CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
BEFORE DICK OF DOVER.
"Perkins!" said a rather pompous voice.
Perkins was the Cathedral bell-ringer, and the gaoler of Alice Benden.He obeyed the summons of the pompous voice with obsequious celerity, forit belonged to no less a person than the Lord Bishop of Dover. HisLordship, having caught sight of the bell-ringer as he crossed theprecincts, had called him, and Perkins came up, his hat in one hand, andpulling his forelock with the other.
"I desire to know, Perkins," said the Bishop, "if that man that is yourprisoner's brother hath yet been arrested, as I bade?"
"Well, nay, my Lord, he haven't," said Perkins, his heart fluttering andhis grammar questionable.
"And wherefore no?" asked the Bishop sternly.
"Well, my Lord, truth is, I haven't chanced on him since."
"He hath not visited his sister, then?"
"Well," answered Perkins, who seemed to find that word a comfort, "ay,he have; but him and me, we hasn't been at same time, not yet."
"Call you that diligence in the keeping of your prisoner?"
"Please your Lordship, she's there, all safe."
"I bade you arrest _him_," insisted the Bishop.
Perkins chewed a sprig of dried lavender, and kept silence.
"I am sore displeased with you, Perkins!"
Perkins looked provokingly obtuse. If the Bishop had only known it, hewas afraid of vexing him further by saying anything, and accordingly hesaid nothing.
"Keep diligent watch for the man, and seize him when he cometh again.As for the woman, bring her before me to-morrow at nine o' the clock.Be careful what you do, as you value my favour."
Perkins pulled his forelock again, and departed.
"The man is hard as a stone," said the Bishop to one of the Canons, withwhom he was walking: "no impression can be made upon him."
"He is scantly the worse gaoler for that, under your Lordship'scorrection," said the Canon carelessly.
"He makes an hard keeper, I cast no doubt," answered the Bishop.
Perkins's demeanour changed as soon as his Lordship had passed out ofsight and hearing.
"Dick o' Dover's in a jolly fume!" he said to one of the vergers whom hemet.
"Why, what's angered him?"
"I have, belike, that I catched not yon man, Mistress Benden's brother,a-coming to see her. Why, the loon's full o' wiles--never comes atafter sunrise. It'd take an eel to catch him. And I'm not histhief-catcher, neither. I works hard enough without that. Old Dick maycatch his eels his self if he lacks 'em."
"Work 'll never kill thee, Jack Perkins," replied the verger, with alaugh. "Thou'dst best not get across with Dick o' Dover; he's an uglycustomer when he's in the mind."
The right reverend prelate to whom allusion was thus unceremoniouslymade, was already seated on his judgment bench when, at nine o'clock thenext morning, Perkins threw open the door of Monday's Hole.
"Come forth, Mistress; you're to come afore the Bishop."
"You must needs help me up, then, for I cannot walk," said Alice Bendenfaintly.
Perkins seized her by the arm, and dragged her up from the straw onwhich she was lying. Alice was unable to repress a slight moan.
"Let be," she panted; "I will essay to go by myself; only it putteth meto so great pain."
With one hand resting on the wall, she crept to the door, and out intothe passage beyond. Again Perkins seized her--this time by theshoulder.
"You must make better speed than this, Mistress," he said roughly."Will you keep the Lord Bishop a-waiting?"
Partly limping by herself, partly pulled along by Perkins, and at thecost of exquisite suffering, for she was crippled by rheumatism, Alicereached the hall wherein the Bishop sat. He received her in the suavestmanner.
"Now, my good daughter, I trust your lesson, which it was needful tomake sharp, hath been well learned during these weeks ye have had timefor meditation. Will you now go home, and go to church, and conform youto the Catholic religion as it now is in England? If you will do this,we will gladly show you all manner of favour; ye shall be our whitechild, I promise you, and any requests ye may prefer unto us shall havegood heed. Consider, I pray you, into what evil case your obstinacyhath hitherto brought you, and how blissful life ye might lead if yewould but renounce your womanish opinions, and be of the number of theCatholics. Now, my daughter, what say you?"
Then Alice Benden lifted her head and answered.
"I am thoroughly persuaded, by the great extremity that you have alreadyshowed me, that you are not of God, neither can your doings be godly;and I see that you seek mine utter destruction. Behold, I pray you, howlame I am of cold taken, and lack of food, in that painful prisonwherein I have lain now these nine weary weeks, that I am not able tomove without great pain."
"You shall find us right different unto you, if you will but conform,"replied the Bishop, who, as John Bunyan has it, had "now all besugaredhis lips."
"Find you as it list you, I will have none ado with you!" answered theprisoner sturdily.
But at that moment, trying to turn round, the pain was so acute that itbrought the tears to her eyes, and a groan of anguish to her lips. TheBishop's brows were compressed.
"Take her to West Gate," he said hastily. "Let her be clean kept, andsee a physician if she have need."
The gaoler of West Gate was no brutal, selfish Perkins, but a man whoused his prisoners humanely. Here Alice once again slept on a bed, wasfurnished with decent clean clothing and sufficient food. But such wasthe effect of her previous suffering, that after a short time, we aretold, her skin peeled off as if she had been poisoned.
One trouble Alice had in her new prison--that she must now be deprivedof Roger's visits. She was not even able to let him know of the change.But Roger speedily discovered it, and it was only thanks to theindolence of Mr Perkins, who was warm in bed, and greatly indisposed toturn out of it, that he was not found out and seized on that occasion.Once more he had to search for his sister. No secret was made of thematter this time; and by a few cautious inquiries Roger discovered thatshe had been removed to West Gate. His hopes sprang up on hearing it,not only because, as he knew, she would suffer much less in the present,but also because he fondly trusted that it hinted at a possibility ofrelease in the future. It was with a joyful heart that he carried thenews home to Christabel, and found her Aunt Tabitha sitting with her.
"O Father, how delightsome!" cried Christie, clapping her hands. "Nowif those ill men will only let dear Aunt Alice come home--"
"When the sky falleth, we may catch many larks," said Tabitha, in herusual grim fashion. "Have you told him?"
"Whom?--Edward Benden? No, I'm in no haste to go near him."
"I would, if I knew it should vex him."
"Tabitha!" said Roger, with gentle reproval.
"Roger Hall, if you'd had to stand up to King Ahab, you'd have made adownright poor Elijah!"
"Very like, Tabitha. I dare say you'd have done better."
"Father," said Christie, "did you hear what should come of Master White,and Mistress Final, and all the rest."
"No, my dear heart: I could hear nought, save only that they were had upafore my Lord of Dover, and that he was very round with them, but allthey stood firm."
"What, Sens Bradbridge and all?" said Tabitha. "I'd have gone bail thatpoor sely hare should have cried off at the first shot of Dick o'Dover's arrow. Stood _she_ firm, trow?"
"All of them, I heard. Why, Tabitha, the Lord's grace could hold upSens Bradbridge as well as Tabitha Hall."
"There'd be a vast sight more wanted, I promise you!" said Tabithaself-righteously. "There isn't a poorer creature in all this 'varsalworld, nor one with fewer wits in her head than Sens Bradbridge. Imarvel how Benedick stood her; but, dear heart! men are that stupid!Christie, don't you never go to marry a man. I'll cut you off with ashilling an' you do."
"Cut me off what, Aunt Tabitha?" inquired Christie, with some alarm inh
er tone.
"Off my good-will and favour, child."
"Thank you, Aunt Tabitha, for telling me I didn't know I was on," saidChristie simply.
"Good lack!" exclaimed Tabitha, in a tone which was a mixture ofamusement and annoyance. "Did the child think I cared nought about her,forsooth?"
"O Aunt Tabitha, do you?" demanded Christie, in a voice of innocentastonishment. "I am so glad. Look you, whenever you come, you alwaysfind fault with me for something, so I thought you didn't."
"Bless the babe! Dost think I should take all that trouble to amendthee, if I loved thee not?"
"Well, perhaps--" said Christie hesitatingly.
"But Aunt Alice always tried to mend me, and so does Father: but somehowthey don't do it like you, Aunt Tabitha."
"They're both a deal too soft and sleek with thee," growled AuntTabitha. "There's nought 'll mend a child like a good rattlingscolding, without 'tis a thrashing, and thou never hast neither."
"Art avised [are you sure] o' that, Tabitha?" asked Roger. "God sendsnot all His rain in thunderstorms."
"Mayhap not; but He does send thunderstorms, and earthquakes too,"returned Tabitha triumphantly.
"I grant you; but the thunderstorms are rare, and the earthquakes yetrarer; and the soft dew cometh every night. And 'tis the dew and thestill small rain, not the earthquakes, that maketh the trees and flowersto grow."
"Ah, well, you're mighty wise, I cast no doubt," answered Tabitha,getting up to go home. "But I tell you I was well thrashed, and scoldedto boot, and it made a woman of me."
"I suppose, Father," said Christie, when Tabitha had taken herdeparture, "that the scolding and beating did make a woman of AuntTabitha; but please don't be angry if I say that it wasn't as pleasant awoman as Aunt Alice."
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