“And the people are all afraid?” said Edith.
“Afraid! bless you, Mistress Edith, that’s but a quiet word for it. The folk are clean out of their wits with the panic that’s upon them; and seeking to false helps, lackaday! in their darkness, when there is but One that can deliver. Tell Mistress Edith, Mercy, of yonder evil place that Alice Saffron beguiled you to, when you were last at market. The Almighty keep us! I know not if there will be any market ere long, and what will become of us then?”
“Please you, Mistress Edith,” said Mercy, bashfully, “it was a dark room, with a little fire in a brazier, and perfumes like what Dr. Newton gave to my uncle to keep evil smells away burning in it, and the smoke and the good scent going through the room. And there was a tall man with a cap of black velvet upon his head, and a long robe, like what the great ladies wear, with embroideries upon it; and he could read the stars like the words in a book and told fortunes by them the way they were shining in the sky. So Alice asked if the plague would be long, and he said, ‘Yea, yea, mighty and great, such as was never seen in this world before.’ And Alice said, would it come to Hampstead, and he made answer, ‘It will go every where, thou fool, till it slay its thousands in the sunshine, and its tens of thousands in the night.’ And with that Alice began to weep, and so did I, for I was afraid; and Alice said, ‘Ah, sir, and shall we die?’ and then he told her she should be saved, but he would say naught for me. And Alice said mayhap if I had given him somewhat, he might have told me some good tidings, but I had naught; and perchance if he knew I was to die, it was best not to tell me, for I should have fallen down with fear.”
“Ah! Mercy, my sweet child, speak not so,” exclaimed Dame Rogers, as an involuntary tear slid over Mercy’s round, smooth cheek, “an he had known evil tidings he would have told thee to have frighted thee. Break not thy poor mother’s heart with such a terror.”
“Nay, he knew not aught,” said Edith gently, laying her hand on the shoulder of Mercy, who sat on a low stool beside her. “Doth God reveal who shall die, and who shall live to man? Let us not fear, Mercy, while all things are in His hands.”
“Well, I know not,” said Dame Rogers, after a pause; “they have their learning from the Evil One, I wot, yet full oft it comes true; and certain the enemy hath great power and wisdom, as I have heard thy own worthy father say, Mistress Edith.”
“Nay, that is sure,” said Edith; “but he hath not the power to slay and to make alive, Dame Rogers; and the Lord shows not his secret counsel to a fallen spirit.”
“And in good sooth it is pleasant to talk to thee, lady,” said the dame; “and thou seest, Mercy, how Mistress Edith can clear thee of those foolish doubts of thine, for all that she hath been little longer in the world than thine own silly self. And that is truth-like, without doubt, for the Lord taketh counsel with no one, and with the adversary least of all, not to say that he is the father of lies and deceitfulness. Well, I will think no more on’t. And thou art weary, Mistress Edith, and we do but keep thee from rest: do thou bestir thee, Mercy, and help. A fair good even, and good rest, and peace; and if the Lord will, I will call you early on the morrow.”
That precautionary clause, “if the Lord will,” was any thing but a form in those days: solemn and seemly at all times, it had an especial weight in that season of singular peril, when those who parted for the night had before them the fatal probability that they should never receive mortal greeting again, upon an earthly morrow.
Below, the Puritan sat with his humble host: their conversation was of ecclesiastical matters—the silenced ministers, the persecuted church—and, in the narrower parochial circle, of the wants and necessities of their own especial people. Upon the morrow, which was the Sabbath, Master Field intended to resume his place in his own pulpit, the conforming vicar who had supplanted him having already removed to a safer distance from the stricken city.