Walter Besant

So I left Benjamin much frightened, and marvelling, both at his violent passion, and at the message which he sent to Madam.

She was waiting for me at the lodging.

'Madam,' I said, 'I have seen Benjamin. He is very angry. He bade me go home and ask you concerning his conditions. We must not anger our best friend, dear Madam.'

She rose from her chair and began to walk about, wringing her hands as if torn by some violent emotion.

'Oh! my child,' she cried; 'Alice, come to my arms—if it is for the last time—my daughter. More than ever mine, though I must never call thee daughter.'

She held me in her arms, kissing me tenderly. 'My dear, we agreed that no sacrifice could be too great for the safety of our boy. Yes, we agreed to that. Let us kiss each other before we do a thing after which we can never kiss each other again. No, never again.'

'Why not again, Madam?'

'Oh,' she pushed me from her, 'it is now eight of the clock, he will be here at ten! I promised I would tell thee before he came! And all is in readiness.'

'For what, Madam?'

Why, even then I guessed not her meaning, though I might have done so; but I never thought that so great a wickedness was possible!

'No sacrifice should be too great for us!' she cried, clasping her head with her hands and looking wildly about. 'None too great! Not even the sacrifice of my own son's love—no; not that! Why, let us think of the sacrifices men make for their country, for their religion. Abraham was ready to offer his son, Isaac; Jephthah sacrificed his daughter; King Mesha slew his eldest son for a burnt offering. Thousands of men die every year in battle for their country. What have we to offer? If we give ourselves, it is but a slight thing that we offer at the best.'

'Surely, Madam,' I cried, 'you know that we would willingly die for the sake of Robin?'

'Yes, Child; to die—to die were nothing. It is to live—we must live—for Robin.'

'I understand not, Madam.'

'Listen then—for the time presses, and if he arrives and finds that I have not broken the thing to thee, he will perhaps ride back to Exeter in a rage. When I left my son after the trial, being very wretched and without hope, I found Benjamin waiting for me at the prison gates. He walked with me to my lodging, and on the way he talked of what was in my mind. First, he said, that for the better sort there was little hope, seeing that the King was revengeful and the Judge most wrathful, and in a mood which allowed of no mercy. Therefore, it would be best to dismiss all hopes of pardon or of safety either to these two or to the prisoners of Ilminster. Now, when he had said this a great many times, we being now arrived at my lodging, he told me that there was in my case a way out of the trouble—and one way only: that if we consented to follow that way, which, he said, would do no manner of harm to either of us or to our prisoners, he would undertake and faithfully engage to secure the safety of all our prisoners. I prayed him to point out this way, and, after much entreaty, he consented.'

'What is the way?' I asked, having not the least suspicion. And yet the look in her eyes should have told me what was coming.

'Is it true, Child, that long ago you were betrothed to Benjamin?'

'No, Madam, that is most untrue.'

'He says that when you were quite a little child he informed you of his intention to marry you, and none but you.'

'Why, that is true, indeed.' And now I began to understand the way that was proposed; and my heart sank within me. 'That is true. But to tell a child such a thing is not a betrothal.'

'He says that only three or four years ago he renewed that assurance.'

'So he did, but I gave him no manner of encouragement.'

'He says that he promised to return and marry you when he had arrived at some practice, and that he engaged to become Lord Chancellor and make you a Peeress of the Realm.'

'All that he said, and more. Yet did I never give him the least encouragement, but quite the contrary, for always have I feared and disliked Benjamin. Never at any time was it possible for me to think of him in that way. That he knows, and cannot pretend otherwise. Madam, doth Benjamin wish evil to Robin because I am betrothed to him?'

'He also says, in his rude way—Benjamin was always a rude and coarse boy—that he had warned you, long ago, that if anyone else came in his way he would break the head of that man.'

'Yes: I remember, now, that he threatened some violence.'

'My dear'—Madam took my hand—'his time of revenge is come. He says that he has the life of the man whom you love in his own hands; and he will, he swears, break his head for him, and so keep the promise made to you by tying the rope round his neck. My dear, Benjamin has always been stubborn and obstinate from his birth. Stubborn and obstinate was he as a boy; stubborn and obstinate is he now. He cares for nobody in the world except himself; he has no heart; he has no tenderness; he has no scruples; if he wants a thing, he will trample on all the world to get it, and break all the laws of God. I know what manner of life he leads. He is the friend and companion of the dreadful Judge who goeth about like a raging lion. Every night do they drink together until they are speechless and cannot stand. Their delight it is to drink, and smoke tobacco, with unseemly jests and ribald songs which would disgrace the playhouse or the country fair. Oh! 'tis the life of a hog that he delights in! Yet, for all that, he is, like his noble friend, full of ambition. Nothing will do but he must rise in the world. Therefore, he works hard at his profession—and'——

'Madam—the condition!—what is the condition? For Heaven's sake tell me quickly! Is it—is it!—oh! no—no—no! Anything but that!'

'My child—my daughter'—she laid her hand upon my head. 'It is that condition—that, and none other. Oh! my dear, it is laid upon thee to save us!—it is to be thy work alone—and by such a sacrifice as, I think, no woman ever yet had to make! Nay, perhaps it is better not to make it, after all. Let all die together, and let us live out our allotted lives in sorrow. I thought of it all night, and it seemed better so—better even that thou wert lying in thy grave. His condition! Oh! he must be a devil thus to barter for the lives of his grandfather and his cousins—no human being, surely, would do such a thing: the condition, my dear, is that thou must marry him—now: this very morning—and this once done, he will at once take such steps—I know not what they may be, but I take it that his friend the Judge will grant him the favour—such steps, I say, as will release unto us all our prisoners.'

At first I made no answer.

'If not,' she added after a while, 'they shall all be surely hanged.'

I remained silent. It is not easy at such a moment to collect one's thoughts and understand what things mean. I asked her presently if there was no other way.

'None,' she said: 'there was no other way.'

'What shall I do? What shall I do?' I asked. 'God, it seems, hath granted my daily prayer; but how? Oh! what shall I do?'

'Think of what thou hast in thy power.'

'But to marry him—to marry Benjamin—oh! to marry him! How should I live? How should I look the world in the face?'

'My dear, there are many other unhappy wives. There are other husbands brutal and selfish; there are other men as wicked as my nephew. Thou wilt swear in church to love, honour, and obey him. Thy love is already hate; thy honour is contempt; thy obedience will be the obedience of a slave. Yet death cometh at length, even to a slave and to the harsh task-master.'

'Oh! Madam, miserable indeed is the lot of those whose only friend is death.'

She was silent, leaving me to think of this terrible condition.

'What would Robin say? What would Humphrey say? Nay, what would his Honour himself say?'

'Why, Child,' she replied, with a kind of laugh, 'it needs not a wizard to tell what they would say. For one and all, they would rather go to the gallows than buy their lives at such a price. Thy brother Barnaby would mount the ladder with a cheerful heart rather than sell his sister to buy his life. That we know already. Nay, we know more. For Robin will never forgive his mother who suffered thee to do such a thing. So shall I lose what I value more than life—the love of my only son. Yet would I buy his life at such a price. My dear, if you lose your lover I lose my son. Yet, we will save him whether he will or no.' She took my hands and pressed them in her own. 'My dear, it will be worse for me than for you. You will have a husband, it is true, whom you will loathe; yet you will not see him, perhaps, for half the day at least; and, perhaps, he will leave thee to thyself for the other half. But for me, I shall have to endure the loss of my son's affections all my life, because I am very sure and certain that he can never forgive me. Think, my dear! Shall they all die?—all!—think of father and brother, and of your mother!—or will you willingly endure a life of misery with this man for husband in order that they may live?'

'Oh, Madam,' I said, 'as for the misery—any other kind of misery I would willingly endure; but it is marriage—marriage! Yet who am I that I should choose my sacrifice? Oh, if good works were of any avail, then would the way to heaven be opened wide for me by such an act and such a life! Oh, what will Robin say of me? What will he think of me? Will he curse me and loathe me for being able to do this thing? Should I do it? Is it right? Doth God command it? Yet to save their dear lives—only to set them free—to send that good old man back to his home—to suffer my father to die in peace!—I must do it—I must do it! Yet Robin could never forgive me. Oh! he told me that betrothal was a sacrament. I have sworn to be his. Yet, to save his life, I cannot hesitate. If it is wrong, I pray that Robin will forgive me. Tell him—oh, tell him that it is I who am to die instead of him. Perhaps the Lord will suffer me to die quickly. Tell him that I loved him, and only him; that I would rather have died; that for his life alone I would not have done this thing, because he would not have suffered it. But it is for all—it is for all! Oh! he must forgive me! Some day you will send me a message of forgiveness from him. But I must go away and live in London, far from all of you; never to see him or any one of you again—not even my own mother. It is too shameful a thing to do. And you will tell his Honour, who hath always loved me and would willingly have called me his granddaughter. It was not that I loved not Robin—God knoweth that; but for all—for him and Robin and all—to save his grey hairs from the gallows, and to send him back to his home. Oh! tell him that'——

'My dear—my dear,' she replied, but could say no more.

Then for a while we sat in silence, with beating hearts.

'I am to purchase the lives of five honest men,' I said presently, 'by my own dishonour. I know very well that it is by my dishonour and my sin that their lives are to be bought. It doth not save me from dishonour that I am first to stand in the church and be married according to the Prayer Book. Nay, does it not make the sin greater and the dishonour more certain that I shall first swear what I cannot ever perform—to love and honour that man?'

'Yes, girl—yes!' said Madam. 'But the sin is mine more than yours. Oh! let me bear the sin upon myself.'

'You cannot, it is my sin and my dishonour; nay, it is a most dreadful wicked thing that I am to do. It is all the sins in one: I do not honour my parents in thus dishonouring myself; I kill myself—the woman that my Robin loved; I steal the outward form which belonged to Robin and give it to another; I live in a kind of adultery. It is truly a terrible sin in the sight of Heaven. Yet I will do it!—I must do it! I love him so that I cannot let him die; rather let me be overwhelmed with shame and reproach if only he can live!'

'Said I not, my dear, that we two could never kiss each other again? When two men have conspired together to commit a crime they consort no more together, it is said, but go apart and loathe each other. So it is now with us.'

So I promised to do this thing. The temptation was beyond my strength. Yet had I possessed more faith I should have refused. And then great, indeed, would have been my reward. Alas! how was I punished for my want of faith! Well, it was to save my lover. Love makes us strong for evil as well as strong for good.

And all the time, to think that we never inquired or proved his promises! To think that we never thought of doubting or of asking how he, a young barrister, should be able to save the lives of four active rebels, and one who had been zealous in the cause! That two women should have been so simple is now astonishing.

When the clock struck ten I saw Benjamin walking across the churchyard. It was part of the brutal nature of the man that he should walk upon the graves, even those newly-made and not covered up with turf. He swung his great burly form, and looked up at the window with a grin which made Madam tremble and shrink back. But for me, I was not moved by the sight of him, for now I was strong in resolution. Suppose one who hath made up her mind to go to the stake for her religion, as would doubtless have happened unto many had King James been allowed to continue in his course, do you think that such a woman would begin to tremble at the sight of her executioner? Not so. She would arise and go forth to meet him, with pale face, perhaps (because the agony is sharp), but with a steady eye. Benjamin opened the door, and stood looking from one to the other.

'Well,' he said to Madam, roughly, 'you have by this time told her the condition?'

'I have told her—alas! I have told her, and already I repent me that I have told her.'

'Doth she consent?'

'She does. It shall be as you desire.'

'Ha!' Benjamin drew a long breath. 'Said I not, Sweetheart'—he turned to me—'that I would break the head of any who came between us? What? Have I not broken the head of my cousin when I take away his girl? Very well, then. And that to good purpose. Very well, then. It remains to carry out the condition.'

'The condition,' I said, 'I understand to be this. If I become your wife, Benjamin, you knowing full well that I love another man and am already promised to him'——

'Ta—ta—ta!' he said. 'That you are promised to another man matters not one straw. That you love another man I care nothing. What! I promise, Sweetheart, that I will soon make thee forget that other man. And as for loving any other man after marrying me, that, d'ye see, my pretty, will be impossible. Oh! thou shalt be the fondest wife in the Three Kingdoms.'

'Nay: if such a thing cannot move your heart, I say no more. If I marry you, then all our prisoners will be enlarged?'

'I swear'—he used a great round oath, very horrid from the lips of a Christian man—'I swear that, if you marry me, the three—Robin, Humphrey, and Barnaby—shall all save their lives. And as for Sir Christopher and thy father, they also shall be enlarged. Can I say aught in addition?'

I suspected no deceit. I understood, and so did Madam, that this promise meant the full and free forgiveness of all. Yet there was something of mockery in his eyes, which should have made us suspicious. But I, for one, was young and ignorant, and Madam was country-bred and truthful.

'Benjamin,' I cried, falling on my knees before him, 'think what it is you ask! Think what a wicked thing you would have me do!—to break my vows, who am promised to your cousin! And would you leave your grandfather to perish all for a whim about a silly girl? Benjamin, you are playing with us. You cannot—you could not sell the lives—the very lives of your grandfather and your cousins for such a price as this! The play has gone far enough, Benjamin. Tell us that it is over, and that you never meant to be taken seriously, and we will forgive you the anguish you have caused us.'

'Get up,' he said, 'get up, I say, and stop this folly.' He then began to curse and to swear. 'Playing, is it? You shall quickly discover that it is no play, but serious enough to please you all, Puritans though you be. Playing! Get up, I say, and have done.'

'Then,' I said, 'there is not in the whole world a more inhuman monster than yourself.'

'Oh! my dear—my dear, do not anger him!' cried Madam.

'All is fair in love, my pretty,' said Benjamin with a grin. 'Before marriage call me what you please—inhuman monster—anything that you please. After marriage my wife will have to sing a different tune.'

'Oh! Benjamin, treat her kindly,' Madam cried.

'I mean not otherwise. Kindness is my nature, I am too kind for my own interests. Obedience I expect, and good temper and a civil tongue, with such respect as is due to one who intends to be Lord Chancellor. Come, Child, no more hard words. Thou shalt be the happiest woman, I say, in the world. What? Monmouth's rebellion was only contrived to make thy happiness. Instead of a dull country house thou shalt have a house in London; instead of the meadows, thou shalt have the parks; instead of skylarks, the singers at the playhouse; in due course thou shalt be My Lady'——

'Oh! stop—stop; I must marry you since you make me, but the partner in your ambitions will I never be.'

'My dear,' Madam whispered, 'speak him fair. Be humble to him. Remember he holds in his hands the lives of all.'

'Yes,' Benjamin overheard her. 'The lives of all. The man who dares to take my girl from me—mine—deserves to die. Yet so clement, so forgiving, so generous am I, that I am ready to pardon him. He shall actually save his life. If, therefore, it is true that (before marriage) you love that man and are promised to him, come to church with me, out of your great love to him, in order to save his life; but if you love him not, then you can love me, and, therefore, can come to please yourself, willy nilly. What! am I to be thwarted in such a trifle? Willy nilly, I say, I will marry thee. Come—we waste the time.'

He seized my wrist as if he would have dragged me towards the door.

'Benjamin,' cried Madam, 'be merciful! she is but a girl, and she loves my poor boy—be merciful! Oh! it is not yet too late.' She snatched me from his grasp and stood between us, her arms outstretched. 'It is not too late; they may die and we will go in sorrow, but not in shame. They may die. Go! murderer of thy kith and kin! Go, send thy grandfather to die upon the scaffold; but, at least, leave us in peace.'

'No, Madam,' I said. 'With your permission, if there be no other way, I will save their lives.'

'Well, then,' Benjamin said sulkily, 'there must be an end of this talk and no further delay; else, by the Lord! I know not what may happen. Will Tom Boilman delay to prepare his cauldron of hot pitch? If we wait much longer, Robin's arms and legs will be seething in that broth! Doth the Judge delay with his warrant? Already he signs it—already they are putting up the gibbet on which he will hang! Come, I say.'

Benjamin was sure of his prey, I suppose, because we found the clergyman waiting for us in the church, ready with surplice and book. The clerk was standing beside him, also with his book, open at the Service for Marriage. While they read the Service Madam threw herself prostrate on the Communion steps, her head in her hands, as one who suffers the last extremities of remorse and despair for sin too grievous to be ever forgiven. Let us hope that sometimes we may judge ourselves more harshly than Heaven itself doth judge us.

The clerk gave me away, and was the only witness of the marriage besides that poor distracted mother.

'Twas a strange wedding. There had been no banns put up; the bride was pale and trembling; the bridegroom was gloomy; the only other person present wept upon her knees while the parson read through his ordered prayer and psalm and exhortation; there was no sign of rejoicing.

'So,' said Benjamin, when all was over, 'now thou art my wife. They shall not be hanged therefor. Come, wife, we will this day ride to Exeter, where thou shalt thyself bear the joyful news of thy marriage and their safety to my cousins. They will own that I am a loving and a careful cousin.'

He led me, thus talking, out of church. Now, as we left the churchyard, there passed through the gates—oh, baleful omen!—four men carrying between them a bier. Upon it was the body of another poor prisoner, dead of jail fever. I think that even the hard heart of Benjamin—now my husband!—oh! merciful Heavens! he was my husband!—quailed, and was touched with fear at meeting this most sure and certain sign of coming woe, for he muttered something in his teeth, and cursed the bearers aloud for not choosing another time.

My husband, then—I must needs call him my husband—told me, brutally, that I must ride with him to Exeter, where I should myself bear the joyful news of their safety to his cousins. I did not take that journey, nor did I bear the news, nor did I ever after that moment set eyes upon him again, nor did I ever speak to him again. His wife I remained, I suppose, because I was joined to him in church. But I never saw him after that morning. And the reason why you shall now hear.

At the door of our lodging, which was, you know, hard by the church, stood Mr. Boscorel himself.

'What means this?' he asked, with looks troubled and confused. 'What doth it mean, Benjamin? What hath happened, in the name of God?'

'Sir,' said Benjamin, 'you know my character. You will acknowledge that I am not one of those who are easily turned from their purpose. Truly, the occasion is not favourable for a wedding, but yet I present to you my newly-married wife.'

'Thy wife! Child, he thy husband? Why, thou art betrothed to Robin! Hath the world gone crazy? Do I hear aright? Is this—this—this—a time to be marrying? Hast thou not heard? Hast thou not heard, I say?'

'Brother-in-law,' said Madam, 'it is to save the lives of all that this is done.'

'"To save the lives of all?"' Mr. Boscorel repeated. 'Why—why—hath not Benjamin, then, told what hath happened, and what hath been done?'

'No, Sir, I have not,' said his son. 'I had other fish to fry.'

'Not told them? Is it possible?'

'Benjamin hath promised to save all their lives if this child would marry him. To save their lives hath Alice consented, and I with her. He will save them through his great friendship with Judge Jeffreys.'

'Benjamin to save their lives? Sirrah'—he turned to his son with great wrath in his face—'what villainy is this? Thou hast promised to save their lives? What villainy, I say, is this? Sister-in-law, did he not tell you what hath been done?'

'He has told us nothing. Oh! is there new misery?'

'Child'—Mr. Boscorel spoke with the tears running down his cheeks—'thou art betrayed—alas! most cruelly and foully betrayed. My son—would to God that I had died before I should say so—is a villain! For, first, the lives of these young men are already saved, and he hath known it for a week and more. Learn, then, that with the help of certain friends I have used such interests at Court that for these three I have received the promise of safety. Yet they will not be pardoned. They are given, among other prisoners, to the courtiers and the ladies-in-waiting. One Mr. Jerome Nipho hath received and entered on his list the names of Robin and Humphrey Challis and Barnaby Eykin; they will be sold by him, and transported to Jamaica or elsewhere for a term of years.'

'They were already saved!' cried Madam. 'He knew, then, when they were tried and sentenced, that their lives were already spared. Oh, child! poor child! Oh, Alice! Oh, my daughter! what misery have we brought upon thee!'

Benjamin said nothing. On his face lay a scowl of obstinacy. As for me, I was clinging to Madam's arm. This man was my husband—and Robin was already saved—and by lies and villainy he had cheated us!

'They were already saved,' Mr. Boscorel continued. 'Benjamin knew it—I sent him a letter that he might tell his cousins. My son—alas!—I say again, my only son—my only son—my son is a villain!'

'No one shall take my girl,' said Benjamin sullenly. 'What? All is fair in love.'

'He has not told you, either, what hath happened in the prison? Thou hadst speech, I hear, with Barnaby, early this morning, Child. The other prisoners'—he lowered his voice and folded his hands, as in prayer—'they have since been enlarged.'

'How?' Madam asked. 'Is Sir Christopher free?'

'He hath received his freedom—from One who never fails to set poor prisoners free. My father-in-law fell dead in the courtyard at nine o'clock this morning—weep not for him. But, Child, there is much more; about that same time thy father breathed his last. He, too, is dead; he, too, hath his freedom, Benjamin knew of this as well, Alice, my child'—the kindly tears of compassion rolled down his face. 'I have loved thee always, my dear; and it is my son who hath wrought this wickedness—my own son—my only son'——he shook his cane in Benjamin's face. 'Oh, villain!' he cried; 'oh, villain!'

Benjamin made no reply; but his face was black and his eyes obstinate.

'There is yet more—oh! there is more. Alas! my child, there is more. Thou hast lost thy mother as well. For at the sight of her husband's death, his poor, patient wife could no longer bear the trouble, but she, too, fell dead—of a broken heart; yea, she fell dead upon his dead body—the Lord showed her this great and crowning mercy—so that they all died together. This, too, Benjamin knew. Oh! villain! villain!'

Benjamin heard unmoved, except that his scowl grew blacker.

'Go,' his father continued, 'I load thee not, my son, with a father's curse. Thy wickedness is so great that thy punishment will be exemplary. The judgments of God descend upon the most hardened. Get thee gone out of my sight. Let me never more behold thee until thou hast felt the intolerable pangs of remorse. Get thee hence I say! begone!'

'I go not,' said Benjamin, 'without my loving wife. I budge not, I say, without my tender and loving wife. Come, my dear.'

He advanced with outstretched hands, but I broke away and fled shrieking. As I ran, Mr. Boscorel stood before his son and barred the way, raising his right hand.

'Back, boy! Back!' he said, solemnly. 'Back, I say! Before thou reachest thy most unhappy wife, first shalt thou pass over thy father's body!'