistress Benden, I can't climb up there, nohow.—'Tis a brave place where you be, I cast no doubt, but I shall never get up yonder."

"But you have stood to the truth, Sens?—else should you not have been here."

"Well, Mistress! I can't believe black's white, can I, to get forth o' trouble?—nor I can't deny the Lord, by reason 'tisn't right comfortable to confess Him? But as for comfort—and my poor little maids all alone, wi' never a penny—and my poor dear heart of a man as they'd ha' took, sure as eggs is eggs, if so be he'd been there—why, 'tis enough to crush the heart out of any woman. But I can't speak lies by reason I'm out o' heart."

"Well said, true heart! The Lord is God of the valleys, no less than of the hills; and if thou be sooner overwhelmed by the waters than other, He shall either carry thee through the stream, or make the waters lower when thou comest to cross."

"I would I'd as brave a spirit as yourn, Mistress Benden."

"Thou hast as good a God, Sens, and as strong a Saviour. And mind thou, 'tis the weak and the lambs that He carries; the strong sheep may walk alongside. 'He knoweth our frame,' both of body and soul. Rest thou sure, that if thine heart be true to Him, so long as He sees thou hast need to be borne of Him, He shall not put thee down to stumble by thyself."

"Well!" said Sens, with a long sigh, "I reckon, if I'm left to myself, I sha'n't do nought but stumble. I always was a poor creature; Benedick had to do no end o' matters for me: and I'm poorer than ever now he's gone, so I think the Lord'll scarce forget me; but seems somehow as I can't take no comfort in it."

"'Blessed are the poor in spirit!'" said Alice softly. "The 'God of all comfort,' Sens, is better than all His comforts."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

BEHIND THE ARRAS.

"You had best make up your mind, Grena, whilst you yet may. This may be the last chance to get away hence that you shall have afore—" Mr Roberts hesitated; but his meaning was clear enough. "It doth seem me, now we have this opportunity through Master Laxton's journey, it were well-nigh a sin to miss it. He is a sober, worthy man, and kindly belike; he should take good care of you; and going so nigh to Shardeford, he could drop you well-nigh at your mother's gates. Now I pray you, Grena, be ruled by me, and settle it that you shall go without delay. He cannot wait beyond to-morrow to set forth."

"I grant it all, Tom, and I thank you truly for your brotherly care. But it alway comes to the same end, whensoever I meditate thereon: I cannot leave you and Gertrude."

"But wherefore no, Grena? Surely we should miss your good company, right truly: but to know that you were safe were compensation enough for that. True should be old enough to keep the house—there be many housewives younger—or if no; surely the old servants can go on as they are used, without your oversight. Margery and Osmund, at least—"

"They lack not my oversight, and assuredly not Gertrude's. But you would miss me, Tom: and I could not be happy touching True."

"Wherefore? Why, Grena, you said yourself they should lay no hand on her."

"Nor will they. But Gertrude is one that lacks a woman about her that loveth her, and will yet be firm with her. I cannot leave the child— Paulina's child—to go maybe to an ill end, for the lack of my care and love. She sees not the snares about her heedless feet, and would most likely be tangled in them ere you saw them. Maids lack mothers more than even fathers; and True hath none save me."

"Granted. But for all that, Grena, I would not sacrifice you."

"Tom, if the Lord would have me here, be sure He shall not shut me up in Canterbury Castle. And if He lacks me there, I am ready to go. He will see to you and True in that case."

"But if He lack you at Shardeford, Grena? How if this journey of Mr Laxton be His provision for you, so being?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Ay," said Grena Holland then, "if you and Gertrude go with me. If not, I shall know it is not the Lord's bidding."

"I! I never dreamed thereof."

"Suppose, then, you dream thereof now."

"Were it not running away from duty?"

"Methinks not. 'When they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another,' said our Lord. I see no duty that you have to leave. Were you a Justice of Peace, like your brother, it might be so: but what such have you? But one thing do I see—and you must count the cost, Tom. It may be your estate shall be sequestered, and all your goods taken to the Queen's use. 'Tis perchance a choice betwixt life and liberty on the one hand, and land and movables on the other."

Mr Roberts walked up and down the room, lost in deep thought. It was a hard choice to make: yet "all that a man hath will he give for his life."

"Oh for the days of King Edward the First," he sighed. "Verily, we valued not our blessings whilst we had them."

Grena's look was sympathising; but she left him to think out the question.

"If I lose Primrose Croft," he said meditatively, "the maids will have nought."

"They will have Shardeford when my mother dieth."

"You," he corrected. "You were the elder sister, Grena."

"What is mine is theirs and yours," she said quietly.

"You may wed, Grena."

She gave a little amused laugh. "Methinks, Tom, you may leave that danger out of the question. Shardeford Hall will some day be Gertrude's and Pandora's."

"We had alway thought of it as Pandora's, if it came to the maids, and that Gertrude should have Primrose Croft. But if that go—and 'tis not unlike; in especial if we leave Kent— Grena, I know not what to do for the best."

"Were it not best to ask the Lord, Tom?"

"But how shall I read the answer? Here be no Urim and Thummim to work by."

"I cannot say how. But of one thing am I sure; the Lord never disappointeth nor confoundeth the soul that trusts in Him."

"Well, Grena, let us pray over it, and sleep on it. Perchance we may see what to do for the best by morning light. But one thing I pray you, be ready to go, that there may be no time lost if we decide ay and not nay."

"That will I see to for us all."

Mr Roberts and Grena left the dining-room, where this conversation had been held, shutting the door behind them. She could be heard going upstairs, he into the garden by the back way. For a few seconds there was dead silence in the room; then the arras parted, and a concealed listener came out. In those days rooms were neither papered nor painted. They were either wainscoted high up the wall with panelled wood, or simply white-washed, and large pieces of tapestry hung round on heavy iron hooks. This tapestry was commonly known as arras, from the name of the French town where it was chiefly woven; and behind it, since it stood forward from the wall, was a most convenient place for a spy. The concealed listener came into the middle of the room. Her face worked with conflicting emotions. She stood for a minute, as it were, fighting out a battle with herself. At length she clenched her hand as if the decision were reached, and said aloud and passionately, "I will not!" That conclusion arrived at, she went hastily but softly out of the room, and closed the door noiselessly.

Mistress Grena was very busy in her own room, secretly packing up such articles as she had resolved to take in the event of her journey being made. She had told Margery, the old housekeeper, that she was going to be engaged, and did not wish to be disturbed. If any visitors came Mistress Gertrude could entertain them; and she desired Margery to transmit her commands to that effect to the young lady. That Gertrude herself would interrupt her she had very little fear. They had few tastes and ideas in common. Gertrude would spend the afternoon in the parlour with her embroidery or her virginals—the piano of that time— and was not likely to come near her. This being the case, Mistress Grena was startled and disturbed to hear a rap at her door. Trusting that it was Mr Roberts who wanted her, and who was the only likely person, she went to open it.

"May I come in, Aunt Grena?" said Gertrude.

For a moment Grena hesitated. Then she stepped back and let her niece enter. Her quick, quiet eyes discerned that something was the matter. This was a new Gertrude at her door, a grave, troubled Gertrude, brought there by something of more importance than usual.

"Well, niece, what is it?"

"Aunt Grena, give me leave for once to speak freely."

"So do, my dear maid."

"You and my father are talking of escape to Shardeford, but you scarce know whether to go or no. Let me tell you, and trust me, for my knowledge is costly matter. Let us go."

Grena stood in amazed consternation. She had said and believed that God would show them what to do, but the very last person in her world through whose lips she expected Him to speak was Gertrude Roberts.

"How—what—who told you? an angel?" she gasped incoherently.

A laugh, short and unmirthful, was the answer.

"Truly, no," said Gertrude. "It was a fallen angel if it were."

"What mean you, niece? This is passing strange!" said Grena, in a troubled tone.

"Aunt, I have a confession to make. Despise me if you will; you cannot so do more than I despise myself. 'Tis ill work despising one's self; but I must, and as penalty for mine evil deeds I am forcing myself to own them to you. You refuse to leave me, for my mother's sake, to go to an ill end; neither will I so leave you."

"When heard you me so to speak, Gertrude?"

"Not an hour since, Aunt Grena."

"You were not present!"

"I was, little as you guessed it. I was behind the arras."

"Wicked, mean, dishonourable girl!" cried Mistress Grena, in a mixture of horror, confusion, and alarm.

"I own it, Aunt Grena," said Gertrude, with a quiet humility which was not natural to her, and which touched Grena against her will. "But hear me out, I pray you, for 'tis of moment to us all that you should so do."

A silent inclination of her aunt's head granted her permission to proceed.

"The last time that I went to shrift, Father Bastian bade me tell him if I knew of a surety that you or my father had any thought to leave Kent. That could not I say, of course, and so much I told him. Then he bade me be diligent and discover the same. 'But after what fashion?' said I; for I do ensure you that his meaning came not into mine head afore he spake it in plain language. When at last I did conceive that he would have me to spy upon you, at the first I was struck with horror. You had so learned me, Aunt Grena, that the bare thought of such a thing was hateful unto me. This methinks he perceived, and he set him to reason with me, that the command of holy Church sanctified the act done for her service, which otherwise had been perchance unmeet to be done. Still I yielded not, and then he told me flat, that without I did this thing he would not grant me absolution of my sins. Then, but not till then, I gave way. I hid me behind the arras this morning, looking that you should come to hold discourse in that chamber where, saving for meat, you knew I was not wont to be. I hated the work no whit less than at the first; but the fear of holy Church bound me. I heard you say, Aunt Grena"—Gertrude's voice softened as Grena had rarely heard it—"that you would not leave Father and me—that you could not be happy touching me—that I had no mother save you, and you would not cast me aside to go to an ill end. I saw that Father reckoned it should be to your own hurt if you tarried. And it struck me to the heart that you should be thinking to serve me the while I was planning how to betray you. Yet if Father Bastian refused to shrive me, what should come of me? And all at once, as I stood there hearkening, a word from the Psalter bolted in upon me, a verse that I mind Mother caused me to learn long time agone: 'I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and so Thou forgavest the wickedness of my sin.' Then said I to myself, What need I trouble if the priest will not shrive me, when I can go straight unto the Lord and confess to Him? Then came another verse, as if to answer me, that I wist Father Bastian should have brought forth in like case, 'Whatsoever sins ye retain, they are retained,' and 'Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.' I could not, I own, all at once see my way through these. They did look to say, 'Unto whom the priest, that is the Church, denieth shrift, the same hath no forgiveness of God.' For a minute I was staggered, till a blind man came to help me up. Aunt Grena, you mind that blind man in the ninth chapter of Saint John's Gospel? He was cast forth of the Church, as the Church was in that day; and it was when our Lord heard that they had cast him forth, that He sought him and bade him believe only on Him, the Son of God. You marvel, Aunt, I may well see, that such meditations as these should come to your foolish maid Gertrude. But I was at a point, and an hard point belike. I had to consider my ways, whether I would or no, when I came to this trackless moor, and wist not which way to go, with a precipice nigh at hand. So now, Aunt Grena, I come to speak truth unto you, and to confess that I have been a wicked maid and a fool; and if you count me no more worth the serving or the saving I have demerited that you should thus account me. Only if so be, I beseech you, save yourself!"

Gertrude's eyes were wet as she turned away.

Grena followed her and drew the girl into her arms.

"My child," she said, "I never held thee so well worth love and care as now. So be it; we will go to Shardeford."



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

WHEREOF THE HERO IS JACK.

"Ay, we must go, then," said Mr Roberts, with a long-drawn sigh. "This discovery leaves us no choice. For howso God and we may pardon the child, Father Bastian will not so. We must go ere he find it out, and leave Primrose Croft to his fate."

"Father!" exclaimed Gertrude suddenly, "I beseech you, hear me. Uncle Anthony conforms, and he is kindly-hearted as man could wish. If he would come hither, and have a care of Primrose Croft, as though he held it by gift or under lease from you, they should never think to disturb him."

"The maid's wit hath hit the nail on the head!" returned her father, in high satisfaction. "But how shall I give him to know, without letting forth our secret?—and once get it on paper, and it might as well be given to the town crier. 'Walls have ears,' saith the old saw, but paper hath a tongue. And I cannot tell him by word of mouth, sith he is now at Sandwich, and turneth not home afore Thursday. Elsewise that were good counsel."

"Ask True," suggested Mistress Grena with a smile. "The young wit is the readiest amongst us, as methinks."

"Under your correction, Father, could you not write a letter, and entrust it to Margery, to be sent to Uncle as Thursday even—giving it into her hand the last minute afore we depart? Is she not trustworthy, think you?"

"She is trustworthy enough, if she be let be. But I misdoubt if her wits should carry her safe through a discourse with Father Bastian, if he were bent on winning the truth from her. I could trust Osmund better for that; but I looked to take him withal."

"Give me leave then, Father, to walk down to Uncle's, as if I wist not of his absence, and slip the letter into one of his pockets. He alway leaveth one of his gowns a-hanging in the hall."

"And if his Martha were seized with a cleaning fever whilst he is thence, and turned out the pocket, where should we then be? Nay, True, that shall not serve. I can think of no means but that you twain set forth alone—to wit, without me—under guidance of Osmund, and that I follow, going round by Sandwich, having there seen and advertised my brother."

"Were there no danger that way, Tom?"

"There is danger every way," replied Mr Roberts, with a groan. "But maybe there is as little that way as any: and I would fain save Gertrude's inheritance if it may be."

"At the cost of your liberty, Father? Nay, not so, I entreat you!" cried Gertrude, with a flash of that noble nature which seemed to have been awakened in her. "Let mine inheritance go as it will."

"As God wills," gently put in Mistress Grena.

"As God wills," repeated Gertrude: "and keep you safe."

Mistress Grena laid her hand on her brother's shoulder.

"Tom," she said, "let us trust the Lord in this matter. Draw you up, if you will, a lease of Primrose Croft to the Justice, and leave it in the house in some safe place. God can guide his hand to it, if He will. Otherwise, let us leave it be."

That was the course resolved on in the end. It was also decided that they should not attempt to repeat the night escape which had already taken place. They were to set forth openly in daylight, but separately, and on three several pretexts. Mistress Grena was to go on a professed visit to Christabel, old Osmund escorting her; but instead of returning home afterwards, she was to go forward to Seven Roods, and there await the arrival of Mr Roberts. He was to proceed to his cloth-works at Cranbrook, as he usually did on a Tuesday; and when the time came to return home to supper, was to go to Seven Roods and rejoin Grena. To Gertrude, at her own request, was allotted the hardest and most perilous post of all—to remain quietly at home after her father and aunt had departed, engaged in her usual occupations, until afternoon, when she was to go out as if for a walk, accompanied by the great house-dog, Jack, and meet her party a little beyond Seven Roods. Thence they were to journey to Maidstone and Rochester, whence they could take ship to the North. Jack, in his life-long character of an attached and incorruptible protector, was to go with them. He would be quite as ready, in the interests of his friends, to bite a priest as a layman, and would show his teeth at the Sheriff with as little compunction as at a street-sweeper. Moreover, like all of his race, Jack was a forgiving person. Many a time had Gertrude teased and tormented him for her own amusement, but nobody expected Jack to remember it against her, when he was summoned to protect her from possible enemies. But perhaps the greatest advantage in Jack's guardianship of Gertrude was the fact that there had always been from time immemorial to men—and dogs—an unconquerable aversion, not always tacit, especially on Jack's part, between him and the Rev. Mr Bastian. If there was an individual in the world who might surely be relied on to object to the reverend gentleman's appearance, that individual was Jack: and if any person existed in whose presence Mr Bastian was likely to hesitate about attaching himself to Gertrude's company, that person was Jack also. Jack never had been able to see why the priest should visit his master, and had on several occasions expressed his opinion on that point with much decision and lucidity. If, therefore, Mr Bastian would keep away from the house until Gertrude started on her eventful walk, he was not very likely to trouble her afterwards.

The priest had fully intended to call at Primrose Croft that very afternoon, to see Mr Roberts, or if he were absent, Mistress Grena; but he preferred the gentleman, as being usually more manageable than the lady. He meant to terrify the person whom he might see, by vague hints of something which he had heard—and which was not to be mentioned—that it might be mournfully necessary for him to report to the authorities if more humility and subordination to his orders were not shown. But he was detained, first by a brother priest who wished to consult him in a difficulty, then by the Cardinal's sumner, who brought documents from his Eminence, and lastly by a beggar requesting alms. Having at length freed himself from these interruptions, he set out for Primrose Croft. He had passed through the gates, and was approaching the door, when he saw an unwelcome sight which brought him to a sudden stop. That sight was a long feathery tail, waving above a clump of ferns to the left. Was it possible that the monster was loose? The gate was between Mr Bastian and that tail, in an infinitesimal space of time. Ignorant of the presence of the enemy, the wind being in the wrong direction, Jack finished at leisure his inspection of the ferns, and bounded after Gertrude.

"How exceedingly annoying!" said Mr Bastian to himself. "If that black demon had been out of the way, and safely chained up, as he ought to have been, I could have learned from the girl whether she had overheard anything. I am sure it was her hood that I saw disappearing behind the laurels. How very provoking! It must be Satan that sent the creature this way at this moment. However, she will come to shrift, of course, on Sunday, and then I shall get to know."

So saying, Mr Bastian turned round and went home, Gertrude sauntered leisurely through the garden, went out by the wicket-gate, which Jack preferred to clear at a bound, and walked rather slowly up the road, followed by her sable escort. She was afraid of seeming in haste until she was well out of the immediate neighbourhood. The clouds were so far threatening that she felt it safe to carry her cloak—a very necessary travelling companion in days when there were no umbrellas. She had stitched sundry gold coins and some jewellery into her underclothing, but she could bring away nothing else. John Banks passed her on the road, with a mutual recognition; two disreputable-looking tramps surveyed her covetously, but ventured on no nearer approach when Jack remarked, "If you do—!" The old priest of Cranbrook, riding past—a quiet, kindly old man for whom Jack entertained no aversion—blessed her in response to her reverence. Two nuns, with inscrutable white marble faces, took no apparent notice of her. A woman with a basket on her arm stopped her to ask the way to Frittenden. Passing them all, she turned away from the road just before reaching Staplehurst, and took the field pathway which led past Seven Roods. Here Jack showed much uneasiness, evidently being aware that some friend of his had taken that way before them, and he decidedly disapproved of Gertrude's turning aside without going up to the house. The path now led through several fields, and across a brook spanned by a little rustic bridge, to the stile where it diverged into the high road from Cranbrook to Maidstone.

As they reached the last field, they saw Tabitha Hall coming to meet them.

"Glad to see you, Mistress Gertrude! All goes well. The Master and Mistress Grena's somewhat beyond, going at foot's pace, and looking out for you. So you won away easy, did you? I reckoned you would."

"Oh, ay, easy enough!" said Gertrude.

But she never knew how near she had been to that which would have made it almost if not wholly impossible.

"But how shall I ride, I marvel?" she asked, half-laughing. "I can scarce sit on my father's saddle behind him."

"Oh, look you, we have a pillion old Mistress Hall was wont to ride on, so Tom took and strapped it on at back of Master's saddle," said Tabitha, with that elaborate carelessness that people assume when they know they have done a kindness, but want to make it appear as small as possible.

"I am truly beholden to you, Mistress Hall; but I must not linger, so I can only pray God be wi' you," said Gertrude, using the phrase which has now become stereotyped into "good-bye."

"But, Mistress Gertrude! won't you step up to the house, and take a snack ere you go further? The fresh butter's but now churned, and eggs new-laid, and—"

"I thank you much, Mistress Hall, but I must not tarry now. May God of His mercy keep you and all yours safe!"

And Gertrude, calling Jack, who was deeply interested in a rabbit-hole, hastened on to the Maidstone Road.

"There's somewhat come over Mistress Gertrude," said Tabitha, as she re-entered her own house. "Never saw her so meek-spoken in all my life. She's not one to be cowed by peril, neither. Friswith, where on earth hast set that big poker? Hast forgot that I keep it handy for Father Bastian and the catchpoll, whichever of 'em lacks it first? Good lack, but I cannot away with that going astray! Fetch it hither this minute. Up in the chamber! Bless me, what could the maid be thinking on? There, set it down in the chimney-corner to keep warm; it'll not take so long to heat then. Well! I trust they'll win away all safe; but I'd as lief not be in their shoon."

A faint sound came from the outside. Jack had spied his friends, and was expressing his supreme delight at having succeeded in once more piecing together the scattered fragments of his treasure.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

PUZZLED.

Old Margery Danby, the housekeeper at Primrose Croft, was more thoroughly trustworthy than Mr Roberts had supposed, not only in will— for which he gave her full credit—but in capacity, which he had doubted. Born in the first year of Henry the Seventh, Margery had heard stirring tales in her childhood from parents who had lived through the Wars of the Roses, and she too well remembered Kett's rebellion and the enclosure riots in King Edward's days, not to know that "speech is silvern, but silence is golden." The quiet, observant old woman knew perfectly well that something was "in the wind." It was not her master's wont to look back, and say, "Farewell, Margery!" before he mounted his horse on a Tuesday morning for his weekly visit to the cloth-works; and it was still less usual for Gertrude to remark, "Good-morrow, good Margery!" before she went out for a walk with Jack. Mistress Grena, too, had called her into her own room the night before, and told her she had thought for some time of making her a little present, as a recognition of her long care and fidelity, and had given her two royals—the older name for half-sovereigns. Margery silently "put two and two together," and the result was to convince her that something was about to happen. Nor did she suffer from any serious doubts as to what it was. She superintended the preparation of supper on that eventful day with a settled conviction that nobody would be at home to eat it; and when the hours passed away, and nobody returned, the excitement of Cicely the chamber-maid, and Dick the scullion-boy, was not in the least shared by her. Moreover, she had seen with some amusement Mr Bastian's approach and subsequent retreat, and she expected to see him again ere long. When the bell rang the next morning about eight o'clock, Margery went to answer it herself, and found herself confronting the gentleman she had anticipated.

"Christ save all here!" said the priest, in reply to Margery's reverential curtsey. "Is your master within, good woman?"

"No, Father, an't like you."

"No? He is not wont to go forth thus early. Mistress Grena?"

"No, Sir, nor Mistress Gertrude neither."

The priest lifted his eyebrows. "All hence! whither be they gone?"

"An' it please you, Sir, I know not."

"That is strange. Went they together?"

"No, Sir, separate."

"Said they nought touching their absence?"

"Not to me, Father."

"Have you no fantasy at all whither they went?"

"I took it, Sir, that my master went to the works, as he is wont of a Tuesday; and I thought Mistress Grena was a-visiting some friend. Touching Mistress Gertrude I can say nought."

"She went not forth alone, surely?"

"She took Jack withal, Sir—none else."

The conviction was slowly growing in Mr Bastian's mind that the wave of that feathery tail had deprived him of the only means of communication which he was ever likely to have with Gertrude Roberts. "The sly minx!" he said to himself. Then aloud to Margery, "Do I take you rightly that all they departed yesterday, and have not yet returned?"

"That is sooth, Father."

Margery stood holding the door, with a calm, stolid face, which looked as if an earthquake would neither astonish nor excite her. Mr Bastian took another arrow from his quiver, one which he generally found to do considerable execution.

"Woman," he said sternly, "you know more than you have told me!"

"Father, with all reverence, I know no more than you."

Her eyes met his with no appearance of insincerity.

"Send Osmund to me," he said, walking into the house, and laying down his hat and stick on the settle in the hall.

"Sir, under your good pleasure, Osmund went with Mistress."

"And turned not again?"

"He hath not come back here, Sir."

"Then they have taken flight!" cried the priest in a passion. "Margery Danby, as you fear the judgment of the Church, and value her favour, I bid you tell me whither they are gone."

"Sir, even for holy Church's favour, I cannot say that which I know not."

"On your soul's salvation, do you not know it?" he said solemnly.

"On my soul's salvation, Sir, I know it not."

The priest strode up and down the hall more than once. Then he came and faced Margery, who was now standing beside the wide fireplace in the hall.

"Have you any guess whither your master may be gone, or the gentlewomen?"

"I've guessed a many things since yester-even, Sir," answered Margery quietly, "but which is right and which is wrong I can't tell."

"When Mistress Collenwood and Mistress Pandora went hence secretly in the night-time, knew you thereof, beforehand?"

"Surely no, Father."

"Had you any ado with their departing?"

"The first thing I knew or guessed thereof, Father, was the next morrow, when I came into the hall and saw them not."

Mr Bastian felt baffled on every side. That his prey had eluded him just in time to escape the trap he meant to lay for them, was manifest. What his next step was to be, was not equally clear.

"Well!" he said at last with a disappointed air, "if you know nought, 'tis plain you can tell nought. I must essay to find some that can."

"I have told you all I know, Father," was the calm answer. But Margery did not say that she had told all she thought, nor that if she had known more she would have revealed it.

Mr Bastian took up his hat and stick, pausing for a moment at the door to ask, "Is that black beast come back?"

"Jack is not returned, Sir," answered the housekeeper.

It was with a mingled sense of relief and uneasiness on that point that the priest took the road through the village. That Jack was out of the way was a delicious relief. But suppose Jack should spring suddenly on him out of some hedge, or on turning a corner? Out of the way might turn out to be all the more surely in it.

Undisturbed, however, by any vision of a black face and a feathery tail, Mr Bastian reached Roger Hall's door. Nell opened it, and unwillingly admitted that her master was at home, Mr Bastian being so early that Roger had not yet left his house for the works. Roger received him in his little parlour, to which Christie had not yet been carried.

"Hall, are you aware of your master's flight?"

Roger Hall opened his eyes in genuine amazement.

"No, Sir! Is he gone, then?"

"He never returned home after leaving the works yesterday."

Roger's face expressed nothing but honest concern for his master's welfare. "He left the works scarce past three of the clock," said he, "and took the road toward Primrose Croft. God grant none ill hath befallen him!"

"Nought o' the sort," said the priest bluntly. "The gentlewomen be gone belike, and Osmund with them. 'Tis a concerted plan, not a doubt thereof: and smelleth of the fire [implies heretical opinions], or I mistake greatly. Knew you nought thereof? Have a care how you make answer!"

"Father, you have right well amazed me but to hear it. Most surely I knew nought, saving only that when I returned home yestre'en, my little maid told me Mistress Grena had been so good as to visit her, and had brought her a cake and a posy of flowers from the garden. But if Osmund were with her or no, that did I not hear."

"Was Mistress Grena wont to visit your daughter?"

"By times, Father: not very often."

As all his neighbours must be aware of Mistress Grena's visit, Roger thought it the wisest plan to be perfectly frank on that point.

"Ask at Christabel if she wist whether Osmund came withal."

Roger made the inquiry, and returned with the information that Christabel did not know. From her couch she could only see the horse's ears, and had not noticed who was with it.

"'Tis strange matter," said the priest severely, "that a gentleman of means and station, with his sister, and daughter, and servant, could disappear thus utterly, and none know thereof!"

"It is, Father, in very deed," replied Roger sympathisingly.

"I pray you, Hall, make full inquiry at the works, and give me to wit if aught be known thereof. Remember, you are somewhat under a cloud from your near kinship to Alice Benden, and diligence in this matter may do you a good turn with holy Church."

"Sir, I will make inquiry at the works," was the answer, which did not convey Roger's intention to make no use of the inquiries that could damage his master, nor his settled conviction that no information was to be had.

The only person at all likely to know more than himself was the cashier at the works, since he lived between Cranbrook and Primrose Croft, and Roger carefully timed his inquiries so as not to include him. The result was what he expected—no one could tell him anything. He quickly and diligently communicated this interesting fact to the priest's servant, his master not being at home; and Mr Bastian was more puzzled than ever. The nine days' wonder gradually died down. On the Thursday evening Mr Justice Roberts came home, and was met by the news of his brother's disappearance, with his family. He was so astonished that he sat open-mouthed, knife and spoon in hand, while his favourite dish of broiled fowl grew cold, until he had heard all that Martha had to tell him. Supper was no sooner over, than off he set to Primrose Croft.

"Well, Madge, old woman!" said he to the old housekeeper, who had once been his nurse, "this is strange matter, surely! Is all true that Martha tells me? Be all they gone, and none wist how nor whither?"

"Come in, and sit you down by the fire, Master Anthony," said Margery, in whose heart was a very soft spot for her sometime nursling, "and I'll tell you all I know. Here's the master's keys, they'll maybe be safer in your hands than mine; he didn't leave 'em wi' me, but I went round the house and picked 'em all up, and locked everything away from them prying maids and that young jackanapes of a Dickon. Some he must ha' took with him; but he's left the key of the old press, look you, and that label hanging from it."

The Justice looked at the label, and saw his own name written in his brother's writing.

"Ha! maybe he would have me open the press and search for somewhat. Let us go to his closet, Madge. Thou canst tell me the rest there, while I see what this meaneth."

"There's scarce any rest to tell, Mr Anthony; only they are all gone— Master, and Mistress Grena, and Mistress Gertrude, and Osmund, and bay Philbert, and the black mare, and old Jack."

"What, Jack gone belike! Dear heart alive! Why, Madge, that hath little look of coming again."

"It hasn't, Mr Anthony; and one of Mistress Gertrude's boxes, that she keeps her gems in, lieth open and empty in her chamber."

The Justice whistled softly as he fitted the key in the lock.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

HOW HE HEARD IT.

"Why, what's this?"

Mr Justice Roberts had opened the old press, tried all the drawers, and come at last to the secret drawer, of whose existence only he and his brother knew. No sooner had he applied his hand to a secret spring, than out darted the drawer, showing that it held a long legal-looking document, and a letter addressed to himself. He opened and read the latter, Margery standing quietly at a little distance. Slowly and thoughtfully, when he had finished the letter, he folded it up, pocketed it, and turned to Margery.

"Ay, Madge," he said, "they are gone."

"And not coming back, Master Anthony?"

"Not while—well, not at this present. Madge, my brother would have me come hither, and take up mine abode here—for a while, look you; and methinks I shall so do."

"Well, Mr Anthony, and I shall be full fain. I've been right trembling in my shoes this three days, lest them noisome pests should think to come and take possession—turn out all. Master's papers, and count Mistress Grena's partlets, and reckon up every crack in the kitchen trenchers; but there's nought 'll keep 'em out, even to you coming, 'cause they'll be a bit 'feared of you, as being a Justice of Peace. Ay, I am glad o' that."

"'Noisome pests'! Why, whom signify you, Madge?"

"Oh, catchpolls, and thirdboroughs [minor constables], and sheriffs, and hangmen, and 'turneys, and the like o' they," replied Margery, not very lucidly: "they be pests, the lot of 'em, as ever I see. They're as ill as plumbers and painters and rats and fleas—once get 'em in, and there's no turning of 'em out. I cannot abide 'em."

Mr Justice Roberts laughed. "Come, Madge, you may as well add 'Justices of Peace'; you've got pretty nigh all else. Prithee look to thy tongue, old woman, or thou shalt find thee indicted for an ill subject unto the Queen. Why, they be her Gracious' servants ['Grace's' was then frequently spelt 'Gracious''], and do her bidding. Thou wouldst not rebel against the Queen's Majesty?"

"I am as true a woman to the Queen's Grace as liveth, Mr Anthony; but them folks isn't the Queen nor the King neither. And they be as cantankerous toads, every one of 'em, as ever jumped in a brook. Do you haste and come, there's a good lad, as you alway was, when you used to toddle about the house, holding by my gown. It'll seem like old times to have you back."

"Well, I can come at once," said the Justice, with a smile at Margery's reminiscences; "for my brother hath left me a power of attorney to deal with his lands and goods; and as he is my landlord, I have but to agree with myself over the leaving of mine house. But I shall bring Martha: I trust you'll not quarrel."

"No fear o' that, Mr Anthony. Martha, she's one of the quiet uns, as neither makes nor meddles; and I've had strife enough to last me the rest o' my life. 'Tis them flaunting young hussies as reckons quarrelling a comfort o' their lives. And now Osmund's hence, Martha can wait on you as she's used, and she and me 'll shake down like a couple o' pigeons."

"Good. Then I'll be hither in a day or twain: and if any of your pests come meantime, you shake my stick at them, Madge, and tell them I'm at hand."

"No fear! I'll see to that!" was the hearty answer.

So the Justice took up his abode at Primrose Croft, and the cantankerous toads did not venture near. Mr Roberts had requested his brother to hold the estate for him, or in the event of his death for Gertrude, until they should return; which, of course, meant, and was quite understood to mean, until the death of the Queen should make way for the accession of the Protestant Princess Elizabeth. Plain speech was often dangerous in those days, and people generally had recourse to some vague form of words which might mean either one thing or another. The Justice went down to the cloth-works on the following Tuesday, and called Roger Hall into the private room.

"Read those, Hall, an' it like you," he said, laying before him Mr Roberts' letter and the power of attorney.

Roger only glanced at them, and then looked up with a smile.

"I looked for something of this kind, Mr Justice," he said. "When Master left the works on Tuesday evening, he said to me, 'If my brother come, Hall, you will see his orders looked to—' and I reckoned it meant somewhat more than an order for grey cloth. We will hold ourselves at your commands, Mr Justice, and I trust you shall find us to your satisfaction."

"No doubt, Hall, no doubt!" replied the easy-tempered Justice. "Shut that further door an instant. Have you heard aught of late touching your sister?"

"Nought different, Mr Justice. She is yet in the Castle, but I cannot hear of any further examination, nor sentence."

"Well, well! 'Tis sore pity folks cannot believe as they should, and keep out of trouble."

Roger Hall was unable to help thinking that if Mr Justice Roberts had spoken his real thoughts, and had dared to do it, what he might have said would rather have been—"'Tis sore pity folks cannot let others alone to believe as they like, and not trouble them."

That afternoon, the Lord Bishop of Dover held his Court in Canterbury Castle, and a string of prisoners were brought up for judgment. Among them came our friends from Staplehurst—Alice Benden, who was helped into Court by her fellow-prisoners, White and Pardue, for she could scarcely walk; Fishcock, Mrs Final, Emmet Wilson, and Sens Bradbridge. For the last time they were asked if they would recant. The same answer came from all—

"By the grace of God, we will not."

Then the awful sentence was passed—to be handed over to the secular arm—the State, which the Church prayed to punish these malefactors according to their merits. By a peculiarly base and hypocritical fiction, it was made to appear that the Church never put any heretic to death—she only handed them over to the State, with a touching request that they might be gently handled! What that gentle handling meant, every man knew. If the State had treated a convicted heretic to any penalty less than death, it would soon have been found out what the Church understood by gentle handling!

Then the second sentence, that of the State, was read by the Sheriff. On Saturday, the nineteenth of June, the condemned criminals were to be taken to the field beyond the Dane John, and in the hollow at the end thereof to be burned at the stake till they were dead, for the safety of the Queen and her realm, and to the glory of God Almighty. God save the Queen!

None of the accused spoke, saving two. Most bowed their heads as if in acceptance of the sentence. Alice Benden, turning to Nicholas Pardue, said with a light in her eyes—

"Then shall we keep our Trinity octave in Heaven!"

Poor Sens Bradbridge, stretching out her arms, cried aloud to the Bishop—"Good my Lord, will you not take and keep Patience and Charity?"

"Nay, by the faith of my body!" was Dick of Dover's reply. "I will meddle with neither of them both."

"His Lordship spake sooth then at the least!" observed one of the amused crowd.

There was one man from Staplehurst among the spectators, and that was John Banks. He debated long with himself on his way home, whether to report the terrible news to the relatives of the condemned prisoners, and at last he decided not to do so. There could be no farewells, he knew, save at the stake itself; and it would spare them terrible pain not to be present. One person, however, he rather wished would be present. It might possibly be for his good, and Banks had no particular desire to spare him. He turned a little out of his way to go up to Briton's Mead.

Banks found his sister hanging out clothes in the drying-ground behind the house.

"Well, Jack!" she said, as she caught sight of him.

"Is thy master within, Mall? If so be, I would have a word with him an' I may."

"Ay, he mostly is, these days. He's took to be terrible glum and grumpy. I'll go see if he'll speak with you."

"Tell him I bring news that it concerns him to hear."

Mary stopped and looked at him.

"Go thy ways, Mall. I said not, news it concerned thee to hear."

"Ay, but it doth! Jack, it is touching Mistress?"

"It is not ill news for her," replied Banks quietly.

"Then I know what you mean," said Mary, with a sob. "Oh, Jack, Jack! that we should have lived to see this day!"

She threw her apron over her face, and disappeared into the house. Banks waited a few minutes, till Mary returned with a disgusted face.

"You may go in, Jack; but 'tis a stone you'll find there."

Banks made his way to the dining-room, where Mr Benden was seated with a dish of cherries before him.

"'Day!" was all the greeting he vouchsafed.

"Good-day, Master. I am but now returned from Canterbury, where I have been in the Bishop's Court."

"Humph!" was the only expression of Mr Benden's interest. He had grown harder, colder, and stonier, since those days when he missed Alice's presence. He did not miss her now.

"The prisoners from this place were sentenced to-day."

"Humph!"

"They shall die there, the nineteenth of June next." Banks did not feel it at all necessary to soften his words, as he seemed to be addressing a stone wall.

"Humph!" The third growl sounded gruffer than the rest.

"And Mistress Benden said to Nichol Pardue—'Then shall we keep our Trinity octave in Heaven!'"

Mr Benden rose from his chair. Was he moved at last? What was he about to say? Thrusting forth a finger towards the door, he compressed his thanks and lamentations into a word—

"Go!"

John Banks turned away. Why should he stay longer?

"Poor soul!" was what he said, when he found himself again in the kitchen with Mary.

"What, him?" answered Mary rather scornfully.

"No—her, that she had to dwell with him. She'll have fairer company after Saturday."

"Is it Saturday, Jack?"

"Ay, Mall. Would you be there? I shall."

"No," said Mary, in a low tone. "I couldn't keep back my tears, and maybe they'd hurt her. She'll lack all her brave heart, and I'll not trouble her in that hour."

"You'd best not let Master Hall know—neither Mr Roger, nor Mr Thomas. It'd nigh kill poor little Mistress Christie to know of it aforehand. She loved her Aunt Alice so dearly."

"I can hold my tongue, Jack. Easier, maybe, than I can keep my hands off that wretch in yonder!"

When Mary went in to lay the cloth for the last meal, she found the wretch in question still seated at the table, his head buried in his hands. A gruffer voice than ever bade her "Let be! Keep away!" Mary withdrew quietly, and found it a shade easier to keep her hands off Mr Benden after that incident.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

ONE SUMMER DAY.

The nineteenth of June was the loveliest of summer days, even in the Martyrs' Field at Canterbury, in the hollow at the end of which the seven stakes were set up. The field is nearly covered now by the station of the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway, but the hollow can still be traced whence the souls of His faithful witnesses went up to God.

John Banks was early on the ground, and so secured a front place. The crowd grew apace, until half the field was covered. Not only residents of the city, but casual sight-seers, made up the bulk of it, the rather since it was somewhat dangerous to be absent, especially for a suspected person. From the neighbouring villages, too, many came in—the village squire and his dame in rustling silks, the parish priest in his cassock, the labourers and their wives in holiday garb.

Then the Castle gates opened, and the Wincheap Gate; and forth from them came a slow, solemn procession, preceded by a crucifer bearing a silver cross, a long array of black-robed priests, and then the Lord Bishop of Dover, in his episcopal robes, followed by two scarlet-cassocked acolytes swinging thuribles, from which ascended a cloud of incense between his Lordship's sacred person and the wicked heretics who were to follow. Two and two they came, John Fishcock the butcher, led like one of his own sheep to the slaughter, and Nicholas White the ironmonger; Nicholas Pardue and Sens Bradbridge; Mrs Final and Emmet Wilson. After all the rest came Alice Benden, on the last painful journey that she should ever take. She would mount next upon wings as an eagle, and there should for her be no more pain.

The martyrs recognised their friend John Banks, and each greeted him by a smile. Then they took off their outer garments—which were the perquisites of the executioners—and stood arrayed every one in that white robe of martyrdom, of which so many were worn in Mary's reign; a long plain garment, falling from the throat to the feet, with long loose sleeves buttoned at the wrists. Thus prepared, they knelt down to pray, while the executioners heaped the faggots in the manner best suited for quick burning. Rising from their prayers, each was chained to a stake. Now was the moment for the last farewells.

John Banks went up to Alice Benden.

"Courage, my mistress, for a little time! and the Lord be with you!"

"Amen!" she answered. "I thank thee, Jack. Do any of my kin know of my burning?"

"Mistress, I told not your brethren, and methinks they wot not of the day. Methought it should be sore to them, and could do you but a little good. I pray you, take me as 'presenting all your friends, that do bid you right heartily farewell, and desire for you an abundant entrance into the happy kingdom of our Lord God."

"I thank thee with all mine heart, Jack; thou hast well done. Give, I pray thee, to my brother Roger this new shilling, the which my father sent me at my first imprisonment, desiring him that he will give the same unto mine old good father, in token that I never lacked money, with mine obedient salutations."

The gaoler now approached her to place the faggots closer, and Banks was reluctantly compelled to retire. From her waist Alice took a white lace which she had tied round it, and handed it to the gaoler, saying, "Keep this, I beseech you, for my brother Roger Hall. It is the last bond I was bound with, except this chain."

Then the torch was put to the faggots.

"Keep this in memory of me!" reached John Banks, in the clear tones of Alice Benden; and a white cambric handkerchief fluttered above the crowd, and fell into his outstretched hands. [These farewells of Alice Benden are historical.]

And so He led them to the haven where they would be.

"No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing!"

There was a hard task yet before John Banks. He had to visit eight houses, and at each to tell his awful tale, to father and mother, brother and sister, son and daughter—in three instances to husband or wife—of the martyrs who had gone home. His first visit was to Seven Roods.

"Well, Jack Banks! I thought you'd been dead and buried!" was Tabitha's sarcastic intimation that it was some time since she had seen him.

"Ah, Mistress Hall, I could well-nigh wish I had been, before I came to bring you such tidings as I bring to-day."

Tabitha looked up in his face, instantly dropped the mop in her hand, and came over to where he stood.

"'Tis more than 'may be,'" she said significantly, "and I reckon 'tis more than 'must be.' John Banks, is it done?"

"It is done," he replied. "'The Lord God hath wiped away all tears from her eyes.'"

"The Lord look upon it, and avenge her!" was the answer, in Tabitha's sternest and most solemn voice. "The Lord requite it on the head of Edward Benden, and on the head of Richard Thornton! Wherefore doth He not rend the heavens and come down? Wherefore—" and as suddenly as before, Tabitha broke down, and cried her heart out as Banks had never imagined Tabitha Hall could do.

Banks did not attempt to reprove her. It was useless. He only said quietly, "Forgive me to leave you thus, but I must be on my way, for my tidings must yet be told six times, and there be some hearts will break to hear them."

"I'll spare you one," said Tabitha, as well as she could speak. "You may let be Roger Hall. I'll tell him."

Banks drew a long breath. Could he trust this strange, satirical, yet warm-hearted woman to tell those tidings in that house of all others? And the white lace, which the gaoler, knowing him to be a Staplehurst man, had entrusted to him to give, could he leave it with her?

"Nay, not so, I pray you, and thank you, Mistress. I have an especial message and token for Master Hall. But if you would of your goodness let Mistress Final's childre know thereof, that should do me an easement, for the White Hart is most out of my way."

"So be it, Jack, and God speed thee!"

Turning away from Seven Roods, Banks did his terrible errand to the six houses. It was easiest at Fishcock's, where the relatives were somewhat more distant than at the rest; but hard to tell Nicholas White's grey-haired wife that she was a widow, hard to tell Emmet Wilson's husband that he had no more a wife; specially hard at Collet Pardue's cottage, where the news meant not only sorrow but worldly ruin, so far as mortal eye might see. Then he turned off to Briton's Mead, and told Mary, whose tears flowed fast.

"Will you speak to him?" she said, in an awed tone.

"No!" said Banks, almost sternly. "At the least—what doth he?"

"Scarce eats a morsel, and his bed's all awry in the morning, as if he'd done nought but toss about all the night; I think he sleeps none, or very nigh. I never speak to him without he first doth, and that's mighty seldom."

Banks hesitated a moment. Then he went forward, and opened the door of the dining-room.

"Mr Benden!" he said.

The room was in semi-darkness, having no light but that of the moon, and Banks could see only just enough to assure him that something human sat in the large chair at the further end. But no sound answered his appeal.

"I am but now arrived from Canterbury."

Still no answer came. John Banks went on, in a soft, hushed voice—not in his own words. If the heart of stone could be touched, God's words might do it; if not, still they were the best.

"'She shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light upon her, neither any heat. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the Seat hath fed her, and hath led her unto fountains of living water; and God hath wiped away all tears from her eyes.'"

He paused a moment, but the dead silence was unbroken.

One word more. "The Lord have mercy on thy soul, thou miserable sinner!" Then Banks shut the door softly and went away.

There we leave Edward Benden, with the black silence of oblivion over his future life. Whether the Holy Spirit of God ever took the stony heart out of him, and gave him a heart of flesh, God alone knows. For this, in its main features, is a true story, and there is no word to tell us what became of the husband and betrayer of Alice Benden.

John Banks went on to the last house he had to visit—the little house by the Second Acre Close. Roger Hall opened the door himself. Banks stepped in, and as the light of the hall lantern fell upon his face, Roger uttered an exclamation of pain and fear.

"Jack! Thy face—"

"Hath my face spoken to you, Master Hall, afore my tongue could frame so to do? Perchance it is best so. Hold your hand."

Roger obeyed mechanically, and Banks laid on the hand held forth the long white lace.

"For you," he said, his voice broken by emotion. John Banks' nerves were pretty well worn out by that day's work, as well they might be. "She gave it me for you—at the last. She bade me say it was the last bond she was bound with—except that chain."

"Thank God!" were the first words that broke from the brother who loved Alice so dearly. The Christian spoke them; but the next moment the man came uppermost, and an exceeding bitter cry of "O Alice, Alice!" followed the thanksgiving of faith.

"It is over," said Banks, in a husky voice. "She 'shall never see evil any more.'"

But he knew well that he could give no comfort to that stricken heart. Quietly, and quickly, he laid down the new shilling, with its message for the poor old father; and then without another word—not even saying "good-night," he went out and closed the door behind him. Only God could speak comfort to Roger and Christabel in that dark hour. Only God could help poor Roger to tell Christie that she would never see her dear Aunt Alice any more until she should clasp hands with her on the street of the Golden City, and under the shade of the Tree of Life. And God would help him: John Banks was quite sure of that. But as he stepped out into the summer night, it seemed almost as if he could see a vision—as if the outward circumstances in which he had beheld the trio were prophetic—Alice in the glory of the great light, Roger with his way shown clearly by the little lamp of God's Word, and Edward in that black shadow, made lurid and more awful by the faint unearthly light. The moon came out brightly from behind a cloud, just as Banks lifted his eyes upwards.

"Good God, forgive us all!" he said earnestly, "and help all that need Thee!"

Alice was above all help, and Roger was sure of help. But who or what could help Edward Benden save the sovereign mercy of God?



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

WHAT THEY COULD.

A month had passed since the burning of the Canterbury martyrs. The Bishop of Dover had gone on a visit to London, and the land had rest in his absence. It may be noted here, since we shall see no more of him, that he did not long survive the event. He was stricken suddenly with palsy, as he stood watching a game at bowls on a Sunday afternoon, and was borne to his bed to die. The occupation wherein the "inevitable angel" found him, clearly shows what manner of man he was.

In Roger Hall's parlour a little conclave was gathered for discussion of various subjects, consisting of the handful of Gospellers yet left in Staplehurst. Various questions had been considered, and dismissed as settled, and the conversation flagged for a few seconds, when Tabitha suddenly flung a new topic into the arena.

"Now, what's to be done for that shiftless creature, Collet Pardue? Six lads and two lasses, and two babes of Sens Bradbridge's, and fewer wits than lads, and not so many pence as lasses. Won't serve to find 'em all dead in the gutter. So what's to be done? Speak up, will you, and let's hear."

"I can't speak on those lines, Tabitha," replied her brother-in-law. "Collet is no wise shiftless, for she hath brought up her children in a good and godly fashion, the which a woman with fewer brains than lads should ne'er have done. But I verily assent with you that we should do something to help her. And first—who will take to Sens Bradbridge's maids?"

"I will, if none else wants 'em. But they'll not be pampered and stuffed with cates, and lie on down beds, and do nought, if they dwell with me. I shall learn 'em to fare hard and be useful, I can tell you."

"Whether of the twain call you them syllabubs and custard pies as you set afore us when we supped last with you, Mistress Hall?" quietly asked Ursula Final. "Seemed to me I could put up with hard fare o' that sort metely well."

"Don't be a goose, Ursula. They've got to keep their hands in, a-cooking, haven't they? and when things be made, you can't waste 'em nor give 'em the pigs. They've got to be ate, haven't they?" demanded Mrs Tabitha, in tones of battle; and Ursula subsided without attempting a defence.

"What say you, Tom?" asked Roger, looking at his brother.

Mr Thomas Hall, apparently, did not dare to say anything. He glanced deprecatingly at his domestic tyrant, and murmured a few words, half swallowed in the utterance, of which "all agree" were the only distinguishable syllables.

"Oh, he'll say as I say," responded Tabitha unblushingly. "There's no man in the Weald knows his duty better than Thomas Hall; it'd be a mercy if he'd sometimes do it."

Mr Thomas Hall's look of meek appeal said "Don't I?" in a manner which was quite pathetic.

"Seems to me," said Ralph Final, the young landlord of the White Hart, "that if we were all to put of a hat or a bowl such moneys as we could one and another of us afford by the year, for Mistress Pardue and the childre—such as could give money, look you—and them that couldn't should say what they would give, it'd be as plain a way as any."

"Well said, Ralph!" pronounced Mrs Tabitha, who took the lead as usual. "I'll give my maids' cast-off clothes for the childre, the elder, I mean, such as 'll fit 'em; the younger must go for Patience and Charity. And I'll let 'em have a quart of skim milk by the day, as oft as I have it to spare; and eggs if I have 'em. And Thomas 'll give 'em ten shillings by the year. And I shouldn't marvel if I can make up a kirtle or a hood for Collet by nows and thens, out of some gear of my own."

Mr Thomas Hall being looked at by the Synod to see if he assented, confirmed the statement of his arbitrary Tabitha by a submissive nod.

"I'll give two nobles by the year," said Ralph, "and a peck of barley by the quarter, and a cask of beer at Christmas."

"I will give them a sovereign by the year," said Roger Hall, "and half a bale of cloth from the works, that Master suffers me to buy at cost price."

"I can't do so much as you," said Eleanor White, the ironmonger's widow; "but I'll give Collet the worth of an angel in goods by the year, and the produce of one of the pear-trees in my garden."

"I can't do much neither," added Emmet Wilson's husband, the baker; "but I'll give them a penn'orth of bread by the week, and a peck of meal at Easter."

"And I'll chop all the wood they burn," said his quiet, studious son Titus, "and learn the lads to read."

"Why, Titus, you are offering the most of us all in time and labour!" exclaimed Roger Hall.

"You've got your work cut and measured, Titus Wilson," snapped Tabitha. "If one of them lads'll bide quiet while you can drum ABC into his head that it'll tarry there a week, 'tis more than I dare look for, I can tell you."

"There's no telling what you can do without you try," was the pithy answer of Titus.

"I've been marvelling what I could do," said John Banks modestly, "and I was a bit beat out of heart by your sovereigns and nobles; for I couldn't scarce make up a crown by the year. But Titus has showed me the way. I'll learn one of the lads my trade, if Collet 'll agree."

"Well, then, that is all we can do, it seems—" began Roger, but he was stopped by a plaintive voice from the couch.

"Mightn't I do something, Father? I haven't only a sixpence in money; but couldn't I learn Beatrice to embroider, if her mother would spare her?"

"My dear heart, it were to try thy strength too much, I fear," said Roger tenderly.

"But you're all doing something," said Christie earnestly, "and wasn't our blessed Lord weary when He sat on the well? I might give Him a little weariness, mightn't I—when I've got nothing better?"

To the surprise of everybody, Thomas had replied.

"We're not doing much, measured by that ell-wand," said the silent man; "but Titus and Banks and Christie, they're doing the most."

Poor Collet Pardue broke down in a confused mixture of thanks and tears, when she heard the propositions of her friends. She was gratefully willing to accept all the offers. Three of her boys were already employed at the cloth-works; one of the younger trio should go to Banks to be brought up a mason. Which would he choose?

Banks looked at the three lads offered him—the noisy Noah, the ungovernable Silas, and the lazy Valentine.

"I'll have Silas," he said quietly.

"The worst pickle of the lot!" commented Mrs Tabitha, who made one of the deputation.

"Maybe," said Banks calmly; "but I see wits there, and I'll hope for a heart, and with them and the grace of God, which Collet and I shall pray for, we'll make a man of Silas Pardue yet."

And if John Banks ever regretted his decision, it was not on a certain winter evening, well into the reign of Elizabeth, when a fine, manly-looking fellow, with a grand forehead wherein "his soul lodged well," and bright intellectual eyes, came to tell him, the humble mason, that he had been chosen from a dozen candidates for the high post of architect of a new church.

"'Tis your doing," said the architect, as he wrung the hard hand of the mason. "You made a man of me by your teaching and praying, and never despairing that I should one day be worth the cost."

But we must return for a few minutes to Roger Hall's parlour, where he and his little invalid girl were alone on that night when the conference had been held.

"Father," said Christie, "please tell me what is a cross? and say it little, so as I can conceive the same."

"What manner of cross, sweet heart?"

"You know what our Lord saith, Father—'He that taketh not his cross, and followeth Me, is not worthy of Me.' I've been thinking a deal on it of late. I wouldn't like not to be worthy of Him. But I can't take my cross till I know what it is. I asked Cousin Friswith, and she said it meant doing all manner of hard disagreeable things, like the monks and nuns do—eating dry bread and sleeping of a board, and such like. But when I talked with Pen Pardue, she said she reckoned it signified not that at all. That was making crosses, and our Lord did not mention that. So please, Father, what is it?"

"Methinks, my child, Pen hath the right. 'Take' is not 'make.' We be to take the cross God layeth on our backs. He makes the crosses; we have but to take them and bear them. Folks make terrible messes by times when they essay to make their own crosses. But thou wouldest know what is a cross? Well, for thee, methinks, anything that cometh across thee and makes thee cross. None wist so well as thyself what so doth."

"But, Father!" said Christie in a tone of alarm.

"Well, sweet heart?"

"There must be such a lot of them!"

"For some folks, Christie, methinks the Lord carveth out one great heavy cross; but for others He hath, as it were, an handful of little light ones, that do but weigh a little, and prick a little, each one. And he knoweth which to give."

"I think," said Christie, with an air of profound meditation, "I must have the little handful. But then, must I carry them all at once?"

"One at once, little Christie—the one which thy Father giveth thee; let Him choose which, and how, and when. By times he may give thee more than one, but methinks mostly 'tis one at once, though they may change oft and swiftly. Take thy cross, and follow the Lord Jesus."

"There's banging doors," pursued Christie with the same thoughtful air; "that's one. And when my back aches, that's another, and when my head is so, so tired; and when I feel all strings that somebody's pulling, as if I couldn't keep still a minute. That last's one of the biggest, I reckon. And when—"

The little voice stopped suddenly for a moment.

"Father, can folks be crosses?"

"I fear they can, dear heart," replied her father, smiling; "and very sharp ones too."

Christie kept her next thoughts to herself. Aunt Tabitha and Cousin Friswith certainly must be crosses, she mentally decided, and Uncle Edward must have been dear Aunt Alice's cross, and a dreadful one. Then she came back to the point in hand.

"How must I 'take up' my cross, Father? Doth it mean I must not grumble at it, and feel as if I wanted to get rid of it as fast as ever I could?"

Roger smiled and sighed. "That is hard work, Christie, is it not? But it would be no cross if it were not hard and heavy. Thou canst not but feel that it will be a glad thing to lay it down; but now, while God layeth it on thee, be willing to bear it for His sake. He giveth it for thy sake, that thou mayest be made partaker of His holiness; be thou ready to carry it for His. 'The cup which My Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?'"

"There'll be no crosses and cups in heaven, will there, Father?"

"Not one, Christabel."

"Only crowns and harps?" the child went on thoughtfully. "Aunt Alice has both, Father. I think she must make right sweet music. I hope I sha'n't be far from her. Perhaps it won't be very long before I hear her. Think you it will, Father?"

Little Christabel had no idea what a sharp cross she had laid on her father's heart by asking him that question. Roger Hall had to fight with himself before he answered it, and it was scarcely to her that his reply was addressed.

"'Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.' 'He knoweth the way that I take.' 'I will not fail thee, neither forsake thee.'"

"Oh, Father, what pretty verses! Were you thinking perhaps you'd miss me if I went soon, poor Father? But maybe, I sha'n't, look you. 'Tis only when I ache so, and feel all over strings, sometimes I think— But we don't know, Father, do we? And we shall both be there, you know. It won't signify much, will it, which of us goes first?"

"It will only signify," said Roger huskily, "to the one that tarrieth."

"Well," answered Christie brightly, "and it won't do that long. I reckon we scarce need mind."



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

ONCE MORE AT HOME.

Up and down his garden—or, to speak more accurately, his brother's garden—strolled Mr Justice Roberts, his hands behind his back, on a mild afternoon at the beginning of December 1558. His thoughts, which of course we have the privilege of reading, ran somewhat in this fashion—

"Well, 'tis a mercy all is pretty well settled now. Nothing but joy and welcome for the Queen's accession. Every man about, pretty nigh, looks as if he had been released from prison, and was so thankful he scarce knew how to express it. To be sure there be a few contradictious folks that would fain have had the old fashions tarry; but, well-a-day! they be but an handful. I'll not say I'm not glad myself. I never did love committing those poor wretches that couldn't believe to order. I believe in doing your duty and letting peaceable folks be. If they do reckon a piece of bread to be a piece of bread, I'd never burn them for it."

By this reflection it will be seen that Mr Justice Roberts, in his heart, was neither a Papist nor a Protestant, but a good-natured Gallio, whose convictions were pliable when wanted so to be.

"I marvel how soon I shall hear of Tom," the Justice's meditations went on. "I cannot let him know anything, for I don't know where he is; I rather guess at Shardeford, with his wife's folks, but I had a care not to find out. He'll hear, fast enough, that it is safe to come home. I shouldn't wonder—"

The Justice wheeled round suddenly, and spoke aloud this time. "Saints alive! what's that?"

Nothing either audible or visible appeared for a moment.

"What was that black thing?" said the Justice to himself. He was answered suddenly in loud tones of great gratification.

"Bow-wow! Bow-wow-wow! Bow-ow-ow-ow-ow!"

"Whatever!" said the Justice to the "black thing" which was careering about him, apparently on every side of him at once, leaping into the air as high as his head, trying to lick his face, wagging not only a feathery tail, but a whole body, laughing all over a delighted face, and generally behaving itself in a rapturously ecstatic manner. "Art thou rejoicing for Queen Elizabeth too? and whose dog art thou? Didst come— tarry, I do think—nay—ay, it is—I verily believe 'tis old Jack himself!"

"Of course it is!" said Jack's eyes and tail, and every bit of Jack, executing a fresh caper of intense satisfaction.

"Why, then they must be come!" exclaimed the Justice, and set off for the front door, pursued by Jack. It is needless to say that Jack won the race by considerable lengths.

"Oh, here's Uncle Anthony!" cried Pandora's voice, as he came in sight. "Jack, you've been and told him—good Jack!"

There is no need to describe the confused, heart-warm greetings on all sides—how kisses were exchanged, and hands were clasped, and sentences were begun that were never finished, and Jack assisted at all in turn. But when the first welcomes were over, and the travellers had changed their dress, and they sat down to supper, hastily got up by Margery's willing hands, there was opportunity to exchange real information on both sides.

"And where have you been, now, all this while?" asked the Justice. "I never knew, and rather wished not to guess."

"At Shardeford, for the first part; then some months with Frances, and lately in a farm-house under Ingleborough—folks that Frances knew, good Gospellers, but far from any priest. And how have matters gone here?"

"There's nought, methinks, you'll be sorry to hear of, save only the burnings at Canterbury. Seven from this part—Mistress Benden, and Mistress Final, Fishcock, White, Pardue, Emmet Wilson, and Sens Bradbridge. They all suffered a few weeks after your departing."

All held their breath till the list was over. Pandora was the first to speak.

"Oh, my poor little Christie!"

"Your poor little Christie, Mistress Dorrie, is like to be less poor than she was. There is a doctor of medicine come to dwell in Cranbrook, that seems to have somewhat more skill, in her case at least, than our old apothecary; and you shall find the child going about the house now. He doth not despair, quoth he, that she may yet walk forth after a quiet fashion, though she is not like to be a strong woman at the best."

"Oh, I am so glad, Uncle!" said Pandora, though the tears were still in her eyes.

"That Roger Hall is a grand fellow, Tom. He hath kept the works a-going as if you had been there every day. He saith not much, but he can do with the best."

"Ay, he was ever a trustworthy servant," answered Mr Roberts. "'Tis a marvel to me, though, that he was never arrest."

"That cannot I conceive!" said the Justice warmly. "The man hath put his head into more lions' mouths than should have stocked Daniel's den; and I know Dick o' Dover set forth warrants for his taking. It did seem as though he bare a charmed life, that no man could touch him."

"He is not the first that hath so done," said Mistress Grena. "Methinks, Master Justice, there was another warrant sent out first—'I am with thee, and no man shall set on thee to hurt thee.' There have been divers such, I count, during Queen Mary's reign."

"Maybe, Mistress Grena, maybe; I am not o'er good in such matters. But I do think, Brother Tom, you should do well to show your sense of Hall's diligence and probity."

"That will I do, if God permit. But there is another to whom I owe thanks, Anthony, and that is yourself, to have saved my lands and goods for me."

"Well, Tom," answered the Justice comically, "you do verily owe me thanks, to have eaten your game, and worn out your furniture, and spent your money, during an whole year and an half. Forsooth, I scarce know how you may fitly show your gratefulness toward me for conferring so great benefits upon you."

Mr Roberts laughed.

"Ah, it pleaseth you to jest, Anthony," he replied, "but I know full well that had you refused my request, 'tis a mighty likelihood I had had neither house nor furniture to come to."

"Nay, I was not such a dolt! I marvel who would, when asked to spend another man's money, and pluck his fruit, and lie of his best bed! But I tell thee one thing, Tom—I'll pay thee never a stiver of rent for mine house that I hold of thee—the rather since I let it to this new doctor for two pound more, by the year, than I have paid to thee. I'm none so sure that he'll be ready to turn forth; and if no, happy man be my dole, for I must go and sing in the gutter, without Jack will give me a corner of his kennel."

"Jack's owner will be heartily glad to give you a corner of his kennel, Brother Anthony, for so long time as it shall please you to occupy it. Never think on turning forth, I pray you, until you desire to go, at the least while I live."

"I thank you right truly, Brother Tom, and will take my advantage of your kindliness at least for this present. But, my young mistresses, I pray you remember that you must needs be of good conditions an' you dwell in the same house with a Justice of Peace, else shall I be forced to commit you unto gaol."

"Oh, we'll keep on the windy side of you and the law, Uncle Anthony," said Gertrude, laughing. "I suppose teasing the life out of one's uncle is not a criminal offence?"

"I shall do my best to make it so, my lady," was the reply, in tones of mock severity.

The rest of the day was devoted to unpacking and settling down, and much of the next morning was spent in a similar manner. But when the afternoon came Pandora rode down, escorted by old Osmund, to Roger Hall's cottage. She was too familiar there now for the ceremony of waiting to ring; and she went forward and opened the door of the little parlour.

Christabel was standing at the table arranging some floss silk—"slea-silk" she would have called it—in graduated shades for working. It was the first time Pandora had ever seen her stand. Down went the delicate pale green skein in Christie's hand, and where it might go was evidently of no moment.

"Mistress Pandora! O dear Mistress Pandora! You've come back! I hadn't heard a word about it. And look you, I can stand! and I can walk!" cried Christie, in tones of happy excitement.

"My dear little Christabel!" said Pandora, clasping the child in her arms. "I am surely glad for thy betterment—very, very glad. Ay, sweet heart, we have come home, all of us, thank God!"

"And you'll never go away again, will you, Mistress Pandora?"

"'Never' is a big word, Christie. But I hope we shall not go again for a great while."

"Oh, and did anybody tell you, Mistress—about—poor Aunt Alice?" said Christie, with a sudden and total change of tone.

"No, Christie," answered Pandora significantly. "But somebody told me touching thy rich Aunt Alice, that she was richer now and higher than even the Queen Elizabeth, and that she should never again lose her riches, nor come down from her throne any more."

"We didn't know, Mistress—Father and me, we never knew when it should be—we only heard when all was over!"

"Thou mightest well bless God for that, my dear heart. That hour would have been sore hard for thee to live through, hadst thou known it afore."

The parlour door opened, and they saw Roger Hall standing in the doorway.

"Mistress Pandora!" he said. "Thanks be unto God for all His mercies!"

"Amen!" answered both the girls.

"Methinks, Mr Hall, under God, some thanks be due to you also," remarked Pandora, with a smile. "Mine aunt and I had fared ill without your pots and pans that time you wot of, and mine uncle hath been ringing your praises in my Father's ears touching your good management at the cloth-works."

"I did but my duty, Mistress," said Roger, modestly.

"I would we all did the same, Mr Hall, so well as you have done," added Pandora. "Christie, my sister Gertrude saith she will come and see thee."

"Oh!" answered Christie, with an intonation of pleasure. "Please, Mistress Pandora, is she as good as you?"

Both Roger and Pandora laughed.

"How must I answer, Christie?" said the latter. "For, if I say 'ay,' that shall be to own myself to be good; and if 'no,' then were it to speak evil of my sister. She is brighter and cheerier than I, and loveth laughter and mirth. Most folks judge her to be the fairer and sweeter of the twain."

"I shall not," said Christie, with a shake of her head; "of that am I very certain."

Roger privately thought he should not either.

"Well," said Christie, "I do hope any way, now, all our troubles be over! Please, Mistress Pandora, think you not they shall be?"

"My dear little maid!" answered Pandora, laughing.

"Not without we be in Heaven, Christie," replied her Father, "and methinks we have scarce won thither yet."

Christabel looked extremely disappointed.

"Oh, dear!" she said, "I made sure we should have no more, now Queen Elizabeth was come in. Must we wait, then, till we get to Heaven, Father?"

"Wait till we reach Heaven, sweet heart, for the land where we shall no more say, 'I am sick,' either in health or heart. It were not good for us to walk ever in the plains of ease; we should be yet more apt than we be to build our nests here, and forget to stretch our wings upward toward Him who is the first cause and the last end of all hope and goodness. 'Tis only when we wake up after His likeness, to be with Him for ever, that we shall be satisfied with it."

THE END.