Her words were received with a loud yell.
"Peace? There is no peace here."
"Peace, peace, God's peace be with you!" she continued; and then in a
loud voice, which rose above the turmoil, she began:
"Our Father which art in heaven."
Shrieks of mockery greeted her words.
"He who would have bread let him pray for it," she cried out. "Surely
it will come to him who asketh."
A loud voice greeted her words.
"We have asked, and they have given us stones for bread," said a gaunt
man.
"Because ye have asked amiss," she answered. "Down on your knees and I
will pray for you."
A moment's hesitation, then there was dead silence, and that crowd fell
down as if moved by some invisible power.
"Repeat what I say, after me," she cried. "Our Father."
And so through that blessed prayer, the like of which there is none
other, these poor wretches, the outcast of the earth, followed her,
repeating the words, some with sobs, some still cursing between the
words.
As the Amen died out, Knight stood beside her.
"Open the gate and let me in to them," she said, "and then do as I bid
you."
She took a great white loaf from the basket he had brought.
"There are more coming," he said in a low voice; "this is not all your
bounty gives."
"A knife," she said. "I will break each loaf in four. Open the gate,"
she continued, "and I will go in and feed them myself."
"They will tear you to pieces," said Knight.
"No they will not," she answered; and she stood erect as one inspired.
The jailer took the bunch of keys from his side, unlocked the door, and
she passed in.
In a second she was surrounded.
"The bread, the bread we have prayed for!" they cried.
"It is coming," she answered; and she took the lumps of bread which
Knight handed her. Quickly they were snatched from her.
Suddenly she stopped, for she saw that the men in their greed were
thrusting the women back, and fighting their way towards her.
"Cowards!" she cried, "stand back! The women and the children. Have
you nothing human left in you? Shame! Shame!"
There was a deep growl of anger, but slowly the men fell back, and the
women rushed forward, kneeling at her feet, kissing her hands. Their
souls were touched, and she, stooping over them, bade them rise, and
gave them food. She took one child in her arms and fed it with her own
hands.
"Water!" they called out, "water!" And they showed her a pitcher filled
with a foul liquid.
"Water, bring water!" she repeated; and the keepers brought it as they
would have brought it at an angel's word.
She held the jars to the parched, thirsty lips, and they drank, all
those who could get near enough; but it was not enough, there were so
many.
"That is all," she said at last. "I have no more; but to-morrow I will
come back and feed you again; only be human and know there is a God who
careth for you. Ye have sinned, but He will pardon you if you repent.
He suffered, though He was sinless, and you are sinners. It is but just
that you should suffer for your sins. Listen to what the psalmist of
Israel sang." In a loud, clear voice she recited the 77th Psalm:
"'I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice, and he
gave ear unto me'," and so on to the end.
Where there had been such an uproar there was now a grave stillness,
save for the groans of the men and the weeping of the women. She stood
with the half-naked child still in her arms, and looked down upon the
people, her tall figure resting against the unclean wall of that
prison-house. Her voice was steady; her eyes had in them that strangely
luminous look of inspiration.
When she had finished she gave the child back to its mother.
"If they will let me, I will come to you to-morrow," she repeated, "and
so each day. Only be patient, and the Lord will be with you."
As she spoke she backed out of the cell, and disappeared from their
sight.
The keepers told the governor they had never had such a quiet day; the
prisoners seemed subdued. They took their portions of food at night and
hardly murmured. There were many brutes amongst those men, and many
shameless women, but their passions were curbed and their evil tongues
silenced.
Mistress Newbolt went back to her husband and tended him all that day,
praying beside him with such earnestness, and with such impassioned
eloquence that the warders came and stood at the door of the cell and
listened. There was not one of them who would not gladly serve her; she
might ask what she would of them, they did it.
The governor, hearing what she had done, though knowing it to be against
the rules, said:
"Let her do what she will for the poor wretches!"
And so every morning for ten long days she went in to them. Some passed
away, but the greater number remained. Every day she added something to
her bounty: she gave the women cloths and brooms, and bade them try to
keep some order and cleanliness in the cells; but it was impossible, and
she soon recognized it was so.
Some days she would repeat a few verses from the Bible to them, and they
would listen. Her heart would be glad then, thinking she had won them,
but on the morrow there would be fresh cursing, swearing, and
evil-speaking. Still, she never wearied. She brought fresh water and
clean linen, and dressed their wounds; she brought milk for the little
children; she spent herself and her wealth for these outcasts. They grew
to look upon her coming as the one thing in the twenty-four hours for
which they lived.
"Our mother's coming," they told one another, as the hour approached,
and like children they watched for her.
It was wonderful how her strength stood it all--those long days and
nights at her husband's pallet, and the horror of her surroundings.
The order came at last that her husband should be removed to Aldersgate
to await his trial. The class of prisoners there was of a higher
degree, and the prison was less crowded. But the order came too late;
they could not move him.
"He will die on the way," the doctor said; "he must die, therefore let
him remain here in peace."
When she was not tending the prisoners or waiting on her husband she was
praying, this marvellous woman, in whom verily the blood of martyrs must
have flowed. She grew gaunter and gaunter, but there came into her face
a look of enthusiasm, as if she no longer belonged to this world, but to
the heaven of which she spoke.
"If Ann is to see my father alive, I must bring her soon, Mother," said
Reginald, on the eighteenth day of the colonel's illness.
"He will not die until the twenty-first," she answered.
On the morning of the twenty-first it was evident that he was sinking,
that he would not outlive the day, and so Reginald went for Ann and
brought her to the prison. He had told her something of their mother's
doings, but it was difficult for anyone who did not see it to know what
that prison life was, and Ann was spared the horror. In the cell where
her father lay dying everything was spotless. There was scarcely
standing room for two or three people, but the door was left open; there
was no fear of his escaping--the spirit would go, but the shell would
remain, until it was given back to earth. Man could not hurt him; he
need not fear being called to any earthly judgment.
So changed was he that Ann hardly knew him. If she had not known he was
her father she would not have recognized him. Looking at her mother,
she saw it was the same with her.
"Can this be my father," she thought, "by whose side I have ridden over
moor and fell, whose voice was so strong to command, whose presence was
so good?" And then, looking at her mother, she grew faint with fear.
There was something unearthly in Mistress Newbolt's appearance: her tall
figure had grown supernaturally thin, her hands and face were
transparent in their whiteness, her eyes shone with kind and tender
pity--they were no longer cold and hard as they had been.
When Ann, overcome with grief, sank by her father's bedside and sobbed
out her sorrow, she felt her mother's hand on her head, and her voice
whispering:
"Nay, my child, do not weep; it is well with him. We have prayed
together, he and I, when God has vouchsafed to him short glimpses of
reason, and I am persuaded that his soul is safe in the hands of his
Maker. Do not trouble; it is well with him."
Then she knelt beside her and poured forth her soul in prayer. It was
wonderful to hear her; she was as one inspired; the words flowed forth
in a stream of unbroken eloquence. The warders, the keepers, the women
of the prison, all gathered round to hear her, and many having come to
mock, remained to pray. Throughout the day this went on.
Towards evening Reginald came to take Ann away. Suddenly life seemed to
come back to the dying man. He sat up; they put pillows behind him. He
looked around him, and seeing Ann and Reginald, beckoned them to come to
him. Laying his hands on their heads, he blessed them.
"I have one desire," he said. "I have loved lands, and wealth, and all
the good things of this world; now I know they are of no value at all.
I charge you two to discover if there be any child, kith or kin, of
those who possessed Newbolt Manor before it came into my hands. If so,
give it back to them; if not, then do as the disciples of old--succour
the poor, make a home for the destitute, let the wealth go back to God
who gave it. You will remember?"
"I will remember, Father," said Reginald; "have no fear."
Colonel Newbolt sank back on his pillows as if content, and quietly,
without an effort, as if he were falling asleep, passed away.
His wife rose from her knees and covered his face. At a sign from her
all those present left the cell, except her children. They remained
with her until the last offices for the dead had been accomplished,
then, at her command, hand in hand they went forth; she remaining alone
to keep watch beside him who had been her husband.
*CHAPTER XII*
*A Faithful Friend*
In the life of every one of us, from the cradle to the grave, there are
landmarks. The child's first tooth, its first step as it half tumbles
across the floor into its mother's arms, the first word from the baby's
lips, are stages in the child's life and in the mother's heart. So it
goes on imperceptibly--the child, the youth, the man, school and
college; these come to all. But there are waves which sweep over each
individual soul, casting it ashore; a master wave, drawing us into the
great sea of destiny.
The death of Colonel Newbolt changed the current of more lives than one.
Ann had adored her father, and when Reginald took her forth out of that
prison-house where he lay dead, she was as one stunned. How great the
change in her life was to be she did not then conceive, for in the first
hour of a _great_ sorrow, that sorrow alone holds us.
Ann went back to Somerset House, and Patience and Agnes tried to comfort
her; but on the morrow Reginald fetched her, and she went home to her
mother.
Then a strange thing happened. One morning, as Patience and Agnes sat
at work, a commissioner came and informed them that the king had given
orders that the queen's apartments, and, in fact, the whole of Somerset
House, was to be put under repair. This was to be done quickly because
of the king's marriage and the return of her majesty, the queen dowager.
"Therefore", he said, "the king desires that you should remove to
Hampton Court, to the apartments he has given you there."
Patience listened in silence, and when the messenger had departed she
went and shut herself into her own room and did not appear till
supper-time, much to Agnes's astonishment, for she had never before been
left so many hours alone. The first words she spoke startled Agnes.
"You heard the order for us to leave this house and go to Hampton
Court," she began. "Well, I will not obey, because I do not choose that
you should live in the midst of the king's court. I find," she
continued, "that with great economy, and by living in some quiet country
village, I have money enough to keep us for two or three years. Will
you be content to live thus?"
"I shall be glad to do so," said Agnes. "Ever since we were at
Greenwich my heart has yearned for a country life. I told you a long
time ago I was tired of courts. Take me where you will, Patience, as
far out of the world as it pleases you. Of course, Ann and Reginald
will know where we go?" she added.
"No," said Patience, "nobody must know. I am taking you where it would
be a danger for you to be known."
Agnes's face fell. "But I love my friends," she said, "and would not be
wholly parted from them."
"For the present you must be," said Patience. "What the future holds in
store for you I cannot tell. May the Lord guide our footsteps in the
right way!"
When Reginald called the next day to ask them to come to his mother and
Ann, they were gone--no one could tell where, no one knew. They had
left soon after dawn, taking Martha with them, also Rolfe, a
north-country man who had accompanied Patience to France many years
before. Evidently Patience had judged these two to be fitting persons
to serve them, to be trusted.
Sad at heart, Reginald returned and told his mother what had happened.
"I am sorry," she said. "I was going to ask Patience to take charge of
Ann, because this night I had a call--I heard voices and I saw visions.
The spirit of the Lord bids me forsake the world and serve Him only.
Nothing must hinder me, and yet Ann stands in my way; she is there
before me, blocking my path. What can I do with her? The Lord calls me
and I must go. Within those prison gates my work lies; my work is the
saving of the souls which He has given into my hands."
"But, Mother," said Reginald, "what can you do for so many?"
"Do!" she answered. "I will feed their bodies and souls; I will teach
them and I will preach to them, if perchance I may save but one soul
alive."
"And who will care for you, Mother?" asked Ann.
"The Lord," answered Mistress Newbolt, "He will care for me."
Tears were pouring down Ann's face.
"Ah, Mother, you will surely need someone," she said. "I will tend you,
I will love you, I will care for you; my heart tells me this is my work.
We will leave this great house. We will take just two rooms without the
prison gates; you can do your work and I will do mine. When you are
weary you can rest, and I will tend you. Shall it not be so, Reginald?"
And she turned to her brother.
"Ann speaks wisely, Mother," said Reginald. "Let her remain with you."
"I will not hinder you, Mother," said Ann; "I will help you. To Newbolt
we cannot go, because you know my father has willed that we should not
dwell there."
"In any case," said Reginald, "I doubt if we shall keep it long. The
king's greed is great; he would not have suffered us to remain.
Doubtless, now that my father is dead, he will take it in payment for
the fine which would have been imposed."
"Then sell it at once, and give the money to my poor," said his mother.
"If I can," answered Reginald; "but I doubt if that be possible. For
myself, I shall go abroad. Surely better days will dawn ere long!"
He might well say this, he might well hope this. Throughout England and
Scotland a religious persecution was waging: the Act of Uniformity was
passed. Against the Independents and the Presbyterians the utmost
rigour of the law was enforced; the prisons were filled with
nonconformist ministers and their people. Many compared this time to
the great St. Bartholomew massacre of the Huguenots. And what was still
more grievous to all righteous souls, the court was a hideous place,
full of evil-doings, grieving those who retained still the faintest
semblance of morality.
The marriage of the king did not improve the state of things; indeed, it
made matters worse, for the misery endured by the young queen, Catherine
of Braganza, was very great. She was left in solitude, her own
country-people were taken away from her, and she was forced to consort
with the king's friends, who, for the most part, were distasteful to
her.
All the ideal dreams which Reginald and Ann had dreamt fell crumbling to
the ground. They looked back with something almost of regret to the
days of Cromwell's rule, when the strictest observance of religious duty
and of virtue was at least commended. Their hearts were sore within
them. How would it end? There seemed much trouble in the future for
both of them.
"If only a war would break out I would volunteer," said Reginald. "I
will not stay at home. If I cannot serve my king at home, I will serve
my country by sea or by land."
"And I will serve my mother," said Ann; and timidly, because she feared
her, and yet fondly, because she knew she was her mother, Ann threw her
arms round her neck and whispered softly in her ears:
"Where thou goest I will go; thy God shall be my God."
Mistress Newbolt did not return the caress, she merely answered:
"It is the will of the Lord. Thou shalt abide with me."
That same day she dismissed all her servants, acting justly by them,
even kindly, for she gave them their full wages and something over; then
she and Ann went together into the city, and found two or three rooms at
the top of a house in the Old Bailey.
Ann, who had been accustomed to open air and freedom, wondered how she
would live there; but she did not oppose her mother. On the contrary,
she fell in with her views, and for the next day or two they were busy
moving what furniture was necessary from the great house to the poor
lodging. Ann thought of many things, and her activity was very great.
She piled up the linen, she took all she imagined could possibly be for
their comfort; but her heart sank as she went up those narrow stairs,
meeting ever and again strange faces of men and women such as she had
never looked on before. To her it was an ugly life: would anything make
it beautiful? She never thought of that; she only knew she had to live
in the midst of it, and she prayed for strength to do her duty.
Sometimes for days together she never saw her mother. She wondered
where she was, until at last Reginald told her that the governor had
sent for her. It came to pass that when Mistress Newbolt ceased to go
amongst the prisoners they had become insubordinate and had clamoured
for her. Therefore the governor besought her to renew her work amongst
them, for it meant a certain amount of peace, which no one else could
secure, and she answered him:
"I was waiting for your call, sir; God told me it would come. I am
ready."
So Ann was left alone in the upper part of the strange house, with only
an old woman whom she had taken to help her in the work, for her mother
would have no servants. The old woman lived in the same house in a
garret, and she had no belongings. The neighbours said that in winter
time she was well-nigh starving, but in the summer she hawked flowers in
the street, and sometimes fruit.
"You will do that no longer," said Ann. "I will feed you, and you will
do the rough work for me while my mother is out."
Thus it was arranged. At first Ann would send her marketing--she was
herself afraid of being alone in the streets--but gradually, as she grew
familiar with her new life, she ceased to do this, and went out herself
to make her purchases. The air did her good, and, as her mother gave
her but little money, she had to be economical.
One day, as she and Reginald were walking down Drury Lane, she asked:
"Where has all our father's fortune gone?"
"Our mother is spending it," he answered. "There are the rents of
Newbolt Manor; she gets them all. I went to see our lawyer the other
day. He told me that by my father's will everything went to our mother,
unconditionally. She is mistress of everything; we are dependent upon
her."
"It is not right," said Ann; "we shall be beggars."
"I am afraid we shall," said Reginald, "but it cannot be helped. You
will care for our mother; I, as best I can, will care for you both; but
the glory is gone out of my life."
"Tut, tut!" said a man's voice, and a hand came down heavily on
Reginald's shoulder.
He turned sharply, put his hand to his hat, exclaiming: "My Lord
Craven!"
"I was coming on behind you, and I heard you say that wicked thing, that
the glory was gone out of your life," said Lord Craven, "and you but a
lad still. You are starting in life, and because you have one
disappointment your heart fails you. Is that being a man? Turn in with
me, and we will speak together. I am no longer young, and verily the
glory has departed out of my life." And his quaint face, neither old
nor young, grew very sad.
Lord Craven had been all his life the champion of the Protestant
religion throughout Europe, and the acknowledged knight of that
beautiful but unfortunate queen, Elizabeth Stuart of Bohemia, aunt of
Charles II. The queen had come to London, and had lived a few months at
Lord Craven's house in Drury Lane. She had died in the early spring,
and so a life-long service had come to an end, and disappointment and
ingratitude were to be his reward.
This is the romance of history, savouring of that mediaeval worship of a
woman which we meet with once and again, the Lauras and Beatrices of
life; stories scattered here and there to show us what so few realize,
the spiritual side of the life of man and woman; love which is content
to live, asking for nothing, looking for nothing that this earth can
give, wholly unselfish, content to serve, content to worship.
Both Reginald and Ann knew Lord Craven's story well, they knew his
devotion to the queen and to the Protestant faith, also his untiring
goodness to the whole Stuart family. They had seen him, as all the
world had seen him, follow the coffin of his "queen", as he always
called Elizabeth Stuart, holding in his hand his plumed helmet, in which
was fastened always a small white glove, his token of service. Many
mocked, some smiled at the little Lord Craven, as he was ofttimes
called; but in their hearts all good-minded men honoured him.
That the earl should address him thus familiarly was a high honour for
Reginald, and he felt it as such.
"My lord," he said, "I thank you, but I have my sister with me, and
cannot leave her."
"Mistress Ann," said Lord Craven, and his kindly face smiled down upon
the girl, "it seems to me we do not live far apart. Had you not a house
about here?"
"Yes, my lord, we lived in yonder house," answered Reginald, and he
pointed to their old home. "But my father was arrested and thrown into
prison. He is dead, and we have moved to a humbler lodging."
"I thought as much," said the Earl. "Come and tell me all that has
befallen you." And with that graciousness which bespoke the man who had
lived in courts, he bowed, and, looking at Ann, added:
"You will do me much honour if you will accompany your brother to my
house." And he doffed his hat, with the white glove.
Ann curtsied, and the three turned back together until they reached the
great portal leading to the earl's house at the corner of Drury Lane and
Aldwych. The door was wide open, as was often the custom in those days,
and men-servants stood here and there ready to receive and execute their
master's orders. Passing through the great hall, the earl conducted his
guests to his private library, where he mostly sat himself. It looked
out upon gardens, and seemed to all intents and purposes far removed
from the busy world. Over the mantelpiece was a lovely portrait of
Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and beneath it was written:
"Your most affectionate and most obedient slave, who loved you and will
love you incessantly, infinitely, unto death".
Such was the vow William Craven had made as a young man, and from which,
now his hair was grey, death alone had released him.
To Ann and Reginald in their youth, with the glamour of life still
before them, this room seemed a sanctuary.
"Sit down, sit down," said the earl, "and tell me what your trouble is,
and why the glory has gone out of your young life."
He smiled as he repeated Reginald's words. He recognized in them the
impatient cry of youth.
Reginald never knew how it happened, but he poured out his whole soul to
the earl. He told him how he had refused to have anything to do with
Cromwell and the Commonwealth, how he had vowed allegiance to King
Charles and the Stuarts, how his father had been, so to speak, done to
death, and how he himself, seeing what the court of Charles II. was, had
lost heart.
"You have been serving a man and not a cause," said Lord Craven; "that
is why you are in this plight. Forget the man, and think of the cause.
You do not know the Stuarts as I know them. They are a wild race--they
will not be curbed either for good or evil--daring, brilliant,
beautiful!" He paused, his eyes turning involuntarily to the portrait
of his queen. Then he continued, "They hold men's hearts in their hands,
and they break them without more ado than if they were of common clay.
Look back to their past history!" he exclaimed, and his face had in it a
strange beauty as he stood before the two young people and spoke to
them. "Think of Mary Stuart; she lost her crown, her kingdom,
everything, for love, and others lost everything for her. It is in
their blood; they cannot help it any more than men can help kneeling
before their shrine and worshipping them. We were a score of gentlemen
who first vowed ourselves to the service of the Princess Elizabeth when
she went forth out of England to wed the Prince Palatine. They are all
dead; I am left alone. Do you think I have not suffered? And yet you,
because you have high ideals and are disappointed, turn away in disgust,
and would go over to the enemy."
"No, not that," said Reginald, "not that, but I will not be a courtier.
I will be what you are, my lord, a soldier. I will fight if there be
still a cause to fight for."
"I think that will be easily found," said the earl; "there is likely to
be war with Holland before long. If you are truly desirous of seeing
active service, I will take care that you have a place found for you.
Will you serve under Prince Rupert?"
"Indeed I will," answered Reginald. "I could hope for nothing better."
"Then take courage," said the earl, "I will speak for you. You say that
your father is dead. He was like many another; the tables turned. Your
estates are likely to be forfeited, you will surely have heavy fines to
pay, but beyond that, seeing that you are yourself in the king's
service, and that you have never drawn sword against him, you will not
suffer. What estates have you?"
"We have but one large estate," said Reginald, "and my father with his
dying breath bade me return it either to its lawful heirs or to God's
poor."
"Where is it?" asked the earl.
"Up north, in Westmorland," answered Reginald. "Newbolt Manor it is
called now, but it was once De Lisle Abbey, and belonged to the De
Lisles."
"That's strange," said the earl; "poor Gilbert De Lisle! I knew him
well. He was killed at Worcester, and he left a fair young wife, who
died of a broken heart in child-birth. I never heard whether the child
lived or died."
"I have always understood it died," said Reginald, "and that there was
no heir to the estate."
"Ah, well, then the king will bestow it on some of his favourites," said
Lord Craven. "And your sister, has she no fortune, no dower-money?"
"My father left some money," answered Reginald, "but my mother is
spending it." And then rapidly he told the earl of his father's
imprisonment and death, and how by natural instinct his mother had taken
up work in the prison, and now was spending all the wealth they had upon
it.
"Then, Mistress Ann, we shall have to see to you," said the earl; "only
prevent this brother of yours from forsaking the cause. It has had its
dark days; you must live them down. Be not down-hearted," he said,
turning to Reginald. "We cannot make the world as we would have it; we
must take it as it comes and make the best of it. Resign your
commission in the King's Guards, and go abroad to Holland; I will give
you an introduction to Prince Rupert."
Reginald hesitated for a moment.
"My mother and my sister," he said, "I cannot leave them unprovided
for."
"I will see to them," said the earl; "they shall not suffer. We cannot
afford to let young earnest souls like yours go adrift."
"Thank you!" said Reginald, "I will think the matter over and bring you
my answer, if you will let me; but in any case I thank you for your
kindness to us strangers."
"You are no strangers," said Earl Craven. "I have heard of you from my
friend Delarry." As he said this he looked at Ann, whose face coloured
and eyes drooped. "Moreover, I have watched you both. I knew of your
father's arrest and of his death, and I shall be glad to be of service
to you. I am afraid the king is making enemies of those who would be
faithful servants, so, as is my custom, I must step into the breach."
"And we thank you," said Reginald; "your generosity will not have been
bestowed in vain."
He bowed to Lord Craven, Ann curtsied, but the earl held out his hand to
them both.
"We are friends. Think of me as such," he said; "for I am a lone man,
and would gladly boast of a son and daughter such as you are, to comfort
me in my old age. My house is open to you; when you need me you will
not be refused."
With that he turned away, and Reginald and Ann went out together.
"Surely it is God's hand," said Ann. "We were well-nigh despairing, you
and I, Reginald, and now we have a friend."
"Yes," answered Reginald, "not too soon; the world seemed very dark, and
now, well, I see the sun."
Ann looked up and smiled at him.
"So do I," she said, and they went on together with light hearts. The
young are so glad to cast a burden off their shoulders, to greet the
sunshine, to welcome hope; it is the prerogative of youth!
*CHAPTER XIII*
*The Hamlet of St. Mary's*
It was but a tiny village nestling in the midst of moors and fells. The
river Eden ran through it, and all around was the richest verdure, woods
and plantations, such as can only be seen in Westmorland, one of the
smallest but also one of the most fertile counties in England.
It was just before harvest time--the golden corn waved over many an
acre. A tiny church stood with its white turret just under the
hill-side; beside it was the vicarage, and there for many a year the
Rev. John Ewan had dwelt and ministered to a scattered moorland flock.
He had come there as a young man with a young wife. She lay in the
little churchyard, and of their three children there remained but one, a
girl of sixteen summers, who kept house and served her father with
untiring devotion. She had never been beyond the radius of the three
counties which bound Westmorland, and she had no ambition to wander.
She had no companion save her father; she rode and walked with him. He
had taught her all she knew, and that was considerably more than most
girls, for the winters were long and the days short, and in the evening,
over the fireside, she read much, and she listened to her father as he
spoke to her of things of the past. She knew much of the history of
England; it was a passion with her, and she had ever been a rigid
loyalist, as her father was.
Strange to tell, throughout the Civil War this little village and its
minister had been left unmolested, and yet it was at no great distance
from Appleby; but then it was such a little place, and the farmhouses
were so scattered. Often during those days of internal warfare they had
seen men on horseback, Roundheads and Royalists alike, ride in hot haste
through the village, and Jessie had longed for them to stop. She would
have dearly loved to speak with them, but they passed on. There was
nothing to tempt them in the dozen low thatched cottages which clustered
together; there was no inn for them to halt at for refreshment, so they
invariably rode on. Almost at the top of the hill, beyond which the
moorlands stretched, there was an old farmhouse. No one knew to whom by
rights it belonged. Some said it was part of the De Lisle estate;
others that it was tithe land, and the vicar could lay claim to it. Be
that as it may, it had been long uninhabited, when one morning a
serving-man stopped at the vicarage gate and asked to see the minister.
He was shown into a room with great rafters across the ceiling and walls
lined with books. At a table in the centre, at his desk, sat the vicar.
He was a man something over forty, with a handsome, clever face, but
with a look of abstraction in his eyes not unusual in one who lives far
away from the world and its doings. This morning he had two companions,
a big sheep-dog and Jessie, the latter curled up in an arm-chair deep in
her book.
"A man wants to see you, sir," said the woman servant, opening the door
just wide enough to put in her head.
"Show him in, Mary," answered the vicar; and a big man in a rough brown
jerkin, leggings, coarse stockings, and hob-nailed shoes entered,
holding his cap in his hand. He was a man of about five-and-thirty,
with a mass of brown hair and a somewhat reddish beard.
He came up and stood at the vicar's table. As he did so he laid a
letter before him.
"My mistress has sent me with this," he said; "will you please read it,
sir, and give me your answer."
The vicar looked at the man.
"It seems to me I have seen you before," he said.
The man shook his head.
"It is many a long day since I have been in these parts," he said.
"Then you _have_ been in these parts before?" asked the vicar.
"Will you read the letter, sir, because I have left the missus in the
wood out yonder," he answered shortly, adding, "We have travelled all
the way from London, and shall be glad to have a roof over our heads."
Jessie twisted herself round, looked at the man, then rose, saying
quickly:
"There is no room in this village, and no inn; you must go farther on to
Dearham."
The man looked at her, a queer smile lighting up his rugged face.
"There be the Holt, missie, I ween."
"The Holt!" exclaimed Jessie; "people don't go to the Holt, do they,
Father?"
During this conversation the vicar was reading the letter which had been
given to him. It consisted of four pages of close writing, and the
vicar's face changed more than once while he was mastering its contents.
When he had finished he laid the letter down and rested his head in his
hands.
"Well, sir?" said the man anxiously.
"I will go back with you, my man," he said.
"Jessie," he continued, "the key of Holt Farm is on the nail; take it,
go quickly and open the house." And without another word he and the man
went out together.
Jessie rose, took the key, whistled, and went to the door, the sheep-dog
at her heels.
"Where be you going, miss?" asked Mary, looking out from the half-open
kitchen door.
"I am going to Holt Farm," she answered, "to open it."
"What for? It was aired last Monday," said Mary.
"Father told me to go," answered Jessie; and with that she left the
house, went through the garden and the adjoining churchyard, crossed a
low stone bridge which spanned the river a few yards lower down, and
began climbing the hillside.
It was pretty steep, but she did not feel it; she had been born among
the hills, and fells, and dales. The dog bounded before her, sniffing
the balmy air, odorous with the scent of the heather and the
multitudinous wild flowers which grew on the hillside. It was a good
walk before she reached the wicket-gate, and, lifting the latch, went
into the farm garden.
A gravel path led up to the house. There were no weeds, no overgrowth
of any sort, as is often the case in an uninhabited homestead.
He had never given any reason for his doing so, but the vicar had
himself kept the place in order, had had repairs done when necessary,
and had seen that the garden was trim and neat, and that every week the
windows were thrown open. The house was literally buried in trees, so
that till you came close up to it you could not see more than the
outline of a building. There had been no clearance made for the last
fifteen years, and the boughs of the elm-trees touched the windows.
It was not a large place: a stone house with a deep porch in the centre,
on either side of which were long low windows, with lozenge-shaped panes
of glass. On the first and only story were two similar windows, that was
all; but the house extended far back, looking out upon a somewhat large
court-yard, in which there were stables and outhouses, as was common in
farmhouses.
Jessie turned the big key in the door; it opened immediately, and she
entered a small, square hall. It was red-tiled and furnished with some
oak chairs, and a great clock of the kind we nowadays call a
grandfather's clock. From this hall a staircase led to the upper rooms.
On either side of the hall were doors, which Jessie now threw open. The
one on the right hand showed a long, low, oak-panelled room, with a
large fireplace, a great oak table in the centre, a sideboard, and a
dresser, upon which were arranged plates, and dishes, and great pewter
mugs.
Evidently this was the dining-hall and kitchen in one, for beyond was
the scullery. Everything was spotlessly clean, save for a light
covering of dust. The door on the other side of the hall led into a
parlour, which was furnished with unusual luxury for those days. The
sofas and easy-chairs were covered with a delicately faded chintz.
There were taborets and small tables, scattered here and there, of
highly-polished oak, upon which stood vases and big bowls of old china.
A pair of virginals occupied one corner of the room, and beside them, on
a stool, lay an unstrung guitar. It was a room which conjured up
dreams. Who had dwelt there? What gentle soul had once touched those
now broken cords, or let her fingers run over the notes of the
virginals? There were portraits also on the walls, not many; but two
attracted the eye at once. They represented a young man in full court
dress of the time of Charles I, and a young girl, a child almost, in a
white satin gown, with strings of pearls round her neck, and her fair,
golden hair in curls about her forehead.
Jessie from her childhood had always loved this room. Once or twice she
had asked her father whom these pictures represented, and what was the
story of this house where no one dwelt, but he had answered:
"I cannot tell you, Jessie. I was a young man when I came here. I only
saw the mistress once--when she was dying. Don't ask me anything more,
child!"
So she had dreamt of many things, and made pictures to herself of those
who had once lived in those rooms.
Upstairs there were two bed-rooms with great beds in them, one shrouded
in damask, the other in white dimity.
Looking out of the window she saw her father and the man coming up
towards the house leading three horses. On two of them women were
riding on pillions; the other one had no rider, but instead a girl was
running on in front. She had thrown off her cloak, for although it was
early morning the day was warm, and she was bareheaded.
Jessie went out into the porch, and, looking down at this girl, saw that
her face and figure were unlike any she had ever seen before. She
resembled a lily, tall and willowy, with golden hair, upon which the sun
now glinted, and with a face so sweet that at a distance it might have
been an angel's.
She was evidently impatient, for she ran quickly on in front of the
others. Once she paused and looked back, and Jessie heard her call out:
"Is it up there--all the way up there?"
And her father, raising his hat, had answered her:
"Yes, up there, my child."
In a short time she had reached the wicket-gate, caught sight of Jessie
in the porch, and laughed at her, such a glad, merry laugh, which seemed
to bring joy with it, and stir up all the echoes in the old house!
Jessie started. Could it be that she heard that laugh re-echoed from
somewhere? But she had no time to listen; her hands were taken, and
rosy lips pouted to kiss her.
"You have come to welcome us!" exclaimed the girl. "That is good of
you. Oh, I am so glad to be here; I am so tired!"
"One would not think so," returned Jessie; "you have come so quickly."
"Of course, of course I came quickly, because I am so tired," was the
merry answer. "Let me see." And she pushed her way past Jessie and ran
straight into the parlour.
"Oh, how sweet! how pretty!" she exclaimed. "I thought it would be ugly
and desolate. Patience would not tell me; she said she had seen Holt
Farm long long ago, and verily it looks as if someone had just gone out
and left it for us. Oh, I shall be so happy here, so happy!" And she
let herself fall into a great arm-chair, which seemed to swallow her up.
Just at that moment the vicar and Patience reached the house. The vicar
lifted Patience down, and, turning, said to Rolfe, the man-servant:
"Take the horses round to the back. I will come and show you the way to
the stables."
"Thank you kindly, sir, I know the way," answered Rolfe. "You had
better get down here," he added, speaking to the serving-woman, and he
lifted her to the ground; but she was stiff with her long journeyings,
and would have fallen if he had not steadied her.
"Lack-a-day!" she exclaimed, "I hope this is the end of our journeyings.
A poor place, and a lonely one! Why, man, we might be murdered up here
and no one be any the wiser!"
"Have no fear; you will not be murdered," said Rolfe, and, taking the
three horses by their reins, he led them away.
Patience had entered the house. Her face was very white, her eyes full
of tears, as she stood inside the parlour door looking around her.
Agnes, when she saw her, sprang up.
"Patience, you never told me it was so beautiful! It is the loveliest
little place I have ever seen."
"It is a very humble home," said Patience, "but it is home."
"I have never had a home before," said Agnes, "only big rambling
palaces. I shall love this; it breathes of love." And, taking Jessie's
hand, she said, "Take me, show me everything."
Jessie looked at her father. This impetuous young person was a
revelation to them both; life was so still and calm at St. Mary's, for
so the hamlet was called. A little way down the river there had once
been a chapel, dedicated to the Virgin. It formed part of an old
convent, but the convent and chapel had been destroyed in the time of
Henry VIII; a few stones only remained to show where it had been, but
the name of St. Mary's had remained to the hamlet.
"Well," said Agnes, "are you not going to show me anything?" And she
frowned at Jessie.
"Yes, yes! Come, I will show you all!" Jessie answered quickly, as if
she were bound to obey this newcomer.
"First tell me your name."
"My name is Jessie," was the answer.
"And mine is Agnes. That will do; now, Jessie, come along." And the
young feet pattered away over the tiled floors, through the kitchen and
scullery, out into the court-yard, then up the stairs, and through the
bed-rooms, awakening echoes where there had been a long silence.
Patience looked up at the vicar.
"Have I done well?" she asked.
"I think you have done well and wisely," he answered.
"And you, is it well with you? How beautifully you have kept the place.
It is just as we left it."
"I have done my best," the vicar answered; "it has been a labour of
love. I thought you would bring the child home one day."
"It is time I did," she answered.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*The Mystery Cleared Up*
"Father, who are these people who have walked into Holt Farm as if it
belonged to them?" asked Jessie that same evening. "Is it for them you
have kept it so beautiful?"
The vicar hesitated a moment, looked at his daughter, then said quietly:
"Yes, Jessie, it was for them."
"Why have you never told me about them? Have you known them long?" she
asked.
"I baptized that child," he answered, "and I buried her mother; she lies
beneath the chancel in our little church."
"Where the cross is in the pavement, Father?" Jessie asked.
"Yes, there," he answered.
"There is no name," said Jessie softly.
"No, there is no name," answered her father.
"Does she know?" asked Jessie.
"Do you mean does the child know?" asked the vicar.
"Yes; who else should I mean?"
"I cannot tell," he answered; "I do not know myself."
"And the person who is with her?" asked Jessie.
"She knows everything; more than I do," answered her father. "She
carried the child away, and I have not seen her since; only from time to
time I have heard from her, and have had sums of money sent me to keep
the house in order. It belongs to her. Now you must ask no more
questions, and you must answer none. Can I trust you?"
"Of course you can," said Jessie, with a little touch of temper. "How
beautiful this Agnes is!" she continued; "she is like two persons in
one. She has the golden hair of the lady in the picture, and the
laughing brown eyes of the man."
"You saw that?" asked her father.
"Of course I saw it; anyone would," she answered.
"Well, then, say nothing about it," said her father.
They sat down to their evening meal. Mary, the faithful servant, who
had been with them ever since Jessie's birth, who had nursed the
mistress, who had seen the other little children laid beside her to
rest, was excited to-night, and could not keep silence as she waited on
the vicar and his daughter.
"The people in the village are all agog to know who the newcomers are,"
she said. "Only a few are left who remember the coming and the flitting
from the Holt, fifteen years ago. They remember the christening of the
babe and the burying of the mother. Old Thomas, the sexton, says he's
sure the child's name was Agnes. Can that girl be the child?"
"It is even so, Mary," said the vicar, "but you need not talk about it.
Let them say what they will. In a few days they will quiet down, and we
shall hear no more gossip."
"I am not given to gossiping," said Mary in an injured tone, "but it's
not that easy to shut other people's mouths."
"Don't try," said her master; "let things be."
The vicar was right. Things let alone settle down by themselves, and
before a month was over Agnes and Patience had stepped into their
places; it was as if they had always been at St. Mary's.
To the child it was a homecoming, a joy to her who had never had a home.
From the first it was settled that she should go every day to the vicar
to be taught with Jessie.
"She is very ignorant," Patience said, "she can barely read or write in
English; but she is quick, and I shall be much mistaken if she does not
learn as fast as you can teach her."
So the girlish figure running down the hillside, crossing the bridge,
picking her way over the tombstones of the little churchyard on her way
to the vicarage garden, was soon a familiar sight. The men and women
going to their work in the fields wished her good morrow, and she
answered them with a glad voice and a brilliant smile, so that at last
many went out of their way to win that smile and that gracious greeting.
"She be that beautiful," they would say amongst themselves, and
gradually a few remembered how the vicar had baptized a babe who was
born at the Holt and how he had buried the mother a few days later. "If
she be that babe," they said, "surely she be one of us." And they
straightway adopted her.
Holt Farm, though not in itself an extensive holding, consisted of
fields which had always been used by the vicar for grazing purposes.
Also there was an acre or two of agricultural land, where the corn and
the barley waved in their seasons. The vicar had superintended the
farming of all this, and had gathered in the money, but now Patience
took all things into her own hands. She engaged the labourers, she
presided over the dairy, and the cattle and the poultry yard became a
great feature of the place. Rolfe was her head man and Martha saw to
the house, and the vicar went each day to the Holt to see that all was
well with Patience, and if she needed counsel, he gave it.
This homecoming of these two strangers changed many things in the hamlet
of St. Mary's. Holt Farm became a centre to which they all looked. In
that scattered parish for miles round the peasants soon learnt that for
every ill and for every sorrow they would find help and sympathy there,
so they came without fear and returned to their own homes cured, they
said, both in body and soul.
Never for one moment did Agnes complain of the tasks set her by the
vicar. Jessie was always there, and Jessie always helped her as long as
she needed help, but she had come to her teacher with a clear, untired
mind, and everything was easy to her. The vicar was a wonderful
teacher; as he had taught Jessie, so he taught Agnes, not dry regulation
lessons, but the pith of knowledge of people and of things. He let her
talk; he let her tell him all her difficulties. She had but little clear
knowledge of religion. This he put down to her foreign life. What she
did know was indeed a strange medley; but with his strong mind he made
things plain to her, so that she learnt to see and to understand
rightly.
She was very confidential with him, as if he had been her father.
"I do not know anything about my father or my mother," she said one day,
"only that they are dead." And tears gathered in her eyes so that the
vicar was moved. He laid his hand on her, saying, "I baptized you,
Agnes, and the same night your mother died. Will you come and see where
her body lies until the great resurrection day?" He took her by the
hand, and Jessie followed them. The three knelt before the altar, in
front of which was a black cross embedded in the stone. It had been the
vicar's own handiwork.
When they rose from their knees Agnes asked under her voice:
"What was my mother's name?"
"Go home and ask Dame Patience," said the vicar. "I cannot tell you;
she is your guardian."
Agnes went home, and that night the vicar came and spoke to Patience,
and told her she had best tell the child the mystery of her birth.
"It is no mystery," said Patience, "only because we feared those to whom
Cromwell might give her lands, and what evil might befall her in
consequence, have I kept it secret, and the queen also." Then, taking
Agnes by the hand, she pointed to the two pictures and said:
"That is your father, Sir Gilbert de Lisle, and that is your mother,
Agnes, his young wife, and my sister. This place belongs to me, it was
part of my inheritance, and when your father joined the king's army he
entreated me to bring his wife hither because it is a quiet place, and
because to leave her alone at De Lisle Abbey would have been to expose
her to great danger if the king's army were routed. I consented, and he
brought her himself to the Holt, and here they parted never to meet
again. Our worst fears were realized: your father was killed at
Worcester, and from that hour your mother never lifted her head. She
waited to give you birth, and died within the week, desiring me to take
you as soon as I could over to France to Queen Henrietta Maria. I was
loath to do so; I would sooner have kept you here. But she proved right,
for before long Cromwell laid his hands on everything, distributed lands
and estates, and a child like you, with no one to protect you, would
probably have fared badly. We heard that the whole of the De Lisle
estate had been bestowed upon a Parliamentarian, but who he was we do
not know."
Agnes turned sharply round:
"But I know," she said.
"Who?" asked Patience.
"Colonel Newbolt!" answered Agnes.
"How do you know?" asked the vicar.
"Because, as Aunt Patience knows, his son and daughter are great friends
of mine, and as we were talking one day they told me they had come into
lands belonging to Royalists. I asked the name of the Royalists, and
Reginald answered, 'The De Lisles'. Afterwards Ann told me all about
the De Lisles, and the legend concerning them. Then again, I heard from
an old man that though they had been driven out the De Lisles would come
back again. But Ann and Reginald are my dear friends! I will not have
them turned out for me! They would have gone of themselves if they had
been asked, but they shall not be asked; they are my friends." And she
burst out weeping.
It was such an unusual thing for Agnes to weep that Patience took her in
her arms, and petted and made much of her.
"We will leave things in God's hands, my child," she said. "If He gives
you back your own it will be well; if not, then it will be well also."
"What do I want more than I have?" said Agnes. "I am your child, my own
dear aunt, and this place shall be my home; here I was born, and here my
mother is buried--I am content."
"So be it," said Patience. "No one shall trouble you; we will dwell in
peace together."
Verily they did dwell in peace, buried in this little out-of-the-way
spot. If Agnes sometimes thought of her old friends, she silenced her
longings, for to find them she must go back to a world which she did not
love, to London or to Paris, to courts and court life. In the quiet
hours of study her mind grew with such rapidity that even the vicar
marvelled.
Jessie was no laggard at learning or at work of any sort, but Agnes
outstripped her, with that quiet ease with which she did everything.
Her beautiful soul was reflected in her form and face. To see her was
to love her. She was a sunbeam going in and out of the cottages,
running to and fro, kneeling in church; wherever she passed, brightness
followed in her wake.
Excepting at night she and Jessie were never parted. The Holt and the
Vicarage were one home for both; so they grew side by side, Jessie a
quiet maiden, very wise and good, ordering her father's house, teaching
in the little school, visiting the sick all day. In the evenings the
two would sit together reading or talking, the vicar and Patience would
join them, and the former would bring tidings from the outside world.
Two or three times a year he would go into Appleby, and then he would
come back with a great store of court news. He told them of the battles
which were being fought at sea, of the selling of Dunkirk--a shame to
England--of stories of De Ruyter and many other great captains.
"England is losing her prestige," he said, "by sea and by land. The
king loves pleasure too well, and his country too little."
Like tall lilies the two girls grew, side by side, with sunshine in
their hearts and on their faces. The tender blossoms of spring, the
bright summer days with their fruits and flowers, the mellow autumn with
its crimson sunsets, the snows of winter, went and came almost unheeded
by them, for each season had its joys. There was not a cloud on those
young brows; unreasoningly, as if it were a natural thing, they rejoiced
in life. Shadows had gone before and might follow after, but for the
time they walked in light.
*CHAPTER XV*
*At Court*
Men stopped their work, women turned out on to their door-steps, to see
a king's messenger riding through the hamlet of St. Mary's. He drew
rein at the vicarage gate, threw himself off his horse, and would have
knocked at the door had it not been wide open; so he called out:
"In the king's name, parson!"
The vicar, bending over his next Sunday's sermon, rose hastily and came
out.
"Are you Parson Ewan?" asked the man.
"I am," answered the vicar, straightening himself.
"Then can you tell me if a woman by name Patience Beaumont is living
hereabouts at a place called Holt Farm?"
"Certainly she is," said the vicar. "She has dwelt there for well-nigh
three years."
"Will you direct me to the farm?" asked the messenger.
Without any further answer the vicar stepped out into the garden.
"You have but to cross yonder bridge and go straight before you. Holt
Farm stands just behind that clump of trees."
"It is a steep ride for a horse," put in the man.
"Yes; you would do better to go on foot," answered the vicar. "I will
see to your horse; you will find it here on your way back."
"Thank you!" said the messenger, "I shall be glad to walk. I have been
riding since dawn."
"You come from London?" asked the vicar.
"Naturally," answered the man. "Do you not see I am a king's messenger?
But I come from a queen." And he showed on his sleeve the embroidered
lilies of France entwined with the rose of England.
"Queen Henrietta Maria of France?" said the vicar slowly.
"The same," answered the man, giving the reins he still held to the
vicar. "Have you no inn in the place?" he asked.
"No," said the vicar, "but you will find good refreshment up yonder. I
would offer you some myself, but it is better for a man to do his work
first and eat and drink afterwards. You have not far to go."
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps you are wise," he said, and went off.
The vicar watched him. "What news can he have brought?" he thought.
"Is our peace going to be broken into?" And a look of regret crept over
his face. Three peaceful years is a span in a man's life which he does
not willingly see disturbed.
He turned, re-entered the house, and was met by Jessie in her bibbed
apron, her hands white from kneading the bread.
"Who is that man, Father?" she asked.
"The king's messenger," he answered.
"What can he want? Why has he come here?"
"That I cannot tell you," answered her father. "We shall probably know
in due time."
"If I had not my first batch ready for the oven, I would run up to the
farm at once," she said regretfully.
"Better wait, my little girl," said the vicar. "If it is good news it
will come to us quickly; if it is bad, there is time enough. Go back to
your bread-making; I will go back to my sermon."
"Oh, that is all very well!" Jessie muttered to herself, "but I am
always afraid of what will happen up there, lest something should take
them away again, and then, then what should I do?" And tears gathered
in her eyes.
If Jessie had had few joys in life, she had had no sorrows, so that even
this little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand in her horizon,
frightened her soul. She went back to her bread-making, but her heart
was no longer in her work, and the bread suffered; it was long rising,
and she felt guilty when on the morrow Mary remarked:
"It's not so light as it might be, Jessie."
Agnes was in the garden tying up some plants, gathering the roses, and
clearing away any dead leaf or bud which had faded on the bushes.
Suddenly she heard a click at the garden gate, looked up, and saw a man
in the royal livery she remembered so well, just walking up the gravel
path to the house.
He saw her, came up, and doffed his cap.
"Are you Dame Patience Beaumont?" he asked.
"No," she answered, laughing; "I am Agnes Beaumont. Patience is my
aunt. What do you want with her?"
"I have a letter for her," answered the messenger, opening a satchel
which was flung over his shoulder, and drawing forth a somewhat large
packet. "I was to deliver this into her own hands," he continued. "Will
you call her? And then will you bid your serving wench give me some
food? I have ridden hard since dawn without breaking my fast, and I am
both hungry and thirsty--more thirsty than hungry," he added, with a
meaning look.
"Come this way," said Agnes, and though she was clad in simple homespun,
with a white kerchief folded across her bosom and an apron tied over her
skirt, and though she wore thick high-heeled shoes--on which, however,
were silver buckles--there was about her a something which spoke of
gentle birth. She walked so erect, so easily, with such an unspeakably
graceful swing.
The man watched her curiously. He was accustomed to court dames,
queens, and princesses.
"If you will come this way," she said, "Martha will give you food and
drink, and I will take your letter."
He followed her to the back premises, and, opening a side door which led
into the kitchen, she called out:
"Here is a king's messenger, Martha, asking for Aunt Patience. He has
travelled from London, and is hungry and thirsty. Will you see to him?"
"Lack-a-day!" said Martha, coming forward, "I guess he'll bring us no
good."
"That's a hard speech, Mistress Martha," said the man. "Why should I
bring you ought but good from her gracious majesty, Queen Henrietta,
whose servant I am?"
She stood before him and looked at him.
"Why," she cried, "you're Peter Kemp!"
"And you be Martha," he said. "Well, the place has agreed with you,
Martha; you look ten years younger." And he caught hold of her two
hands and shook them.
"Supposing you give me my aunt's letter," broke in Agnes with a stately
air, "you can greet each other after."
"I beg your humble pardon," said the man, and fumbling once more in the
satchel, he drew out the packet, and without any further trouble gave it
to her.
[Illustration: "HE DREW OUT THE PACKETS"]
She turned to go, but remembering, looked back and said somewhat
haughtily:
"You can feed him now, Martha."
She was hardly outside the door when she heard them talking, fifty to
the dozen. She paused, and looked doubtfully at the packet in her hand.
"Is it for good or evil?" she murmured; then she added quickly: "Why
should I fear? Surely what God sends must be good."
She was no longer a child but a girl, verging upon womanhood, tall, not
over slight of figure, but, as we have said before, graceful and
perfectly built. The face was the same child's face; the tendrils of
golden hair still clustered round her head and lay on her white neck;
the brown eyes had the same luminous, laughing look in them; her
colouring was rich and perfect, a little sunburnt, like a ripe peach,
and the lips were ripe too.
A door led from the kitchen to the living-room, so she had not far to
go. Patience was sitting at the table with a pile of snowy linen in
front of her, which she was sorting and arranging with housewifely care.
"Aunt Patience," said Agnes, going up to her, "a king's messenger has
just brought this;" and she put the packet down before her. Then she
stood at the other side of the table, her hands on her hips, watching
her aunt, who took the packet up, turned it over, sighed, and exclaimed:
"Ah me, I have always feared this day would come!"
"Why have you feared it?" asked Agnes sharply.
"Because I am very much mistaken if it does not mean an uprooting," said
Patience.
"But if you do not choose to go, must you?" asked Agnes.
"Yes, I must," answered Patience. "You are old enough to understand
now, Agnes, that I owe it to your father's honour to show you to the
world as his child, the heiress of the De Lisles. There is no need now
to hide it; if the queen has sent for me it is because she is of the
same mind." With that she broke the seal and read the queen's letter.
It contained an express command for her to come to London and bring the
child, Agnes De Lisle, with her, with all the papers necessary to prove
her father's marriage with Agnes Beaumont, and her own birth.
"But I do not care," said Agnes. "I do not want to go; I am quite happy
here."
"We are what we are born," said Patience. "Have you forgotten your
catechism, 'to do your duty in that state of life in which it has
pleased God to place you'? We will go to London, Agnes, and come back
here if we can, my child."
Then Agnes threw herself face downwards on the table and sobbed her
heart out. Patience herself was as white as the linen which lay before
her, but she never swerved from what she believed to be right. That,
too, was her nature; she gave no thought to her own likings or
dislikings. Young as she had been when her sister died, all these years
she had lived for her child and her duty. She sat quietly waiting till
Agnes's storm of sobs should cease. Upon this scene the vicar entered.
He was evidently very serious and very much troubled. Patience looked
up as he entered and their eyes met for one second, then she looked
away, and a faint flush coloured her face. He went up to Agnes.
"My little girl," he said, "why this great grief?"
"The queen has ordered us to London," said Patience. "She must have
divined our hiding-place, or someone must have told her, and she has
bidden me take Agnes with me."
"Well, of course you must go," said the vicar; "what is there so very
terrible in this, Agnes? I have heard you say you loved the queen well,
and her daughter too."
"So I did," said Agnes, "but all that is past like a dream. I have been
so happy here."
"And you were happy before you came here," said the vicar, smiling. "I
thought you looked the happiest child I had ever seen when I first saw
you. You will always find some joy in life, Agnes; it is in your nature.
Come, cheer up!"
The vicar's power over Agnes had always been unquestioned. She stood
up, wiped her eyes, and a poor little smile crept over her pretty face.
"There, that's all right," said the vicar, patting her on the shoulder.
"Now, Mistress Patience, let me see your letter."
"Well," he said, laying it down, "much honour awaits you, Agnes, and you
must try and do us all credit, and prove yourself worthy to be the
representative of so good and so old a family as the De Lisles. You are
your father's daughter, remember. You never knew him, but your Aunt
Patience did, and she will tell you that he was a man of high honour and
a good Christian soldier. He served God, he honoured his king, and he
loved your mother. Is it not so, Patience?"
"Ah, it is indeed!" she said; "he worshipped his young wife. She was so
young and fragile, it was something more than ordinary love which he
bore her, and she could not live without him, that is why she died,
Agnes. I see her now standing at his stirrup as he bade her farewell.
She was brave as long as she saw him, but she fainted in my arms when he
was out of sight. I tried hard to make her live for love of you, but
she shook her head. 'I cannot', she said, and so she died."
Tears filled even the vicar's eyes as Patience told this story of true
love.
Fortunately Martha broke in upon them.
"Peter Kemp says he must be off, that he must be at Skipton before
nightfall. The queen was urgent that he should not tarry on the road.
He waits your answer."
"He shall have it," said Patience, and going to an ancient cabinet she
opened it, drew forth paper and pens, sat down and indited her letter,
folded and sealed it, and then went herself into the kitchen and gave it
to the man.
She knew him well, even as Rolfe, whom Martha had fetched, did. The men
had been comrades together.
"You will come back to London, Rolfe," Peter said, as he took up his cap
to go.
"Not I," answered Rolfe. "I never had much liking for court life; I
shall abide here and keep the place together."
"Then you'll come, Martha," said Peter.
"I shall go where my mistress goes," answered the woman. "Good-day, and
good luck go with you, Peter Kemp!"
They shook hands.
"I'll go down the hill with you," said Rolfe. "You left your horse at
the vicarage?"
"Yes; he was well-nigh done, and it's a mighty steep climb up here,"
said Peter.
"We are near the top," answered Rolfe carelessly; "it's fine and airy."
They went down the hillside together. Before them, flitting like a
fairy over the grass, they saw Agnes; she sped so quickly that they
could not overtake her. She crossed the bridge and disappeared into the
vicarage before they reached it.
"A bird of ill omen he is," said the vicar's Mary, standing by Rolfe at
the vicarage gate watching Peter ride away; then she added, in a low
voice, "Those two young creatures are well-nigh breaking their hearts
over the news he brought."
"They're young," answered Rolfe; "their hearts will mend, have no fear,
Mary."
*CHAPTER XVI*
*Under the Shadow of Newgate*
"Let Mistress Patience know that I am waiting to receive her," said
Queen Henrietta Maria, as she sat before her dressing-table, the barber
being engaged in the dressing of her hair.
She was no longer the beautiful Henrietta Maria who had come to England
as the bride of Charles I. Trouble had told upon her and aged her even
before her time, and we find her spoken of in the chronicles as a
"little old woman". And yet she was not more than fifty-six years of
age; but she had grown crusty, and evil-tempered, jealous of those who
were younger than herself, and nothing ages a woman like jealousy and
spite. A kindly, loving heart softens away the hard lines and keeps the
face young because of the love which dwells in the heart; but where
there is no love, there is no youth.
She had hardly given the order when the door was thrown open and the
usher announced: "Madam Patience Beaumont and the Lady Agnes De Lisle."
The queen turned sharply round, despite her barber's exclamation of
despair, and the tired face brightened up. "At last, you truants!" she
exclaimed, as Patience hurried forward, knelt, and kissed the extended
hand. The queen's eyes passed over her and rested on Agnes: "Verily a
beauty!" she whispered. "Well, ma mie," she said aloud, as Agnes
approached her, "have you quite forgotten your queen-mother?"
"I have not forgotten her at all, your majesty," answered Agnes, as she
followed her aunt's example, knelt, and kissed the royal hand; but
Henrietta lifted her face between her hands and looked at her, tears
filling her eyes.
"Patience," she said, "she is the most beautiful thing I have seen for
many a day; she is father and mother welded together. Is she as good as
she is beautiful?"
"Ah, Madam, who can tell?" answered Patience; "she is very young, and
has not been tempted."
The queen's brow darkened as she repeated the words. "Ah, that is it;
she has not been tempted! You have kept her in cotton wool, Patience."
"Nay," answered Patience, "I have kept her beneath God's heaven in the
world of nature, and I would have kept her there still had your majesty
not sent for her."
Again the queen's brow darkened, but she answered quickly: "It was our
duty to her father and mother. If I had not interfered you would have
married her to some country bumpkin. Now we will see that she is
restored to her rightful position; is it not so, Agnes?" And she tapped
the girl on her cheek. Then she turned back again and the barber renewed
his offices.
"Come, stand beside me, child, and tell me what you have been doing all
these years, and why you did not write even to Henrietta? She is
mightily angry with you!"
"I did not let her," answered Patience; "it would have only been a
disturbing element in her life."
"I have not forgotten that she was my first friend," said Agnes. "I
have prayed for her every day, and I should love to see her, only----"
"Only what?" asked the queen sharply.
"I do not think I like court life."
"Ah, you will soon speak differently," said the queen, "when you are
flattered and made much of! Have you brought the necessary papers,
Patience, that I may show them to my son? I see she has taken her
rightful name, Agnes De Lisle; the next thing will be to restore her
estates. Do you know who holds them?"
"We know who did," answered Patience, "but they may have been
dispossessed."
"Who may it be?" asked the queen.
"The De Lisle estates were given to Colonel Newbolt, who was imprisoned
and died at Newgate," answered Patience. "His son Reginald was his
heir."
"Has he not inherited?" asked the queen.
"He certainly has put in no claim," answered Patience, "for he went
abroad soon after his father's death and has not returned."
"But someone has taken the rents," said the queen.
"That remains for your majesty to find out," said Patience. "I cannot
tell."
"Well, we will enquire into the matter," said the queen, as, released
from her barber, she stood up and faced Agnes. Again she smiled as she
looked at the girl, who was simply charming, in a plain, white gown,
unbedizened, with only a coil of pearls round her white throat, and her
hair in natural curls. She was as fresh as a flower, and the queen,
delighted, clapped her hands, and, turning to her friend, Lord Jermyn,
said in a low voice, "She will make a sensation. Did you ever see
anything so fresh?"
"Not of late years, certainly," he answered. "But your majesty is
forgetting your appointment with the king at Whitehall."
"Well, well, I must be gone," said the queen, "but I shall expect you to
be here when I return, Patience; I have many things to ask you. Bring
the child with you; mind you always bring the child."
"Your majesty does her great honour," said Patience. "I will not
forget."
Then the queen nodded kindly to Agnes, and gave her hand to Lord Jermyn,
who conducted her down the stairs and across the hall to her coach,
which was in waiting.
Patience and Agnes returned to their own apartments, which were the same
as they had occupied before; for, although Somerset House had been
restored and a certain portion rebuilt, these rooms had been left almost
as they were.
Agnes was very serious when they found themselves alone. "I wish we
were home again, Patience!" she sighed. "Do you know, I am
frightened--frightened of the queen, frightened of everything; and yet I
used not to be. I did not care a bit for queens and princesses in olden
days. I remember quite well sitting on the queen's lap and talking to
her as I would to anyone else. I could not do that now. And then,
again, I thought she was very beautiful; but she is not beautiful now,
yet it is not so very long ago."
"It has been long enough to make a woman of you, Agnes, and therefore
long enough to age the queen and mar her beauty."
"It has not marred yours, Patience," said the girl. "I never remember
you any other than you are now; your face was always so sweet. It is
like, well, it is like a madonna's face. It must be because you are so
good."
"Hush, hush!" said Patience, her pale cheeks colouring. "I am not at
all good, Agnes; I have been very wilful, as wilful as you could be if
you were driven to it."
"I hope that will never be," said Agnes. "Do you know, Aunt Patience, I
heard you tell the queen that I had never been tempted. Surely to be
tempted is not a necessity. I always stop in my prayers and say twice
over, 'Lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil'."
"As long as you do that, you will never go far wrong," said Patience,
stroking the fair face which she loved so well.
"Now, what shall we do this afternoon, little one? It is very hot."
"Yes, it is very hot," said Agnes; "this London is stifling." She went
to the window and threw it wide open. "Ah, it is like a furnace
outside!" she added, and quickly shut the window.
"I think we had best stay where we are," said Patience, "and later we
will take a barge and go up or down the river; surely there will be some
air there!"
Agnes did not answer, she seemed to be thinking.
"Does not what I propose suit you, child?" asked Patience.
The girl threw herself on her knees beside her aunt.
"Dear," she said, "I have a great wish. I don't seem to care for
anything else in London, but I want to find Ann Newbolt! How can we do
it? You remember we heard that Reginald had gone abroad, and that Ann
was living somewhere with her mother not far from Newgate."
"That is no good," said Patience; "it would be like hunting for a needle
in a haystack. Besides, I am not sure that it would be well for you to
find those Newbolts again. You see, if the king is determined to
restore you to your own they must be driven out."
"I should hate that; oh, I should hate it terribly!" cried Agnes.
"But it must be well," said Patience. "Cromwell had no right to give
what was not his own."
There was a pause, then Agnes looked up and said quietly:
"Jessie and I were looking through an old book which treated of the
estates and lands in Westmorland, and we found De Lisle Abbey. Henry
VIII seized it, drove the monks out, and gave it to a Sir Gilbert de
Lisle--not my father, but one long before him. So you see, Aunt
Patience, it was stolen land, and, what is worse, there was a curse upon
it; the De Lisles were to be driven out by fire and sword, and so we
have been. Let things be as they are, Aunt Patience, and let us live at
Holt Farm and be happy once again."
"Do not think I wish for anything better, Agnes. It is for you, my
child," said Patience.
"I'm sure I don't want it," said Agnes. "Let us go back as soon as we
can, Aunt. I have a sort of feeling that something dreadful is going to
happen."
"That is because you are tired, and London is strange to you now," said
Patience. "Lie down and rest, then we will go out, and, as your heart
is set upon it, I will enquire about the Newbolts; they may be dead or
gone away from London."
The knowledge they desired came to them quite unexpectedly. Martha was
by no means sorry to find herself amongst old acquaintances. She had
already been out and about, gossiping here and there. Amongst other
scraps of knowledge, she had learnt much concerning the Newbolts. Dame
Newbolt, she was told, always lived near Newgate. She was looked upon as
a guardian angel. "She works there night and day," they told her,
"preaching and teaching, and when the prisoners chance to come out she
succours them. Men and women alike worship the ground she treads on."
"And Mistress Ann, her daughter, what has become of her?" Martha had
asked.
"She lives in a mean lodging-house near the Old Bailey, over against
Newgate, and but for her, her mother would well-nigh starve. But
Mistress Ann will not suffer it; she makes her take her food, she
fetches her from the prison, and brings her home at night. They say her
devotion knows no bounds. She is never weary, never goes abroad save
once and again when my Lord Craven fetches her, and insists on taking
them both in his barge for a breath of fresh air, or driving them out
into the country beyond St. Giles'. My lord is as good to her as a
father. Ah, there are queer people in the world," said the speaker,
"but the queerest are sometimes the best, and my Lord Craven is one of
them. He has seen many things in his time, and has succoured many
people. I doubt much whether the Stuarts would have been able to hold
their own but for his gold."
"Have you heard of Reginald, the colonel's son?" asked Martha.
"Oh, yes; he comes and goes. He has joined Prince Rupert, and is half
the time at sea with the White Squadron."
Primed with all this news, Martha hastened back to Somerset House, and
poured it all out afresh into the eager ears of Patience and Agnes.
"Then we will go this afternoon and find Ann," said Agnes; "shall we,
Aunt Patience?"
"She lives in a bad part of the town," said Martha. "There are rumours
that there have been some cases of the plague in the by-ways round
Newgate. It would be well to be careful. I know not how it is,"
continued Martha, "but people seem anxious. There are men who go about
preaching that the times are so evil, that the Lord will sweep London
off the face of the earth because of its sins."
"As for the plague, I do not think we need be alarmed," said Patience;
"there are always some cases in London, I am told. It only affects the
very poor and the unclean. Last year I remember Mr. Ewan telling me
that there were a few cases, just three, but it did not spread; the
winter checked it. No, I do not think we need be anxious; besides, it
would be of no use. What is to be will be. We shall not be long in
London, I hope." And with that the subject dropped.
It was late in the afternoon when they sallied forth. Even then the
heat was so intense, and the air so dry, that they decided they would
take a barge and go down to Blackfriars, land there, and find their way
to the Old Bailey. Martha went with them, because she knew the way
better than they did. When they landed from the barge, it was but a
little distance across the Fleet until they gained the narrow streets
leading to the Old Bailey.
On the summer night, with all the refuse of the day lying about waiting
for the night scavengers to pass their rounds, the stench which arose
from many a foul heap was noisome.
Patience and Agnes held their kerchiefs to their faces. Fresh from the
sweet moors and the scented flowers, they were the more susceptible.
"Fit for swine!" muttered Martha behind them. "Talk of the plague! The
dirt is enough to breed any amount of plagues." And she was right. It
was the dirt and uncleanliness which was about to cost thousands of
lives. For the last ten years the plague had been raging in Europe. In
Genoa 60,000 persons died of it; in Holland, in the years 1663 and 1664,
upwards of 50,000 people died of plague in Amsterdam alone; and yet
during all these years London had been singularly free.
The origin of the plague has been much discussed. Some authorities
imputed its arrival in London to have been caused by bales of
merchandise from Holland which came originally from the Levant, where it
was quite usual to sell the clothes of those who had died of plague at
once, without disinfecting them; according to others, it was introduced
by the Dutch prisoners of war. In any case, we may attribute its spread
to the uncleanliness of London, which, we are told by contemporary
writers, was comparable to that of Oriental cities at the present day.
The disease gradually increased because there was everything to
encourage it to do so, especially in a squalid neighbourhood and among
the poor. For this reason it was called "the poor's plague".
Those who lived on the river in ships or barges were free of it; those
in the houses on London Bridge were also little affected. Probably the
slowness with which it gained ground in London was owing in a great
measure to the beautiful streams of flowing water which intersected the
city--the Fleet, the Walbrook, &c. At all events, it was not until the
autumn of 1664 that a few isolated cases were observed in the
neighbourhood of St. Martin's, St. Giles', and Charing Cross. The
winter of that same year happened to be a very severe one, which checked
it, and nothing more was heard of the plague until this month of May,
1665. Then one or two cases were reported, but so few that they excited
but little attention; many, doubtless, of the inhabitants had not even
heard of them.
Then, as now, such things were hushed up for fear of creating a scare,
so that with perfect equanimity Patience and her companion walked along
the very streets which were soon to be the centre of that terrible
epidemic. They came at last to the house which had been described to
Martha. It was at the top of the street, almost opposite Newgate, and
was entered by a low oak door which gave into a passage, beyond which
lay a court-yard, in which were outside staircases giving access to
wooden balconies leading into the tenements. Martha had been told that
Mistress Newbolt lived at the front, almost at the top of the house, and
that her rooms were reached by an interior staircase. So they stumbled
up in the dark, until at last they came to a landing in which was a
small window, which Patience was thankful to see wide open, but which,
on this hot evening, seemed, instead of cooling the air, rather to let
in heat and bad odours.
The three stood wiping their faces, Martha panting. Suddenly a door
opened, and a voice, which Agnes recognized at once, said:
"Who are you? What are you doing here? My mother is sleeping; you will
waken her."
Agnes went forward instantly, threw her arms round the girl, saying:
"Ann, do you not know me?"
"Know you!" repeated Ann. "Is it Agnes or her spirit? Surely in her
body she would not come here, and yet how I have longed for her!"
"Why should I not come, if you are here?" said Agnes.
"You must go," said Ann. "Go quickly! I cannot let you in; I dare not.
My mother came home an hour ago. All day and all night she has been in
the prison. Do you know what I have done? I have taken her clothes and
burnt them, they were so foul. I stood for hours waiting for her outside
the gates, and when she came forth she dropped down like one dead, and I
carried her home in my arms. If you could see her, she is almost a
skeleton! Ah me! what will the end be?" And, covering her face with
her hands, she wept.
"I will see her," said Patience. "We have come here to help you, Ann,
and we will help you, have no fear, child. Stay with Martha, Agnes.
Now, Ann, show me the way."
Ann hesitated. "You do not understand," she said.
"Then it is time I did," answered Patience. "Take me to your mother."
As she spoke she looked at Ann. Could this be the same girl she had
known so fresh and blooming? She seemed to have grown taller, and her
face was sallow and thin; she might have been any age, she looked so
worn and anxious. She was scrupulously neat in a linen gown, with a
white apron and a muslin kerchief folded across her bosom; over her head
she wore a sort of linen wrapper, which hid all her hair, leaving only a
small band on either side of her forehead. She had adopted this dress
because she was able thus to keep herself clean amidst so much foulness.
Agnes still held on to Ann, and pleaded!
"May I not go too, Aunt Patience?"
"No, my child, one of us is enough."
Still she would not let go of Ann's hand.
"Kiss me, dear," she said; and Ann stooped and kissed her.
It was so long since any lips had touched hers that it brought tears to
her eyes.
"Wait here," she said, "I will come back." And she passed into the room
with Patience.
It is curious how, in times of great excitement, we see everything so
clearly; even the smallest details strike us. Patience noted that the
first room they entered was comparatively well furnished and spotlessly
clean. It was evidently the living room, with tables and chairs, a
dresser, and a few articles of luxury which had been brought from the
old home. They passed through this into another room, which served as
bed-room for Ann and her mother. There was a small fire in the hearth,
notwithstanding the great heat. Ann pointed to it.
"The doctor told me to have it always, to purify the air," she said.
A great four-poster bed of carved oak occupied the middle of the room.
It had once been curtained round, but the curtains were gone now, and
Patience saw, lying upon the white pillows, a face which might well have
been that of a dead woman.
"Can it be Dame Newbolt?" she thought. The closed eyes were sunk in the
sockets; the features stood out sharp and hard, yellow as parchment; the
hair, parted on the forehead, was thin and snowy white; and the hands,
which rested on the coverlet, were like the hands of a skeleton.
"Oh, Ann," exclaimed Patience, "how could you let her get into this
condition?"
"How could I help it?" said the girl, bursting into tears. "I have
watched over her, I have fed her, I have stood outside the prison gates
waiting, always waiting, but she has paid no heed to me. Had it not
been for my Lord Craven I should have had no food to give her, for she
would spare me no money. I have known her go for days, eating nothing
but a crust of bread. More than once the jailers have brought her here,
carrying her in their arms. It was of no use, on the morrow she was up
and about, and with them again; even as you see her she has still great
strength."
"It is wonderful," said Patience.
Though they were speaking loudly, Mistress Newbolt did not hear them.
She did not move; indeed, one could hardly hear her breathe.
"She will sleep like that for twelve hours at least," said Ann, "longer
perhaps; then she will wake up and eat what I shall have prepared for
her; then she will go back to the prison, and I shall not see her again
for perhaps twenty-four hours, when I shall bring her home, or one of
the warders will. It is a terrible life, so terrible, I wonder how she
lives at all."
"And you, you poor thing?" said Patience, taking Ann's hand in hers,
then stooping over the sleeper she added, "She will die."
"No, she will not," answered Ann. "Good Doctor Bohurst, whom Lord
Craven sent to visit her, says she will not die, that she has more
vitality than many a younger woman, and that these long sleeps restore
her completely, only I have to feed her. See," she continued, and going
to a table she took up a bottle, poured a little of the contents into a
spoon, and held it to her mother's lips.
Without waking, she just sucked it down like a child.
"There," said Ann, "in two hours I shall give it her again, and so on
until she wakes. Then she will eat and drink. It is a wondrous life."
"How long has this been going on?" asked Patience.
"For many months," answered Ann; "but of late it has been much worse,
for the prison is fuller than it ever was, and disease is rampant there.
Then," lowering her voice, she added, "they say there has been a case of
the plague. If it be so, and that foul disease break out within those
walls, God only knows what will happen! The prisoners themselves are in
terror of it. I think they will go mad with fright."
"And you?" said Patience.
"I try not to think of it," she answered quietly; "what is the use?
Come, let us go into the other room; Agnes may come in there, may she
not?"
"If you think there is no danger," said Patience.
"There is nothing infectious here," she said. "You see all the windows
are open, and either I burn my mother's clothes, or old Doris takes them
away and washes them."
"Very well," said Patience, and Agnes and Martha were admitted. They
sat together round the tables and Ann learnt what had brought them to
London.
"You would have done better to have stayed away," she said; "one never
knows what may happen, and there are strange signs in the heavens.
People say London is accursed, and will be destroyed because of its
great sin. Have you seen the comet?"
"No, not yet," answered Patience; "I shall not linger long in London. I
wish we could take you away with us, Ann!"
"How can I leave my mother?" she answered; "and Reginald is away."
Her head drooped on her hands as she spoke; her spirit seemed broken.
"Listen, Ann," said Patience, "I will come to-morrow with Martha and
fetch you out; you shall spend the whole day with us. We will go down
the river. You shall breathe sweet, country air; it will strengthen
you."
"It will, indeed!" said Ann. "I think I am cowardly because I am so
much alone. But now you must be gone. It is getting late, and this
neighbourhood is not safe at night; indeed, you must not go back by the
river. Go to Holborn and find a coach there, so that you can be driven
back."
Alarmed, Patience rose quickly. "Yes, we will go, Ann," she said; and
they made their way out, down the stairs into the street. They had not
gone far when they were accosted by a gentleman.
"Madam," he said, looking at Patience, "this is no place for such as you
at this time in the evening."
"I have just been told so, sir," said Patience, "but I am a stranger to
London. Cannot I procure a coach?"
"No," he answered sharply. "Step this way; you shall have mine."
Patience looked at him.
"I thank you kindly, sir," she said, "but before I can accept your
offer, I must know who you are."
"I am Lord Craven," he answered; "you can trust me."
Without another word he walked on in front of them to the top of the
street, where a coach was waiting. He signed to the driver, who wore
the Craven livery.
"My man will take you wherever you choose, madam," he said.
"I would be driven to Somerset House," said Patience.
He started and looked askance at her. She understood.
"You gave me your name, I must give you mine," she said. "I am Mistress
Patience Beaumont and this young girl is Agnes De Lisle, my niece. We
are the queen-dowager's guests."
Lord Craven uttered an exclamation of surprise and swept them a low bow.
"I have been fortunate in meeting you," he said; "but take my advice and
do not wander out so late at night."
"We have been to see a protege of yours," said Patience, "Ann Newbolt."
"Ah, I am glad!" he answered; "she needs friends, poor thing."
Then he signed to his valet to open the coach door, and helped Agnes and
Patience to mount, for the step was high. Martha followed, and they
were driven quickly in the direction of Somerset House.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*The Great Plague*
Again and again we read of miraculous signs in the heavens before some
great disaster befalls a country. A fiery sword is said to have hung
over the ill-fated city of Jerusalem for long months before its
destruction. At the time of which we are writing a great blazing star,
probably a comet, appeared in the heavens over the city of London,
terrifying the inhabitants. Crowds of people would turn out at night
into the open fields to see this wonderful thing, and would go back,
with terror in their hearts, feeling assured that it was an omen of
evil. Every night it appeared, a great, blazing star hanging in the
firmament. Gradually, very gradually, the plague crept into the city;
so slowly did it come, that only those whose business it was to note the
mortality were aware of the gradual increase of deaths. It began first
in the heart of the city, then it spread to the suburb of St. Giles'.
Just two or three isolated cases against which no precaution was taken;
indeed, they caused but little alarm. There are always pessimists, and
people do not heed them. A small evil, therefore, remains unchecked
until it becomes a great evil; then, and then alone, when it is too
late, men take note of it. Such was the case at the present time. At
Whitehall feasting and revelling were the order of the day throughout
this month of May. The king and his court were to be seen in St.
James's Park, gilded coaches rolled through the narrow streets of the
city, despite the overpowering heat. It was as if that blazing comet,
unseen by day, burnt the land up. The animals suffered fearfully: horses
fell down dead, dogs had to be killed because they went mad. Even
before the month of June streams were running dry, there was no rain, no
moisture in the air, and gradually, striking men down by ones and twos,
the scourge crept on, until at last people awoke to the knowledge that
the fell disease was in their midst.
One morning Queen Henrietta summoned Patience to her.
"I do not care for it to be generally known," she said, "but it is
settled that the court is going to Oxford. You, of course, will follow;
make your preparations as quickly as you can. We shall probably leave
here the day after to-morrow; it is to be done quietly not to scare the
people."
"Is it necessary we should accompany your majesty?" said Patience.
"With your permission, I think we would rather go home."
The queen turned haughtily towards her.
"Why must you always oppose me, Patience?" she asked. "Why do you wish
to bury the child alive in that out-of-the-way place? The king is well
disposed towards her. The Marquis of Orford has spoken of her with
admiration. I am set upon making a marriage between them. If you do
not choose to come, at least give me the child."
"I promised her mother I would never part from her," said Patience, "and
so far I have kept my word. If your majesty insists upon her going to
Oxford, I will go also."
"Do you mean to say that you wish to keep her in this infectious
atmosphere?" said the queen.
"Not longer than I can possibly help," answered Patience; "but your
majesty must know that the plague is confined so far to certain quarters
of the city. Here, on the river front, we run but little danger."
Then, approaching nearer Henrietta, she said in a low voice:
"Will not his majesty's gay court at Oxford be worse for my child than
the plague? Is not her soul more precious than her body? and that
Marquis of Orford of whom you speak, is he worthy to touch the hem of
her gown? Nay, let her be, your majesty; sooner let her live and die a
maid than be coupled with such a man; and if she be doomed to die, then,
at least, let me give her back to her mother 'unspotted from the
world'."
It was not often Patience let herself go, but at the present moment she
spoke with intense earnestness, almost with exaltation, and she
possessed more influence over Henrietta Maria than any other member of
her household.
The queen kept silence, her head resting on her hands, and, to
Patience's surprise, tears fell on the table. She knew that she had hit
hard. The mother's heart was aching at the thought of her own daughter
whom she had given up to that bad man, Philip, Duke of Orleans. She
knew well what she suffered; could she condemn another girl to the same
fate!
"Take her away, Patience," she said impetuously, "take her away, and may
the Lord have you both in His keeping!"
Patience knelt at the queen's side.
"Forgive me," she said, "if I have hurt you."
The queen held out her hand.
"Go," she said, "whilst I am in the mood, and do not let me see the
child again or I may repent giving her up to you."
"That you will surely never do," said Patience, and, rising, she
curtsied and left the room.
In her own mind Patience was sorely troubled how to act. To go back at
once to Westmorland would have been the most natural thing; but then
there was Ann Newbolt, how could she leave that girl alone in the worst
part of the city? She did not herself believe that there was much
danger for any inhabitant of Somerset House, because it gave on to the
river, and so far all the habitations near the river, even the houses on
London Bridge, had remained unaffected; also, the dwellers in ships and
barges had escaped infection.
"If the worst come to the worst," she thought, "we will take the barge
and go down the river; but the great thing will be not to let the child
get frightened."
Whilst she was still cogitating Martha came into the room.
"Madam," she said, "everybody is leaving the palace; what are we to do?"
"I have just come from the queen, Martha," said Patience. "She desired
me to pack our belongings and follow her to Oxford, whither she is going
with the court. What say you? Shall I do so? Shall I thrust Agnes
into the midst of all the profligacy and all the evil which dwells in
the king's house?"
"For God's sake, no!" said Martha. "It is the talk of the court that
our young lady is to be wedded to the Marquis of Orford, but you will
not let it be. We servants know more of what goes on in the great houses
than you do, and he is not worthy of her; besides, she is only a child."
"You are right, Martha," said Patience; "I will not let her go. I have
told the queen so, and she has consented that I shall keep her with me."