“An’t like your Lordship, my name is Edward Benden, of Staplehurst, and I do full reverently seek the release of my wife, that is in your gaol for heresy.”
The Bishop shook his head. He had before now held more than one interview with Alice, and had found that neither promises nor threats had much weight with her. Very sternly he answered—“She is an obstinate heretic, and will not be reformed. I cannot deliver her.”
“My Lord,” responded Mr Benden, “she has a brother, Roger Hall, that resorteth unto her. If your Lordship could keep him from her, she would turn; for he comforteth her, giveth her money, and persuadeth her not to return.”
“Well!” said the Bishop. “Go home, good son, and I will see what I can do.” (This conversation is historical.)
If Mr Benden had not been in a brown study as he went into the Chequers to “sup his four-hours”—in modern phrase, to have his tea—and to give his horse a rest and feed before returning home, he would certainly have recognised two people who were seated in a dark corner of the inn kitchen, and had come there for the same purpose. The man kept his hat drawn over his face, and slunk close into the corner as though he were anxious not to be seen. The woman sat bolt upright, an enormous, full basket on the table at her right hand, and did not appear to care in the least whether she were seen or not.
“Is yon maid ever a-coming with the victuals?” she inquired in a rather harsh treble voice.
“Do hush, Tabby!” said the man in the most cautious of whispers. “Didst not see him a moment since?”
“Who? Dick o’ Dover?”
“Tabitha!” was the answer in a voice of absolute agony. “Do, for mercy’s sake!—Edward.”
The last word was barely audible a yard away.