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.”