An opposite window opened slowly; at it stood a languid old man, with a girl’s face looking eagerly over his shoulder.
“What news, good dame?” said the old man. “Truly, when there can be none but evil ones, it is best to have dull ears.”
“Good news, thank God,” said the other: “the bill is near two thousand less, as my good man says; and an it rose swift, we may hope it will sink swifter, I wot. God be thanked!—we e’en counted ourselves dead folk; but the Lord is merciful.”
“Ah, grandfather,” cried the girl, “we will see my mother again. Thank God! thank God!”
The old man’s lip was quivering; his eyelids drooped heavily.
“And is it so? Is there any hope? For the city, and for the young child! God be praised, for He is very good.”
And as they went on, wherever two strangers met, wherever human life remained, with tears and tremulous rejoicing, the people lifted up their voices in thanks to God.
In front of the abbey, Master Chester met them. For the first time, the quaint and courtly gentleman was discomposed; lights and shadows, in a hundred shifting combinations, pursued each other over his vivacious features. He was too greatly moved at first to speak; he only held out his hands.
“And so ye be all come with the glad tidings,” he said at last, “which truly are glad tidings for all; and our controversy concerning thy dangerous labor, Mistress Edith, we will end now; for men think otherwise in hazard than they do in hope; and the Lord of the poor will remember thee, little maiden, because thou didst remember the poor of the Lord. Thou wilt have many to hear thee, brother Field, on this fair morrow, and, I pray God, many to heed thee also: for that which is impressed but by disaster is in danger, I fear me, of being erased by deliverance. The good Lord keep us from this evil; but in sooth we grow wanton oft when it is fit we should grow wary, and are liker to lead ourselves into deeds that need to be repented of, through the abundance of God’s mercies, than to endeavor that God’s mercies should lead us to repentance.”
“It is but too frequent,” said Master Field; “but this city hath been so sorely smitten, that the remembrance of the stroke will not soon depart. I trust only that the delirium of this joy will not intoxicate the remnant, for indeed the penitence of deadly fear is but a frail trust to lean upon. Nevertheless, brother, what saith thy poet?