CHAPTER XVIIThe Great PlagueAgain 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.""That is well," said Martha, her face brightening up, "only we must guard her, for I have heard that the Marquis of Orford has set his heart on wedding her, and the king has promised him the De Lisle estates, forfeited by Colonel Newbolt. They were to have been sold at once to the highest bidder to pay the fines and law expenses, &c., but the king has been so engrossed with his pleasures that he has let the matter slip. Now, however, he has made up his mind not to sell, but to dower our Lady Agnes with what is by right her own.""How do you know all this?" asked Patience, surprised."I know it from Peter Kemp, who is at Whitehall, and hears all the gossip in the ante-chambers and in the servants' department; he also knows Jefferson, Lord Orford's first valet.""Perhaps the king will change his mind now that I will not suffer Agnes to go to Oxford," said Patience.Martha shrugged her shoulders."We shall have to be careful," she said, "for the marquis is not a man to be thwarted, and if he has set his heart on the Lady Agnes, he will surely win or take her.""I think we had better start at once for Westmorland," said Patience; "it seems to me the only place where we can live in safety."Martha shook her head."That's just what he will expect you to do," she said. "And as he has more horses than we have and more serving men, he will surely follow us, and who will protect us on the road? There are many desolate places between London and Westmorland.""Surely he would not dare assault us?" said Patience."Ah, Madam!" said Martha, "he will stand at naught. If he has set his heart on the Lady Agnes, he will leave no stone unturned to possess her. You must devise some other plan for her safety.""I am loath to believe all you say; but leave me, Martha, I must think it over."The following day the court started on its way to Oxford, and the queen announced to the king that the Lady Agnes De Lisle would not accompany her."She is ailing," the queen said, "and she is rather young still for all the dissipations of court life. Let my Lord Orford wait till the scare of this plague is over. Patience Beaumont is going to take Agnes back to Westmorland to restore her health, which the heat of London has injured.""I never saw a brighter face than the Lady Agnes's yesterday," said the king. "She was the star of your suite, ma mère. I do not think much ails her.""Possibly she was flushed and excited," said the queen, "and Patience has my permission to take her away. I cannot go back upon my word.""But I have not said the last word either," said Charles angrily, "and my Lord Orford has had no say in the matter at all.""He had better let his suit drop for the present," said Henrietta; "when we come back from Oxford it will be time enough." And with that she left the room.Charles shrugged his shoulders; he never opposed his mother's will.When Lord Orford was informed of Agnes's defection he was in a white rage, but he gave no outward sign of it, only that night he was closeted for a long time with his man, Jefferson, and the next day he himself followed the king to Oxford.The palace was very silent; indeed, the whole city of London was beginning to be what we should call hushed. The plague was gaining rapidly. The citizens stopped their trading, and every man looked with fear at his fellow.In the gardens belonging to noblemen's houses, which in many cases sloped down towards the river, the flowers were in full bloom. It was the season for roses, and they had never been so plentiful, but no one gathered them, for fear of infection, no one dared even to inhale their sweet perfume; people went about with a bunch of rue and wormwood in their hands, for these herbs were thought to ward off contagion; and yet this was only the beginning of what was to be.There was a certain cruelty in the egoistical way in which men strove to protect themselves. For example, if it was known that someone had died in a certain house of the plague, no matter the number of the inhabitants who were still resident there, a red cross was painted over the door with these words in great letters over it, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" and watchmen with halberds stood on guard before it to prevent anyone either leaving the house or entering it.All the inhabitants of that house were thus shut off from the outside world, lest they should carry infection; semi-starvation and death therefore stared them in the face. This was in the early days. It was a great mistake, for the houses were thus made the centres of disease; later it was found impossible to carry this plan into effect, and it was therefore openly ignored.A few noblemen and gentlemen had the courage to remain in London and face the evil. Among these was Lord Craven. We are told that his servants packed his luggage and brought his coaches into the court-yard of his house; but to their dismay he told them they could go if they chose, every one of them, but he should remain and do what he could to stay the evil which surrounded them."A man can die but once," he said. He had faced death ofttimes on the battlefield, he was not going to turn his back on it now; and, brave man that he was, he set about his work with diligence. He founded a kind of cottage hospital for the plague-stricken in the Soho; he also gave a piece of land for burial purposes in the same neighbourhood. He himself remained at Craven House.A day or two after the court left London, Patience sent for him and told him of her decision."And now," she said, "I must get out of this place as quickly as possible, for if anything happens to the child I shall never forgive myself.""And yet," said Lord Craven, "this is the only place in which you are free from the Marquis of Orford. I know the man. He is but watching his opportunity; if he see you start to go north he will follow.""That is what old Martha said," answered Patience, "and she is a wise woman.""She is right. Remain where you are for the present, keep the windows open on to the river side by night and by day, and do not let the Lady Agnes go abroad.""But she is so anxious about Ann Newbolt!" said Patience. "I found her weeping yesterday because I would not let her go and would not go myself to the Old Bailey.""You did well," said Lord Craven; "the disease is spreading from there right up to St. Giles'. Rest assured I will bring you news of Ann as often as I can. The authorities will not let her mother leave the prison now because of infection. She spends her days, ay, her nights, tending those wretched creatures, preaching to them of the world to come, closing their dying eyes amidst the most frightful agonies, and seeing to their burial.""And she lives through it all!" said Patience."Yes, marvellous to tell, she lives through it all," he answered, "and is but little changed. She seems to have no material body, to live in and by the spirit. The poor creatures cling to her, and she has no fear of them.""Is the plague very bad at Newgate?" asked Patience."Bad!" said Lord Craven. "They carry the bodies out at night that they may not be seen. What is worse, the poor creatures go mad with fear, and can hardly be restrained from killing one another.""It is terrible," said Patience. "And Ann, what is she doing?""She is in her own two rooms with that old hag who waits upon her, and I have entreated her on no account to move out of it," said Lord Craven."But if she came to us," said Patience, "surely that were better for her!""She will not hear of it. She says she would be too far from her mother; now she can have news of her continuously. The old woman goes backwards and forwards, and I go to her. So long as the plague does not enter her dwelling-place, she will remain there.""And when it does it will be too late," said Patience; "they will not let her out.""We shall see," said Lord Craven.At that moment Agnes came into the room. Except that she was very pale, which might be attributed to the great heat, there was no change in her appearance. She wore a thin, white linen gown, with long, open sleeves; her beautiful golden hair was gathered up away from her neck because of the heat, and she had sandals on her feet."Oh, my lord," she exclaimed, "this is truly terrible! Why cannot we go back to Westmorland and take Ann with us?""Because, my child," said Lord Craven, "the roads just now are not safe." He had to make some such excuse because she had not been told anything concerning Lord Orford."I thought the plague was in London, not on the roads," she answered peevishly."But there are other things besides the plague, my child," said Lord Craven. "All sorts and kinds of people have left the city, bad as well as good. We must let this first rush go by, and then you shall go. In this heat you could not travel," he continued. "The horses could only carry you a few miles at a time, evening and morning. It would take you an infinitely long time to reach your haven of rest.""You call it by its right name," said Agnes; "If is a haven of rest. I wish we were there, Aunt Patience." And she sat down on a stool beside her aunt, laid her head on her lap with the air of a spoilt child, and wept."We will go as soon as ever we can," said Patience, stroking her hair; "and now, see if you cannot find some of that fruit which we brought in yesterday from the country. Lord Craven will, I know, take it to Ann. It has been well covered up, so that no impure air can have reached it."Agnes sprang up, ran across the room to a cupboard, and drew forth a basket in which there were some luscious strawberries, red currants, and wall peaches. She packed them carefully in a little basket, and took them to Lord Craven, with her pretty childish air, saying:"Tell Ann, with my dear love, that they are the only things worth eating. I would she could come to me, as you will not let me go to her.""She shall come to you as soon as possible," he answered, "but at present she cannot;" and with that he rose, bade both Patience and her farewell, and left them."Let us go on to the terrace, aunt," said Agnes; "maybe we shall get a breath of air from the river." So they went down the magnificent staircase, through the gorgeous banqueting-hall, on to the terrace.Though the day was over and the sun had set, the heat was beyond description. The whole city seemed to glow with the after-math. The girl was tired, and quietly, without knowing it, she began again to weep."Oh Agnes, my child, what is it?" said Patience."I don't know," she answered; "my soul is heavy within me. I am afraid."Patience did not ask her what she was afraid of; she knew only too well she was afraid of everything. She put her arm round her and talked to her quietly of life and death.After a little time the child's soul was comforted, and Patience took her by the hand and led her to her own chamber; as she could not sleep, she sat with her far into the night, and only when the day was dawning did she leave her.CHAPTER XVIIILostSuddenly out of her sleep Agnes woke to full consciousness. She heard distinctly the cry of the watchman call out three o'clock in the morning as he passed his rounds.She turned her face to the window and looked out--the sky was blood-red. A great horror seized her. She sprang out of bed and began putting on her clothes. She hardly knew what she was doing. One door in her room opened into Patience's, the other on to a landing leading to the grand staircase. She felt she must have air--she could not stay in that closed-up room; so, slipping her clothes on and wrapping a light cloak round her, she drew the hood over her head and left the room. She had not gone far when she was confronted by one of the watchers, men told off to guard the queen's house.The sight of the girl walking about surprised him. He thought she must be one of the maids and spoke to her coarsely, laying his hand on her arm. Agnes wrenched herself free and ran, as she thought, in the direction from which she had come; but she had mistaken her bearings and found herself in a small turret-chamber at the farther end of the passage, in which there was a winding staircase.At that moment the remembrance of Ann came to her."They will not let me go to her, but I will go. I cannot stay here," she thought; "I will go now at once. Surely this staircase must lead somewhere!" And, feeling in the darkness, she groped her way to the bottom, where a gleam of light came from a door which stood half-open. She remembered having noticed this turret from the terrace one day, when, to amuse herself, she had reconnoitred, and she had discovered that it led out into a small courtyard."I shall find means of getting out into the street," she thought, "and then I can easily find my way to the Old Bailey."She was not mistaken; the staircase gave into a court-yard, at the farther end of which was an iron gate. She had some difficulty in forcing the bolt back and in pulling the gate open, but it yielded at last, and, quick as lightning, she passed out into the street. She had a sort of hunted feeling; she did not know herself what drove her to act thus. She was as one walking in her sleep. She was not naturally a coward, nor even fearful, but at the present moment a feeling of terror dominated her whole being.When she found herself alone in the deserted streets she did not hesitate; she went straight forward without reasoning, moved by some inexplicable impulse. Here and there she saw the houses marked with the red cross, with the words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" written in red letters over the doors, and she shuddered."Supposing, when I reach Ann, I find her in such a house, and cannot get to her!" she thought.She had gone some distance when she heard steps following her. She dared not look back, but, hastening her speed, turned up the street which led to the Old Bailey. The steps came nearer and nearer, and suddenly she was caught up, a cloth thrown over her face, a hand pressed over her mouth, and a voice said sharply:"Lie quiet and you are safe; move and I will kill you!"Instinctively she obeyed, and felt herself carried she knew not whither.When Patience awoke a few hours later from a restless sleep, her first thought was naturally for Agnes. She rose, went into her room, and found it empty. To call Martha, to rouse the whole house, was the work of a few seconds. The house-watchman told how he had met a girl in the gallery, and how at sight of him she had fled; he could not tell where she had disappeared to, indeed, for aught he knew, it might have been a ghost. There were ghosts in Somerset House. It was said that the young Duke of Gloucester might be seen in the old building gliding along the passages, down to the terrace walk.Patience had no such superstitions. If the man had seen a girl, that girl, to her mind, must have been Agnes. But how could she have got out of the house? Why should she go? In the search that followed, the door of the turret was found open, also the gate in the court-yard. That was sufficient proof that she must have gone out that way.A messenger was immediately sent to Lord Craven, and throughout that day the search continued, but no Agnes was forthcoming. Through the deserted streets Patience wandered, indifferent to all danger, searching for the child. She went to Ann, and with tears told her what had happened; and Ann came down, and they wandered together till they reached St. Paul's. Then they entered the church, knelt, and prayed, and wept, as did many others, for there was nothing but weeping and moaning throughout this afflicted city."She will come back, surely she will come back!" repeated Ann."If she had gone forth of her own free will, I should say yes," Patience answered; "but I am persuaded she has not done so. Someone was lying in wait for her."Those who sought for Agnes were many, but it was all in vain. Martha wept and wrung her hands in wild despair, but neither weeping nor moaning nor prayers availed. Throughout that long summer day and the night which followed, they sought but did not find her. Hour after hour, day after day, the search was continued, but in vain. The plague was ever on the increase. At night long lines of coffins were carried hastily by men through the city out to some far-distant burial-place; even that did not long suffice, and carts, with tingling bells on the horses' heads, wound their way through the deserted streets, men calling out as they went:"Bring forth your dead, bring forth your dead!" and the bodies, ofttimes in nothing but a winding sheet, were tossed into the cart and carried forth to the common pit.Ann still refused to go to Somerset House. She would not leave the precincts of the prison, neither could Patience go to her. They waited for their loved ones in their homes, and Lord Craven went and came between them--he was their only comforter, their only guide. Never was a braver or more honourable man; he had no fear of infection. He was "in God's hands," he said, "to live or to die".All those who possibly could left the city. The streets were deserted, but the churches were crowded. A few ministers remained faithful to their duty, but many, to their shame, fled. But there were found other devoted men from the country to replace these deserters, the churches were all thrown open, and within their precincts was weeping and wailing. "Surely the scourge was sent by God because of their sins," people said, and their ministers bade them repent, ay, in dust and ashes; therefore it came to pass that men and women alike fell upon their faces and made their humble confession to Almighty God, praying for pardon and deliverance.Still the disease continued to spread. The lord mayor, the chief councillors, the physicians, all those in authority, made laws, saw to the cleansing of the city, and did their very utmost to check the frightful ravages of the plague, but throughout the month of August it raged unremittingly.One morning a message came to Lord Craven from Newgate to say that Mistress Newbolt had departed that night, that her last hours had been most edifying, that she had sung and prayed, and glorified God even in the agony of death. He it was who broke the news to Ann. In vain she asked for a sign by which she might know it was her mother who had died. The prison authorities answered it was impossible. All she had possessed was destroyed, and she was carried forth and buried in the common pit, amongst the malefactors, the thieves, the murderers, the cut-throats, whom she had tended.Thus Ann found herself alone. Then she went to Patience and the two dwelt together."Why do you not both go north?" said Lord Craven. "I see no end to our afflictions.""I cannot go," said Patience. "If Agnes were to come back and find me gone, what would she do?"A message had been sent to the queen to tell her what had happened, and her anger was very great against Patience."If you had let me have the child, she would have been safe," she said; "now she is dead, or worse than dead."Lord Orford, when he heard the news, appeared astounded. He would have gone up to London himself, but the king would not permit him."My Lord Craven will do all that there is to be done," he said.* * * * *"Well, sirrah, what have you done with her?""The only thing which in reason could be done, my lord," answered a small, insignificant man, almost a dwarf, who was known everywhere as the Marquis of Orford's factotum.He was intensely ugly, with an extraordinary look of cunning in his eyes when you saw them, but that was not often--they were small, with heavy lids which were seldom raised, and if they were, it was with a sidelong glance. He was standing now before Lord Orford in a room which that nobleman had succeeded in hiring at Oxford, and for which he paid an enormous price, for the town was crowded to excess, and yet was kept so cleanly by the authorities that the plague had not come near it. The lovely city with its colleges and chapels, the walks in the surrounding country, the beautiful river upon which the boats went and came all day long in gay succession, made of it a most delightful resort, and but for the daily reports from London, the life led by the court would have been ideal."Give an account of yourself," said Lord Orford."I set Ben Davies to watch his opportunity," said the man, "bidding him never lose sight of the lady. Ben is a bargeman, and has a craft which he takes from London Bridge to Holland or to France as he chooses. His wife, two children, and a boy, live on board. It is by no means a bad craft, and Mistress Ben is an uncommonly cleanly, thrifty woman, so I just told him that if ever he could catch the lady and take her on board, and then strike off to Holland with her, he might reckon on a hundred pounds.""You did not mention my name?" said his lordship."I'm not quite such a fool, though I look it," answered the man, with a short laugh. "No; he thinks I am doing business on my own account. He took it in good part. 'It's a service you're doing the lady,' I explained; 'she has a whim for staying in London because of her lover, but it's a pest-hole, it will be a good deed if you can get her out.' And so he watched and watched, and one morning at dawn, as he was passing by Somerset House, he saw a girl come running out and making her way down the Strand. There was no one else to be seen, the streets were deserted, so he dodged her to find out who she was, and as good luck would have it, her hood fell back from her face, and he saw that it was none other than the Lady Agnes I had pointed out to him one day. Then it was all quickly done: he caught her up, took her in his arms, and, muffling her face, carried her down to the barge. It was in the Old Bailey he got her.""And where is she now?" asked Lord Orford."Coasting about, maybe on her way to Holland," said the man. "At all events she is out of that pest-hole; you ought to be satisfied, my lord."Lord Orford walked up and down the room."Have you any further orders, sir?" asked the man."Only that I have been a fool. I should have done better to have left her alone," said the marquis; "the queen's moving heaven and earth to find her.""Ah well, sir!" said the man, "when the plague's over we can drop her at Somerset House again--she will be none the wiser. And Ben Davies's wife will keep her comfortable; she'll take no harm.""But that does not answer my purpose," said Lord Orford. "I wanted to marry her, and I see very little likelihood of doing so under present circumstances.""Oh, you can marry her right enough!" said his factotum. "You just tell her you did it for love, to save her life. Girls are soft. Now will you pay me the money? These sort of folk won't wait, you know.""I suppose not," said the marquis, "but I have precious little coin; however, what I have you shall have." And, putting his hand in his pocket, he took out a bag of money and threw it on the table."Count and see how much there is," he said.The dwarf emptied the bag on the table, and with his long thin fingers counted the gold."There are ten pieces missing," he said."Then you must find them," answered the marquis, "for I am sucked dry.""I suppose I must put it down to your account," said the man; "it's already a pretty long one.""I was reckoning on the girl's dower to pay it up," answered Lord Orford, "so you see it's as much to your interest as mine that I should have her. You know she is sole heiress of the De Lisles, and the king dowers her."The dwarf stuck his tongue into his cheek and muttered, "That's not much of a recommendation.""Well, you run a risk and so do I; it is for you to make the matter sure," said Lord Orford."I can't make her say 'Yes' if she says 'No'," grumbled the dwarf."I'm of opinion you have done wrong in carrying her off to Holland. I never bade you do so. I told you to hide her away," said Lord Orford."Sure she'd have got the plague if I had not sent her to sea," answered the dwarf."I only wish we could get her into the queen's hands," said Lord Orford, "that would settle the matter.""If that's all you want, it can be easily managed," answered the dwarf; "leave it to me.""I must, for I can't help myself," muttered Lord Orford. "Now get you gone; I'm sick of you."The man shuffled the gold into his pockets, and with a "Good-day, sir!" went his way.When the dwarf was gone, Lord Orford paced up and down the room, muttering between his teeth:"Gone to Holland! How am I to get at her there? The fool was mad to imagine such a thing. If it leaks out that I have had a hand in this business, it will be to my discredit, unless, as the fool advises, I say I did it out of my great love for her, to save her from the plague; but it will cost me a hundred pounds and more, perhaps, for hush-money. However, matters must take their course now. They'll not land in Holland at present, for no barge from London will be allowed to put into port; in the meantime I can consider what is to be done." And with the natural carelessness which belonged to the habitués of Charles II's court, he strove to forget the matter altogether.Weeks went by and he was surprised at having no news from his factotum.It was not until his return to London with the court that he learnt that the man had died of the plague.So as far as he was concerned the matter ended. Later, seeing the course events took, he was too wise a man to rake up ugly stories. The dwarf dead, there was only the bargeman to reckon with, and he was ignorant even of the existence of my Lord Orford. So the bubble burst, and he had to look about for another bride to pay his debts! Besides, Reginald Newbolt was now Prince Rupert's friend, and it was therefore unlikely he would be dispossessed of his estates even for Lady Agnes De Lisle. The wheel of fortune had turned.CHAPTER XIXOn the TrackPestilence on land, battle on the seas! The jealousy between the English merchants and the Dutch was a matter of long standing, and on both sides there had been a clamouring for war. It came in due time.On the third of June, just when the plague was at its height, the Duke of York encountered the Dutch fleet off Lowestoft. A terrible battle took place. It is said that eight or ten thousand men were killed and eighteen ships blown up--this was on the Dutch side; but on the English side also there were many disabled ships and many wounded men cast ashore. Had the English admiral chosen, he might have followed the Dutch up in their flight, and the war would have come to a speedy end, but instead an order came from the Duke of York to slacken sail, and so the Dutch escaped to Texel. The neglect and misery of the seamen of the royal navy, who were cast ashore to go where they would, without money, food, or clothing, was piteous. A great number found their way to London, thinking that there, at least, they would get their pay from the admiralty, but there was no money to be had for the arrears of payment. The Commons had voted the king a large sum for war expenses, and he had squandered the whole of it on his own pleasures.The result was that these men, to whom England owed her safety, lay about the streets and in hovels, and many of them died of the plague.Reginald Newbolt had enlisted under Prince Rupert. He was not in this fray because Rupert's squadron had sailed to the West Indies. When the news of the plague reached Reginald, he had written entreating his mother to go to Newbolt Manor for her own safety and for Ann's, but naturally he received no answer, and knew little or nothing of the events which were taking place. He had risen to high favour with the prince, for on many occasions he had distinguished himself, and was always at hand when there was any deed of daring to be accomplished. Indeed, he and Prince Rupert agreed in many ways, and Reginald's natural good sense served as a check on the hastiness of the almost pirate prince. Rupert had found there was little doing save pleasure at King Charles's court, and for that reason he entered the navy, and made for himself a name as the admiral of the White Squadron. Every man in those days was a lord himself on the high seas, and any ship which did not hoist the English colours was a legitimate prey to the numberless pirate vessels which floated here, there, and everywhere. Many merchant vessels disappeared with their cargoes of wealth, and no questions were asked.It was a wild life and a daring one; but when Rupert heard of the war with the Dutch, and a possible war with the French, he set sail for the west. Neither he nor Reginald had any idea of the ravages the plague was making until they neared England, and then the accounts were so horrible that Rupert refused to allow any man to land.It was in vain that Reginald, as they sailed along the coast, entreated to have a small boat and be allowed to go ashore by himself. The prince was firm, and all knew his discipline was severe."If you attempt to go I will have you put into irons," he said to Reginald; and he was certain the Prince would be as good as his word, so he was obliged to be satisfied with writing to Lord Craven and to Ann. But his letters never reached their destination.Before he left England Agnes had gone north, he knew not whither; the secret had not been told him, and he had been greatly hurt, but now he was glad, for he was assured of her safety. So the days went by, and throughout the months of July and August the terrible scourge laid thousands low; but in the beginning of September it began to lessen. Many people had left the city and were encamped outside it, but Patience and Ann had remained in Somerset House, and had even gone forth amongst the sufferers and tended them. Their good works, their many deeds of charity, had made them well known. Without ceasing, using every means in their power, they had sought to trace Agnes, but in vain.They were assisted in this by young Delarry, who, when he had heard of Agnes's disappearance and Mrs. Newbolt's death, had returned to London and sought Ann and Patience."You cannot remain here," he said. "Let me take you away out of London, if it be but to a village in the suburbs." But Patience had refused to go, and Ann remained with her."If the child be still living," said Patience, "it is here she will come to find us. I am persuaded Lord Orford is at the bottom of this thing. He knows who Agnes is; he knows that the De Lisle property will be hers, and he himself is a beggar. The queen told me as much.""But he has gained nothing by her disappearance, and I know for sure he has not heard of her whereabouts," said Delarry."I think you are wrong there," said Patience; "he knows where she is.""We must find that out," said Delarry. "Now I have come to London I cannot go back to Oxford; I am in quarantine! As for the Lady Agnes, I fully believe she has been taken out of the city and is in safety. No one has any interest in her death; on the contrary, her life is valuable, and, believe me, she will not be attacked."With this Patience had to be satisfied. The devotion and the bravery which Ann showed under these trying circumstances excited not only Delarry's admiration, but increased the feeling of devotion which had long existed in his heart for her.She was so simple and so brave, so devoutly religious. Morning and evening, and ofttimes at mid-day, he would meet her on her way to St. Paul's, and they would go together and pray for the deliverance of the nation, and listen to the preachers, who upbraided men for their sins and besought them to repent. It is not surprising if the link between them grew to be strong, and so one day, finding himself alone with her on the terrace, he asked her to be his wife."Then I shall have a right to do what I will for you," he said, "in life or in death.""This is no time for marrying or giving in marriage," answered Ann."Why not," he asked, "if it unites two souls in good works? You are so utterly alone, having neither father, nor mother, nor brother, no kith or kin. I ask your leave to be all things to you. I have no need to tell you that I love you; I prove it by my desire to serve you."The tears gathered in Ann's eyes."Truly you have given me the best proof of love a man can give," she answered.Her hand was resting on the stone parapet; he laid his on it."Well," he said, "which is it to be? yea or nay?"Ann looked up at him; a glint of Irish mirth, which she had not seen for many a day, lighted up his eyes, She was tempted to say "Yea", but she still hesitated."I will give you your answer to-night," she said, "after vespers. Now let us go and find Patience."
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."
"That is well," said Martha, her face brightening up, "only we must guard her, for I have heard that the Marquis of Orford has set his heart on wedding her, and the king has promised him the De Lisle estates, forfeited by Colonel Newbolt. They were to have been sold at once to the highest bidder to pay the fines and law expenses, &c., but the king has been so engrossed with his pleasures that he has let the matter slip. Now, however, he has made up his mind not to sell, but to dower our Lady Agnes with what is by right her own."
"How do you know all this?" asked Patience, surprised.
"I know it from Peter Kemp, who is at Whitehall, and hears all the gossip in the ante-chambers and in the servants' department; he also knows Jefferson, Lord Orford's first valet."
"Perhaps the king will change his mind now that I will not suffer Agnes to go to Oxford," said Patience.
Martha shrugged her shoulders.
"We shall have to be careful," she said, "for the marquis is not a man to be thwarted, and if he has set his heart on the Lady Agnes, he will surely win or take her."
"I think we had better start at once for Westmorland," said Patience; "it seems to me the only place where we can live in safety."
Martha shook her head.
"That's just what he will expect you to do," she said. "And as he has more horses than we have and more serving men, he will surely follow us, and who will protect us on the road? There are many desolate places between London and Westmorland."
"Surely he would not dare assault us?" said Patience.
"Ah, Madam!" said Martha, "he will stand at naught. If he has set his heart on the Lady Agnes, he will leave no stone unturned to possess her. You must devise some other plan for her safety."
"I am loath to believe all you say; but leave me, Martha, I must think it over."
The following day the court started on its way to Oxford, and the queen announced to the king that the Lady Agnes De Lisle would not accompany her.
"She is ailing," the queen said, "and she is rather young still for all the dissipations of court life. Let my Lord Orford wait till the scare of this plague is over. Patience Beaumont is going to take Agnes back to Westmorland to restore her health, which the heat of London has injured."
"I never saw a brighter face than the Lady Agnes's yesterday," said the king. "She was the star of your suite, ma mère. I do not think much ails her."
"Possibly she was flushed and excited," said the queen, "and Patience has my permission to take her away. I cannot go back upon my word."
"But I have not said the last word either," said Charles angrily, "and my Lord Orford has had no say in the matter at all."
"He had better let his suit drop for the present," said Henrietta; "when we come back from Oxford it will be time enough." And with that she left the room.
Charles shrugged his shoulders; he never opposed his mother's will.
When Lord Orford was informed of Agnes's defection he was in a white rage, but he gave no outward sign of it, only that night he was closeted for a long time with his man, Jefferson, and the next day he himself followed the king to Oxford.
The palace was very silent; indeed, the whole city of London was beginning to be what we should call hushed. The plague was gaining rapidly. The citizens stopped their trading, and every man looked with fear at his fellow.
In the gardens belonging to noblemen's houses, which in many cases sloped down towards the river, the flowers were in full bloom. It was the season for roses, and they had never been so plentiful, but no one gathered them, for fear of infection, no one dared even to inhale their sweet perfume; people went about with a bunch of rue and wormwood in their hands, for these herbs were thought to ward off contagion; and yet this was only the beginning of what was to be.
There was a certain cruelty in the egoistical way in which men strove to protect themselves. For example, if it was known that someone had died in a certain house of the plague, no matter the number of the inhabitants who were still resident there, a red cross was painted over the door with these words in great letters over it, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" and watchmen with halberds stood on guard before it to prevent anyone either leaving the house or entering it.
All the inhabitants of that house were thus shut off from the outside world, lest they should carry infection; semi-starvation and death therefore stared them in the face. This was in the early days. It was a great mistake, for the houses were thus made the centres of disease; later it was found impossible to carry this plan into effect, and it was therefore openly ignored.
A few noblemen and gentlemen had the courage to remain in London and face the evil. Among these was Lord Craven. We are told that his servants packed his luggage and brought his coaches into the court-yard of his house; but to their dismay he told them they could go if they chose, every one of them, but he should remain and do what he could to stay the evil which surrounded them.
"A man can die but once," he said. He had faced death ofttimes on the battlefield, he was not going to turn his back on it now; and, brave man that he was, he set about his work with diligence. He founded a kind of cottage hospital for the plague-stricken in the Soho; he also gave a piece of land for burial purposes in the same neighbourhood. He himself remained at Craven House.
A day or two after the court left London, Patience sent for him and told him of her decision.
"And now," she said, "I must get out of this place as quickly as possible, for if anything happens to the child I shall never forgive myself."
"And yet," said Lord Craven, "this is the only place in which you are free from the Marquis of Orford. I know the man. He is but watching his opportunity; if he see you start to go north he will follow."
"That is what old Martha said," answered Patience, "and she is a wise woman."
"She is right. Remain where you are for the present, keep the windows open on to the river side by night and by day, and do not let the Lady Agnes go abroad."
"But she is so anxious about Ann Newbolt!" said Patience. "I found her weeping yesterday because I would not let her go and would not go myself to the Old Bailey."
"You did well," said Lord Craven; "the disease is spreading from there right up to St. Giles'. Rest assured I will bring you news of Ann as often as I can. The authorities will not let her mother leave the prison now because of infection. She spends her days, ay, her nights, tending those wretched creatures, preaching to them of the world to come, closing their dying eyes amidst the most frightful agonies, and seeing to their burial."
"And she lives through it all!" said Patience.
"Yes, marvellous to tell, she lives through it all," he answered, "and is but little changed. She seems to have no material body, to live in and by the spirit. The poor creatures cling to her, and she has no fear of them."
"Is the plague very bad at Newgate?" asked Patience.
"Bad!" said Lord Craven. "They carry the bodies out at night that they may not be seen. What is worse, the poor creatures go mad with fear, and can hardly be restrained from killing one another."
"It is terrible," said Patience. "And Ann, what is she doing?"
"She is in her own two rooms with that old hag who waits upon her, and I have entreated her on no account to move out of it," said Lord Craven.
"But if she came to us," said Patience, "surely that were better for her!"
"She will not hear of it. She says she would be too far from her mother; now she can have news of her continuously. The old woman goes backwards and forwards, and I go to her. So long as the plague does not enter her dwelling-place, she will remain there."
"And when it does it will be too late," said Patience; "they will not let her out."
"We shall see," said Lord Craven.
At that moment Agnes came into the room. Except that she was very pale, which might be attributed to the great heat, there was no change in her appearance. She wore a thin, white linen gown, with long, open sleeves; her beautiful golden hair was gathered up away from her neck because of the heat, and she had sandals on her feet.
"Oh, my lord," she exclaimed, "this is truly terrible! Why cannot we go back to Westmorland and take Ann with us?"
"Because, my child," said Lord Craven, "the roads just now are not safe." He had to make some such excuse because she had not been told anything concerning Lord Orford.
"I thought the plague was in London, not on the roads," she answered peevishly.
"But there are other things besides the plague, my child," said Lord Craven. "All sorts and kinds of people have left the city, bad as well as good. We must let this first rush go by, and then you shall go. In this heat you could not travel," he continued. "The horses could only carry you a few miles at a time, evening and morning. It would take you an infinitely long time to reach your haven of rest."
"You call it by its right name," said Agnes; "If is a haven of rest. I wish we were there, Aunt Patience." And she sat down on a stool beside her aunt, laid her head on her lap with the air of a spoilt child, and wept.
"We will go as soon as ever we can," said Patience, stroking her hair; "and now, see if you cannot find some of that fruit which we brought in yesterday from the country. Lord Craven will, I know, take it to Ann. It has been well covered up, so that no impure air can have reached it."
Agnes sprang up, ran across the room to a cupboard, and drew forth a basket in which there were some luscious strawberries, red currants, and wall peaches. She packed them carefully in a little basket, and took them to Lord Craven, with her pretty childish air, saying:
"Tell Ann, with my dear love, that they are the only things worth eating. I would she could come to me, as you will not let me go to her."
"She shall come to you as soon as possible," he answered, "but at present she cannot;" and with that he rose, bade both Patience and her farewell, and left them.
"Let us go on to the terrace, aunt," said Agnes; "maybe we shall get a breath of air from the river." So they went down the magnificent staircase, through the gorgeous banqueting-hall, on to the terrace.
Though the day was over and the sun had set, the heat was beyond description. The whole city seemed to glow with the after-math. The girl was tired, and quietly, without knowing it, she began again to weep.
"Oh Agnes, my child, what is it?" said Patience.
"I don't know," she answered; "my soul is heavy within me. I am afraid."
Patience did not ask her what she was afraid of; she knew only too well she was afraid of everything. She put her arm round her and talked to her quietly of life and death.
After a little time the child's soul was comforted, and Patience took her by the hand and led her to her own chamber; as she could not sleep, she sat with her far into the night, and only when the day was dawning did she leave her.
CHAPTER XVIII
Lost
Suddenly out of her sleep Agnes woke to full consciousness. She heard distinctly the cry of the watchman call out three o'clock in the morning as he passed his rounds.
She turned her face to the window and looked out--the sky was blood-red. A great horror seized her. She sprang out of bed and began putting on her clothes. She hardly knew what she was doing. One door in her room opened into Patience's, the other on to a landing leading to the grand staircase. She felt she must have air--she could not stay in that closed-up room; so, slipping her clothes on and wrapping a light cloak round her, she drew the hood over her head and left the room. She had not gone far when she was confronted by one of the watchers, men told off to guard the queen's house.
The sight of the girl walking about surprised him. He thought she must be one of the maids and spoke to her coarsely, laying his hand on her arm. Agnes wrenched herself free and ran, as she thought, in the direction from which she had come; but she had mistaken her bearings and found herself in a small turret-chamber at the farther end of the passage, in which there was a winding staircase.
At that moment the remembrance of Ann came to her.
"They will not let me go to her, but I will go. I cannot stay here," she thought; "I will go now at once. Surely this staircase must lead somewhere!" And, feeling in the darkness, she groped her way to the bottom, where a gleam of light came from a door which stood half-open. She remembered having noticed this turret from the terrace one day, when, to amuse herself, she had reconnoitred, and she had discovered that it led out into a small courtyard.
"I shall find means of getting out into the street," she thought, "and then I can easily find my way to the Old Bailey."
She was not mistaken; the staircase gave into a court-yard, at the farther end of which was an iron gate. She had some difficulty in forcing the bolt back and in pulling the gate open, but it yielded at last, and, quick as lightning, she passed out into the street. She had a sort of hunted feeling; she did not know herself what drove her to act thus. She was as one walking in her sleep. She was not naturally a coward, nor even fearful, but at the present moment a feeling of terror dominated her whole being.
When she found herself alone in the deserted streets she did not hesitate; she went straight forward without reasoning, moved by some inexplicable impulse. Here and there she saw the houses marked with the red cross, with the words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" written in red letters over the doors, and she shuddered.
"Supposing, when I reach Ann, I find her in such a house, and cannot get to her!" she thought.
She had gone some distance when she heard steps following her. She dared not look back, but, hastening her speed, turned up the street which led to the Old Bailey. The steps came nearer and nearer, and suddenly she was caught up, a cloth thrown over her face, a hand pressed over her mouth, and a voice said sharply:
"Lie quiet and you are safe; move and I will kill you!"
Instinctively she obeyed, and felt herself carried she knew not whither.
When Patience awoke a few hours later from a restless sleep, her first thought was naturally for Agnes. She rose, went into her room, and found it empty. To call Martha, to rouse the whole house, was the work of a few seconds. The house-watchman told how he had met a girl in the gallery, and how at sight of him she had fled; he could not tell where she had disappeared to, indeed, for aught he knew, it might have been a ghost. There were ghosts in Somerset House. It was said that the young Duke of Gloucester might be seen in the old building gliding along the passages, down to the terrace walk.
Patience had no such superstitions. If the man had seen a girl, that girl, to her mind, must have been Agnes. But how could she have got out of the house? Why should she go? In the search that followed, the door of the turret was found open, also the gate in the court-yard. That was sufficient proof that she must have gone out that way.
A messenger was immediately sent to Lord Craven, and throughout that day the search continued, but no Agnes was forthcoming. Through the deserted streets Patience wandered, indifferent to all danger, searching for the child. She went to Ann, and with tears told her what had happened; and Ann came down, and they wandered together till they reached St. Paul's. Then they entered the church, knelt, and prayed, and wept, as did many others, for there was nothing but weeping and moaning throughout this afflicted city.
"She will come back, surely she will come back!" repeated Ann.
"If she had gone forth of her own free will, I should say yes," Patience answered; "but I am persuaded she has not done so. Someone was lying in wait for her."
Those who sought for Agnes were many, but it was all in vain. Martha wept and wrung her hands in wild despair, but neither weeping nor moaning nor prayers availed. Throughout that long summer day and the night which followed, they sought but did not find her. Hour after hour, day after day, the search was continued, but in vain. The plague was ever on the increase. At night long lines of coffins were carried hastily by men through the city out to some far-distant burial-place; even that did not long suffice, and carts, with tingling bells on the horses' heads, wound their way through the deserted streets, men calling out as they went:
"Bring forth your dead, bring forth your dead!" and the bodies, ofttimes in nothing but a winding sheet, were tossed into the cart and carried forth to the common pit.
Ann still refused to go to Somerset House. She would not leave the precincts of the prison, neither could Patience go to her. They waited for their loved ones in their homes, and Lord Craven went and came between them--he was their only comforter, their only guide. Never was a braver or more honourable man; he had no fear of infection. He was "in God's hands," he said, "to live or to die".
All those who possibly could left the city. The streets were deserted, but the churches were crowded. A few ministers remained faithful to their duty, but many, to their shame, fled. But there were found other devoted men from the country to replace these deserters, the churches were all thrown open, and within their precincts was weeping and wailing. "Surely the scourge was sent by God because of their sins," people said, and their ministers bade them repent, ay, in dust and ashes; therefore it came to pass that men and women alike fell upon their faces and made their humble confession to Almighty God, praying for pardon and deliverance.
Still the disease continued to spread. The lord mayor, the chief councillors, the physicians, all those in authority, made laws, saw to the cleansing of the city, and did their very utmost to check the frightful ravages of the plague, but throughout the month of August it raged unremittingly.
One morning a message came to Lord Craven from Newgate to say that Mistress Newbolt had departed that night, that her last hours had been most edifying, that she had sung and prayed, and glorified God even in the agony of death. He it was who broke the news to Ann. In vain she asked for a sign by which she might know it was her mother who had died. The prison authorities answered it was impossible. All she had possessed was destroyed, and she was carried forth and buried in the common pit, amongst the malefactors, the thieves, the murderers, the cut-throats, whom she had tended.
Thus Ann found herself alone. Then she went to Patience and the two dwelt together.
"Why do you not both go north?" said Lord Craven. "I see no end to our afflictions."
"I cannot go," said Patience. "If Agnes were to come back and find me gone, what would she do?"
A message had been sent to the queen to tell her what had happened, and her anger was very great against Patience.
"If you had let me have the child, she would have been safe," she said; "now she is dead, or worse than dead."
Lord Orford, when he heard the news, appeared astounded. He would have gone up to London himself, but the king would not permit him.
"My Lord Craven will do all that there is to be done," he said.
* * * * *
"Well, sirrah, what have you done with her?"
"The only thing which in reason could be done, my lord," answered a small, insignificant man, almost a dwarf, who was known everywhere as the Marquis of Orford's factotum.
He was intensely ugly, with an extraordinary look of cunning in his eyes when you saw them, but that was not often--they were small, with heavy lids which were seldom raised, and if they were, it was with a sidelong glance. He was standing now before Lord Orford in a room which that nobleman had succeeded in hiring at Oxford, and for which he paid an enormous price, for the town was crowded to excess, and yet was kept so cleanly by the authorities that the plague had not come near it. The lovely city with its colleges and chapels, the walks in the surrounding country, the beautiful river upon which the boats went and came all day long in gay succession, made of it a most delightful resort, and but for the daily reports from London, the life led by the court would have been ideal.
"Give an account of yourself," said Lord Orford.
"I set Ben Davies to watch his opportunity," said the man, "bidding him never lose sight of the lady. Ben is a bargeman, and has a craft which he takes from London Bridge to Holland or to France as he chooses. His wife, two children, and a boy, live on board. It is by no means a bad craft, and Mistress Ben is an uncommonly cleanly, thrifty woman, so I just told him that if ever he could catch the lady and take her on board, and then strike off to Holland with her, he might reckon on a hundred pounds."
"You did not mention my name?" said his lordship.
"I'm not quite such a fool, though I look it," answered the man, with a short laugh. "No; he thinks I am doing business on my own account. He took it in good part. 'It's a service you're doing the lady,' I explained; 'she has a whim for staying in London because of her lover, but it's a pest-hole, it will be a good deed if you can get her out.' And so he watched and watched, and one morning at dawn, as he was passing by Somerset House, he saw a girl come running out and making her way down the Strand. There was no one else to be seen, the streets were deserted, so he dodged her to find out who she was, and as good luck would have it, her hood fell back from her face, and he saw that it was none other than the Lady Agnes I had pointed out to him one day. Then it was all quickly done: he caught her up, took her in his arms, and, muffling her face, carried her down to the barge. It was in the Old Bailey he got her."
"And where is she now?" asked Lord Orford.
"Coasting about, maybe on her way to Holland," said the man. "At all events she is out of that pest-hole; you ought to be satisfied, my lord."
Lord Orford walked up and down the room.
"Have you any further orders, sir?" asked the man.
"Only that I have been a fool. I should have done better to have left her alone," said the marquis; "the queen's moving heaven and earth to find her."
"Ah well, sir!" said the man, "when the plague's over we can drop her at Somerset House again--she will be none the wiser. And Ben Davies's wife will keep her comfortable; she'll take no harm."
"But that does not answer my purpose," said Lord Orford. "I wanted to marry her, and I see very little likelihood of doing so under present circumstances."
"Oh, you can marry her right enough!" said his factotum. "You just tell her you did it for love, to save her life. Girls are soft. Now will you pay me the money? These sort of folk won't wait, you know."
"I suppose not," said the marquis, "but I have precious little coin; however, what I have you shall have." And, putting his hand in his pocket, he took out a bag of money and threw it on the table.
"Count and see how much there is," he said.
The dwarf emptied the bag on the table, and with his long thin fingers counted the gold.
"There are ten pieces missing," he said.
"Then you must find them," answered the marquis, "for I am sucked dry."
"I suppose I must put it down to your account," said the man; "it's already a pretty long one."
"I was reckoning on the girl's dower to pay it up," answered Lord Orford, "so you see it's as much to your interest as mine that I should have her. You know she is sole heiress of the De Lisles, and the king dowers her."
The dwarf stuck his tongue into his cheek and muttered, "That's not much of a recommendation."
"Well, you run a risk and so do I; it is for you to make the matter sure," said Lord Orford.
"I can't make her say 'Yes' if she says 'No'," grumbled the dwarf.
"I'm of opinion you have done wrong in carrying her off to Holland. I never bade you do so. I told you to hide her away," said Lord Orford.
"Sure she'd have got the plague if I had not sent her to sea," answered the dwarf.
"I only wish we could get her into the queen's hands," said Lord Orford, "that would settle the matter."
"If that's all you want, it can be easily managed," answered the dwarf; "leave it to me."
"I must, for I can't help myself," muttered Lord Orford. "Now get you gone; I'm sick of you."
The man shuffled the gold into his pockets, and with a "Good-day, sir!" went his way.
When the dwarf was gone, Lord Orford paced up and down the room, muttering between his teeth:
"Gone to Holland! How am I to get at her there? The fool was mad to imagine such a thing. If it leaks out that I have had a hand in this business, it will be to my discredit, unless, as the fool advises, I say I did it out of my great love for her, to save her from the plague; but it will cost me a hundred pounds and more, perhaps, for hush-money. However, matters must take their course now. They'll not land in Holland at present, for no barge from London will be allowed to put into port; in the meantime I can consider what is to be done." And with the natural carelessness which belonged to the habitués of Charles II's court, he strove to forget the matter altogether.
Weeks went by and he was surprised at having no news from his factotum.
It was not until his return to London with the court that he learnt that the man had died of the plague.
So as far as he was concerned the matter ended. Later, seeing the course events took, he was too wise a man to rake up ugly stories. The dwarf dead, there was only the bargeman to reckon with, and he was ignorant even of the existence of my Lord Orford. So the bubble burst, and he had to look about for another bride to pay his debts! Besides, Reginald Newbolt was now Prince Rupert's friend, and it was therefore unlikely he would be dispossessed of his estates even for Lady Agnes De Lisle. The wheel of fortune had turned.
CHAPTER XIX
On the Track
Pestilence on land, battle on the seas! The jealousy between the English merchants and the Dutch was a matter of long standing, and on both sides there had been a clamouring for war. It came in due time.
On the third of June, just when the plague was at its height, the Duke of York encountered the Dutch fleet off Lowestoft. A terrible battle took place. It is said that eight or ten thousand men were killed and eighteen ships blown up--this was on the Dutch side; but on the English side also there were many disabled ships and many wounded men cast ashore. Had the English admiral chosen, he might have followed the Dutch up in their flight, and the war would have come to a speedy end, but instead an order came from the Duke of York to slacken sail, and so the Dutch escaped to Texel. The neglect and misery of the seamen of the royal navy, who were cast ashore to go where they would, without money, food, or clothing, was piteous. A great number found their way to London, thinking that there, at least, they would get their pay from the admiralty, but there was no money to be had for the arrears of payment. The Commons had voted the king a large sum for war expenses, and he had squandered the whole of it on his own pleasures.
The result was that these men, to whom England owed her safety, lay about the streets and in hovels, and many of them died of the plague.
Reginald Newbolt had enlisted under Prince Rupert. He was not in this fray because Rupert's squadron had sailed to the West Indies. When the news of the plague reached Reginald, he had written entreating his mother to go to Newbolt Manor for her own safety and for Ann's, but naturally he received no answer, and knew little or nothing of the events which were taking place. He had risen to high favour with the prince, for on many occasions he had distinguished himself, and was always at hand when there was any deed of daring to be accomplished. Indeed, he and Prince Rupert agreed in many ways, and Reginald's natural good sense served as a check on the hastiness of the almost pirate prince. Rupert had found there was little doing save pleasure at King Charles's court, and for that reason he entered the navy, and made for himself a name as the admiral of the White Squadron. Every man in those days was a lord himself on the high seas, and any ship which did not hoist the English colours was a legitimate prey to the numberless pirate vessels which floated here, there, and everywhere. Many merchant vessels disappeared with their cargoes of wealth, and no questions were asked.
It was a wild life and a daring one; but when Rupert heard of the war with the Dutch, and a possible war with the French, he set sail for the west. Neither he nor Reginald had any idea of the ravages the plague was making until they neared England, and then the accounts were so horrible that Rupert refused to allow any man to land.
It was in vain that Reginald, as they sailed along the coast, entreated to have a small boat and be allowed to go ashore by himself. The prince was firm, and all knew his discipline was severe.
"If you attempt to go I will have you put into irons," he said to Reginald; and he was certain the Prince would be as good as his word, so he was obliged to be satisfied with writing to Lord Craven and to Ann. But his letters never reached their destination.
Before he left England Agnes had gone north, he knew not whither; the secret had not been told him, and he had been greatly hurt, but now he was glad, for he was assured of her safety. So the days went by, and throughout the months of July and August the terrible scourge laid thousands low; but in the beginning of September it began to lessen. Many people had left the city and were encamped outside it, but Patience and Ann had remained in Somerset House, and had even gone forth amongst the sufferers and tended them. Their good works, their many deeds of charity, had made them well known. Without ceasing, using every means in their power, they had sought to trace Agnes, but in vain.
They were assisted in this by young Delarry, who, when he had heard of Agnes's disappearance and Mrs. Newbolt's death, had returned to London and sought Ann and Patience.
"You cannot remain here," he said. "Let me take you away out of London, if it be but to a village in the suburbs." But Patience had refused to go, and Ann remained with her.
"If the child be still living," said Patience, "it is here she will come to find us. I am persuaded Lord Orford is at the bottom of this thing. He knows who Agnes is; he knows that the De Lisle property will be hers, and he himself is a beggar. The queen told me as much."
"But he has gained nothing by her disappearance, and I know for sure he has not heard of her whereabouts," said Delarry.
"I think you are wrong there," said Patience; "he knows where she is."
"We must find that out," said Delarry. "Now I have come to London I cannot go back to Oxford; I am in quarantine! As for the Lady Agnes, I fully believe she has been taken out of the city and is in safety. No one has any interest in her death; on the contrary, her life is valuable, and, believe me, she will not be attacked."
With this Patience had to be satisfied. The devotion and the bravery which Ann showed under these trying circumstances excited not only Delarry's admiration, but increased the feeling of devotion which had long existed in his heart for her.
She was so simple and so brave, so devoutly religious. Morning and evening, and ofttimes at mid-day, he would meet her on her way to St. Paul's, and they would go together and pray for the deliverance of the nation, and listen to the preachers, who upbraided men for their sins and besought them to repent. It is not surprising if the link between them grew to be strong, and so one day, finding himself alone with her on the terrace, he asked her to be his wife.
"Then I shall have a right to do what I will for you," he said, "in life or in death."
"This is no time for marrying or giving in marriage," answered Ann.
"Why not," he asked, "if it unites two souls in good works? You are so utterly alone, having neither father, nor mother, nor brother, no kith or kin. I ask your leave to be all things to you. I have no need to tell you that I love you; I prove it by my desire to serve you."
The tears gathered in Ann's eyes.
"Truly you have given me the best proof of love a man can give," she answered.
Her hand was resting on the stone parapet; he laid his on it.
"Well," he said, "which is it to be? yea or nay?"
Ann looked up at him; a glint of Irish mirth, which she had not seen for many a day, lighted up his eyes, She was tempted to say "Yea", but she still hesitated.
"I will give you your answer to-night," she said, "after vespers. Now let us go and find Patience."