CHAPTER II.

“When I view abroad both regiments, The world’s and thine, Thine clad with simpleness and sad events, The other, fine-- Full of glory and gay weeds, Brave language--braver deeds!” GEORGE HERBERT.

The Carlisle hostel was full of guests--a singular circumstance--for the quaint and humble suburban inn was out of the ordinary road of travelers. The landlady, an honest, ruddy, bustling dame, with a strong leaning to the persecuted Presbyterians, hastily led Edith and her guardian up-stairs into a little bright bed-chamber, whose latticed window looked out through embowering foliage, over the well-filled garden, upon the road they had just traversed.

’Tis but an homely place,” said Mrs. Philpot, “to put a gentlewoman in; but, forsooth, Mistress Edith, we be often put to our wit’s-end that live in a public way, for there’s young Sir Philip Dacre below, with all his serving-men--and wherefore he came hither I wot not, for we’re none such light folks as to put up with the ways of wild young gallants like him, that would have their gentle blood cover all. No, no, says I, we’ll have none of your gay doings here--you must e’en tramp off to old Roger Whittaker’s that never wants room for such as would do themselves or other folk a mischief. A plague on him! it’s e’en him, and such like as him, that has driven canny customs from the Border; and the curate no less--and that’s a meet place for a minister--drinking and dribbling at his ingle-side, morn and even. Let’s have done with them, I say! they’re a worse set than the old priests with their mass-books, and their women’s garments!”

“And my father,” said Edith, “is he not here?”

“And in truth, Mistress Edith, with my clatter I had nigh forgotten the message the good gentleman gave me. He will be here ere noon; it is ten of the clock now; and if thou wilt content thee in this poor place I’ll bring thee something thou’st not tasted afore since thou cam’st to Cumberland; and somewhat to comfort thee also, Dame Dutton, though I reckon thou hast no sweet tooth for dainties any more than mysel’; but I’ll have thee a comfortable snack afore thou’st gotten thy hood undone. Sit thee down, dame, thou’s kindly welcome.”

“And it’s little business Sir Philip Dacre can have in Joe Philpot’s hostel, I trow,” said Dame Dutton, suspiciously, as the landlady left the little apartment. “Did’st never see this gallant, Mistress Edith? I did fancy there were lace and feathers at the great window below; but my old eyes serve me not as they once did--and certain there were idle grooms enow; but I marked not the Dacre coat. Thou would’st see who sat at the great window, sweetheart?”

“Nay, truly, Dame Dutton,” said Edith: “I marked no great window, for I was eager to see my father.”

“That wert thou! t’would be a false heart that doubted thee,” said the old woman, repentant of her momentary suspicious fear. “Yet I know naught ill of the lad, for all I speak, if it were not that he is his mother’s son--and, lo! you now, Mistress Edith, my hood hath been loosened these five minutes, and there is no tidings of Dame Philpot and her good cheer.”

“She will be here anon, dame,” said Edith, opening the lattice.

Standing where she did, she could see a corner of the court-yard of the inn, busy as it was, beyond its wont. The great window, where sat the unconscious object of Dame Dutton’s fears, was immediately below.

She had been standing thus for some time, conscious of the sweet air and sunshine, and vacantly watching the figures in the yard, when a cavalier, dressed in the fantastic fashion of the time, rode briskly in at the gate. His rich dress was travel-soiled, his attendants looked dusty and fatigued, and calling hurriedly for refreshments, he waited the return of the servants who ran to obey his orders, as if he did not mean to alight.

“Ha, Sir Jasper!” exclaimed some unseen person below, whose voice had a finer modulation than belonged to the Border. “What makes you so far from town?”

“From town!” echoed the new comer; “in what hyperborean region have you hidden yourself, gentle Sir Philip, that your happy ignorance needs to ask? From town! why the town itself, I fear, ere long will take to traveling:--the matter is who shall get furthest away in these days.”

“A marvel!” said Sir Philip Dacre, laughing. “I fancied you courtiers could breathe no air less dainty than the perfumes of Whitehall.”

“Faith, there are odors abroad less delectable,” said the cavalier, shrugging his shoulders. “Hast not heard of the enemy who hath established his garrison--for longer, I fear me, than the bivouac of a night--in yonder unhappy London?”

“Enemy! what mean you?”

“Truly what I say, good Philip--the leader of yonder forces suffers no equivoque; the roads are covered with fugitives who never learned to fly before. Myself am not apt to turn my back on an enemy’s line of battle; but yonder grim rascal is not to be faced. The king himself has fled.”

“Now pray heaven it be not Oliver risen again,” exclaimed Dacre, in a tone of anxiety.

“Oliver! nay, it is another incarnation of the evil one frightfuller than he. Hark thee, Sir Philip--the plague!”

“The plague!”

Edith could hear the ring of the young man’s sword and spurs as he sprang to his feet. The bystanders in the yard began to form a circle round the cavalier and his servants, eager to hear, and yet afraid to press upon those who had so lately left the neighborhood of the pestilence.

“So I e’en bethought myself of seeing what cheer my noble kinsman holds in Naworth,” said the cavalier, with an affectation of carelessness. “When old London hath shaken herself free of her spectral visitant, she will have the greater zest for the contrast. Thou should’st hie thee to Court. Sir Philip: never better chance for thee, man. His Majesty goes to Oxford--where all the learning of merry England will overshadow him.”

“Nay, nay,” said Dacre, hastily. “Fenton, make ready to proceed; let those only go with us who do not fear; take no man against his will. I have but newly touched English ground, Sir Jasper, and was on my way to greet my mother. Know you if she is still in London? I must hasten now to bring her home.”

“Then hast thou less philosophy than I gave thee credit for, Sir Philip,” said the stranger, emptying as he spoke a goblet of wine; “for in good sooth I know no noble lady more entirely able to care for her own safety, and her household’s, than the Lady Dacre; and bethink thee, good friend, _she_ hath but to escape out of the danger she is already in, whereas thou would’st thrust thyself into what affects thee not. Tush, man, think of it again--it is an enterprise savoring of his conceit who went forth a knight-errant in the Spanish story; thou knowest him of La Mancha? If thou hadst been among yonder fair ladies of Lisbon, I should warrant thee to hear of his exploits full plenty.”

“I crave your pardon, Sir Jasper,” said Dacre, gravely. “I am no Quixote, nor am I used to depart from my purposes at stroke of wit or jesting. I pray you alight and share my meal with me: it will detain you little on your journey, and I would fain hear further of this pestilence.”

“Hear to him--hear to him!” exclaimed the landlady, concealing her pleasure under a semblance of annoyance as she touched Edith on the shoulder, and showed her the little table spread with refreshments. “He will bring the other swaggering cavalier over my honest threshold, and what will Dame Whittaker say to that, I trow! I know not when she had as many plumed caps in her court-yard, Round-heads and Puritans as they call us. Well-a-day! and you would hear of that woeful plague and how the cavalier yonder--lo! now he is alighting and yonder does my goodman hold the stirrup--was flying from the face of it. Ah, Mistress Edith! look at his sword and that scar on his brow was gotten in the wars; and what a mighty man he is, like the giant in the Scripture that David slew, and yet the like of him flies before the pestilence and thinks no shame to tell it! To think of that now.”

“But he is not a minister of the Word,” said Edith to herself unconsciously.

“A minister! bless you, who would fancy that? Nay, truly, he is a wolf in his own proper hide; and that is none so ill as the sheep’s clothing of yon poor dazed curate, that keeps muddling his brains from Sabbath to Saturday with Roger Whittaker’s sour ale. And see you, Mistress Edith, here is a cup of chocolate for you, the very same that the great ladies of the court break their fast withal. I got it from Tom Blackstone, a lad of this country, that’s gotten to be a skipper from Newcastle, when he came to see his old mother that lives nigh by the Scots gate; and I’d take a taste mysel’ for company, though, an it were not just newfangled. Well, Dame Dutton, look at the beer how it sparkles in the cup, as bright as the wine that my good man has been drawing for the gentle company in the great parlor. Thou never saw better ale I warrant thee.”

“Nor tasted,” said Dame Dutton, heartily, “and I would, my poor Raaf, had but this to warm his old blood when he comes in from the hills o’ nights; for it’s a hard life, Mistress Philpot, and a dull night will this be, with thy chair empty. Mistress Edith, and thy sweet self gone among perils. Well-a-day! but Master Field is a bold man.”

“Ay, truly,” said the landlady, looking inquisitively at Edith, “it must be urgent business that carries him to London e’enow; but there will be company on the road, Mistress Edith, for I chanced to hear young Sir Philip say as much to the other noble gentleman, as that he was on his way: and when he heard of that fearful plague, he would bring home his mother, he said. Bring home his mother, I trow! as if the Lady Dacre ever did one deed in this blessed world for any body’s will but her own.”

’Twould be a strange will, Mistress,” said Dame Dutton, “if she chose to stay among the sick folk in the stricken city; for Master Field would make thy blood cold to tell thee of it; but the Lady Dacre likes not Thornleigh, and wherefore should she?”

“Ay, wherefore, indeed?” echoed Mistress Philpot, looking at Edith.

These looks and hints made Edith uneasy; she resolved to ask her father what their meaning was, but she wisely forebore questioning the kindly dames beside her, both of whom, good-humored, honest, affectionate matrons, as they were, had no objections to a little innocent gossip.

“But Thornleigh has never been inhabited since I came to Cumberland, has it, Dame Dutton?” said Edith, “and yet this gentleman seemed to come from it to-day!”

“Ay, Sir Philip has been in foreign parts,” said the hostess, “traveling here-away, there-away. I can scarce tell you where: in France and a long away further off than France: in the countries, I reckon, where snow lies summer and winter, where they have that queen that is so wise, like the Queen of Sheba in the old times; and wonderful tales Master Fenton was telling of them, when you came in, Mistress Edith. So, from thence, the young knight came in a ship to Scotland, and after he had tarried awhile there (and Master Fenton do say it be dreadful to see how they torture decent folk yonder, for hearing a preaching or singing a psalm) he traveled up through the country, and came to Thornleigh last night--and this morning he was for starting again, but because his men could get naught decent from the old crazed housekeeper, he came to get them a right meal afore they should start on their journey. Does any thing ail you, Mistress Edith?”

Edith had risen from the table, and stood at the window.

“No, no,” she said, fastening her hood and mantle, nervously; “but yonder comes my father.”

A stout horse, with a pillion attached to its saddle, was led out as she spoke. Master Field crossed the court-yard hastily, and ascended the stairs. When he entered the room he drew his daughter to the window, and pointing to where an hostler led the animal about, made a last attempt to dissuade her from accompanying him. Edith said nothing in return: she only slid her hand through her father’s arm, and holding by him firmly, bade her kind friends farewell.

“Now father, I am ready; let us go.”

And after another very brief delay, they went forth upon their perilous journey.

The strange cavalier, with his train, rode from the gate at the same time--a singular contrast. The much-lauded, gay, graceful, gallant cavalier, with his noble blood, his inheritance of chivalrous feeling, and honor, his peculiar attribute of personal bravery, on prancing steed and with clang of spur and warlike sword, went out, holding his noble head high, a fugitive flying before the Plague. And beside him rode forth the grave man and the delicate girl, traveling with their lives in their hands, for their Lord’s sake, and their people’s, to meet the great enemy in its stronghold; making no vaunt of their resolve, having no presumption in their stout hearts--grave, heroic, silent--loyal to a king who hath more thrones in his wide dominion than that of England.

The father and the daughter conversed little; it was a solemn journey. Along those peaceful highways, past those homely cottages, in the abundance of their rude health and security, skirting the draped feet of those serene and everlasting hills, while perchance this same May sunshine should fall upon some fearful indiscriminate grave in yonder distant city, which alone could record that there they died.

It was no time for speech--in awe and grave valor they traveled on.

They had proceeded thus for some few hours on their way, when the sound of a horse’s feet behind, made Master Field turn his head. Sir Philip Dacre was riding in haste after them, considerably in advance of his attendants. He was a young man of moderately good looks, with a mien more scholar-like than courtly. Edith had heard his name mentioned only in the must cursory manner before this day; but it seemed from the conversation that ensued, that her father knew him.

“Master Field,” said Sir Philip, eagerly, as he joined them, “you also must have heard of this scourge which has entered London. I pray you tell me if those who are flying from it do not aggravate its terrors. Is it indeed as fatal as men say?”

“I fear me, Sir Philip,” was the grave answer, “that men know not yet a tithe of those terrors they speak of; but it is true that a universal panic hath seized the city, and without doubt the servile passion of fear is one of its many allies, and doth prepare its way.”

“I am hastening thither,” said Dacre. “I fear over-boldness more than panic--and I must endeavor to bring my mother away.”

The Puritan made no answer; Edith felt a slight thrill through his strong frame, and he quickened his horse’s pace.

“Master Field,” said Sir Philip, with emotion, “long ago, when I met with you at Oxford, you returned good for evil; now, in the face of death, shall we not be at peace? Yonder hostess told me you were bound for London. I divine your errand; you go to face this Plague. Ah, sir! shall I bid you then forget what your magnanimous heart forgave so nobly, when the power to protect and help was on your side? Since that time, I have seen other laws than those of England. Evil deeds of men to whose party I belong by inheritance and hereditary right, I repudiate heartily and with sincerity. I have no share with this impure court, this arbitrary government. Your personal wrong, Master Field--”

“Mention it not--mention it not!” said the minister, waving his hand; “I am a man, Sir Philip, subject to like temptations of passion as other men. Heartily, and in all humbleness, I have endeavored to forgive; but try me not again by bringing my first bitterness to my remembrance--my personal wrong is a dead wrong--disturb not the oblivion of its peace.”

“And yet,” said the young man, gently, “and yet I have wept for it ere I well knew what sorrow meant. Yonder old walls of Thornleigh could bear me witness how bitterly the boy lamented over that cruel deed; but, to speak of other matters less private than this--I have no sympathy, Master Field, with the injustice which has banished you from your place. My desires and hopes are more with you than against you. We are both on our way to face death--it may be we shall never see these hills again; let us go together, and in peace.”

The Puritan extended his hand; the young man grasped it heartily. Greater difference of rank or faith, birth or years, could not have hindered the infallible brotherhood of those twain--alike stout, generous, and manful, loving their fellows and their God!