'More dear than he knows, or she guesses,' quoth I; at which our good aunt laughed again, but then said,—

'It's a thing that would have pleased me well, had I been told that it would happen a year ago, but now I see nothing but trouble in it. There would be no equal yoke there, my Lucy. Whatever extravagances Andrew hath fallen into, the love of Christ runs through all he does and thinks. And canst thou say the like of thy sister?'

'Not yet,' I murmured, but Aunt Golding heard me, and said,—

'Ay, well spoken, Lucy; we will remember that when we pray.'

After this, Aunt Golding had a long conference with Matthew Standfast, whom she despatched in pursuit of Andrew, that he might furnish him with money and warn him to keep away from the Grange for a season. And after much trouble, Matthew found him, somewhere on the road to York; when it cost him still more pains to lead his young master into compliance with the prudent courses enjoined on him.

'He talked much,' said Matthew, 'of the honour of suffering for the truth, and how he must not be the vile coward to refuse it. And I had never been able to beat him away from that, but for the excellent counsel of one that was riding with him; I think he was a Quaker also, for he could talk with Master Andrew in his own dialect.'

'What manner of man was he?' said our aunt.

'I can hardly tell,' said Matthew; 'he had a piercing eye, I wot, and a voice as clear as a bell; very neat and seemly he was in his attire, and yet he might have been a ruffling cavalier if one judged by his hair, which he wore long and curled.'

'That is much how George Fox himself has been described to me,' said Aunt Golding.

'Nay, I cannot think it was any such man,' said Matthew, 'for he talked very reasonably, plain sense and plain words, such as a simple man like me could not choose but understand; and one told me how George Fox should be in Lancashire about this time.'

'Well, what said he to persuade my poor lad?' asked aunt.

'Why, he bade him remember certain works of mercy he had already in hand, which should not be neglected to gratify a mad fancy of thrusting his head in the lion's mouth whenever it was opened against him. So Master Andrew was ashamed of his rashness, and was persuaded to take himself away for a time; and we parted very lovingly. He says it shall not be long ere you hear from him, mistress.'

I believe, in spite of Matthew's contrary opinion, that Andrew's counsellor was no other than the famous man whom our aunt had named. But I have no proof of this, only mine own strong persuasion.

Not many days hereafter, we had proof that Mr. Stokes had been very honest in his warning to us. There came constables to the Grange, who showed a warrant to seize the body of Andrew Golding, charged with many strange misdemeanours, but especially with refusing the Oaths of Supremacy and Allegiance. I do not believe the poor youth ever had refused them; but this was the common trap set for the Friends, who were known to decline all oath-taking, because of that saying of our Lord's, 'Swear not at all,'—a harmless scruple at the worst, which never ought to be used, as I think, against honest and peaceable subjects.

We were now heartily glad that Andrew was absent, and that we could truly say, we knew not where he was; nor were the constables much grieved at it. One of them found an occasion of whispering to Aunt Golding, 'If you can get word to the young man, let him know this air is unwholesome for him just now;' after which they went hastily away.

And now we began to be haunted with spies, our steps seeming to be dogged even in our own garden, where we were aware of people moving about behind trees and bushes, as if hearkening after our talk; or we caught sight of faces peering in at the windows when we were at evening prayer. Also our friends and neighbours began to shun us as if we had the plague, and no one more than Mrs. Bonithorne, who had been a great worshipper of Mr. Truelocke, but now, as we heard, blamed him openly for his lack of true obedience to the powers that be, 'which are ordained of God,' she would often add. It was her husband who told us this as a good jest; but it hurt Mr. Truelocke, and he became more set on his design of leaving the Grange, and betaking himself to his kinsfolk in Cumberland, where among the waste and lonely mountains he might linger out his days without offence to any. I could not hear him talk of this plan without tears, which he perceiving tried to stop.

'Seest thou, dear child,' he would say, 'all these discomforts come upon this house because of my abode in it; for as for poor Andrew, he is known to be elsewhere, and however peaceably I may behave myself, you will be allowed no peace till I am either gone out of sight like him, or lodged in gaol for some fancied offence. Which were best, thinkest thou, Lucy?' and when I had no answer but weeping, he would leave that point and begin to talk of Harry's ship, the Good Hope, of which we had got some news, and would speak hopefully of the joyful meeting we should have when that ship came home.

Alas, I fear he was no prophet! But he was not to be turned from his intention; and presently he was gone indeed, in the company of Mr. Bonithorne, who had business in the north country, and who undertook with a great deal of satisfaction to let no one, and especially not his wife, into the mystery of his having this reverend travelling companion.

And now the Grange seemed a sad lonely house indeed; for every day and all day long we missed that noble white head, that kindly presence, that voice still musical and tender in spite of seventy years of service. Those spyings and watchings of us, which had helped to drive away our fatherly friend, were a little intermitted when he was gone; but the poor benefit was counterpoised with a heavy trouble, for now our Aunt Golding began to decline, falling into a strange lingering kind of fever, which the doctors could not understand. I think it was nothing but trouble of heart which caused it, for she was mightily disquieted about Andrew. There was reason to think it would be as unsafe as ever for him to return home, and letters from him were very rare; he could not often find a messenger whom he would trust, and this difficulty was increased by his wandering about the country as he did, which yet was deemed the best way for him to live.

So being often a prey to anxious thoughts, the poor lady pined and faded away, and presently catching a cold, she began to be troubled with difficulty in breathing, and her sleep went from her. It was now that we learned the worth of Grace Standfast, who fairly took us poor silly girls in hand as her pupils, setting us tasks to do both in the house and the sick chamber, and keeping us in heart with cheerful words and looks. But for all her skill and her cheerfulness, our patient visibly grew worse and worse, and as the year wore into winter, we saw that we should lose her.

And now there befell a strange thing, which I will tell just as it happened, and I think there can be no superstition in dwelling on it so far.

Aunt Golding's sickness had now become so sore, that it was needful for one of us always to watch with her; and on the night I speak of it was my turn to do so. She was very uneasy the first part of my watch, but about midnight she fell into a deep sleep, and continued so for an hour, when, hearing no sound, I went to look on her, and saw such heavenly peace on her sleeping countenance, that I could have thought a light shone from it like the glory about a saint's head in a picture. I do not know how long I had stood gazing on her, when all at once she woke, and, smiling at me,—

'Is it thou, Lucy?' said she; 'that is well. I have good news for thee;' at which I began to fear she was light-headed, for how should she have news that I knew not? But presently she went on, with many pauses because of her difficult breathing.

'Thou hast grieved much, Lucy, thinking thy sailor would never come home to thee again; be at peace, he shall come home, a better man,—and find thee a holier woman for all the troubles thou shalt have seen.'

'How do you know? how can you tell?' I cried.

'I cannot tell thee now,' she said, 'but I do know. And thou hast seen, dear heart, how I have grieved over my Andrew—my heart's child, the comfort of my old age; I have thought he was clean gone out of the right way, for all his sincerity. It has been shown me in my sleep, that I had no need thus to grieve. His rashness may bring him sharp trials, but even through those shall he enter in. The light that leads him is the true Light. And though he and his fellows are but erring men,—like all others,—yet even their trivial errors shall have their use; in days to come men shall say that these despised and persecuted believers have done nobly—for their country and for the world.'

'Then, do you think,' I said, in some trouble, 'that we are all wrong, and only Andrew and those like-minded in the right?'

'Nay, dear heart,' said she, 'I think not so. The paths are many—but the Guide is one. Let us only follow His voice,—and He will bring us to His Father's house in safety. I have comfort about thy sister too,' she added presently, 'though I fear it is not such as she can value yet. Do not forget, dear child, to have Mr. Stokes sent for to-morrow; I wish to receive the most comfortable Sacrament of the Lord's Supper once more—with you all, before I go hence.' As she said the last words, her voice sank away, and I saw that she was sleeping once more.

The next day we did as she had bidden, in sending for Mr. Stokes, who accordingly came, and gave the Communion to all our household, as well as to our poor aunt. I never liked him better than on that day.

But a sad day it proved to us, for we all saw plainly how our second mother was now a dying woman. I think she hardly said twenty words to one of us thereafter, but quietly slept and dreamed her life away, and on the third day she was gone. This was last winter, the winter of 1664; and I remember how all that melancholy time the people were greatly disturbed about the comet that was to be seen, wondering what mischiefs it should betoken; I saw it myself, but so full was my mind of my private griefs, I cared not much about ill omens to the State. Indeed, one thing that soon happened was very distressing to us, and I shall shortly relate what it was.



CHAPTER VII.

HOW ANDREW CAME TO THE GRANGE BY NIGHT.

It was about a ten days after Mrs. Golding's death, and we were beginning to feel as if our desolation was a thing that had always been and always would be, for so I think it often seems when a grief is new. However desolate we were, we were not destitute; she who was gone had cared for that, and we found a modest dower secured to each of us, without injury to Andrew's rightful inheritance of the Grange and the lands belonging thereto; also we were to continue dwelling in the Grange till its new master should come home and make such dispositions as pleased him. But for all this we were greatly perplexed; we had been long without news of Andrew, and could not tell how to get word to him of Mrs. Golding's death.

On the day I speak of, we had been teased by a visit from Mrs. Bonithorne, who, professing great sorrow for our loss, and her own loss of one whom she called her oldest friend, soon fell to talking of Andrew, and how his unlucky doings were all owing to our good aunt's foolishness in entertaining so pestilent a heretic as James Westrop under her roof.

'I warned her of it,' quoth she; 'I said to her, "You will rue it yet, Margaret; with such an one you should have no dealings, no, not so much as to eat," and now see what has come of her perverseness!' and such-like stuff she said, which moved Grace Standfast to say disdainfully, when our visitor was gone, 'Yon woman surely owes us a little grudge, that 'twas our house and not hers which entertained so rare a monster as a wandering Quaker; she asked me twenty questions about him the day after, I remember it well; but we hardly had heart to laugh, though we were sure enough she had given no such warnings as she spake of. Althea only sighed and said, ''twas an evil day for her when she first saw that man;' and as she told me, his two appearances to us haunted her as she went to rest, and mingled themselves with her dreams. She woke at last sharply and suddenly, thinking she heard the hail rattling against the windows as it did when Mr. Truelocke preached his last sermon in our church; but it was not hail that rattled, it was some one throwing sand and pebbles up at her window to wake her, and then a voice calling on her name. She sprang up, and, hurrying on some clothes, she ran down-stairs; for, as she told me, she had no more doubt of its being Andrew who called, than if it had been broad daylight, and she could see him standing below the window; and, being too impatient to unlock any door, she undid the hasp of the nearest casement and climbed out; and at the same moment hearing a voice again calling softly, 'Althea,' she ran in the direction of the sound, and came upon a man whom in the starlight she saw to be Andrew indeed; she spoke his name, holding out both her hands, and he turning at once grasped them in both his, and so they stood gazing at each other awhile. Then she said, half sobbing,—

'You come strangely, Andrew—but you come to your own house, and I am glad that it falls to me to welcome you to it; it lacks a master sadly;' and she tried to draw him towards the door, telling him she would set it open if he would tarry a few minutes while she herself climbed in to do it.

'Alas!' he said, resisting her efforts; 'what do you mean by calling this my house? is our aunt indeed gone? I had hoped that part of the message might be a delusion.'

'What message? I sent none, for I knew not where to send, nor did any of us,' she replied; 'but it is too true that Mrs. Golding is dead these ten days; and all things are at a stand for lack of your presence. Come in; do not keep me here in the darkness and the cold.'

'I will not keep thee long,' he said sadly; 'fear it not, Althea. But I may not come under this roof which thou sayest is mine. I saw the dim light in your window,' he went on, like one talking in a dream, 'and I could not bear to pass by and make no sign, as I ought to have done. For I love thee too well, Althea Dacre, as thou knowest.'

'How can it be too well,' she answered boldly, 'if you do not love me better than I do you? and therefore come in to your own home, or I will not believe there is any love in you at all.'

'That's a foolish jest,' said he half angrily. 'I may not cross the doorstone of this house to-day, Althea; I am forbidden; so hear me say what I came to say. There is a heavy burden laid on me. For seven nights together I saw in vision a dark terrible angel, having his wings outspread and holding in his hand a half-drawn glittering sword; he was hovering over this land of England; and it was shown me that he was a messenger of wrath bidden to smite the land with a pestilence. Now there be those far holier than I who have seen the like vision; but to me came the word that I must go up to London, where this year the plague shall be very sore, and as I go I must warn all men, that they may repent and amend, before this judgment fall on them.'

There was that in his voice and words that made Althea tremble like a leaf; she did not disbelieve in his visions while she heard him; but she strove against the impression, and cried out, when she could find her voice, that this was indeed madness.

'You have no right,' she said, 'to desert your natural and lawful duties, and your poor kinswomen too, who are desolate; you will break our hearts, you will ruin yourself, and all for a delusion.'

'It is no delusion,' said he; 'your own words, Althea, have confirmed to me the truth of my mission. For it was said to me, "This shall be a sign to thee, that Margaret, the widow of thy father's brother, lies sick even to death; and thou shalt see her face no more, nor come under her roof." And is it not so? for her face is buried out of our sight,'—his voice shook,—'so dost not see, Althea, I may not come in as thou wouldst have me? Furthermore, I believe my earthly pilgrimage shall come to its end in London; I cannot be sure; but, I think, I return no more alive. That is why I hungered so for one last look at thee, Althea; also I wished as a dying man to entreat thee not to despise the Lord's poor people any more. Now I must go; farewell, dear heart, for ever;' and with these words he assayed to go; but, as she told me afterwards, she clutched at his coat, passionately protesting he should never go; and when he unlocked her hands, and besought her not to hinder him, she dropt on the ground at his feet, clasped him round the knees, and called on me with all her might.

'Help, Lucia! help, sister!' were the words that woke me, and sent me flying with breathless speed to the place whence the call came. I climbed through the window which I found open, and ran to the spot where I could discern that a struggle was going on; but as I came up Andrew had got himself loosed; and, saying low and thickly to me,—

'Look to your sister, take her in instantly,' he turned and fled as a man might flee for his life, while Althea threw herself on the cold ground, moaning and sobbing like a creature mortally hurt. I took her in my arms and raised her up, asking her, all amazed, was that indeed Andrew? but she did nothing but wring her hands and implore me to follow him and fetch him back; and I had much trouble to persuade her that was useless and hopeless for us at that hour of the night. At last she was won to rise and return to the house; and we both found it a difficult matter to get in where we had got out easily enough; which Mr. Truelocke, I doubt not, would have moralized in his pleasant way into a sort of holy parable. But I have not that gift, and I suppose 'twas the hope in Althea's breast and the fear in mine which had raised our powers for a moment and made a hard thing easy.



When we had recovered a little, and had got safely to my room, Althea recollected herself and told me every word that had passed; and we both agreed that Andrew was running himself into new and strange dangers in pursuance of what he held as a Divine call. I noted it as a new thing in Althea, that she could no longer scoff at this belief of his in the inward heavenly voice that must be obeyed; but this matter was very terrible to us; and we talked of it till daylight, without coming to any conclusion as to what we were best to do about it.



CHAPTER VIII.

HOW A STRANGE MESSENGER BROUGHT US NEWS OF ANDREW.

And now we had a time of unceasing disquiet. It was soon noised abroad that the heir to the Grange was missing, and his house and lands left masterless; and there presently appeared first one and then another of the Goldings, far-off kinsmen of Andrew; these persons came to the house to examine it, and talked much with the Standfasts; also they tried to find out what my sister and I knew of Andrew's doings; some of them went to York to talk with Aunt Golding's lawyer; and it was not hard to see that they would have been glad to get certain news of Andrew's death. This made their coming hateful to us; but the house not being our own, we could not shut them out. We did what we could to get news of Andrew; but there was small comfort in the scanty intelligence we could glean, since it all pointed to his having indeed gone up to London, and having preached woe and judgment on his way thither.

And had it not been that we sometimes got comfortable letters from Mr. Truelocke, telling of his quiet untroubled life in the Dale country, I had now been unhappy enough; for we were ever hearing tales of the evil handling of all kinds of Dissenters; even young maidens and little children being pelted, whipped, and chained for the crime of being of Quaker parentage and belief, while hundreds of Nonconformists of that sort and other sorts were thrown into prison and left there. I suppose it was the mad doings of the Fifth Monarchy men, as folks called them, which stirred up such a persecuting spirit; so at least said the people of our village, who now began to come about us again, with some show of former kindness; but they proved very Job's comforters to us, by reason of the frightful stories they loved to retail.

There was one good soul whom I loved well to see, who yet gave me many a heart-quake; it was a Mrs. Ashford, wife to a small farmer near us; a lad of hers had sailed with my Harry, and thus she would often come to talk over the hopes and fears we had in common, and to exchange with me whatever scraps of sea-news we could pick up. So one day, as we sat talking,—

'It may be,' says she, 'we shall see things as terrible here in England, as any that can befall our darlings at sea;' and I asking what she meant, she told me she had learnt from certain poor seamen that the Plague was assuredly on its way to us, having been creeping nearer and nearer for a year and a half.

'A Dutch ship from Argier in Africa,' says she, 'brought it first to Amsterdam, where it grows more and more; and 'tis certain, in another Dutch ship, a great one, all hands died of the Plague, the ship driving ashore and being found full of dead corpses, to the great horror and destruction of the people there; which makes our people tremble, because of our nearness to Holland and our traffic with it.'

'I heard something of this,' I said, 'last summer, but it seemed an idle tale only, that died away of itself.'

'It is no idle tale,' answered she; 'see you not, sweet lady, the infection itself died away somewhat in the cold winter; but now that spring comes on so fast, the sickness and people's fears of it revive together. You will see.'

Well, this news was frightful to me for Harry's sake. I began to tremble lest perchance the Good Hope should be visited like that Dutch ship; but I did not breathe such a fear to Mrs. Ashford. And as the spring drew on, and war with the Dutch was in every mouth, we had a new terror; for now if our sailors came safe home, they could scarce escape being impressed for the king's service; so we knew not what to wish for.

The spring being more than ordinarily hot, doubled the apprehensions of the Plague; and some time in April, as I think, news came down that it had broken out indeed in London. 'Twas said it came in a bale of silk, brought from some infected city, and the fear of it increased mightily; and we, remembering Andrew's strange vision, were not less in terror than our neighbours.

About that time I was busy one morning in the front garden, when a gentleman in black came in at the gate, and was making up to the hall door, when, espying me, he stopped, beckoning with his hand, and seeming to want speech with me. He was muffled in a cloak, and his hat pulled over his brows, so I could not tell who he was; yet I went to meet him, and when I was near enough,—

'I think, madam,' says he, in an odd husky voice, 'you have a kinsman who took his way up to town some weeks ago? I bring news of him;' on which I begged he would come in and tell it to my sister also; but he said,—

'There is much sickness in town; I am newly come from it; it were more prudent for me to speak with you here;' on which I ran and fetched Althea out; and the man said, 'I do not pretend, madam, that my news is good news. Your kinsman demeaned himself strangely on his coming up, denouncing wrath and woe against the poor citizens, speaking much evil of both Court and City; I am told his civillest name for one was Sodom, and for the other Gomorrah.'

Here Althea said scornfully, if all tales were true, those names were fit enough; and the stranger replied, that might be, but civil speech was best.

'People took your kinsman's preachings very unkindly,' he continued; 'the more so when the Plague he prophesied of began to show itself; then he was called a sorcerer; and to make a long story short, he was taken up for a pestilent mad Quaker, and clapt into gaol. I looked on him there; and in gaol he lies still, and may lie for me.'

With that he plucked his cloak away from his face, and, lifting his hat, made us a deep, mocking bow, and we saw it was Ralph Lacy; but such a ghastly change I never saw on any man. His face was livid, his eyes, deep sunk in his head, glared like coals of fire; and when he began to laugh, his look was altogether devilish.

'You did not know me, pretty one,' he said to Althea, 'did you? When I had seen Golding laid in gaol, I swore none but I should bring you the joyful news; and I can tell you he is worse lodged than even his great prophet, Fox himself, at whose lodging in Lancaster Castle I looked this year with great pleasure—very smoky, and wet, and foul it is.'

'Wretch!' said Althea; 'do you exult over the sufferings of harmless, peaceable men?'

'Harmless and peaceable, quotha?' said he; 'it was one of these peaceable creatures flung me into the dust like a worm; but the worm turns, you know. I took much pains to requite that kindness, and now I cry quits with Master Andrew.'

'Your wickedness shall return on your own head! I pray God it may!' cries Althea, trembling with indignation.

'Past praying for, madam,' said the reckless wretch, 'for I have the Plague upon me. I stayed too long up in town, out of love to your friend and mine. I shall be a dead corpse to-morrow; and why should not you have the sickness as well as I?'

With that he came towards her, as if to embrace her, when we both shrieked aloud, and turned to fly; and Matthew Standfast, coming suddenly between us with a spade uplifted in his hand, bade the miserable man keep his distance, and asked what he wanted. On which Lacy said wildly,—

'A grave, man—I want nothing but a grave, and any ditch will furnish me that,' with which he went away.

Matthew, good man, was troubled when we told him Lacy's words.

'If the wretched fellow have the sickness indeed,' he said, 'he might die in a ditch for all his own people care;' and that same night he went to Lacy Manor, inquiring after its master.

It proved that, on leaving the Grange, the man went straight home, and up-stairs to bed, saying he was weary, and must not be disturbed for an hour or two; and there he now lay dead. None of the servants had guessed what ailed him, and they were taken with such a fear they would not stay to see him buried, but fled, and laid that charge on poor, good Mr. Stokes, who discharged it with true Christian courage; after which the Manor was shut up for many a day, till the next heir's covetousness got the better of his fears. This matter caused great terror; but the Plague spread no further in our parish, and so the people forgot it somewhat after a time.

But Althea could not forget Lacy's words about Andrew, nor could I persuade her they were false tales spoken in pure despite; she brooded over them, remembering all the tales we had heard of good men's sufferings in poisonous infected dungeons; and at last she said to me,—

'I wish Lacy had but said in what prison he saw our Andrew; however, it was in London, Lucy? sure he said London?'

'Ay,' said I, 'that's what he said, if you can pin any faith on the raving talk of a plague-stricken man.'

'He spoke truth,' said she; 'I am too sure of it. Now there will not be so many gaols in London town, Lucy, but I can find out where Andrew lies; and if I cannot have him out, I can supply his wants at least.'

'Althea, Althea, you do not dream of going up?' I cried; 'it were sinful madness! By all accounts the sickness increases there from day to day; the poor people die like flies.'

'I care not,' says she; and I found her immoveably set on taking this journey speedily. She was getting together all the money she could, and her jewels too, intending to turn them into money if needful; and she was packing some clothes in very small compass, so as to carry them herself as she journeyed.

'It is not likely,' she said, 'that I shall find companions on such a journey. I must learn to be my own servant.'

But I had soon resolved that one companion she should have, and that should be myself; so, after a few more vain efforts to shake her resolution, I acquainted her with mine; and with incredible trouble I got her to agree to it, for I said at last that the roads were as free to me as to her; if she so disliked my company as she said, she might take the right side of the way and I would take the left. 'But where thou goest,' said I, 'there will I go, Althea.'

'Take heed,' she replied instantly, 'that it be not "Where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried."'

'So let it be,' I said, 'if it is Heaven's will; but you go not up alone;' upon which she yielded, saying she had not thought I had so much sturdiness.

I cannot deny I thought it a mad expedition, though I dreamed not of the straits into which we have since been driven. But I had prayed again and again for guidance, and always it grew clearer to me that I must cleave to my sister. So I made haste to get ready for our wild journey; and after Althea's example, I sewed certain moneys and jewels into the clothes I wore, and put a competent sum in my purse. Then came the telling the Standfasts of our intent. They opposed it at first with all their might, and no wonder; then, their anxiety about Andrew making them yield a little, Matthew took his stand on this, that we must have some protector.

'A man-servant you have at least, or you do not stir,' quoth he.

'But you cannot be spared from this place,' we urged; 'and who else is there faithful and bold enough for such a service?'

'Leave me alone for that,' said he.

And the evening before our departure he brought to us a strange attendant indeed, but one who proved most trusty. It was a poor fellow of the village, who had once been in service at Lacy Manor; but the young Squire hated him, and got him turned away in disgrace, after which no man would employ him, and he fell into great wretchedness. But Andrew came across him, and not only relieved his distress, for he was almost dead for hunger, but put him in a way of living on his own land. So, partly for love of Andrew, and partly from true conviction, poor Will Simpson, so he was called, turned to the Quaker way of thinking. I do not know if he was acknowledged as a proved Friend, he had some odd notions of his own. But he showed himself a peaceable, industrious fellow, and he loved Andrew as a dog might love a kind master that had saved it from drowning. Indeed there was something very dog-like about honest Will. Without having any piercing wit, he had a strange sagacity at the service of those he loved; and his dull heavy face sometimes showed a great warmth of affection, making it seem almost noble. When Matthew told him wherefore he was wanted, he was all on fire to go. He left his hut, and work, and woodman's garb, Matthew having got him a plain serving-man's suit, in which he looked still a little uncouth; and thus he came eagerly to us and begged to be taken with us. Then with no escort but this poor fellow, who, however, knew the road well, and was strong and sturdy, we set forth on our way up to London, bidding adieu to none in West Fazeby, as the Standfasts had advised. I believe it was supposed in the village that we were gone to Mr. Truelocke.



CHAPTER IX.

HOW WE WENT UP TO LONDON, AND FOUND NO FRIENDS THERE.

I hoped little from the first plan on which Althea relied for obtaining Andrew's release. Her trust was in Mr. Dacre, since he was a great courtier, and she thought his influence might avail to get one poor Quaker set free.

'I shall not get his help for nothing,' said she; 'that were an idle hope. But I know his expenses to be very great, out of proportion to his means; so if I bring a heavy purse in my hand to interpret between him and me, I am sure of a kind and favourable hearing.' She was almost gay while she dwelt on this plan, and it furnished the most of our talk on the first day or two of our journey.

It was very hot summer weather, a little sultry; yet travelling would have been pleasant enough had our minds been easy, which they could not be. It was hard to go fast enough for Althea, Will having to make her understand it was small wisdom to hurry our horses beyond their strength; then she went sighing out,—

'Oh for a horse with wings! or could one only ride on the speed of fire! It will be a week, I dare swear, before we see St. Paul's,' and she grudged herself time to eat and sleep.

There was nothing very noticeable on the way, but the vast amazement expressed by all who found that we were going up to London. And as we got nearer our journey's end, we began to find that the inn-keepers distrusted us not a little, suspecting us of escaping out of the town, and making only a false pretence of journeying up to it. Will, however, was so plainly a blunt, simple fellow, that his word was taken where ours was doubted.

Now and then we heard news of the war: first there was talk of a great victory at sea over the Dutch, won the third day of June, at which the Court and City were rejoicing mightily, half forgetting their home perils; then came contrary news, how this victory was no victory, but rather a disgrace to us, and that our ships were shamefully commanded, which I believe was the truer tale; so my thoughts flew at once to my Harry and his father. I had writ to Mr. Truelocke about our journey, but there had been no time for an answer; and I fell to musing what those two would think of our wild adventure, and wondering if Harry had been seized for the king's service, like many others; but all was vain conjecture, and I had to resign them and myself up to God's guidance; the safest and most blessed way, as I was fast learning; for since Aunt Golding's death I think a change had come over me; I had learned a true hate of mine own sins, and had found One in whose sufficiency I could trust to save me from them, and to guide me in all things. I will not enlarge on this now, however.

So with hopes and fears, despairing and trusting, the days of travel wore away; and late in a sultry summer evening we came into London. We put up for the night at a decent inn, kept by some people named Bell, which our father had sometimes used when we were with him; the people remembered him, and were civil to us. My poor sister could scarce sleep all that night; and the landlady coming herself to wait on us at breakfast, Althea took occasion to ask her, did she know Mr. John Dacre? and finding she did, she got from her particular information about his house, and the way to it, and the hours when he was to be found there; all which the good woman imparted cheerfully, but could not help pitying our rashness in coming up to town.

'I live a dying life,' she said, 'for terror of the contagion; I would never have run into it;' which words we passed over at that time, but had to call them to mind after.

According to her information, Mr. Dacre rarely stirred from home before noon; so we set off betimes to find him. Will, walking behind us, looked about in amaze at the half empty streets, the many closed shops, and houses uninhabited, and at last, fetching a great sigh, he said,—

'Methinks, mistresses, this whole town looks like a gaol, and the folk go about like condemned prisoners.'

'Ay,' says Althea; 'but there are worse gaols within this gaol, Will. Here, the sun shines and the wind blows on us; not so where your master lies;' and she hastened her steps, which were swift before.

Mr. Dacre's house proved to be a very stately and fair one, towards the west end of the town; it stood in a broad, very quiet street; too quiet, I thought. Althea bade Will knock boldly at the door; 'We will not be too humble,' says she; and he knocked loudly enough, once, twice, thrice; but no one came to open to us, and our knocking seemed to echo and re-echo strangely through the house.

'Sure,' says Althea, 'all the folks cannot be asleep; 'tis past ten o'clock,' and she knocked once more.

There was a gentleman come out of a neighbouring house, who had looked curiously at us; he now drew near, and, standing a little way off, called out, 'It is little use to knock at that door, ladies—the master is dead a week since, and the house stands empty;' at which Althea turned a deadly pale face to him, saying,—

'Do not mock us—sure, it cannot be so.'

The man, looking compassionately at her, now came up to us and said, 'Nay, my words are too true, madam. Have you any interest in this Mr. Dacre?'

'I am his cousin,' said Althea, 'and I am come up from the North on great occasion, to see my kinsman and claim his help.'

'Alas!' said the gentleman; 'he is past rendering help to any. It was mightily suspected,' said he whisperingly, 'that he died of the Plague; but your great rich folks can smother these matters up. This is certain, that he had secret and hasty burial, and all his family are fled and gone, without so much as locking the door behind them, as it is said; but I think none have been so bold as to try that; men love their lives too well to venture within; nor would I advise you to do it.'

'No, no,' said Althea a little wildly; 'I will not take the Plague and die—not yet; I have work to do;' at which the man smiled pityingly, and added,—

'You would not find Mr. Dacre here now, were he in life—he designed to follow the Court, which is removed to Salisbury for safety; but he lingered about some money matters, which have cost him very dear, as I think;' and bowing to us he walked hastily away.

Well, we knew not what to do now, and so returned to our inn, where we sat the rest of the day in the room we had hired, talking over our few acquaintance in town, but unable to hit on one who would have will and power to help us much. Our good hostess served us again at supper, and asked how we sped in our search for Mr. Dacre; so unthinkingly we told her the whole tale; at which her colour changed and she left the room without saying a word in answer. That night we slept heavily for very trouble; so we were not aware of a great stir there was in the night; for Mrs. Bell, the poor landlady, was taken very ill about midnight, the maids were called up, and a physician sent for; they had some trouble to find one; but when he came he told them plainly that her disorder, which they and she too had feared was the Plague, was nothing but pure terror; our careless words about Mr. Dacre's death having struck such a fear in her as to throw her into a kind of fever.

Will told us this news in the morning, and we were grieved at our foolishness, and wondered at hers; but we had little time for lamenting, as we were setting forth to visit a distant kinswoman of our father's, who, being rich and well reputed, we thought might be able to help us. But here we fared no better,—not that the lady was dead; but she had gone out of town on the first alarm of the sickness, leaving her house locked up and empty, as the neighbours told us. So we went back to our inn yet more cast down; but there we stayed not long, for we were scarce got to our room when the landlord came to us, very angry, and said, had he known we had been visiting an infected house, we had never come into his; and he bade us to pack up and be gone within the hour, that he might have every place purified where we had come. Our horses, he said, might stand in his stable; but we saying we would remove them, he spoke more plainly, and said he should keep them as security for what we owed. 'I will take no money from you,' he said; 'you may have the Plague in your purses for all I know;' and he left us, saying if we went not quickly we should be put out by force.

This brutal usage dismayed me; but Althea said, 'Poor wretch! he is half crazed with fear; that makes mean men cruel; care not for him;' and when we were ready, giving our packages to Will, she led the way out with a determined aspect, having, as I soon found, embraced a strange—nay, a desperate resolution. For Will asking her, 'Which way will ye turn now, mistress? In this street no inn will open to us, for sure;' she replied,—

'We will not seek any inn; we will betake ourselves to our cousin's empty house.'

'You mean not Mr. Dacre's?' I cried.

'But I do,' said she. 'We have a right to shelter there; and the door is open.'

I exclaimed against this as a tempting of Providence, persuading her first to try some other house of entertainment; and at last she agreed. Now, whether our great distraction of mind gave us a haggard and sickly aspect, or whether 'twas merely the suspicion and hardness of heart bred in all people by terror, I cannot tell; but no one would take us in, some saying flatly they would receive no lodgers they did not know, and know to be sound. The day wearing fast away in these vain applications, Althea says to me,—

'You see we must try my plan at last. I bid you think scorn, my Lucy, of yielding to such base fears as make folk turn us from their doors.'

'It is not that I fear infection as they do,' said I; 'but I shrink from dwelling in a house not our own, and lying open to any thief.'

'Baby fears, Lucy,' she said, smiling. 'We will do our cousins a better turn than they merit; we will keep their doors fast against thieves, and their household stuff from moth and mould and rust. For the infection, we run as little risk in that house as out of it.' So she bore me down with her will, the more easily since we had no choice but either to lodge in that house or in the open street.

But Will said sturdily, 'Mistresses, you may do as you will; I will neither eat nor sleep in that evil house. There is a scent of death and sin breathing from it; I perceived it as we stood at the door.'

'And will you desert us then, Will?' said Althea. 'Have you come so far, to forsake us now?'

'Who spoke of forsaking?' growled Will. 'I can find some balk, some cobbler's stall, without the house, to sleep on, if you will lodge within. The watch-dog lies not in the house, I trow? But if you must lodge there, enter not openly, nor let it be known you are within; you may be suspected for thieves or worse.'

'Yours is no fool's advice,' said Althea shortly.

So we lingered out the time till nightfall in buying some needful things,—bread and meat and candles,—having to walk far before we found shops open; then, as night thickened, we stole into the desolate house, and groped our way to a room at the back, where we lit our candles and looked about us. 'Twas a richly furnished withdrawing-room, with windows open on a garden.

'There will I sleep,' said Will. 'I had rather have the free sky over me than this roof; so give me but a hunch of bread to sup on, and let me go.'

There was little use in crossing him, so we gave him some meat and bread; but we prayed his help first to make all the doors fast, which he willingly did; then he showed us how to secure the window after him, and so slipt out into the night.

Now we looked at one another, and felt desolate and dismayed for a moment. Then I said, 'Let us commend our cause to God, sister; He will hear us;' and we knelt down together and implored the Divine protection; after which we felt at peace, and so took courage to sup on the food we had brought. Then we made fast our door on the inside, and lay down to sleep on the floor, with our mantles for coverlets and our bundles for pillows. I never slept in such rude fashion, nor ever more sweetly and soundly.

Early in the morning there came a tapping at the window that wakened me; so I rose and drew back the curtain, and saw that Will was moving about in the garden. We let him in shortly, and gave him some food, which he carried with him out of doors; then, coming back, he excused his incivility of the night before. 'But I cannot eat nor sleep here,' said he. 'In all other matters I am your servant.'

He had lodged for the night in an empty dog-kennel, which he showed us, close against a side-door that led out to the street.

'There,' said he, 'I can do you better watchman's service than if I lay within; and by that door you may come and go unespied of any gossips.'

Althea smiled, and commended his thoughtfulness. Then she said,—

'You will come with us now, Will? We must examine this house;' so he stepped in, shuddering, and looking round almost with horror.

However rich the room, it was in great disorder; and when we went up-stairs we found matters no better—beds half stript, chests and cabinets left open, floors strewed with things pulled forth in haste and left there. We pitched on one sleeping-room to the back, to use ourselves; and, having satisfied ourselves that no evil-disposed person lay hid in any room, we shut them all up (the keys being left in the locks) except that sleeping-room, the parlour we had first entered, the kitchen, and one great room looking to the front, agreeing to use no other apartments; and to this rule we kept, except when, as I have told, I went a-hunting for means to write this history.

That work of examining the house was terrible to me, especially when we looked into Mr. Dacre's own chamber. There we found a mighty rich bed, with hangings of silk and silver, and all the toilet furniture in silver also; with couches and cushions richly wrought, and certain splendid garments, with a jewelled sword, left flung upon them, as if the owner had just put them off; but all was disordered wildly, as if by the dying struggles of a madman, and the gorgeousness seemed to add to the horror of it. I trembled as I looked at the glimmering mirror and thought of what it might have reflected; our cousin's image seemed to rise up in all his pride and bravery as I last saw him, but with the ghastly face of death; so I hurried out and flung the door to behind us, and Althea turned the key in the lock. After which we avoided passing that way; for the place was not less dreadful to her than to me; she acknowledged it made her remember what we had heard of the great burying-pit in Aldgate, and the dishonoured corpses that were flung into it, heaps upon heaps.

'He may have gone to that grave from this splendid chamber—it's a hideous mockery,' she said.



CHAPTER X.

HOW WE DWELT IN A HOUSE THAT WAS NOT OUR OWN.

And now Althea began her search after Andrew, with none to help her but poor me and honest Will. Our chief care being not to be seen going out or coming in, she chose to steal forth of the back door early in the mornings; sometimes I with her, sometimes Will, but one of us always staying in the house to watch it, and to open at nightfall to the others. Althea went to such shops as she could find open and bought things, sometimes mere trifles, sometimes food and other necessaries, but always spending much time over it, and both listening to the talk of other folk, and drawing the shop-people into talk herself; when she contrived to work round to the prisons, and the poor souls in them, and how they fared in these bad times. Once or twice she took a boat and went up the river, and then was wondrous affable to the watermen, setting them talking also on the same matters; and thus she did with every one whom she could draw to speak with her, not disdaining even beggars, nor fearing the watchmen who guarded houses supposed to be infected, and therefore shut up. I confess that these last were people I would gladly have shunned, there being something so awful to me in the locked doors (marked with a great red cross, and 'Lord, have mercy on us' writ large upon them) by which the poor fellows sat. But Althea seemed to have said a long good-bye to fear. And with questioning and listening, and piecing things together by little and little, she assured herself that Andrew must be in Newgate, if he lay in any London prison. She had tried to find out by artful inquiries if any man had shown himself in London, announcing a coming judgment, and warning people to avoid it, as Andrew had proposed to do; on which people informed her of several such persons, but their descriptions answered not to our poor friend.

One man had cried up and down the streets, 'Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed,' after the fashion of the prophet Jonah; and another had run about by day and by night, naked to the waist, and crying, 'Oh! the great and dreadful God!' and no other words; which struck a great terror into all who saw and heard him; and yet a third, who was said to be a Quaker, acted more strangely; but he was known by name to those who told about him. Also in all these tales there was something frantic and unreasonable, not like Andrew, nor like the way he had designed to act.

I think I myself saw one of these strange creatures. It was my turn to be housekeeper, Althea wanting Will's help to carry her purchases home that day. Such a solitary day was very dismal and heart-sinking to me; and had it not been for my plan of writing this history, I know not how I could have borne it. When it grew dusk I ventured to look out at a front window to see if my friends were coming; but what I saw was the light of torches coming up the street, which was the sign of a funeral, it being ordered that people should only bury at night; and presently came by a coffin borne of four, and a great many people following; for it was wonderful how people crowded to funerals at this time, as if desperate of their lives. They stopt suddenly, to my terror, right in front of my window; but it was because of another crowd meeting them, and in its midst a tall man, moving very swiftly, and going straight before him. He was stript to the waist; and I thought at first that the hair of his head was all in a flame of fire, but it was a chafing-dish of burning brimstone that he had set upon his head, and which glared through the darkness. As he met the coffin he made a stand, and looked upon it.



'Yet one more,' he said, in a deep hoarse voice,—'one more has fallen in his sins! but ye do not repent. Woe, woe, woe to this unfaithful city!' and he went on again directly, but continued to cry 'Woe, woe!' as long as I could hear him; the people running after and around him could scarce keep up with his swift pace. Those who were bearing and following the coffin had seemed struck with horror; but now they got into order again; and I heard one near the window bidding them sneeringly never to heed a mad Quaker, while another said aloud, 'I marvel such an evil-boding fool is left at large, when far quieter folks of his sort lie rotting in prison;' words which made me fain to hear more; but the men all moved off, and I had scarce seen their torches go twinkling away into darkness, when I heard the signal at the back door, and hurried joyfully to let in my friends, who had been delayed by meeting the funeral; but they had missed the other strange spectacle.

As I remember, this was the second Saturday we spent in town; and here I may say that almost every Lord's Day which found us in our dismal abode, we two made our way to some church at a good distance, and there joined in worship.

I never saw churches more crowded, worshippers more devout, ministers more fervent. We understood by what we heard that not a few clergymen were dead of the Plague, and others fled for terror; because of which certain of the silenced ministers were called on to fill those vacant pulpits; and they did so while the Plague lasted, with great zeal and boldness, no man saying them nay. But neither the courage of these men, nor the fervency with which they preached and visited among the sick and dying, could so far recommend them to Will that he would set foot in what he called the steeple-houses; so on the Lord's Day we had to dispense with his attendance, and this troubled me; but on the other hand there was comfort in seeing how my poor sister rejoiced in the ministerings of these faithful men. A great change showed itself in her; she was full of a new tenderness to me, and was most mild and patient with poor Will and his odd ways; and as for him, I believe he would have died for her, or done anything that she desired, except lodging in Mr. Dacre's house, or worshipping in a church.

Now when Althea had assured herself she must look for Andrew in Newgate and in no other prison, she set herself to get admission there. 'No lock so hard,' she said to me, 'but will go with a golden key.'

So she put money enough in her purse. She took Will with her, clad in a suit fit for a plain country gentleman, for she wished it to be thought he was one who had power to protect her; and, having found out the keeper of Newgate, she bought from him at a great price leave to visit his gloomy wicked kingdom, and to relieve poor creatures lying in it for conscience sake.

Now, had she relieved all who professed that they were such as she sought, she might have spent the wealth of both Indies; for it was shocking how many utter reprobates pressed up to her and to Will, claiming that they were imprisoned for matters of religion; but their brazen countenances, that bore the deep impress of their wickedness, witnessed against them. With great trouble she found out at last a few of the sort she wanted, and then began to ask for Andrew by name; but no one seemed to know aught of him; the keeper too professed ignorance of any such person. But her belief was strong that he lay within those walls, and she went again and again on the same errand.

Now I could never get her leave to go with her to Newgate. She said at first that Will, being a man, was more useful to her than I could be; but afterwards she owned that the prison was so vile and hideous a place she could not endure I should see it.

'There is no need,' she said, 'for more than one of us to behold such monstrous evil. 'Tis a society of fiends, Lucy, a training-school for all vice, and the keeper is worthy of it. I think it is not less than acted blasphemy to throw good men into it; as well send them alive into hell. The Lord look upon it, and require it.'

'Are there any of the Friends shut up there?' I asked.

'There have been hundreds, I am told,' she said; 'even now there are too many, but they die daily of fever and misery;' and she stopped short, presently saying, 'If I find him not, I will not repent of my search. I have fed some starving saints already.' So she continued her visits and her inquiries.

But I began to find it an almost unbearable penance to stay within doors alone in her absence; I prayed and struggled for composure, but could not attain it, and at last I said I must go out sometimes to breathe the air. She warned me of perils awaiting me if I walked abroad by myself, but I got some poor coarse black clothes that I put on, and a hood to hide my face; and I sometimes added to these a cloth tied about my neck, such as I had seen on poor creatures who had sores. It was an artifice, but I hope not a sinful one; for in this disguise, and contriving to behave like a sick languishing person, I was more terrible to disorderly people than they to me, and they kept at a good distance from me. Thus I took many a walk about the streets; but my chief comfort was only to see a variety of dismal objects. The street where we dwelt was quite grass-grown and empty; I do not think there were above two inhabited houses in it, nor would you see above half a dozen people go through it, in all the length of the summer's day. Of the passengers that I met elsewhere, I think two out of every three were poor sickly objects with sores and plasters upon them; and sometimes it was my luck to meet coffins of those dead of the sickness; for now there could be no strict observing of the rule to bury them by night, the number of such funerals increasing at a frightful rate.



CHAPTER XI.

HOW THERE CAME NEW GUESTS INTO THE HOUSE.

The last day that I ventured out in this foolhardy manner I had a terrible fright which even now it is distasteful to remember. I was hurrying to get home, being warned by the darkening light that it was drawing near Althea's time to return, and, chancing to look behind me as I turned a corner, I was aware that not many paces from me was a man, tall and sturdy, who seemed to be following me, his eyes being fixed on me; and when I turned it seemed to give him a kind of start, for he looked away, and made as if he would cross to the other side. This alarmed me, and I quickened my pace from a walk almost into a run, resolving meanwhile not to look round again; yet I could not resist the fancy that I heard steps coming after me; and glancing over my shoulder I was aware of some one at no great distance off; on which I dared look no more; and, being now very near home, I darted round to the back entrance; and having got in and made the door fast, I sat down trembling, to get my breath.

I was still much disquieted, when I heard the joyful sound of Althea's signal at the back door; I flew to open to her, my hands trembling so I could hardly withdraw the bolts. But when I got the door open, it was not Althea who stood without, but that very man whom I had tried to escape; he stood with his back to the sky, which was red and glowing, for it was just past sunset; and I saw him to be tall and powerful and roughly clad, so sunburnt that he might have been a Moor; and a long scar that ran from his eyebrow half across his cheek gave a strange fierceness to his look. This was all I could see, his back being to the light, such as it was. I gave a smothered shriek, and would have shut the door on him; but he said,—

'Not so hasty, mistress—look at me again, and you will not turn me away, I think.'

But I still held the door in my hand, and said hastily, 'I can admit no stranger—you should know this house is infected—what do you seek?' at which the man's eyes, which I saw to be blue and bright, began to twinkle, and he said,—

'You will think it odd, madam, but I am come seeking my true love—Lucia Dacre is her name; do you know aught of her?' with which words he smiled, and all his face changed in that smile into the face of my own Harry.

My heart sprang up in sudden rapture; I think, as the play says, it 'leaped to be gone into his bosom,' for there I found myself the next moment, clasped tight in his arms, and holding him tight enough too, while I laughed and sobbed, crying out, 'Are you indeed my Harry? am I so blest beyond all other women? have you come back to me, alive from the dead?'

'You may say indeed, sweetheart, that I am alive from the dead,' he said seriously; 'in a double sense I was dead and am alive again. But my tale must wait for a better time. I am sent before, dear love, to tell you your sister is coming, and not coming alone.'

'Who is coming with her? any one beside Will? have you come to say she hath found Andrew? has she indeed?' I cried.

'Ay,' said Harry, 'he is found; but I fear we may lose him again. Have you here a place, Lucy, here a dying man may lie softly and easily, the little time he has left? If not, make one ready quickly—but no stairs for him, remember. I would help you, dear heart,' he said tenderly, 'were it not that I must keep watch here for their coming.'

I turned my lips to his hand, as I unclasped my arms from him; then I flew to do as he had bidden. I dragged the coverings off our own bed and hastily spread a couch in that room where we commonly sat; I set lights, food, cordials in readiness on the table; then I ran back to the door, half afraid my Harry would have vanished like a dream; but there he was, watching yet; so I took my place beside him, and loaded him with questions about the finding of Andrew. I learned he had a large share in it.

'A poor seaman who loved me,' he said, 'met me this morning when I landed at Woolwich; and he testified such extravagant joy on seeing me that I own I half thought him mad.'

'Then what can you think of me?' I put in; at which Harry said,—

'Nay, Lucy, you were ice compared to this poor fellow. He is one that hath tasted Andrew's bounty, and that not long since; for his wife sickened of the Plague, and our Andrew at his own cost provided a physician for her, and many other comforts; and 'tis owing to that, the man thinks, that she is now sound and well.'

'Where was this?' I said, wondering.

'Here, in London,' said Harry. 'Now close on this woman's recovery came the seizing of Andrew, and 'tis but lately that the poor grateful sailor discovered how his benefactor had been lying long in Newgate, where he was thrown by one Ralph Lacy's procurement.'

'Ah!' I said, 'that wretch! but he has paid for it, Harry. But why could Althea never find Andrew before?'

'I cannot tell by what devilish prompting it was,' he said, 'that Lacy bore Andrew and every one else down, that his true name was not Golding, but Dewsbury—William Dewsbury, as I think; and that he had shifted his name to avoid prosecution, having been once imprisoned already; and what our poor friend said to the contrary being slighted as a lie, his true name has never been given him. So inquiry after him has been crippled; and not by this means only.'

'But if this sailor be so grateful, why did he not come to our poor friend's help?' I said indignantly; but Harry said, sighing,—

'A destitute seaman! why, there be throngs of them and their wives starving in the streets, and cursing the navy officers because they cannot get their own hard wages. And this was why my poor fellow showed such frantic joy on seeing me—'twas for love of Andrew; he hurried his tidings on me, and bade me hasten to the gaol and relieve my friend; himself going there with me, else I had not sped so well.'

Now how Harry sped at the prison I learnt afterwards; for at this point his tale was cut short; but I will put the story here, where it seems fittest.

By great good fortune Althea encountered with Harry and the seaman Ned Giles at the very gate of the prison, and she soon bought leave to visit the prisoner called William Dewsbury, who lay under lock and key in a very filthy cell, and had latterly been denied even bread and water, because his money being spent he could not satisfy his gaoler's demands. They found him lying on a heap of mouldy straw; he was miserably wasted, and to all seeming lifeless; yet they knew him at once for Andrew; and Harry perceived there was life yet in him. Althea, however, seeing him lie as if dead, rose into fiery indignation; she turned to the gaoler, saying, in a terrible voice,—

'See there, murderer! that is your work—the blood of this man shall lie on your soul for ever—it shall drown you in perdition!' at which he cowered and shrank ('and well he might,' said Harry), stammering out 'twas an oversight, a pure accident; and she going on to threaten him with law and vengeance, he asked hurriedly, would not the lady like to remove the poor man, and give him honourable burial? at which Harry whispered her, 'Take his offer quickly; say not a word more of revenge;' and Althea, guessing his meaning, softened her tone a little, and consented to the man's proposal. 'Get me only a coach,' said she, 'and I will have this poor lifeless body to mine own home; and I will not charge you with the murder.'

So they fetched a coach; but the driver, seeing as he thought a dead man brought out and laid in it, flung down the reins and refused to drive them.

'I am well used to drive sick folks,' he said (indeed that was now the chief use of hackney coaches), 'but a corpse I never drove and never will.'

Althea, however, stepped in herself, and bade Will get on the box and take the reins; then whispering to Harry, she told him where to find me, and begged he would prepare me for her coming. 'I shall soon master this knave's scruples,' she said; 'he is but bringing them to market, and I am ready to buy them;' and as I suppose, she paid a heavy price for the use of that coach for an hour, saying her man should drive it to her house and then return it empty to the coachman.

For while Harry and I stood talking at the door, his tale was broken by the rumbling of wheels; and the coach coming lumbering up, we perceived Will to be the driver.

'That is well,' said Harry; 'it will not be known where you dwell.' As he spoke the coach stopped, and Althea put aside the close-drawn curtains. She called Harry to her, and said softly,—

'Now help me to lift him, good friend—but be very gentle; he lives, he speaks, but he is deadly weak;' and with infinite care she and Harry lifted out a poor shrunken figure that seemed light as an infant in their arms; and I leading the way they brought it in and laid it on the couch I had got ready; there Althea, sitting down, drew Andrew's head on to her bosom, supporting him with her arms, and murmuring tender words in his ear. Harry stayed to speak a word to Will before he drove off, and then returning he stood by me a moment and gazed with me at those two; 'twas a sight to chain one's eyes fast, to see Althea's face, still heavenly fair in spite of her anguish, bending over Andrew's, which was livid in colour, all but fleshless, and the eyes deep sunk in their sockets; yet he smiled, a smile full of a strange radiance; and he moved his colourless lips, saying something which Althea bent her head very low to hear; then looking up wildly and seeing Harry,—

'Have you brought a physician?' she cried; 'there is no time to lose—he is dying for lack of help.'

'That he shall not,' said Harry, who was now knelt beside Andrew, and offering a cordial to his lips; 'here is no disease but hunger, dear lady—I have learnt by sharp experience how to minister to that;' and in two hasty words he bade me go and warm some broth, of which luckily I had told him; so I went quickly.

Now when I came back I saw there was more company in the room; for Will had come in, and with him a man and woman; but I did not note them much, for it seemed to me that Andrew was swooning, his eyes being closed. But Harry took the broth from me and began to feed Andrew with it; and at the warm scent of the food he revived a little. It charmed me to see the tender skill which my Harry showed in his ministerings. As I stood looking on, the woman came up to me, and with a sort of simple grace let me know who she was; 'twas Mary, the wife of Ned Giles, the seaman, and the man with her was Giles himself.

'You will forgive us, madam,' she said, 'for thrusting our company on you unbidden; it's for love of this your kinsman we come, Mr. Truelocke having sent us word we could be useful about him.'

'Kay,' I said, 'never ask forgiveness for such goodness; do you know this house is reputed to be infected?' but she said, smiling,—

'Madam, I who was all but dead of the Plague not long since have little fear of it left.'

While she spoke I saw that Harry was urging something on Althea, who was still sitting at Andrew's head; she answered at last, 'As you will. I may not gainsay you;' and yielded up her place to that good woman, who came eagerly to take it when Harry called her.

'Now go and rest awhile till we call you—you have need,' Harry said to us; but Althea, as if she heard him not, stood looking down on Andrew and his nurse.

'Does God forget His own?' she muttered; 'is this the reward of His servants? chains, cruelty, starvation?'

Andrew must have caught her words, for he half raised his head, and his languid eye brightened.

'Dear heart,' he said feebly, 'thou knowest little yet. Thou hast seen my prison, thou didst not see the Heavenly Guest who made it a heaven to me; thou hast seen me lacking bread, thou knowest nought of the angels' food with which He fed me.'

As he said this he sank down again, but Mary Giles caught him in her arms; and Harry said imperiously to Althea and me,—

'Leave him to us; it is best he should not speak; get you to your own rest, you need to renew your strength; so we went meekly enough, Althea saying when we were in our sleeping-room,—

'Harry hath got the trick of command very perfect, that's certain; and I may say, Lucy, I am weary at last of ruling over you and Will; it's not amiss there is one here who has a mind to rule me instead.'

Then we knelt down together and gave thanks for the great mercy of the day; and we implored passionately that the life of Andrew should be given back to us. Althea at the end of our prayer still remained kneeling; then beginning to weep she sobbed out, 'I think, I hope, I can say, "His will be done," but oh, 'tis hard, Lucy!' And she was so torn and shaken with her passion that I thought she would take no rest that night. But in five minutes after our heads touched the pillow we were both sleeping soundly: and we woke not till there came a knocking at our door, very early in the morning, and Will's voice praying us to descend and take some food.



CHAPTER XII.

HOW WE SAILED FOR FRANCE IN THE 'MARIE-ROYALE.'

We found our friends where we had left them; the grey dawn glimmering in at the window showed us Andrew lying in a quiet slumber; and he looked nothing so death-like as the night before. But the others appeared haggard and weary, as well they might; for none of them had slept a wink the night through. Yet joy spoke from the poor wan faces of Mary Giles and her husband. They had helped in the tending of Andrew with wonderful skill and care, and now they were rejoicing in a good hope that he would yet recover.

There was a meal spread, of which they had already partaken; and we were now bidden to sit and eat also, as quickly as we might. It was Harry who gave us these orders, with a stern anxious look, which daunted me a little. When we had eaten,—

'Now leave us with our friend, ladies,' he said, 'and gather all together in readiness to depart; this house shall not hold us another hour;' and Althea hesitating, and saying Andrew was hardly in case to depart, 'That knave gaoler,' he said, 'who had hid Andrew from you so long, had strong reasons for doing it; is there no fear, think you, that he may suspect there was life in the dead man whom we removed? Would you have our practice detected and the prisoner seized again?'

It did not need more to set wings to Althea's feet; so we made haste and gathered up all our belongings, and came down again with our bundles packed and our travelling suits donned, long ere the hour was passed.

Yet for all our haste, we found they had made better speed than we. There stood a coach waiting, into which they had already lifted Andrew; he was muffled in a long cloak that I had flung off the night before. The two Gileses had him in their care, and Will was again acting as driver (I believe 'twas the very coach of the previous night); he was taking Harry's orders as to driving at a very soft pace to the nearest stairs, 'where,' said Harry, 'we will meet you; these ladies will walk with me.'

We saw them drive off; then I made fast the outer door, and Harry took the key from me, and flung it over the wall into the garden.

'Let any find it who list,' said he. 'I thank God we are quit of the hideous place. How you have endured to dwell there day and night passes my comprehension.'

'Why,' said I, 'is it not a glorious rich house?'

'A house of sin and pride and death,' said he, 'I grant you.'

'You are of Will's mind,' says Althea; 'he never would eat or sleep in it.'

'If that be Will's mind,' said he, 'I approve his wisdom. And now, hey for Father Thames and his silver streams, and the sweet salt air of the sea! Here, take my arm, fair lady,' he said to Althea as we went along; 'I have my doubts of your obedience—Lucy I can trust to come with me of free will.' So she took his arm, and said, smiling faintly,—

'At least indulge me so far as to tell us whither we are bound?'

'You heard me say,' he answered, stepping on briskly, 'to the nearest stairs; I have a boat ready there, and we will slip down the river to a ship I wot of that lies near Woolwich. I own,' he went on, 'it's a mighty risk to run, with Andrew in such a feeble case; yet I see no better way.' And in hasty words he told us how poor was our chance of getting clear away from the plague-stricken city by land.

'London is something of a mouse-trap now,' said he, 'or a lion's den, if you like a statelier image; the way in is easy enough, but the way out is more difficult than the steep and thorny path to heaven. Every town and village we should come to would rise against us with hue and cry, and drive us back to the city, to perish there; so cruel are men become through fear of the contagion.'

Althea's pale cheek grew paler as she listened; and she said, 'Alas, my Lucy! into what a snare have I brought you! and all through pride and self-will.'

'Nay, sweet sister,' said I, 'do not miscall your compassion, and the daring of your spirit, which led you here.'

'There was pride and wilfulness in it too,' said she; 'and look what a rebuke Heaven gives me! it is not I that rescue Andrew; it is Harry and poor Giles.'

'Tut, tut!' said Harry; 'do not abuse yourself overmuch. You had found Andrew long since, but for the evil mind of Ralph Lacy, who had bought yon keeper with a mighty bribe, and commanded that Andrew should be kept out of sight, if ever you made inquiry after him.'

This piece of intelligence struck us silent till we got to the stairs, going down which we found a roomy boat awaiting us, in which were already the rest of our little company, except Will; and he appearing before we were well settled in our places, sprang in after us, and said joyfully, as he took an oar,—

'That coachman had fain learnt from me who it was I had carried down to the river; but I can be deaf upon occasion;' from which I gathered that he had been commissioned to restore the coach to its owner.

The sun came up as we began to glide down the stream, and a million little sparkling waves flashed back his reflection as we rowed on; which was the only cheerful part of the scene, I thought; for all our company were grave and silent, and Andrew, though the calmest of us, looked so like death that I could find no pleasure in his peaceful aspect.

And the river itself, which I had formerly seen so gay with all kinds of craft, watermen plying up and down constantly, and great sea-going ships coming and going, and lesser vessels crowding the noble stream, now seemed as desolate as the town that lay on its banks; only as we went on we came to many ships lying at anchor, by two and two; sometimes two or three lines of these ships lay in the breadth of the river, and as we threaded our way between them, men, women, and children came and looked over the sides at us.

I was glad to break the silence that had settled on us, and I asked what was the reason of these long rows of ships being thus moored idly near the shores? on which the good Mary Giles, who had again the office of supporting Andrew, speaking softly, told me how they were the refuge of many hundreds of families, fled out of London, who hoped in this way to escape the contagion.

'I do not know,' she said however, 'that they do always escape as they hope. Many a device did I practise myself to keep myself whole and sound, and some mighty foolish ones; but it pleased the Lord to drive me from all those refuges of lies, and to show me that He only can kill and make alive. To my thinking, a fearless, believing heart is the best charm against the Plague.'

'Ay,' says Harry; 'that is the best charm doubtless. But we shall find it not amiss to keep our dwellings cleaner and sweeter here in England; with faith and courage and cleanliness, we might defy the foul fiend Pestilence. You shall not find that it makes so great ravages, even among the Dutch.' With that he bit his lip, as though a secret had escaped him; however no one but myself noted him; and the others now began to talk more freely; and Mrs. Giles from time to time bestirred herself about nourishment for Andrew, which Harry had been careful to provide; he said a man so nigh dead of hunger must have food often, but in small quantities. So our party grew cheerfuller, ever as the stream grew broader, and we began to breathe the salt breeze that blew inland.

We ventured to question Harry about the ship that would receive us; and he said she was a French merchant-ship, and the captain a great friend of his, a good Protestant, who was willing to take on board any company he should bring.

'I hoped,' said I, 'it might have been the Good Hope.'

'Alas for my poor Good Hope!' said he; 'she went to pieces in a mighty storm, on the hard-hearted coasts of Africa; and such of my brave fellows as were not drowned were seized for slaves by the barbarous people of Algiers.'

'And you, Harry, what was your lot?' I cried.

'The lot of a slave for many a day,' said he briefly. 'It is thanks to my good friend Captain Maret, who will soon receive us, that I have ever seen my country again.'

I would gladly have asked more, but I saw he was little inclined to talk; and after he had said, 'The ship we are going to board is called the Marie-Royale,' he fell again into a silence; but the rest of us continued to keep up some sort of talk, till we got down by Woolwich; and this seemed to help our courage a little,—I mean Althea's and mine, especially when Andrew would say a few words, as he began to do, in a way that showed reviving strength.

Now I had never gone by sea anywhere, and all my sailing had been in wherries on the Thames; so I was not free from some childish fear when we came beside the Marie-Royale, and saw her black sides rising high and steep above us; but joy sat on every other face in our little company; and Harry's voice was gay once more as he shouted an answer to Captain Maret, who came and hailed us from above. 'Twas a matter of some difficulty to get Andrew safely hoisted on deck; yet they did it without giving too rude a shock to his enfeebled frame. I confess, when it came to my turn to mount, I shut my eyes for fear, and never opened them till I found Harry's arm about me, and a firm footing under me; and I heard his voice merrily mocking me for a poor little fool, who was ready to swoon at fancied perils, and was reckless of real ones. So then I looked abroad again, and seeing myself encircled with all our company, who were smiling at my terrors, while the dark, kindly face of the captain beamed a welcome on me,—I laughed first, and then wept; and then clasping my hands began to thank and praise God for our good deliverance, as if I were in an ecstasy; but now no one laughed at me, but heads were uncovered, and eyes cast down in thankful prayer also, all around me; the French sailors who had helped us to come aboard showing themselves not less reverent than our handful of English, and indeed appearing to be much moved. Then Andrew, who stood supported by the arms of Ned and Mary Giles, looked smiling at me, and said, in his feeble voice,—

'Thou shamest me much, my sister Lucy; I who was deepest in peril ought to have been foremost in praise;' and Harry replied bluntly,—

'Till you know something of the dangers these ladies have run, you need not be more grateful than they; but your further thanks must be rendered in your cabin, where I long to have you lodged before we get under weigh.'

'That shall be soon,' said the captain. 'We have but stayed for your coming; and see! the wind has shifted since we sighted you, and blows fair for our departing.'

He moved away as he spoke and began giving his orders; while Harry marshalled us down to our cabins, saying gaily, 'Ay, the merry wind blows from the land now; 'twas against us as we rowed, and I had my fears; but all's well that ends well—the Lord be praised therefor!'

'Tell us whither this kind wind is to blow us?' I asked, and he saying, 'So it is not enough for you to be with me where I go?' I answered boldly, 'By no means;' on which, laughing, he said, 'I will talk with you soon, sweetheart, on that point and many others; but now let us look to Andrew.' So I and my curiosity had to wait awhile; for when Andrew and his faithful nurses were settled below, Harry went on deck; and I sat by Althea, something sick at heart for all my joy, while, with many strange noises of rattling and creaking and trampling overhead, our ship shook out her great wings and spread them for flight. But at last the water slipping past our cabin windows showed we were standing out to sea; and then came Harry and sat down beside us. Andrew had fallen asleep, and Giles and his wife sat watching him a little way off; so there was nothing to break in on Harry's story.

'Now first of all, my Lucy,' said he, 'you must know whither we are bound; 'tis to Calais, for there is Captain Maret due, and over-due, having come to Woolwich only for my sake, and yours, as it hath proved. Then at Calais I have intelligence that we shall find a ship bound for Hull, by which we may go thither, and so home to our father in the Dales.'

'Do you know,' I said, 'I suspected your design to be for Holland?'

'Well,' said he, 'I had such a thought for Andrew. There be friends in that country, with whom he might be sheltered till England should be safe for him once more. But it dislikes me to have dealings with any country at war with mine own—mad and wicked though the war be on our part.'

'All England is gone mad and wicked, I think,' said Althea; 'for my share I care not much if I never see it more.'

'You will change that thought, I hope,' said he. 'But now, my Lucy, I have a request and a petition to you. Captain Maret will bring us at Calais to a clergyman of the English Church whom he knows there; will you consent for the good man to join our hands? 'tis long since our hearts were knit, I trow.'

'What are you asking of her?' said Althea; 'should not such a marriage be celebrated on English ground?'

'So it shall,' said he; 'for we will be wedded on board the ship that shall take us to Hull; and her planks, being those of an English vessel, are reckoned English ground. Now, what says my dear heart?' and as I blushed and stammered, 'I warrant you,' said he, 'Lucy is struck dumb at my presumption in talking of wedlock, my good ship being gone to wreck, and I myself newly loosed from slavery.'

'Harry!' I cried, 'how dare you think so meanly of me? I who have been delighting in the thought of pouring all my little wealth at your feet, and bidding you freight a new ship with it; but perhaps you are too proud—you will refuse it?'

'Nay, I refuse neither it nor thee, my Lucy,' he said, 'the less because I can counterpoise my darling's little purse with something weightier.' And he told us briefly how in his captivity he had risen very high in his Moorish master's favour, having had the good fortune to save the man's life at the risk of his own.

'There were two rascals set on my master to murder him, for certain precious jewels that he wore,' said he; 'and I had the luck to lay them both low, though I got this little remembrance first from the fiercest of them,' touching as he spoke the scar upon his cheek. 'And with that stroke,' he went on, 'I purchased my freedom, and something more; for the Moor conferred on me freely those gems that the thieves had coveted; they are worth a little fortune. After this my only care was to find a ship to bring me home; of which I was almost in despair, when the good Maret came to my rescue, which he effected with great skill and boldness. Nor do I know how I could have got you clear of London, but for his readiness to help me once again.'

This was Harry's history, which he made very dry and short; for he hates to dwell on his own doings or sufferings. I have got from him since many particulars of the story, and I think it were more worthy of pen and ink than this poor tale of our homely joys and sorrows, but he thinks not so; and it is at his bidding I have written all this last part, telling how he brought us safely out of London.



CONCLUSION.

HOW LUCIA DWELLS IN ENGLAND, AND ALTHEA OTHERWHERE.

There is little more to write now. I did not care to cross Harry's wish in the matter of our wedding, to which both the good Mary Giles and Althea herself urged me to consent; only I had always hoped that my father Truelocke himself should join our hands; and when I whispered this to Harry, he said, 'If you cannot be content without it, sweetheart, my father shall marry us over again when we get to Dent-dale. But I will not go back to England till I can call you wife.'

So my last defence fell; and wedded we were on board the Diamond, a good English ship that we found lying at Calais, according to Harry's intelligence. I did not forget that promise of his, and in due time I held him to it; but before I wind up mine own story I will relate that of my sister; for our lives, that have run so long in one channel, are divided now, since Althea sailed not with us to England; and I will show the reason presently.

That imagination which Harry had once entertained of Andrew's passing into Holland and being safe there as an exile proved to be no impossible device, in spite of the war between the English and the Dutch. For while we still lay at Calais in the Marie-Royale (I must ever admire her captain's courage in taking us poor fugitives on board, even though Harry was warrant for our soundness), there came letters from certain Friends called Derricks, of the Dutch nation. They had heard of Andrew's strange escape from prison, I wot not by what means; for the Friends have their own ways of learning news of one another. These good people willed him to go make his home under their roof in Amsterdam; and he was very fain to seek that shelter, being exceedingly weary in spirit, as one half spent with toil and grief; only two things held him back. The one was his love for our dear and cruel country England, which made him shrink from dwelling in a land at enmity with her; and the other was my sister. Now the first scruple Harry overcame thus.

'You needs must dwell in some foreign land,' he said, 'for England is altogether unsafe for you. Should you choose France, as Captain Maret would have you, you choose a land chiefly Papist, and now full of oppression; and my life on it, there will be war between France and England this very winter,' a saying which proved too true. 'So the balance must dip in favour of Holland, a Protestant country, where you shall live under just laws and among faithful friends who believe as you do. Is not this worth weighing, brother?' and Andrew said, 'It is,' but yet he hesitated; and I needed not the sight of his questioning look at Althea, nor of her dropt eyelids and whitening cheek, to guess the reason of his hesitation.

The next morning after we had this talk, Harry, Althea, and I were sat idly on deck, basking in the sunshine, and drinking the sweet air, while we watched the sailors at work; when we saw Andrew come feebly towards us, at which we sprang up surprised, for he had not heretofore risen so early, because of his great weakness. Althea would have had him rest on the cushions from which we had risen, but saying, 'I would rather stand awhile,' he leaned on Harry's shoulder for support; and indeed he looked deathly when his white and wasted face was seen beside Harry's countenance, all bronzed with sun and wind, and glowing with health and life.

'Althea Dacre,' he said, looking steadily at her, 'I have sought all night long for a light on the path I must now take; and a word is ever in my ears, "Speak to the maiden thou lovest, her word shall lead thee!" Thou knowest I were loth to part from thee, who hast sought me and spent thyself for me—and more loth to think that we are parted in spirit. Yet if thy heart be not as my heart towards God, we must be parted now and ever. I implore thee, speak the perfect truth to me, and do not colour or change it.'

'And I will speak truth,' she said proudly, 'as if I stood before an angel of God; and it shall not grieve you. Andrew Golding, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The Church that I dreamed of, the Church I would have died for, was not a Church stained with innocent blood. I will cast in my lot, now and for ever, with the only Christian people that have never persecuted another—the only one, I verily believe, that follow whithersoever the Master leads.'

At this Andrew's pallid face glowed as if a clear flame shone through it; he stretched out his hands to Althea, and she gave him both hers, continuing to say,—

'And what is my native land to me? it is filled with violence and madness; I fear 'tis accursed of God; I am willing to find my fatherland wherever you find a home.'

She turned with a defying look towards us; at which Harry began to laugh, and said, 'How about the rose I had one night from Mistress Althea Dacre? it is a rose yet—dry and faded truly; but it has not turned into a nettle.'

'Be generous,' she said, blushing; 'do not remind me of that; I spoke of it in the days of my folly. I have been taught the plague of my own heart since, by many a sharp lesson.'