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.