CHAPTER VIII.

“When all is done that mortal might can do, And all that’s done is naught; when wisdom fails, And the strong hand grows feeble, and the heart That was most valiant sinks into the dust-- Then look ye upward--lo! He comes. Behold, The Lord!”

On that September even, so soft and mellow and harvest-like, with the full eye of its serene moon looking down peacefully upon the quiet world, the inhabitants of London, such of them as were not stretched on hopeless sick beds, or hopelessly watching by the same, lay down in reckless and wild despair, assured of early death. On the next day the weekly bill of mortality would be published, and the hearts of the people sickened within them, as they anticipated the further progress of the pestilence which its fatal record would make known.

That day was a fast-day in Master Chester’s church of St. Margaret’s in Westminster, and Master Field was engaged to preach there. The little household had assembled in Dame Rogers’s sitting-room for their morning worship. The father and daughter sat side by side; their host was at a little distance, and Dame Rogers and her child, Mercy, were timidly withdrawn near the door.

They were about to commence their simple service. Suddenly there came a low knock to the outer door of the cottage. They had all learned to know the light hand of Sir Philip Dacre, and John Goodman rose to admit him.

He stood still on the threshold in their sight, with a strange quivering look of joy about him, at which they marveled mightily. Joy! its very name had become an unknown word in London. There were tears standing in the young man’s eyes, and a tremulous, unsteady smile upon his lips, which looked as though it would fain run over in the weeping of a glad heart. He lifted up his hands, but he said nothing, except “Thank God! thank God!”

“Amen!” said Master Field, gravely; “but for what special mercy, Sir Philip? Enter and let us share your thanksgiving, as you have shared our trouble.”

“It ebbs--it ebbs!” exclaimed the young man; “the tide has turned, Master Field--the fury of the pestilence has abated--there is hope!”

They all rose; the timid Dame Rogers, who had shrunk from him before, pressing nearest now to the bearer of good tidings--and gathered round him in an eager ring, with the same fit of tremulous, uncertain joyousness upon themselves, to learn the particulars of this unlooked for gladness.

“Near two thousand less in this one week,” said Sir Philip, more agitated now than he had been in the greatest horror of the darkness. “The last wave was a mighty one, but the tide has receded far already. Let us thank God! when there was neither help nor hope, He hath done it of His own grace. The pestilence that hath stricken so many is itself stricken, blessed be the day!”

And so they took their places again, and amid low sobs and silent weeping, gave the Great Physician thanks. Strongly nerved and strained to the uttermost, the sudden relaxation took the form of feebleness; and even Caleb Field himself, whose stout soul had never quailed amid all these terrors, did now, his daughter weeping delicious tears beside him, with faltering voice and quickened breathing, pour out the flood of his warm thanksgiving before his God.

And when they had taken their morning meal, they went out together to St. Margaret’s with lightened hearts--hearts that began timidly to resume their old functions of joy and hoping. As they approached Westminster, they observed a group of men a little way before them, whose mood was clearly evident by the congratulations they exchanged--congratulations which were more of gesture than of speech. They dispersed before Master Field, his daughter, and Sir Philip came up; but one who met them, a stranger, paused to stretch out his hand, and say:

“Have ye heard the news? God be thanked!”

“Yea, brother, and amen,” said Master Field, grasping the extended hand of the stranger. “Let us not forget His goodness, lest a worse thing befall us.”

The man passed on. The universal gladness, like the universal sorrow, made all brethren.

They were passing through a narrow street. A woman stood at a high window of one of those old picturesque gabled houses which exist among us no longer.

“Neighbor,” she cried, “good neighbor Waterman, heard ye the news?”

An opposite window opened slowly; at it stood a languid old man, with a girl’s face looking eagerly over his shoulder.

“What news, good dame?” said the old man. “Truly, when there can be none but evil ones, it is best to have dull ears.”

“Good news, thank God,” said the other: “the bill is near two thousand less, as my good man says; and an it rose swift, we may hope it will sink swifter, I wot. God be thanked!--we e’en counted ourselves dead folk; but the Lord is merciful.”

“Ah, grandfather,” cried the girl, “we will see my mother again. Thank God! thank God!”

The old man’s lip was quivering; his eyelids drooped heavily.

“And is it so? Is there any hope? For the city, and for the young child! God be praised, for He is very good.”

And as they went on, wherever two strangers met, wherever human life remained, with tears and tremulous rejoicing, the people lifted up their voices in thanks to God.

In front of the abbey, Master Chester met them. For the first time, the quaint and courtly gentleman was discomposed; lights and shadows, in a hundred shifting combinations, pursued each other over his vivacious features. He was too greatly moved at first to speak; he only held out his hands.

“And so ye be all come with the glad tidings,” he said at last, “which truly are glad tidings for all; and our controversy concerning thy dangerous labor, Mistress Edith, we will end now; for men think otherwise in hazard than they do in hope; and the Lord of the poor will remember thee, little maiden, because thou didst remember the poor of the Lord. Thou wilt have many to hear thee, brother Field, on this fair morrow, and, I pray God, many to heed thee also: for that which is impressed but by disaster is in danger, I fear me, of being erased by deliverance. The good Lord keep us from this evil; but in sooth we grow wanton oft when it is fit we should grow wary, and are liker to lead ourselves into deeds that need to be repented of, through the abundance of God’s mercies, than to endeavor that God’s mercies should lead us to repentance.”

“It is but too frequent,” said Master Field; “but this city hath been so sorely smitten, that the remembrance of the stroke will not soon depart. I trust only that the delirium of this joy will not intoxicate the remnant, for indeed the penitence of deadly fear is but a frail trust to lean upon. Nevertheless, brother, what saith thy poet?

“‘When the equal poise of hope and fear Doth arbitrate the event, my nature is, That I do ever hope rather than fear.’

“And truly, He who hath done this is the same Lord who hath bruised the head of the enemy.”

“Without doubt,” answered Master Chester; “and in terror, even as in tenderness, the same Lord. But thy poet, I pray thee note, is not _my_ poet, brother. Truly, a pestilent sectary, an he were also a noble singer of Heaven’s own proper training. Yet thou knowest, this deadly peril over, that I love not those who forsake order, and e’en would take order with them, though I love them not; for a Church that lacketh government is like to lack goodness, ere long, I fear me; and truthful doctrine hath rightful discipline for its twin brother. An evil-conditioned man this Milton, Mistress Judith; thinkest thou not so?”

“Truly, sir, he maketh noble melody,” said Edith.

“Ah, little one, thine ear tingleth to sweet music; but these are matters that fit us not thou thinkest, brother, and I doubt not thy thoughts are busy with matters that will fit all. And lo! the people that remain to us how they gather, and shall have gathered somewhat ere they part, I doubt not, that will remain. Now the Lord send seed to the sower, and bread to the eater.”

The church was full; a congregation more deeply moved never met together. In their fear they had been solemn and grave, sometimes stern in the austerity of new-born penitence; but now the flood-gates of their souls were opened, and floating over the wrung hearts in the first relief from their long tension, was every where that fluttering tremulous joy.

After the service Edith returned home alone. Her father was occupied with the peculiar work of his ministry, and detained Sir Philip beside him. The young cavalier, even in those subdued times, was over-conspicuous an attendant for the Puritan’s daughter.

She was passing through one of the silent streets in the neighborhood of Whitehall. Most of the great, gloomy houses had been deserted at the beginning of the plague, and now stood uninhabited, frowning in desolate grandeur. They were the residences of people of high rank who could fly, and had fled early, and so Edith saw the fatal mark on none of the gloomy walls she passed. The street was short: its look of dark funereal pomp oppressed her heavily.

She had nearly reached the end of it, when a low moan, painfully audible in the profound stillness, fell upon her ear. She paused to listen. After another moment of oppressive tingling silence, it was repeated--a low, faint, dying moan.

The wide gate of the court-yard opposite her stood open. She entered, impelled by a singular curiosity and interest. Upon the broad stone steps lay a rich velvet mantle lined with costly furs. It had been thrown down, as it seemed, by some one flying from the house; further in upon the floor of the spacious hall lay some glittering trinkets, reflecting the September sunshine strangely from the cold pavement. Other articles lay scattered about, dropped by the fugitives in their flight, and the cry of pain came ringing down the wide staircase, raising hollow echoes in the great empty, deserted house.

Edith went up the stairs. Here was some one dying of the pestilence alone, and the care and caution of less exigent cases could not now stand in the way of needful succor; but she did not reflect so; she only acted upon the irresistible impulse and hurried on.

The sound grew more distinct as she advanced; there was impatience in it and strength. It was no worn-out sufferer, but some one struggling desperately under the deadly poison. Edith entered an ante-chamber furnished with stately magnificence, pompous and grand, without the luxury of that voluptuous time. Through an open door the voice came fretful in its anguish. Edith’s heart was beating high with the excitement of youthful courage. She had never before been in such immediate contact with the enemy: she went in.

Under rich curtains, upon a bed of state, lay a woman whose fine features were convulsed and flushed with the pain against which her proud will struggled for the mastery. She was half-dressed as if suddenly attacked. Her dark hair had a sprinkling of gray, her face was haughty and proud in its expression, and the voice of her pain was making itself articulate in words:

“All gone from me--all fled. Just Heaven, must I die alone!”

Her eye fell upon Edith as she spoke. With a loud, shrill cry of fear the lady raised herself from her bed, and shrank back to its furthest bound.

“Thou Edith! thou spirit--thou angel! comest thou to torment me before my time? Ah! have mercy, God, have mercy! hast Thou sent _her_ to see me die!”

Edith paused in fear at this address, but recollecting herself, she threw a handful of perfumes into the fire, which burned faintly upon the hearth, and advanced to the bedside to see if any thing could be done. In the simpler remedies for the pestilence she had become skilled.

But the patient shrank still further back, and gazing at her with wild terrified eyes, extended her hand to keep her away.

“Come not near me--what have I to do with thee, thou dead! Ah! wilt thou press upon me--wilt thou stifle me--thou--thou--Edith, I did not slay thee!”

“Lady,” said her wondering visitor, “I do but seek to help if I can do aught--I have with me what may do you service. Have you been long stricken?”

“Keep back,” cried the lady, in wild fear, rising almost entirely from the bed, while on her breast Edith saw the fatalest tokens of the plague--the deadly marks which precluded all hope. “Keep back, I say--leave me, thou spirit--why would’st thou tarry out of thy heaven. Ah! thou cruel Almighty One, who hast sent her to see mine agony, carry her hence--I will bear thy fires--thy torments--but not this--not this!”

Edith fell back before the extremity of terror shining in the stricken woman’s face.

“Leave me,” she repeated, hoarsely, crouching close by the wall. “Edith, thou wert gentle once, and I entreat thee. I have defied this plague--I do defy yonder tortures--but thou--thou! wilt thou not leave me!”

“Have patience with me, lady!” said Edith, “I do but seek to serve you if I may--I am no spirit--I am Edith Field, a poor maiden--if you will but let me help you.”

“And thou darest say so to my face,” said the unhappy patient, wildly. “Thou darest to call thee by yonder clown’s name; thou who wert once a Dacre! Would’st thou kill me? dost thou come hither in my last hours to rejoice over mine agony? Avoid thee, avoid thee, thou cruel spirit! What have I to do with thee?”

Edith retreated in terror. The lady pressed her hands over her eyes as if to shut out the unwelcome sight.

“Is she gone?” she muttered, “is she gone? Ah! this torment--ah! this agony--to die, and none but her beholding me--is she gone?”

She removed her hands and looked fearfully round. Edith stood pale and trembling at the door.

“Wilt thou not go?” exclaimed the lady, “wilt thou remain, thou spirit? I slew thee not--thou did’st not say to me thou had’st no shelter--thou said’st not thou wert homeless, thou false one, and who could tell me if thou did’st not? I tell thee, Edith--Edith, thou Puritan--thou pale-face--thou false Dacre, I tell thee, thou bearest witness to a lie, for I did not slay thee!”

There was a pause--the sick woman fell back exhausted upon her bed, keeping her large, dilated, unnaturally bright eyes fixed upon Edith.

“Where is her child?” she murmured. “Where has she left her child? she had it in her arms yonder, when she stood by the door, and they say the mark of her footsteps hath been ever there, since then--but where is her child? has she killed her child?”

There were footsteps ascending the stairs. Edith turned in some fear to see who was approaching.

“Ha!” cried the wild, shrill voice. “She trembles before me--she fears mine eye. Thou coward, thou art lesser than I in thy very heaven. False heart! Craven! I laugh thee to scorn--thou canst not stand before me.”

The step drew near. Edith looked anxiously from the door; she scarcely heard the loud incoherent ravings of the sick woman’s voice. Through the open door of the ante-chamber she saw a man approaching--it was Sir Philip Dacre.

“Mistress Edith,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, “is my mother stricken? Ah, I trembled for this--and thou hast come to her in pity. God reward thee--for thou art like the angels of His own dwelling place.”

He hurried forward to the bedside.

“Art thou here, Philip?” said the raving Lady Dacre; “and did’st thou meet yonder coward flying from before me? She came to exult over me; she came to see me suffer; she, thou knowest, Edith, whom men say I helped to slay; but she feared mine eye, Philip; she remembered, the craven, how she was wont to quail before me, and she has fled!”

The lady raised herself and looked round once more.

“She is not gone? Edith--Edith--Philip, thou hast wept for her; she will go if thou dost bid her go.”

“Mother,” said Philip Dacre, earnestly, “mother, think of thyself now; there is none here but a mortal maiden of thine own kindred, who comes to help thee in mercy. Mother, let us tend you. When were you stricken? Oh! God, is there no hope?”

“See you,” said his mother, in a whisper. “See you how she steals yonder? There is no footfall--thinkest thou, thou could’st hear the footfall of a spirit? and lo! you, Philip, she looketh gentle, an angel in heaven. Where is her child? Send her away,” she cried, suddenly starting in wild passion, “send her away. Think ye I will die in her presence? Nay, nay, nay, send her hence, she will go if you command her.”

Edith hurriedly left the room; she heard, as she lingered in the ante-chamber for a moment, the wild voice sink in its raving, and then she left the house to seek a nurse.

Along the silent, echoing streets, with fear and wonder rising in her mind tumultuously, Edith hastened to seek help. What this mysterious connection was, she had never ascertained; but the melancholy light which enshrined the memory of her young mother, threw its pale radiance strangely over this death-bed; but Edith’s marveling shaped itself into no definite question. She was too eager in her errand; her hasty search for help to the Lady Dacre.

Dorothy Turner was engaged with her patient, the despairing woman whose violent flight into the Hampsteadfields had saved her life; and Edith sought Dame Saffron, who had also taken up, in extremity, the desperate trade of plague-nurse. The laundry-woman was fortunately disengaged, and with many inquiries after Edith’s own health, and much talk of the calamities which had come under her own notice, which Edith, in her haste and anxiety, scarcely heard, accompanied her to Westminster.

Sir Philip received them at the door. He was very grave and sad.

“I have brought Dame Saffron to tend the lady,” said Edith, “but perchance it were better that I entered not.”

“Both for thine own sake and hers, gentle cousin,” said the young man. “Start not, for we are truly kindred; but remember her in pity and in tenderness, Edith, for she lies on a terrible death-bed, pricked to the heart--have pity on her--have pity on her, gentle Edith.”