“See you,” said his mother, in a whisper. “See you how she steals yonder? There is no footfall—thinkest thou, thou could’st hear the footfall of a spirit? and lo! you, Philip, she looketh gentle, an angel in heaven. Where is her child? Send her away,” she cried, suddenly starting in wild passion, “send her away. Think ye I will die in her presence? Nay, nay, nay, send her hence, she will go if you command her.”
Edith hurriedly left the room; she heard, as she lingered in the ante-chamber for a moment, the wild voice sink in its raving, and then she left the house to seek a nurse.
Along the silent, echoing streets, with fear and wonder rising in her mind tumultuously, Edith hastened to seek help. What this mysterious connection was, she had never ascertained; but the melancholy light which enshrined the memory of her young mother, threw its pale radiance strangely over this death-bed; but Edith’s marveling shaped itself into no definite question. She was too eager in her errand; her hasty search for help to the Lady Dacre.
Dorothy Turner was engaged with her patient, the despairing woman whose violent flight into the Hampsteadfields had saved her life; and Edith sought Dame Saffron, who had also taken up, in extremity, the desperate trade of plague-nurse. The laundry-woman was fortunately disengaged, and with many inquiries after Edith’s own health, and much talk of the calamities which had come under her own notice, which Edith, in her haste and anxiety, scarcely heard, accompanied her to Westminster.
Sir Philip received them at the door. He was very grave and sad.
“I have brought Dame Saffron to tend the lady,” said Edith, “but perchance it were better that I entered not.”
“Both for thine own sake and hers, gentle cousin,” said the young man. “Start not, for we are truly kindred; but remember her in pity and in tenderness, Edith, for she lies on a terrible death-bed, pricked to the heart—have pity on her—have pity on her, gentle Edith.”
CHAPTER IX.
“Speak not of grief till thou hast seen
The tears of armed men.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Upon the evening of that day, Caleb Field and his daughter sat in Dame Rogers’s better room alone. The minister had newly returned from the strenuous labors of his vocation, and Edith had just finished telling him of the strange meeting of the morning.