“The Lord pardon her,” said Edith; then she paused in painful haste: it was too late now to pray that prayer.
And so in the midst of panic and calamity, when solemn funeral honors could be paid to none, however noble, her son and the husband of her murdered kinswoman the sole mourners, they laid the Lady Dacre in an uncommemorated grave.
The pestilence ebbed and flowed again—in its capricious floods and falls cheating the sick hearts that watched its sinking with so tremulous a hope; and though it grew feeble with the feeble year, it still held its place until its close, and only went fully out at last when the wholesome cold of the mid-winter began to be touched by the breath of another spring.
But in December, the stricken who had been counted by thousands once, were reckoned in scanty hundreds only. The terror was gone, the atmosphere was cleared. Where men had been wont, under the pressure of this calamity, to stay upon the desolate streets and confess their sins before God aloud, men staid now in joyful wonder to give Him thanks who had spared them. But grim want and poverty were reigning supreme over those hollow-eyed, pale-faced citizens of the meaner sort whom the plague had spared, and there was yet abundant room for the labors of charity and kindness, and many calls for such—calls which were not unanswered.
Edith Field, with Mercy Rogers in attendance on her, was passing through Aldgate one chill December day, on her usual work of mercy.
“Mistress Edith,” said a voice behind them, “tarry, and say farewell to an ancient friend.”
Edith turned round hastily; behind her stood Master Vincent. His dark face had grown thin and emaciated, his form was bent as with a very weight of weakness, yet his step was light, and swift, and nervous, and his labors had known no abatement. His warfare was nearly over: no need of legislation to drive him once more from his post. He carried the sentence of removal in his face—here where he had labored he was to die.
“Farewell, reverend sir!” said Edith. “Do you then leave London?”
“Ay, maiden,” said the preacher, “the hour of my translation draweth nigh; and I thank God heartily who hath heard my petition, and hath spared me to the end. Fare thee well, gentle Edith Field—thou hast done thy work bravely, like one who feareth God. Greet thy father well from me, and tell him we shall hold fast our brotherhood till we meet in the presence of our Lord. Let him not envy that I be called up first, for there is need of him yet in this evil world.”
“Ah, Master Vincent, speak not so exceeding sadly,” said Edith, “for truly you do ill to hold life light which the master hath kept safely through all this peril.”