Walter Besant

I t was the evening of September the Sixteenth, about nine of the clock. I was sitting alone in my lodging. Downstairs I heard the voice of the poor widow, Mrs. Prior, who had received us. She was praying aloud with some godly friends for the safety of her sons. These young men, as I have said, were never more heard of, and were therefore already, doubtless, past praying for. I, who ought to have been praying with them, held Robin's last letter in my hands. I knew it by heart; but I must still be reading it again and again; thinking it was his voice which was indeed speaking to me, trying to feel his presence near me, to hear his breath, to see his very eyes. In the night, waking or sleeping, I still would hear him calling to me aloud. 'My heart! my life! my love!' he would cry. I heard him, I say, quite plainly. By special mercy and grace this power was accorded to me; because I have no doubt that in his mind, while lying in his noisome prison, he did turn his thoughts, yea, and the yearnings of his fond heart, to the maid he loved. But now the merciless Judge who had sentenced three hundred men to one common doom—three hundred men!—was such a sentence ever known?—had left Dorchester, and was already, perhaps, at Exeter. Oh!—perhaps Robin had by this time stood his trial: what place was left for prayer? For if the poor, ignorant clowns were condemned to death, how much more the gentlemen, the officers of Monmouth's army! Perhaps he was already executed—my lover, my boy, my Robin!—taken out and hanged, and now a cold and senseless corpse! Then the wailings and prayers of the poor woman below, added to the distraction of these thoughts, made me feel as if I was indeed losing my senses. At this time, it was blow upon blow—line upon line. The sky was black—the heavens were deaf. Is there—can there be—a more miserable thing than to feel that the very heavens are deaf? The mercy of the Lord—His kindly hearkening to our cries and prayers—these we believe as we look for the light of day and the warmth of the sun. Nay, this belief is the very breath of our life; so that there is none but the most hardened and abandoned sinner who doth not still feel that he hath in the Lord a Father as well as a Judge. To lose that belief—'twere better to be a lump of senseless clay. The greatest misery of the lost soul, even greater than his continual torment of fire, and his never-ending thirst, and the gnawing of remorse, must be to feel that the heavens are deaf to his prayers—deaf for ever and for ever!

At this time, my prayers were all for safety. 'Safety, good Lord! give them safety! Save them from the executioner? Give them safety?' Thus, as Barnaby said, the shipwrecked mariner clinging to the mast asks not for a green, pleasant, and fertile shore, but for land—only for land. I sat there, musing sadly, the Bible on the table and a lighted candle. I read not in the Bible, but listened to the wailing of the poor soul below, and looked at the churchyard without, the moonlight falling upon the fresh mounds which covered the graves of the poor dead prisoners. Suddenly I heard a voice—a loud and harsh voice—and footsteps. I knew both footsteps and voice, and I sprang to my feet trembling, because I was certain that some new disaster had befallen us.

Then the steps mounted the stairs; the door was opened, and Benjamin—none other than Benjamin—appeared. What did he here? He was so big, with so red a face, that his presence seemed to fill the room. And with him—what did this mean?—came Madam herself, who I thought to have been at Exeter. Alas! her eyes were red with weeping; her cheeks were thin and wasted with sorrow; her lips were trembling.

'Alice!' she cried, holding out her hands. 'Child, these terrible things are done, and yet we live! Alas! we live! Are our hearts made of stone that we still live? As for me, I cannot die, though I lose all—all—all!'

'Dear Madam, what hath happened? More misery! More disaster! Oh! tell me! tell me!'

'Oh! my dear, they have been tried—they have been tried, and they are condemned to die—both Robin—my son Robin—and with him Humphrey, who dragged him into the business and alone ought to suffer for both. But there is now no justice in the land. No—no more justice can be had. Else Humphrey should have suffered for all.'

There was something strange in her eyes—she did not look like a mother robbed of her children; she gazed upon me as if there was something else upon her mind. As if the condemnation of her son was not enough.

'Robin will be hanged,' she went on. 'He hath been the only comfort of my life since my husband was taken from me, when he was left an infant in my arms. Robin will be hanged like any common gipsy caught stealing a sheep. He will be hanged, and drawn and quartered, and those goodly limbs of his will be stuck upon poles for all to see!'

Truly I looked for nothing less. Barnaby bade me look for nothing less than this; but at the news I fell into a swoon. So one who knoweth beforehand that he is to feel the surgeon's knife, and thinks to endure the agony without a cry, is fain to shriek and scream when the moment comes.

When I recovered I was sitting at the open window, Madam applying a wet cloth to my forehead.

'Have no fear,' Benjamin was saying. 'She will do what you command her, so only that he may go free.'

'Is there no way but that?' she asked.

'None!' And then he swore a great oath.

My eyes being opened and my sense returned, I perceived that Mrs. Prior was also in the room. And I wondered (in such moments the mind finds relief in trifles) that Benjamin's face should have grown so red and his cheeks so fat.

'Thou hast been in a swoon, my dear,' said Madam. 'But 'tis past.' 'Why is Benjamin here?' I asked.

He looked at Madam, who cast down her eyes, I knew not why.

'Benjamin is now our only friend,' she replied without looking up. 'It is out of his kindness—yes—his kindness of heart that he hath come.'

'I do not understand. If Robin is to die what kindness can he show?'

'Tell her, Benjamin,' said Madam, 'tell her of the trials at Exeter.'

'His Lordship came to Exeter,' Benjamin began, 'on the evening of September the Thirteenth, escorted by many country gentlemen and a troop of horse. I had the honour of riding with him. The trials began the day before yesterday, the Fourteenth.'

'Pray, good Sir,' asked the poor woman who had lost her sons, 'did you observe my boys among the prisoners?'

'How the devil should I know your boys?' he replied, turning upon her roughly, so that she asked no more questions. 'If they were rebels they deserve hanging'—here she shrieked aloud, and fled the room. 'The trials began with two fellows who pleaded "Not guilty," but were quickly proved to have been in arms, and were condemned to death, one of them being sent out to instant execution. The rest who were brought up that day—among whom were Robin and Humphrey—pleaded "Guilty," being partly terrified and partly persuaded that it was their only chance of escape. So they, too, were condemned—two hundred and forty in all—every man Jack of them, to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and their limbs to be afterwards stuck on poles for the greater terror of evildoers'—he said these words with such a fire in his eyes, and in such a dreadful threatening voice, as made me tremble. 'Then they were all taken back to jail, where they will lie until the day of execution, and the Lord have mercy upon their souls!'

The terrible Judge Jeffreys himself could not look more terrible than Benjamin when he uttered the prayer with which a sentence to death is concluded.

'Benjamin, were you in the court to see and hear the condemnation of your own cousins?'

'I was. I sat in the body of the court, in the place reserved for Counsel.'

'Could you say nothing that would help them?'

'Nothing. Not a word from anyone could help them. Consider—one of them was an officer, and one a surgeon in the army. The ignorant rustics whom they led may some of them escape, but the officers can look for no mercy.'

'Madam,' I cried, 'I must see Robin before he dies; though, God knows, there are those here who want my services daily. Yet I must see Robin. He will not die easy unless he can see me and kiss me once.'

Madam made no reply.

'For a week,' said Benjamin, 'they are safe. I do not think they will be executed for a week at least. But it is not wise to reckon on a reprieve even for an hour: the Judge may at any time order their execution.'

'I will go to-morrow.'

'That will be seen,' said Benjamin.

'My dear,' said Madam, 'my nephew Benjamin is a friend of the Judge, Lord Jeffreys.'

'Say rather a follower and admirer of that great, learned, and religious man. One who is yet but a member of the Outer Bar must not assume the style and title of friend to a man whose next step must be the Woolsack.'

'Heavens! He called the inhuman wretch who had sentenced an innocent old woman of seventy to be burned alive, and five hundred persons to be hanged, and one knows not how many to be inhumanly flogged—great and religious!'

'If interest can save any,' Madam said softly, 'Benjamin can command that interest, and he is on the side of mercy, especially where his cousins are concerned.'

I now observed that Madam, who had not formerly been wont to regard her nephew with much affection, behaved towards him with the greatest respect and submission.

'Madam,' he replied, 'you know the goodness of my heart. What man can do shall be done by me, not only for Robin, but for the others who are involved with him in common ruin. But there are conditions with which I have taken pains to acquaint you.'

Madam sighed heavily, and looked as if she would speak, but refrained; and I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.

'What conditions, Benjamin?' I asked him. 'Conditions for trying to save your own cousins and your own grandfather! Conditions? Why, you should be moving heaven and earth for them instead of making conditions.'

'It needs not so much exertion,' he replied with an unbecoming grin. 'First, Alice, I must own, Child, that the two years or thereabouts since I saw thee last have added greatly to thy charms; at which I rejoice.'

'Oh! what have my charms to do with the business?'

'Much; as thou wilt presently discover. But let me remind you both that there threaten—nay, there are actually overhanging —disasters, the like of which never happen save in time of civil war and of rebellion. My grandfather is in prison, and will be tried on a charge of sending men and horses to join Monmouth. Nay, the Duke's Proclamation was found in his house; he will be certainly condemned and his estates confiscated. So there will be an end of as old a family as lives in Somerset. Then there is thy father, Child, who was Preacher to the army, and did make mischief in stirring up the fanatical zeal of many. Think you that he can escape? Then there is thy brother Barnaby, who was such a fool as to meddle in what concerned him not, and now will hang therefor. What can we expect? Are men to go unpunished who thus rebel against the Lord's anointed? Is treason—rank treason—the setting up of a Pretender Prince (who is now lying headless in his coffin) as the rightful heir, to be forgiven? We must not look for it. Alas! Madam, had I been with you instead of that conceited, fanatical, crookback Humphrey, whom I did ever detest, none of these things should have happened.'

'Humphrey,' I said, 'has more worth in one finger than you in all your great body, Benjamin.'

'My dear, my dear, do not anger Benjamin. Oh, do not anger our only friend!'

'She may say what she pleases. My time will come. Listen then. They must all be hanged unless I can succeed in getting them pardoned.'

'Nay—but—forgive my rudeness, Benjamin; they are your own cousins—it is your own grandfather. What need of conditions? Oh! what does this mean? Are you a man of flesh and blood?'

'My conditions, Child'—why did he laugh?—'will assure you that such is truly the nature of my composition.'

'If money is wanted'—I thought of my bag of gold and of Mr. Penne's hints—'how much will suffice?'

'I know not. If it comes to buying them off, more thousands than could be raised on the Bradford Orcas estates. Put money out of mind.'

'Then, Benjamin, save them if thou canst.'

'His Lordship knows that I have near relations concerned in the Rebellion. Yet, he assured me if his own brothers were among the prisoners he would hang them all.'

'Nay, then, Benjamin; I say no more. Tell me what are these conditions, and, if we can grant or contrive them, we will comply.' I had no thought of what was meant by his conditions, nor did I even guess until the morning, when Madam told me. 'Oh! Madam, is there anything in the world—anything that we would not do to save them?'

Madam looked at me with so much pity in her eyes that I wondered. It was pity for me and not for her son that I read in that look. Why did she pity me?

I understood not.

'My dear,' she said, 'there are times when women are called upon to make sacrifices which they never thought to make, which seem impossible to be even asked——'

'Oh! there are no sacrifices which we would not gladly make. What can Benjamin require that we should not gladly do for him? Nay, he is Robin's cousin, and your nephew, and Sir Christopher's grandson. He will, if need be, join us in making these sacrifices.'

'I will,' said Benjamin—again, why did he laugh?—'I will join you in making one sacrifice at least, with a willing heart.'

'I will tell her to-morrow,' said Madam. 'No, I cannot tell her to-night. Let us first rest. Go, Sir; leave us to our sorrow. It may be that we may yet think the sacrifice too great even for the lives and the safety of those we love. Go, Sir, for to-night, and return to-morrow.'

'Surely, Child,' said Madam presently, when he was gone, and we were alone, 'we are the most unhappy women in the world.'

'Nay,' I replied. 'There have been other women before us who have been ruined and widowed by civil wars and rebellions. If it be any comfort to think that others have suffered like ourselves, then we may comfort ourselves. But the thought brings no consolation to me.'

'Hagar,' said Madam, 'was a miserable woman because she was cast out by the man she loved, even the father of her son; but she saved her son. Rachel was unhappy until the Lord gave her a son. Jephthah's daughter was unhappy—my dear, there is no case except hers which may be compared with ours—and Jephthah's daughter was happy in one circumstance: that she was permitted to die. Ah! happy girl, she died! That was all her sacrifice—to die for the sake of her father! But what is ours?'

So she spoke in riddles or dark sayings, of which I understood nothing. Nevertheless, before lying down, I did solemnly and, in her presence and hearing, aloud, upon my knees, offer unto Almighty God myself—my very life—if so that Robin could be saved. And then, with lighter heart than I had known for long, I lay down and slept.

At midnight, or thereabouts, Madam woke me up.

'Child,' she said, 'I cannot sleep. Tell me truly: is there nothing that thou wouldest refuse for Robin's sake?'

'Nothing, verily! Ah, Madam, can you doubt it?'

'Even if it were a sacrifice of which he would not approve?'

'Believe me, Madam, there is nothing that I would not do for Robin's safety.'

'Child, if we were living in the days of persecution wouldest thou hear the Mass and adopt the Catholic religion to save thy lover's life?'

'Oh, Madam, the Lord will never try us above our strength!'

'Sleep, my child, sleep; and pray that, as thy temptation, so may be thy strength!'