CHAPTER XVAt CourtMen 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.[image]"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 XVIUnder 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 protégé 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 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.
[image]"HE DREW OUT THE PACKETS"
[image]
[image]
"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 protégé 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.