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.