“Farewell, love! There is none to call me Lettice but thee, left now.”
“Nay, sweet heart, not so. ‘I have called thee by thy name.’ There will be One left to call thee ‘Lettice,’ until He summon thee by that familiar name to enter the Holy City.”
So they journeyed on towards London. It was on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth of March that they sighted the metropolis at last from the summit of Notting Hill. They drove down the Oxford road, bounded on either side by green hedges, with here and there a house—the busy Oxford Street of our day—turned down the Hay Market to Charing Cross, and passed by Essex Gate and its companion portal, the Court Gate, through “the Court,” now known as Whitehall, emerging upon “the King’s Street.” There was no Parliament Street in those days.
As they turned into King Street, it struck the elders of the party that there seemed to be an unusual stir of some kind. The streets were more crowded than usual, men stood in little knots to converse, and the talk was manifestly of a serious kind. Lady Louvaine bade Edith look out and call Aubrey, whom she desired to inquire of some responsible person the meaning of this apparent commotion. Aubrey reined in his horse accordingly, as he passed a gentleman in clerical attire, which at that date implied a cassock, bands, and black stockings. Had Aubrey known it, the narrowness of the bands, the tall hat, the pointed shoes, and the short garters, also indicated that the clergyman in question was a Puritan.
“Pray you, Sir, is there news of import come?” inquired the youth: “or what means this ado?”
The clergyman stopped suddenly, and looked up at his questioner.
“What means it?” he said sadly. “Friend, the great bell of Paul’s was rung this morrow.”
“I cry you mercy, Sir. Being a countryman, I take not your meaning.”
“The great bell of Paul’s,” explained the stranger, “tolls never but for one thing, and hath been silent for over forty years.”
“Good lack! not the plague, I trust?” cried Aubrey.