“‘When the equal poise of hope and fear
Doth arbitrate the event, my nature is,
That I do ever hope rather than fear.’
“And truly, He who hath done this is the same Lord who hath bruised the head of the enemy.”
“Without doubt,” answered Master Chester; “and in terror, even as in tenderness, the same Lord. But thy poet, I pray thee note, is not my poet, brother. Truly, a pestilent sectary, an he were also a noble singer of Heaven’s own proper training. Yet thou knowest, this deadly peril over, that I love not those who forsake order, and e’en would take order with them, though I love them not; for a Church that lacketh government is like to lack goodness, ere long, I fear me; and truthful doctrine hath rightful discipline for its twin brother. An evil-conditioned man this Milton, Mistress Judith; thinkest thou not so?”
“Truly, sir, he maketh noble melody,” said Edith.
“Ah, little one, thine ear tingleth to sweet music; but these are matters that fit us not thou thinkest, brother, and I doubt not thy thoughts are busy with matters that will fit all. And lo! the people that remain to us how they gather, and shall have gathered somewhat ere they part, I doubt not, that will remain. Now the Lord send seed to the sower, and bread to the eater.”
The church was full; a congregation more deeply moved never met together. In their fear they had been solemn and grave, sometimes stern in the austerity of new-born penitence; but now the flood-gates of their souls were opened, and floating over the wrung hearts in the first relief from their long tension, was every where that fluttering tremulous joy.
After the service Edith returned home alone. Her father was occupied with the peculiar work of his ministry, and detained Sir Philip beside him. The young cavalier, even in those subdued times, was over-conspicuous an attendant for the Puritan’s daughter.
She was passing through one of the silent streets in the neighborhood of Whitehall. Most of the great, gloomy houses had been deserted at the beginning of the plague, and now stood uninhabited, frowning in desolate grandeur. They were the residences of people of high rank who could fly, and had fled early, and so Edith saw the fatal mark on none of the gloomy walls she passed. The street was short: its look of dark funereal pomp oppressed her heavily.
She had nearly reached the end of it, when a low moan, painfully audible in the profound stillness, fell upon her ear. She paused to listen. After another moment of oppressive tingling silence, it was repeated—a low, faint, dying moan.
The wide gate of the court-yard opposite her stood open. She entered, impelled by a singular curiosity and interest. Upon the broad stone steps lay a rich velvet mantle lined with costly furs. It had been thrown down, as it seemed, by some one flying from the house; further in upon the floor of the spacious hall lay some glittering trinkets, reflecting the September sunshine strangely from the cold pavement. Other articles lay scattered about, dropped by the fugitives in their flight, and the cry of pain came ringing down the wide staircase, raising hollow echoes in the great empty, deserted house.