Chapter Seven.
Wherein Alice comes home.
Partly moved by a faint sense of remorse, partly by Mrs Tabitha’s sharp speeches, and partly also—perhaps most of all—by his private discomfort in respect of Mary’s culinary unskilfulness, Mr Benden set himself to eat his dose of humble pie. He waited on Mr Horden of Finchcocks, and Mr Colepeper of Bedgebury Park, two of the chief men of position and influence in his neighbourhood, to entreat them to exert themselves in persuading the Bishop to release Alice as soon as possible. The diocese, of course, was that of Cardinal Pole; but this portion of it was at that time in the hands of his suffragan, Dr Richard Thornton, Bishop of Dover, whom the irreverent populace familiarly termed Dick of Dover. This right reverend gentleman was not of the quiet and reasonable type of Mr Justice Roberts. On the contrary, he had a keen scent for a heretic, and took great delight in bringing one into tribulation. On receiving the letters wherein Messrs Horden and Colepeper interceded for Alice Benden, his Lordship ordered the prisoner to be brought before him.
The Archbishop’s gaoler went down to the prison, where Alice Benden, a gentlewoman by birth and education, shared one large room with women of the worst character and lowest type, some committed for slight offences, some for heavy crimes. These women were able to recognise in an instant that this prisoner was of a different order from themselves. Those who were not fallen into the depths, treated her with some respect; but the lowest either held aloof from her or jeered at her—mostly the latter. Alice took all meekly; did what she could for the one or two that were ailing, and the three or four who had babies with them; spoke words of Gospel truth and kindly sympathy to such as would let her speak them: and when sleep closed the eyes and quieted the tongues of most, meditated and communed with God. The gaoler opened the door a little way, and just put his head into the women’s room. The prisoners might have been thankful that there were separate chambers for men and women... Such luxuries were unknown in many gaols at that date.
“Alice Benden!” he said gruffly.
Alice rose, gave back to its mother a baby she had been holding, and went towards the gaoler, who stood at the top of the stone steps which led down from the door.
“Here I am, Master Gaoler: what would you with me?”
“Tie on your hood and follow me; you are to come afore my Lord of Dover.”
Alice’s heart beat somewhat faster, as she took down her hood from one of the pegs around the room, and followed the gaoler through a long passage, up a flight of steps, across a courtyard, and into the hall where the Bishop was holding his Court. She said nothing which the gaoler could hear: but the God in whom Alice trusted heard an earnest cry of—“Lord, I am Thine; save Thine handmaid that trusteth in Thee!”
The gaoler led her forward to the end of a long table which stood before the Bishop, and announced her name to his Lordship.
“Alice Benden, of Briton’s Mead, Staplehurst, an’ it like your Lordship.”
“Ah!” said his Lordship, in an amiable tone; “she it is touching whom I had letters. Come hither to me, I pray you, Mistress. Will you now go home, and go to church in time coming?”
That meant, would she consent to worship images, and to do reverence to the bread of the Lord’s Supper as if Christ Himself were present? There was no going to church in those days without that. And that, as Alice Benden knew, was idolatry, forbidden by God in the First and Second Commandments.
“If I would have so done,” she said in a quiet, modest tone, “I needed not have come hither.”
“Wilt thou go home, and be shriven of thy parish priest?”
“No, I will not.” Alice could not believe that a man could forgive sins. Only God could do that; and He did not need a man through whom to do it. The Lord Jesus was just as able to say to her from His throne above, as He had once said on earth to a poor, trembling, despised woman—“Thy sins be forgiven thee; go in peace.”
Something had made “Dick of Dover” unusually gentle that afternoon. He only replied—“Well, go thy ways home, and go to church when thou wilt.”
Alice made no answer. She was resolved to promise nothing. But a priest who stood by, whether mistakenly thinking that she spoke, or kind enough to wish to help her, answered for her—“She says she will, my Lord.”
“Enough. Go thy ways!” said the Bishop, who seemed to wish to set her at liberty: perhaps he was a little afraid of the influential men who had interceded for her. Alice, thus dismissed, walked out of the hall a free woman. As she came out into Palace Street, a hand was laid upon her shoulder.
“Well, Alice!” said Edward Benden’s voice. “I wrought hard to fetch you forth; I trust you be rightly thankful. Come home.”
Not a word did he say of the pains he had taken originally to drive her into the prison; neither did Alice allude to that item. She only said in the meekest manner—“I thank you, Edward”—and followed her lord and master down Mercery Lane towards Wincheap Gate. She did not even ask whether he had made any preparations for her journey home, or whether he expected her to follow him on foot through the five-and-twenty miles which lay between Canterbury and Staplehurst. But when they reached the western corner of the lane, Mr Benden stopped at the old Chequers Inn, and in a stentorian voice demanded “that bay.” The old bay horse which Alice knew so well, and which her husband had not succeeded in selling for more than its worth, as he desired, was brought forth, laden with a saddle and pillion, on the latter of which Alice took her place behind Mr Benden.
Not a word was spoken by either during the journey. They were about a mile from Staplehurst, and had just turned a corner in the road, when they were greeted by words in considerable number.
“Glad to see you!” said a brown hood—for the face inside it was not visible. “I reckoned you’d think better of it; but I’d got a good few bitters steeping for you, in case you mightn’t. Well, Alice! how liked you yonder?—did Dick o’ Dover use you metely well?—and how came he to let you go free? Have you promised him aught? He doesn’t set folks at liberty, most commonly, without they do. Come, speak up, woman! and let’s hear all about it.”
“I have promised nothing,” said Alice calmly; “nor am I like so to do. Wherefore the Bishop let me go free cannot I tell you; but I reckon that Edward here wist more of the inwards thereof than I. How go matters with you, Tabitha?”
“Oh, as to the inwards,” said the brown hood, with a short, satirical laugh, “I guess I know as much as you or Edward either; ’twas rather the outwards I made inquiry touching. Me? Oh, I’m as well as common, and so be folks at home; I’ve given Friswith a fustigation, and tied up Joan to the bedpost, and told our Tom he’d best look out. He hasn’t the spirit of a rabbit in him. I’d fain know where he and the childre ’d be this day month, without I kept matters going.”
“How fares Christabel, I pray you?”
“Oh, same as aforetime; never grows no better, nor no worser. It caps me. She doesn’t do a bit o’ credit to my physicking—not a bit. And I’ve dosed her with betony, and camomile, and comfrey, and bugloss, and hart’s tongue, and borage, and mugwort, and dandelion—and twenty herbs beside, for aught I know. It’s right unthankful of her not to mend; but childre is that thoughtless! And Roger, he spoils the maid—never stands up to her a bit—gives in to every whim and fantasy she takes in her head. If she cried for the moon, he’d borrow every ladder in the parish and lash ’em together to get up.”
“What ’d he set it against?” gruffly demanded Mr Benden, who had not uttered a word before.
“Well, if he set it against your conceit o’ yourself, I guess he’d get high enough—a good bit higher than other folks’ conceit of you. I marvel if you’re ashamed of yourself, Edward Benden. I am.”
“First time you ever were ashamed of yourself.”
“Ashamed of myself?” demanded Tabitha Hall, in tones of supreme contempt, turning her face full upon the speaker. “You’ll not butter your bread with that pot o’ dripping, Edward Benden, if you please. You’re not fit to black my shoes, let alone Alice’s, and I’m right pleased for to tell you so.”
“Good even, Mistress Hall; ’tis time we were at home.”
“Got a home-truth more than you wanted, haven’t you? Well, ’tis time enough Alice was, so go your ways; but as where ’tis time you were, my dainty master, that’s the inside of Canterbury Gaol, or a worser place if I could find it; and you’ve got my best hopes of seeing you there one o’ these days. Good den.”
The bay horse was admonished to use its best endeavours to reach Briton’s Mead without delay, and Mistress Tabitha, tongue and all, was left behind on the road.
“Eh, Mistress, but I’m fain to see you!” said Mary that evening, as she and Alice stood in the pleasant glow of the kitchen fire. “I’ve had a weary fortnight on’t, with Master that contrarious, I couldn’t do nought to suit him, and Mistress Hall a-coming day by day to serve him wi’ vinegar and pepper. Saints give folks may be quiet now! We’ve had trouble enough to last us this bout.”
“I am glad to come home, Mall,” was the gentle answer. “But man is born to trouble, and I scarce think we have seen an end of ours. God learneth His servants by troubles.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind some folks being learned thus, but I’d fain see other some have a holiday. What shall I dress for supper, Mistress? There’s a pheasant and a couple of puffins, and a platter of curds and whey, and there’s a sea-pie in the larder, and a bushel o’ barberries.”
“That shall serve, Mall. We had best lay in some baconed herrings for next fish-day; your master loves them.”
“Afore I’d go thinking what he loved, if I were you!”
This last reflection on Mary’s part was not allowed to be audible, but it was very earnest notwithstanding.