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.