She had not gone far when she met Dorothy Turner; and to her Edith told the story.
“I came forth even to seek for her, Mistress Edith,” said Dorothy. “It was a rash apothecary did tell the poor gentlewoman that she had carried the pestilence to her children; they are all dead, the little ones—all but the least of all—and the agony crazed her; no marvel! and she fled out thus to die. But says the gentleman that she is saved? God help us, how He worketh! I never thought to have heard that word of one smitten with the plague. Speed thee home, Mistress Edith, and come not nigh her. She is saved!”
And such terrible wanderers in those suburban fields were fearfully usual during those fatal days of summer; lying down in their madness to die.
CHAPTER VIII.
“When all is done that mortal might can do,
And all that’s done is naught; when wisdom fails,
And the strong hand grows feeble, and the heart
That was most valiant sinks into the dust—
Then look ye upward—lo! He comes. Behold,
The Lord!”
On that September even, so soft and mellow and harvest-like, with the full eye of its serene moon looking down peacefully upon the quiet world, the inhabitants of London, such of them as were not stretched on hopeless sick beds, or hopelessly watching by the same, lay down in reckless and wild despair, assured of early death. On the next day the weekly bill of mortality would be published, and the hearts of the people sickened within them, as they anticipated the further progress of the pestilence which its fatal record would make known.
That day was a fast-day in Master Chester’s church of St. Margaret’s in Westminster, and Master Field was engaged to preach there. The little household had assembled in Dame Rogers’s sitting-room for their morning worship. The father and daughter sat side by side; their host was at a little distance, and Dame Rogers and her child, Mercy, were timidly withdrawn near the door.
They were about to commence their simple service. Suddenly there came a low knock to the outer door of the cottage. They had all learned to know the light hand of Sir Philip Dacre, and John Goodman rose to admit him.
He stood still on the threshold in their sight, with a strange quivering look of joy about him, at which they marveled mightily. Joy! its very name had become an unknown word in London. There were tears standing in the young man’s eyes, and a tremulous, unsteady smile upon his lips, which looked as though it would fain run over in the weeping of a glad heart. He lifted up his hands, but he said nothing, except “Thank God! thank God!”
“Amen!” said Master Field, gravely; “but for what special mercy, Sir Philip? Enter and let us share your thanksgiving, as you have shared our trouble.”