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.”
“As you will,” he answered; but he took her hand, placed it on his arm, and they went together to Patience’s room.
At the door Delarry left her.
“Till to-night,” he said.
Ann went in to Patience, and, standing at the open window looking over the deserted city, she told her what Delarry had said.
“What think you?” asked Ann.
“I think,” said Patience, “that life is so short, that if something comes to gladden our hearts we do well to accept it. This thing is a joy to you, is it not, Ann?”
“To be George Delarry’s wife? Oh, yes!” answered Ann, and her face flushed.
“Then take him,” said Patience, “and thank God.”
So that same evening, as she came down the steps of St. Paul’s, her hand sought Delarry’s, and he knew what his answer was.
To find a minister, to go in the early morning to plight their troth one to another, with only Patience and Lord Craven as witnesses, was an easy matter, and did not interfere with the work of the day which followed after; only, as Patience had said, some of the sadness passed out of their hearts, and joy crept in. The knowledge of the tie which bound them, the union of two in one, seemed to strengthen both their hands and hearts for the work they had to accomplish.
It was decided that they should stay at Somerset House with Patience because of that hope, which was nevertheless growing vaguer and vaguer each day, that Agnes would come home.
A few days later Delarry came in quite excited. He found Patience and his young wife picking lint, making bandages, and doing other things which were necessary for their vast hospital. They never stopped their labours, those two women, but when Ann looked up with a smile to greet her husband, she saw something in his face which startled her.
“What has happened?” she asked.
He came and sat down beside her.
“I have found a clue,” he said. “It is only a little one, but it may lead to something bigger.”
“About Agnes?” asked Patience.
“Well, I suppose it is connected with her,” he answered. “I have followed up your idea of Lord Orford being at the bottom of this affair, and just now I met a creature I loathe sauntering down the Fleet.”
“Who?” asked Ann.
“The Marquis of Orford’s factotum,” he answered, “a scurvy little rascal, with a mind as crooked as his body. He is not full-grown, a dwarf, or very nigh one, with a growing hump and an evil countenance. I accosted him and asked him where his master was.
“‘Where should he be,’ he answered, ‘save in his master’s company at Oxford?’
“‘And why are you not with him?’ I asked.
“‘Since when, Mr. Delarry, are you my master’s keeper?’ he answered. ‘I am Lord Orford’s servant, not yours.’
“‘I’ll keep my eye upon you until I find you out in some dark deed,’ I answered, ‘and then I’ll get you hanged.’ The man turned white to his lips, and even as I spoke to him there came up another man from behind, a bargeman. I know him, because he happens to have taken me up to Gravesend more than once. When he saw me talking to that little imp, he turned suddenly and went back the way he had come.
“‘I wish you good morning,’ said the dwarf, ‘there’s Ben Davies waiting for me.’
“I fired a shot at random: ‘Is he in the plot?’ I asked.
“‘What plot?’ he shrieked.
“‘I’ll leave you to tell me that,’ I answered, ‘only I warn you, if you brew evil you shall swing for it.’ Therewith I went off and left him to digest my words, the real meaning of which I do not myself know.” And he laughed.
“Oh, George,” said Ann, “you may be all wrong! How could they know anything about Agnes?”
“How can I tell? The clue is faint, but there is a connection.”
“You are right,” said Patience. “I shall always believe Lord Orford is at the bottom of it.”
“So shall I,” answered Delarry; “at all events, we will follow that track.”
Towards the middle of August Patience received by special messenger a letter from the queen.
“I am deeply grieved “, she wrote, “at having no news from you. My own health is failing, my life here does not please me. I am of no account at my son’s court, therefore I have decided that I will go back once more to France, where I may possibly be of some use to my daughter, and where the climate at least suits me. If all things go well, I shall return to England in the spring. In the meantime, send me news of yourself and Agnes, but not while you are in London, lest your letter should carry contagion. I cannot understand why you remain in the city. I much fear me the child is dead, and probably cast, as so many others I hear are, into the common pit. I have wept many tears over her; but then this world is a world of sorrow, at least it has proved itself so to me. England is a dreary place; I would I could persuade you to join me and spend the rest of your life at my side, for I have loved you and your sister better than any other of my English so-called friends. I had a letter from the little duchess a short time since. She is well, and her child is well. She does not speak of her husband—it is not worth while, we know what he is—but she takes life philosophically, and the King of France makes much of her. She wrote very sadly concerning Agnes, blamed both you and me for letting her remain in London; but, as you know, it was not my fault, but your will.
“I trust you will come safely out of the great dangers which surround you, and that we may yet meet under happier circumstances. Commend me to my Lord Craven and to George Delarry. I am glad they are with you, for I am sure they will be helpful. My Lord Orford is still here, but his humour is not of the best. He feels he has been cheated of his bride, and I think he is in money difficulties; he reckoned on Agnes’s dower to set him straight.
“Now farewell, my good Patience. I shall keep you in my remembrance. Your ever faithful friend and mistress, HENRIETTA MARIA, R.”
In a postscript the queen had added:
“I have spoken to the king concerning you, and he has decided that you are to continue to occupy, as long as you choose, your present apartment in Somerset House.”
Patience read the letter sadly. She had never been blind to the queen’s faults, but she had both loved and pitied her, and this farewell letter was the breaking of another link.
She folded the letter and put it with her private papers, among the things of the past.
Throughout the months of August and September the plague raged in London, then it gradually died out, and the court ventured to return to Hampton Court, until, in the month of December, there was so little fear of contagion that the king took up his residence again at Whitehall; and indeed all those who had left the city crowded back as thick as they had fled. The empty houses were thrown open, the grass which had grown in the streets was once more trodden under foot, and to all intents and purposes the ordinary life of the city was renewed.
It is wonderful how soon people forget, how ready everyone is to fall back into the old routine. Such was the case now. There were many empty houses. Some families had been swept clean away, and in others there were vacant chairs; but those who remained had still to live, and though hearts were sore and many longed “for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still”, they had to gather up the threads of life and live their new lives, bare and empty though they seemed to them at first, until, from beneath the deep clouds which overhung them, they caught the glimpse of a silver lining.