"All's Well"; or, Alice's Victory. Emily Sarah Holt

the result being that when deprived of the stimulating presence of Aunt Tabitha, she was fit for nothing but bed for some time afterwards. It was a good thing for her that Aunt Tabitha’s family kept her busy at home for the most part, so that her persecutions of poor Christie were less frequent than they would otherwise have been.

      Mr. Thomas Hall, the younger brother of Roger and Alice, had the air of a man who had been stood up to, until he had lost all power or desire of standing up for himself. He remarked that it was a fine morning with an aspect of deprecation that would have made it seem quite cruel to disagree with him, even if it were raining hard. He never contradicted his Tabitha: poor man, he knew too well what would come of it! It would have been as easy for him to walk up to the mouth of a loaded cannon when the gunner was applying the match, as to remark to her, in however mild a tone, that he preferred his mutton boiled when he knew she liked it roasted. Yet he was a good man, in his meek unobtrusive way, and Christie liked her Uncle Thomas next best to her father and Aunt Alice.

      “Christie, I marvel you are not weary!” said her lively, robust cousin Friswith (a corruption of Frideawide), one day.

      Not weary! Ah, how little Friswith knew about it!

      “I am by times, Friswith,” said Christie meekly.

      “Mother saith she is assured you might have better health an’ you would. You lie and lie there like a log of wood. Why get you not up and go about like other folks?”

      “I can’t, cousin; it hurts me.”

      “Hurts you, marry! I wouldn’t give in to a bit of a hurt like that! I never mind being hurt.”

      Christie silently doubted that last statement.

      “Hear you, Christie?”

      “Yes, Friswith, I hear.”

      “Then why rouse you not up, as Mother saith?”

      “I can’t, Friswith; my head pains me this morrow.”

      “Lack-a-daisy, what a fuss you make o’er a bit of pain! Well, I must be away—I’ve to go to Cranbrook of an errand for Mother; she lacks a sarcenet coif. If I can scrimp enough money out of this, I’ll have some carnation ribbon to guard my hat—see if I don’t!”

      “Oh, Friswith! It isn’t your money, ’tis Aunt Tabitha’s.”

      “I’ll have it, though; I hate to go shabby. And I can tell you, I met Beatrice Pardue last night, with a fresh ribbon on hers. I’ll not have her finer than me. She’s stuck-up enough without it. You look out on Sunday as I go by the window, and see if my hat isn’t new guarded with carnation. I’ll get round Mother somehow; and if she do give me a whipping, I’m not so soft as you. Good-morrow!”

      “Friswith, don’t!”

      Friswith only laughed as she closed the door on Christabel, and ran off lightly down the Cranbrook road.

Chapter Three.

       Table of Contents

      The comfortable Justice.

      Mr. Justice Roberts sat in his dining-room after supper, with a tankard of ale at his elbow. Had the “pernicious weed” been discovered at that date, he would probably also have had a pipe in his hand; but tobacco being yet a calamity of the future, the Justice was not smoking.

      He was, however, very comfortable. He sat in a big leather chair, which rested his portly figure; he had just had a good supper, consisting of a partridge pie and a dish of juicy pears; he had sold a horse that morning at considerable profit; his mind was as easy as his body.

      There was only one thing the occurrence of which Mr. Roberts would have thought it worth his while to deprecate at that moment. This was, anybody coming to bother him. The worthy Justice did not like to be bothered. A good many people are of the same opinion. He had that evening but one enemy in the world, and that was the man who should next rap at his house door.

      “Rap-a-tap-tap-tap!”

      “Go to Jericho!” said the Justice to the unseen individual who was thus about to disturb his rest. “I want none of you. Why on earth can’t you let a man alone?—What is it, Martha?”

      “Please you, Master, ’tis Master Benden would have a word with you.”

      “What can the companion want?” mildly growled the Justice. “Well! let him in, and bring another tankard. Good evening, Master Benden. A fine autumn eve, trow.”

      Mr. Benden’s face said that he had come to talk about something of more moment than autumn evenings. He sat down opposite the Justice, buttoned his long gown up to the neck, as if to gird himself for action, and cleared his throat with an air of importance.

      “Master Roberts, I am come on a grave matter and a sad.”

      “Can’t deal with grave matters after supper,” said the Justice. “Come again in the morning. Take a pear.”

      “Sir, this is a serious business.”

      “Business hours are over. I never do business out of hours.”

      “To-night, Master Roberts, and to-night only, shall serve for this business.”

      “I do no business out of hours!” solemnly repeated the officer of the law. “Take a pear—take two pears, and come again in the morning.”

      Mr. Benden shook his head in a tragic manner, and let the pears alone.

      “They are good pears,” said the Justice. “If you love no pears, put one in your pocket with my commendations to good Mistress Benden. How doth she?—well, I hope.”

      “Were I able, Sir,” replied the visitor impressively, “to bear your commendations to good Mistress Benden, I were the happier man. But, alas! I am not at that pass.”

      “What, come you hither to complain of your wife? Fie, Master Benden! Go you home and peace her, like a wise man as you are, and cast her half a suffering for some woman’s gear.”

      Mr. Benden might most truthfully have made reply that he had ere that evening bestowed on his wife not half a suffering only, but many whole ones: but he knew that the Justice meant half a sovereign, which was then pronounced exactly like suffering.

      “Sir!” he said rather angrily, “it pleases you to reckon lightly of this matter: but what, I pray you, if you have to make account thereon with the Queen’s Grace’s laws, not to speak of holy Church? Sir, I give you to wit that my wife is an ill hussy, and an heretic belike, and lacketh a sharp pulling up—sharper than I can give her. She will not go to church, neither hear mass, nor hath she shriven her this many a day. You are set in office, methinks, to administer the laws, and have no right thus to shuffle off your duty by hours and minutes. I summon you to perform it in this case.”

      Mr. Justice Roberts was grave enough now. The half-lazy, half-jocose tone which he had hitherto worn was cast aside entirely, and the expression of his face grew almost stern. But the sternness was not all for the culprit thus arraigned before him; much of it was for the prosecutor. He was both shocked and disgusted with the course Mr. Benden had taken: which course is not fiction, but fact.

      “Master Benden,” said he, “I am two men—the Queen’s officer of her laws, and plain Anthony Roberts of Cranbrook. You speak this even but to Anthony Roberts: and as such, good Master, I would have you bethink you that if your wife be brought afore me as Justice, I must deal with her according to law. You know, moreover, that in case she shall admit her guilt, and refuse to amend, there is no course open to me save to commit her to prison: and you know, I suppose, what the end of that may be. Consider well if you are avised to go through with it. A man need count the cost of building an house ere he layeth in a load of bricks.”

      “You