The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.
Chapter Six.
News from Home.
“There are briars besetting every path,
That call for patient care;
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer;
But a lowly heart that leans on Thee
Is happy anywhere.”
Miss Waring.
It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London were hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in traveller’s dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought. The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary, worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson. Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up. From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing reached him—an air which he instantly recognised as “The Palmer’s hymn,” sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.
“Holy City, happy City,
Built on Christ, and sure as He,
From my weary journeying,
From the wastes, I cry to thee;
Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,
Till within thy walls I be.
Ah! what happy, happy greeting
For the guests thy gates who see!
Ah! what blessed, blessed meeting
Have thy citizens in thee!
Ah! those glittering walls how fair,
Jasper shene and ruby blee.
Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,
Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;
Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,
Thee can enter, City free!”
The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery Lovell. The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and, sentinel-like, inquired, “Who goes there?”
“A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if he may, of the Lady Marnell.”