All's Well

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

  ONE SUMMER DAY.

  The nineteenth of June was the loveliest of summer days, even in theMartyrs' Field at Canterbury, in the hollow at the end of which theseven stakes were set up. The field is nearly covered now by thestation of the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway, but the hollow canstill be traced whence the souls of His faithful witnesses went up toGod.

  John Banks was early on the ground, and so secured a front place. Thecrowd grew apace, until half the field was covered. Not only residentsof the city, but casual sight-seers, made up the bulk of it, the rathersince it was somewhat dangerous to be absent, especially for a suspectedperson. From the neighbouring villages, too, many came in--the villagesquire and his dame in rustling silks, the parish priest in his cassock,the labourers and their wives in holiday garb.

  Then the Castle gates opened, and the Wincheap Gate; and forth from themcame a slow, solemn procession, preceded by a crucifer bearing a silvercross, a long array of black-robed priests, and then the Lord Bishop ofDover, in his episcopal robes, followed by two scarlet-cassockedacolytes swinging thuribles, from which ascended a cloud of incensebetween his Lordship's sacred person and the wicked heretics who were tofollow. Two and two they came, John Fishcock the butcher, led like oneof his own sheep to the slaughter, and Nicholas White the ironmonger;Nicholas Pardue and Sens Bradbridge; Mrs Final and Emmet Wilson. Afterall the rest came Alice Benden, on the last painful journey that sheshould ever take. She would mount next upon wings as an eagle, andthere should for her be no more pain.

  The martyrs recognised their friend John Banks, and each greeted him bya smile. Then they took off their outer garments--which were theperquisites of the executioners--and stood arrayed every one in thatwhite robe of martyrdom, of which so many were worn in Mary's reign; along plain garment, falling from the throat to the feet, with long loosesleeves buttoned at the wrists. Thus prepared, they knelt down to pray,while the executioners heaped the faggots in the manner best suited forquick burning. Rising from their prayers, each was chained to a stake.Now was the moment for the last farewells.

  John Banks went up to Alice Benden.

  "Courage, my mistress, for a little time! and the Lord be with you!"

  "Amen!" she answered. "I thank thee, Jack. Do any of my kin know of myburning?"

  "Mistress, I told not your brethren, and methinks they wot not of theday. Methought it should be sore to them, and could do you but a littlegood. I pray you, take me as 'presenting all your friends, that do bidyou right heartily farewell, and desire for you an abundant entranceinto the happy kingdom of our Lord God."

  "I thank thee with all mine heart, Jack; thou hast well done. Give, Ipray thee, to my brother Roger this new shilling, the which my fathersent me at my first imprisonment, desiring him that he will give thesame unto mine old good father, in token that I never lacked money, withmine obedient salutations."

  The gaoler now approached her to place the faggots closer, and Banks wasreluctantly compelled to retire. From her waist Alice took a white lacewhich she had tied round it, and handed it to the gaoler, saying, "Keepthis, I beseech you, for my brother Roger Hall. It is the last bond Iwas bound with, except this chain."

  Then the torch was put to the faggots.

  "Keep this in memory of me!" reached John Banks, in the clear tones ofAlice Benden; and a white cambric handkerchief fluttered above thecrowd, and fell into his outstretched hands. [These farewells of AliceBenden are historical.]

  And so He led them to the haven where they would be.

  "No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing!"

  There was a hard task yet before John Banks. He had to visit eighthouses, and at each to tell his awful tale, to father and mother,brother and sister, son and daughter--in three instances to husband orwife--of the martyrs who had gone home. His first visit was to SevenRoods.

  "Well, Jack Banks! I thought you'd been dead and buried!" was Tabitha'ssarcastic intimation that it was some time since she had seen him.

  "Ah, Mistress Hall, I could well-nigh wish I had been, before I came tobring you such tidings as I bring to-day."

  Tabitha looked up in his face, instantly dropped the mop in her hand,and came over to where he stood.

  "'Tis more than `may be,'" she said significantly, "and I reckon 'tismore than `must be.' John Banks, is it _done_?"

  "It is done," he replied. "`The Lord God hath wiped away all tears fromher eyes.'"

  "The Lord look upon it, and avenge her!" was the answer, in Tabitha'ssternest and most solemn voice. "The Lord requite it on the head ofEdward Benden, and on the head of Richard Thornton! Wherefore doth Henot rend the heavens and come down? Wherefore--" and as suddenly asbefore, Tabitha broke down, and cried her heart out as Banks had neverimagined Tabitha Hall could do.

  Banks did not attempt to reprove her. It was useless. He only saidquietly, "Forgive me to leave you thus, but I must be on my way, for mytidings must yet be told six times, and there be some hearts will breakto hear them."

  "I'll spare you one," said Tabitha, as well as she could speak. "Youmay let be Roger Hall. I'll tell him."

  Banks drew a long breath. Could he trust this strange, satirical, yetwarm-hearted woman to tell those tidings in that house of all others?And the white lace, which the gaoler, knowing him to be a Staplehurstman, had entrusted to him to give, could he leave it with her?

  "Nay, not so, I pray you, and thank you, Mistress. I have an especialmessage and token for Master Hall. But if you would of your goodnesslet Mistress Final's childre know thereof, that should do me aneasement, for the White Hart is most out of my way."

  "So be it, Jack, and God speed thee!"

  Turning away from Seven Roods, Banks did his terrible errand to the sixhouses. It was easiest at Fishcock's, where the relatives were somewhatmore distant than at the rest; but hard to tell Nicholas White'sgrey-haired wife that she was a widow, hard to tell Emmet Wilson'shusband that he had no more a wife; specially hard at Collet Pardue'scottage, where the news meant not only sorrow but worldly ruin, so faras mortal eye might see. Then he turned off to Briton's Mead, and toldMary, whose tears flowed fast.

  "Will you speak to _him_?" she said, in an awed tone.

  "No!" said Banks, almost sternly. "At the least--what doth he?"

  "Scarce eats a morsel, and his bed's all awry in the morning, as if he'ddone nought but toss about all the night; I think he sleeps none, orvery nigh. I never speak to him without he first doth, and that'smighty seldom."

  Banks hesitated a moment. Then he went forward, and opened the door ofthe dining-room.

  "Mr Benden!" he said.

  The room was in semi-darkness, having no light but that of the moon, andBanks could see only just enough to assure him that something human satin the large chair at the further end. But no sound answered hisappeal.

  "I am but now arrived from Canterbury."

  Still no answer came. John Banks went on, in a soft, hushed voice--notin his own words. If the heart of stone could be touched, God's wordsmight do it; if not, still they were the best.

  "`She shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall thesun light upon her, neither any heat. For the Lamb that is in the midstof the Seat hath fed her, and hath led her unto fountains of livingwater; and God hath wiped away all tears from her eyes.'"

  He paused a moment, but the dead silence was unbroken.

  One word more. "The Lord have mercy on thy soul, thou miserablesinner!" Then Banks shut the door softly and went away.

  There we leave Edward Benden, with the black silence of oblivion overhis future life. Whether the Holy Spirit of God ever took the stonyheart out of him, and gave him a heart of flesh, God alone knows. Forthis, in its main features, is a true story, and there is no word totell us what became of the husband and betrayer of Alice Benden.

  John Banks went on to the last house he had to visit--the little houseby the Second Acre Close. Roger Hall opened
the door himself. Banksstepped in, and as the light of the hall lantern fell upon his face,Roger uttered an exclamation of pain and fear.

  "Jack! Thy face--"

  "Hath my face spoken to you, Master Hall, afore my tongue could frame soto do? Perchance it is best so. Hold your hand."

  Roger obeyed mechanically, and Banks laid on the hand held forth thelong white lace.

  "For you," he said, his voice broken by emotion. John Banks' nerveswere pretty well worn out by that day's work, as well they might be."She gave it me for you--at the last. She bade me say it was the lastbond she was bound with--except _that_ chain."

  "Thank God!" were the first words that broke from the brother who lovedAlice so dearly. The Christian spoke them; but the next moment the mancame uppermost, and an exceeding bitter cry of "O Alice, Alice!"followed the thanksgiving of faith.

  "It is over," said Banks, in a husky voice. "She `shall never see evilany more.'"

  But he knew well that he could give no comfort to that stricken heart.Quietly, and quickly, he laid down the new shilling, with its messagefor the poor old father; and then without another word--not even saying"good-night," he went out and closed the door behind him. Only Godcould speak comfort to Roger and Christabel in that dark hour. Only Godcould help poor Roger to tell Christie that she would never see her dearAunt Alice any more until she should clasp hands with her on the streetof the Golden City, and under the shade of the Tree of Life. And Godwould help him: John Banks was quite sure of that. But as he steppedout into the summer night, it seemed almost as if he could see avision--as if the outward circumstances in which he had beheld the triowere prophetic--Alice in the glory of the great light, Roger with hisway shown clearly by the little lamp of God's Word, and Edward in thatblack shadow, made lurid and more awful by the faint unearthly light.The moon came out brightly from behind a cloud, just as Banks lifted hiseyes upwards.

  "Good God, forgive us all!" he said earnestly, "and help all that needThee!"

  Alice was above all help, and Roger was sure of help. But who or whatcould help Edward Benden save the sovereign mercy of God?