The summer of 1665 had been hot, but the summer of 1666, if possible, was hotter. In the month of August there had been a long drought, and many people wondered that the plague did not reappear; but there had been no signs of it.
The Dutch War was the principal topic of conversation and excitement. The court and home affairs were gradually settling down; the evil days seemed well-nigh forgotten.
So it came to pass that on the first of September a group of men and women was assembled on the leads of the roof of Somerset House, to breathe the air which came up from the river; indeed, an east wind was blowing, but the day had been so excessively hot that it hardly seemed to bring freshness with it.
Patience was there, looking so fragile that the very sight of her made Parson Ewan's heart ache. He and Jessie had come down from the north to see if they could persuade her to return with them. They had heard of Agnes's disappearance, and it was so long ago that they had ceased to entertain anything but a shadowy hope of her return. Mr. Ewan could therefore see no reason why Patience should remain alone in London. Indeed, looking at her as she lay on a couch which had been brought up on to the leads for her especial use, it seemed to him that she would not be long with them. The patient face was so white and still, the eyes had that strange, far-away look in them which we see in the eyes of the dying.
Jessie was sitting beside her holding her thin, white hand, and talking to her of that home among the hills which they both loved so well, telling her all the little village gossip, which brought a smile to Patience's sad face. Ann and George Delarry were there also; but for them, indeed, Patience's life would have been unbearable. They had done all they could to comfort her.
To Parson Ewan especially the sight of London, as viewed from the roof of Somerset House that night, was wonderful. Indeed, they were all destined never to forget it. The sky was absolutely clear and cloudless, of that pure blue peculiar to it when an east wind is blowing. Every bit of colour stood out distinctly. The grey of the stone of Somerset House, and of other buildings looked white from the dry heat; the river below shone like silver. Looking towards the city they could see the spires and turrets of a hundred churches rising in the clear air. St. Paul's seemed very near to them. It was now under repair and surrounded by a net-work of scaffold poles, all exceedingly dry, almost as if dried in an oven, so hot had the summer been. In the city of London itself there were many picturesque wooden houses, so close one to another in the narrow streets that they almost touched. They were very dry, except here and there, where the tar with which some were covered was oozing down because of the heat.
In these narrow streets there was much buying and selling, eating, drinking, and making "mighty merry". A few hackney-coaches were returning with family parties who had been out on excursions refreshing themselves at Islington or some other suburb, from the heat of the city. Many people were singing, girls were playing on virginals. There was much laughter and merriment, and even dancing in the streets. No one seemed to think of going to bed, the night air was so refreshing.
To those on the leads of Somerset House the scene was inexpressibly fascinating. The sun had long set; there hung over the city the strange beauty and mystery of what is called the 'raven's twilight'. They did not speak much, but stood or sat and watched the city until night fell. Then the moon rose and once more lit up that marvellous vision. It was so lovely no one desired to leave it. There was not a trace of any mist. The moon mounted to her highest noon, in cloudless majesty, while the city was hushed to sleep. Midnight chimed from St. Clement's, and the bells of a hundred other churches rang out. The watchman's call was heard:
"Past twelve o'clock and a windy morning. All's well. It is the Lord's day."
Stooping over the parapet, Delarry said carelessly, addressing himself to Mr. Ewan: