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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49344
   :PG.Title: The Queen's Favourite
   :PG.Released: 2015-07-11
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Eliza \F. Pollard
   :MARCREL.ill: Frances Ewan
   :DC.Title: The Queen's Favourite
              A Story of the Restoration
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1907
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE QUEEN'S FAVOURITE
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   .. _`"THEY TOOK REFUGE WITH NURSE PATIENCE"`:

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      [Frontispiece: "THEY TOOK REFUGE WITH NURSE PATIENCE"
      (missing from book)]

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      The Queen's Favourite

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      A Story of the Restoration

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      BY

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      ELIZA \F. POLLARD

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      Author of "The Doctor's Niece" "The Lady Isobel"
      "The White Standard" &c.

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      *ILLUSTRATED BY FRANCES EWAN*

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      BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
      LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
      1907

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAP.

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I.  `"The King has come in to his own again"`_
II.  `Newbolt Manor`_
III.  `Somerset House`_
IV.  `New Friends`_
V.  `May-Day`_
VI.  `A First Parting`_
VII.  `A King's Vengeance`_
VIII.  `Arrested`_
IX.  `Old Newgate`_
X.  `A Legend`_
XI.  `A Brave Woman`_
XII.  `A Faithful Friend`_
XIII.  `The Hamlet of St. Mary's`_
XIV.  `The Mystery cleared up`_
XV.  `At Court`_
XVI.  `Under the Shadow of Newgate`_
XVII.  `The Great Plague`_
XVIII.  `Lost`_
XIX.  `On the Track`_
XX.  `A Great Sea-Fight`_
XXI.  `London on Fire`_
XXII.  `Found`_
XXIII.  `Home at Last`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`"They took refuge with Nurse Patience"`_ (missing from book) *Frontis.*

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`"The commander of the company handed him a sheet of parchment"`_

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`"He drew out the packets"`_

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`"I will give you your answer to-night," she said`_

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.. _`"The king has come in to his own again"`:

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   CHAPTER I


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   "The king has come in to his own again"

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In a large, sombre apartment, in the palace of the
Louvre, there was unusual commotion.  The Queen
Dowager, Henrietta Maria, was seated in a crimson
gilt fauteuil, wearing her widow's black robes, for
she had never cast off the mourning she had donned
for her murdered husband, Charles I; and indeed
she had unwillingly suffered any of her attendants to
array themselves in brighter colours.

"Until he is avenged," she would say; "until his
murderers have suffered what he suffered, if that be
possible!"

Behind her, leaning on the back of her chair, was
her young daughter, a girl of sixteen--that child
who had never seen her father's face, who had
been brought over to France by stealth in swaddling
clothes, who had suffered all the miseries of exile, and
shared all the poverty which her mother's position
had forced upon them.

Everybody knows the story of how the queen kept
this child in bed in winter, because they could afford
no fire in their room.  Possibly she did this to shame
the king, Louis XIV, who denied the necessaries of
existence to the daughter of Henry IV.

The princess was at the present time just passing
from girlhood into womanhood.  She gave promise of
great beauty, which was to be fully realized.  There
was a triumphant look on her face; indeed, on the
faces of all those present, for kneeling at the queen's
feet was a messenger who had just arrived from
Holland bearing the news that a deputation from
England had waited on her son, Charles II, and had
invited him back to England, entreating him to suffer
himself to be placed upon that throne which had cost
his father his life.

After the envoy had delivered his message, a great
silence fell upon all present.  The queen, for a few
seconds, seemed incapable of realizing the truth.  It
is at this moment we introduce our readers to her
court.

Suddenly a little voice broke the silence, and a
childish figure, a girl of ten or eleven years old,
sprang forward, and holding out with both her little
hands a somewhat shabby white satin gown, she
pirouetted into the centre of the room, and, dancing
on the tips of her toes, sang gaily: "The king has
come in to his own again; the king has come in to
his own!"

The ice was broken: a general movement took
place.  A young woman in a tight-fitting black gown
and a white cap sprang after the child and
passionately shook her.

"How dare you; how dare you!" she exclaimed;
but the child twisted herself free of her, and ran
lightly to the Princess Henrietta, hiding herself in
the folds of her gown.

"Let her alone," said the queen, "she has spoken
for us all."  And a smile such as had not been seen on
that royal face for many a day crept over the widowed
queen's countenance.  Regaining her self-command,
she said to the messenger still kneeling before her:

"I thank you for the haste you have made in
coming to us, and I bid you return with equal haste
to my dear son, and tell his majesty that all loyal
hearts rejoice with him, and that we await but his
command to join him in England.  Until then we
will abide here as patient and loyal subjects."

The messenger arose, and bowed low, saying;

"I have no doubt that the king will desire your
majesty's presence as soon as he has taken
possession of his kingdom."  And with that he bowed
himself backwards out of the room.

With the disappearance of the messenger etiquette
slackened; there was much talking and not a little
laughter.  Suddenly the door leading into the
anteroom was thrown open, and all the elite of the court
of France, all those faithful followers of the Stuart
cause who had escaped out of Cromwell's hands and
taken up their abode at the French court, young
and old, gay sparks of the aristocracy, and
grey-headed men and women who had lost lands and
fortunes in their master's cause, pressed forward.  Their
day had come at last; surely they would now reap the
fruit of their devotion.

The queen rose and went into their midst with all
that stately courtesy for which she was remarkable,
and her young daughter, following her example, gave
her hand to be kissed, smiling with that wonderful
charm and look of gladness which was destined to
fascinate so many hearts.

Once more the doors were thrown wide open, but
this time heralds announced:

"Le roi, le roi!"

Queen Henrietta stood still, but, as the king
entered, she advanced a few steps to meet him,
curtsying deeply.

"Ma tante," he said, "I would have been the
first to congratulate you, but news flies so fast, you
have already heard what I would gladly have
imparted to you myself."

"You are very good, my nephew," answered the
Queen, "but sorrow has followed me for so long,
that I can scarcely allow myself to hope that my dear
son will succeed his martyred father in peace and
without bloodshed."

"What matters that to you, ma tante?  If blood
has to be shed in a good cause, there is no regretting
it; and there are those here present," he added,
turning round and facing the courtiers, "who will not
hesitate to give their lives for their rightful king."

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the whole
assemblage bowed low in acquiescence.  One voice
rose above the others:

"His majesty speaks like Solomon; we are ready
to shed the last drop of our blood for our royal
master.  Long live King Charles!"

People said that Queen Henrietta Maria had
grown hard in her trouble.  At the present moment
the softening element of joy crept into her heart and
brought tears to her eyes.

"Grand merci, grand merci to you all!" she repeated;
and the king, taking her hand, led her to her
seat, himself occupying the fauteuil which had been
hastily brought for him.

A whispered word to Henrietta, repeated by her
to the gentlemen of her household, and the crowd of
courtiers disappeared, leaving the king and his aunt
alone.  Even Princess Henrietta and her little
companion were dismissed.

What took place between the royal aunt and
nephew was only known some years later; but the
queen was well satisfied with the result of their
conversation, for the strings of the king's purse
were opened, and the poverty which so long
oppressed her disappeared.

The princess and the child Agnes felt this change
more than anyone.  There was a mystery concerning
Agnes; but mysteries about personages were very
common in those days.  In this great Civil War
children had been lost, families had disappeared, no
one quite knew who might be who.

When people questioned as to who this child was,
the queen answered haughtily:

"Her name is Agnes Beaumont.  Who she is and
whence she comes I know; that is my secret, and
must suffice all men."

It was on a cold winter's night nigh upon twenty
years ago, and snow lay thick upon the ground,
when Patience had found her way to the Palace of
the Louvre, and begged and prayed, and almost
forced herself into Queen Henrietta's presence.  It
was in the early days of the queen's widowhood.
She had pawned all her jewels; she had sent all her
money to the assistance of her son; and she herself
was living a beggar on the bounty of the King of
France, and that was measured out stingily.  Poverty
was in the air; the great rooms assigned to her in
the Palace of the Louvre were bare and cold; and
when Patience succeeded in forcing her way into
her presence, she found the queen cowering over a
few embers in the great fireplace, with the young
princess, then only a child of eight years, gathered
in her arms for warmth.

Approaching the queen, Patience knelt before her.

"Do you not recognize me, your majesty?" she said.

The queen looked at her.

"Yes, I recognize you," she said; "you come from
my friend," and in a low voice she mentioned a name,
adding:

"What of her?"

"Dead," answered Patience, "even as her husband
died after the great battle, and with her dying
breath she bade me bring you this."  And opening
back her cloak she showed, lying in her arms, a
sleeping child of some eighteen months old.

"Why did you bring her here?" said the queen,
throwing up her hands in despair.  "What am I to
do with her?  We have scarce food for ourselves.
How shall I feed her?"

"Have no fear on that score," said Patience, "I
will feed her.  Only let her live under your shelter,
protected by your name; for there are those who, if
they found her, would cast her out or do her some
evil turn.  You know that well.  They have entered
upon her possessions--they hold what by right is
hers; therefore she must be cared for until such time
as she can claim her own, or till you can give it to
her."

"Then I wot she will wait a weary while," said
the queen.

Whilst they were speaking, Princess Henrietta had
approached the child, whose eyes were now wide
open, and who was struggling to rise.

"Oh, how pretty she is!  Look, Mother!"

And she said truly.  She was a lovely babe, with
soft, golden curls clustering round her little face,
and large brown eyes.  She was laughing, too--laughing
with the merry gurgle of a happy babe--stretching
out her little hands towards the princess.
She looked the very child of joy, and yet she was a
child born of bitter sorrow.

"She is like her father," said the queen.  "I
never knew a man more gloriously happy than he
was; and she has the same look in her eyes."

"She never weeps; she never moans," said Patience.
"Ah, madame, she will bring you sunshine
and good luck!"

As she spoke she unwrapped the child and placed
her upon the ground.  A beauty, a perfect beauty she
was, and the princess clapped her hands.

"Oh, you must keep her, Mother, you must keep her!"

"I have no choice in the matter.  She is my
dearest friend's child.  Yes, I must keep her,
Patience."  And from that hour Agnes was the Princess
Henrietta's daily companion.

This princess had also been born in sorrow and
nurtured in it.  She had no playfellows.  She had
led the dreariest life that any child could lead until
this baby came; but from that hour her whole nature
changed.  She laughed, she played, she danced with
her; there was noise, there was life, in that dark
apartment.  Whatever ills others had to bear, Agnes
never suffered.  Patience was always there, and
Patience sufficed for her, and often for the princess
too.  They occupied a tiny chamber leading out of
the queen's room, and this was their haven of rest,
their playroom.

Sometimes even the queen would come in there
and sit down and talk to Patience, not as to a subordinate,
but as to a friend, and that is saying a great
deal for Queen Henrietta Maria, whose pride and
arrogance were proverbial.

Everyone was sure Agnes was of noble birth,
because, as she grew older, she was brought up
nobly and had the same teachers as the princess.
They were neither of them overweighted with study;
it was not the fashion in those days.  They learnt
French from their surroundings, a little writing, a
little reading, a smattering of Latin, because the
queen was bringing up her daughter as a Catholic,
and she must needs follow the Mass in her Breviary.
This sufficed; but they learnt dancing, and little
songs, and thus a certain amount of gaiety emanated
through them into the dark Palace of the Louvre.

This gaiety was in Princess Henrietta's blood.
Was she not a granddaughter of Henry IV, that
great lover of pleasure?

So these two children ignored the death-traps
which lay under their feet, those oubliettes which had
swallowed up so many men and women.  They did
not see the ghosts that others saw gliding along the
passages, which led to mysterious chambers, down
narrow staircases, ending they knew not where.
They did not care.  They would escape from Patience
and play their games of hide-and-seek and touch-wood,
their cries of childish joy ringing through the
corridors and starting the echoes.  Men would
smile at them, and women shake their heads, but no
one bade them be silent.  Sometimes even the king
in the distance heard them and would smile.  "That
is the wild Henrietta and her companion," he would say.

"Shall they be silenced, sire?" asked a courtier once.

"Nay, nay; it is good for them to laugh," he
answered.  "Their weeping days will come.  It were
a sin to silence them."

On this day, when the princess and Agnes were
sent forth from the king's presence, they took
refuge with Patience, and, curling themselves up on
the window-sill, began to talk.

"I wonder if we shall have as good a time in
England as we have had here!" said Agnes.  "I feel
as if I were going to lose you, Princess.  You will
be a great lady at court, and I am only a child and
nobody.  I wonder what this England is like!  I
have heard that the sun shines but little there.  I do
not feel much love for it or for the people.  I never
can forget that they killed their king, your father."

"If I cannot forget, I shall have to make believe I
can," said Henrietta; "but as to what England is
like, I know no more than you do," she added.  "I
was brought over from England just as you were,
an infant in swaddling clothes, by my dear Lady
Dalkeith, so we are equal there."

"Except that you know who you are, but I am
only Agnes Beaumont, with neither father nor
mother, nor kith nor kin, no one save Patience to
care for me."

"We care for you, my mother and I," said the
princess, drawing the child closer to her.  "What
more do you want?"

"Never to leave you," said the child passionately.
"I would be your handmaid, your servant."  And,
as if a sudden fear had taken hold on her, she clung
to the princess.

"You foolish child," answered Henrietta.  "Of
course you will always stay by me.  Where should I
be without my little Agnes?"

"But kings and queens, I have heard, cannot do
what they will; they cannot even love where they
will," said the child.

"That is true," answered Henrietta, "but you are
only a child.  Who will mind you?  Besides," she
continued thoughtfully, "you are Agnes Beaumont
to-day, but you may be a great lady in disguise.
Courtiers will crowd round my brother's throne; those
who have been against him will be for him, now he
is king, and you, the queen's favourite, my favourite,
may find both kith and kin in your prosperity."

"I shall not care for those who forsook me when
I was cast alone on the world."  And Agnes tossed
her beautiful head proudly.

"Why trouble?" said Henrietta.  "Let us take
life as it comes; we are so young.  We are going
to have a good time--a right good time!"  And she
wiped the tears from the child's face, kissed and
hugged her.

At that moment the door opened and the queen
came in.  Her face, too, was radiant, and she
brought with her a ray of sunshine, as if Nature
itself shone upon her.  She sat down beside the two
girls and laid a hand on each of them.

"We shall soon be going to England," she said.

"Oh, Mother, tell us about England," said
Henrietta.  "We know nothing about it."

The queen's eyes filled with tears.  "For ten
years," she said, "I was the happiest and
best-beloved woman in England.  There was no man
like your father, Henrietta: the greatest lover and
the best husband.  He gave me for my dower-house
a palace on the Thames, upon which the sun always
shone, from west and east, north and south, beneath
whose windows the whole world passed, barges with
pennons flying and with music playing all the
live-long day, and oft far into the night.  Ah, it was a
glorious time!  Who would have thought of the
misery to come!"  She put her kerchief to her eyes
and wept audibly.

"It is over, Mother, it is over," said Henrietta,
kneeling beside her.

"It can never be over," answered the queen.
"Those joy days are ever present with me, not even
when your brother has avenged your father's death
upon his murderers shall I forget.  My sun is dimmed
for ever."  And a look of hatred came over her face.
"We will not talk of it," she continued, shrugging her
shoulders in her quick French way.  "You want to
know about this England, children?  Well, we shall
go back to Somerset House.  It is my own, given to
me by my husband, and there we shall dwell.  It is a
beautiful place, full--as I have told you--of sunlight;
very different from this gloomy Louvre."

"But we have been very happy here," said Agnes.
"I fear our play-days are over."

The queen smiled and stroked the child's face.
"You are growing a big girl, Agnes; we must think
of something better for you than play, ma mie."

Patience coming in broke this strain of talk.  She
and the queen went to the farther end of the room
together in consultation.

Indeed, for the next few months there was much
planning and much talking.  It was the month of
May when King Charles went to England, and
England became old England again in its festive
gaiety.  From the moment Charles set foot on
English soil at Dover with his brothers the Dukes of
York and Gloucester, and was met by General Monk
and courtiers, who knelt to welcome him, England
went mad concerning him.  On the twenty-ninth of
May, which was his birthday, he made his solemn
entry into London.  We are told the streets were
railed, and windows and balconies were hung with
tapestries, flowers were scattered in his path, and all
was joy and jubilee.  So he entered triumphantly
that Whitehall where the king, his father, had
suffered so cruelly.  It was a strange metamorphosis.
Those who had been the father's bitterest
enemies now bowed before the son.  They called
him the "King of Hearts".  From his people he
would receive a "crown of hearts", they said; "the
duty of all men would be to make him forget the
past; he was to be the most glorious king of the
happiest people.  Such was his welcome!"

All this was reported to his mother, still living
at the Louvre, waiting for her summons to go
home, and the whole of that summer passed in joy
and laughter.  Princess Henrietta was courted by
foreign potentates and even by kings, but the queen
would not part with her.

"She has shared my troubles, she must share my
joys; she must go home with me," she said.

In the autumn the queen set sail with her suite for
England, and after what seemed to Agnes a weary
journey by sea and land, they reached London, and
were conducted through the city to Somerset House,
the "Queen's House" as it was called.

Agnes kept close to the princess.  Nothing
Patience said to her was of any avail; she was
determined; she set her lips and pushed her away.

"I will not leave the princess," she said, clinging
to her gown.

"Let her alone," said Princess Henrietta; "she
is my charge, Patience."  So she kept her in her
room, and they slept together that first night; yet,
strange to tell, they knew not why, both fell asleep
weeping.

"It is a bad omen," said Patience; "evil will
come of it;" and she looked down sadly upon those
two young faces wet with tears.





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.. _`Newbolt Manor`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   Newbolt Manor

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"Well, Ann, all I can say is, that, though I hate
turn-coats, I am thankful my father has ranged
himself on the right side at last.  Others are doing
like him.  We know full well that one of
Cromwell's own daughters was against him.  Fairfax
and Falkland, those great and noble men, both
fought for the liberties of England against their
king.  General Monk, who is bringing Charles
home, was a republican; but times have changed.
It needed a strong hand like Cromwell's to govern
England without hereditary right, only with might.
Richard Cromwell, good fellow though he be, could
not do it, and he knew it from the first.  He has
had enough of ruling, he told me so but the other
day; he is only too thankful to retire into private life,
farm his own land, and smoke his pipe in peace.
So we need not feel any compunction over the fact
that our father has given in his adhesion to the
king at last, and now I shall be at liberty to follow
the dictates of my heart.  I was too young to fight
for our martyred king, but I am of age now, and
will at once enlist in his son's service.  Let us
hope we may have our rightful king and our rightful
liberties as well.  I'm for King Charles!  Hurrah!"  And
Reginald Newbolt took up his hat from the
table beside him and tossed it gaily into the air.

His sister, Ann Newbolt, laughed at him as she
echoed his "Hurrah!"

"I am glad of it," she went on; "you cannot
conceive how glad, Reginald!  You can never know
what pain and grief the murder of our king has
been to me.  I think my father felt it sorely, and
yet he has always held that it was a necessity."

"He had no hand in it," cried Reginald sharply.

"Not directly," answered Ann.  "I believe he
would not vote either for or against, which vexed
our mother greatly."

"It was a mistake," said Reginald, his young
face lighting up with a certain sternness.  "A man
ought to know his own mind: it should be either
'yea' or 'nay'.  My father would have had me enlist
in Cromwell's army, young as I was; but I would
not, and, thank God, I did not!  I can show clean
hands and a loyal heart to Charles Stuart when he
lands."

"Will you go up to London with my father?"
she said.

"No," he answered, in the same stern voice.  "I
shall go alone, and lay my virgin sword at my king's
feet."

His sister looked at him with intense love and
pride.  They were the only children of Colonel
Newbolt, who had served the Republican cause
throughout the Civil Wars so well that Cromwell
had rewarded him with gifts of land and property
which had belonged to old Royalist families, who
had either disappeared in the struggle or been
dispossessed.  The most important of these was the
Abbey de Lisle, a lovely estate in Westmorland,
amidst the moors and fells, just bordering upon
Yorkshire.  The house had been an old monastery
of great fame.  Its chapel had been one of
exquisite beauty a hundred years before, but under
Thomas Cromwell's ruthless hand, in the reign of
Henry VIII, when monasteries and abbeys were
sacked, it had been reduced to ruins, and so
remained, unroofed, with the grass growing up the
nave and through the aisles.  Ivy clambered round
the delicate pillars, and moss lay thick on the steps
leading up to the broken altar.

It had been bestowed by Henry on the De Lisles,
and with it, as was believed by many, a curse had
been inherited, uttered by the last monk who passed
out of the monastery grates.  It ran thus: "The
abbey and its lands shall go from the De Lisles,
even as it came to them, by fire and sword".

Now the prophecy had been fulfilled.  Gilbert de
Lisle, the last of his race, had fallen fighting for
King Charles in the Battle of Worcester.  He left
no children--the race was extinct.

So Cromwell had bestowed the land and all that
appertained thereto, the dower-house and the abbey
itself, upon Colonel Newbolt, to be his and his
heirs' after him.  Thither he had brought his wife
and children, had spent a considerable sum of money
in restoring the house, which had been injured
during the war; but the chapel remained a ruin--even
that was a concession--and many blamed him for
not razing it to the ground.  Cromwell's soldiers
had finished Henry VIII's vandalism, mutilated the
few remaining statues, and broken to pieces the
stained-glass window over the altar.

In the country around it was whispered that at
midnight there were shadows seen coming and
going, ghosts of the dead monks, whose tombs
had been desecrated, but whose bodies still rested
in the crypt below the altar, awaiting the great
judgment day.

Reginald and Ann Newbolt had been little more
than children when they came to the Abbey, and
the very atmosphere of the place seemed to seize
upon their imaginations.  They felt kindly towards
the dead monks and towards the De Lisles, whose
portraits hung in the long gallery which ran the
length of the quadrangle.  They became, to their
father's horror, Royalists.  Reginald at fifteen
refused to join the Parliamentary forces, though his
father could have obtained for him a first-rate
appointment.  Had he been older, he would have gone
straight over to the other side; but the final defeat
of the king and his death prevented him from
taking that step.

A year or two before our story opens the young
man had gone abroad, had visited King Charles in
Holland, and sworn allegiance to him.  This was
unknown to his father, and upon his return he had
contented himself with following the natural course
of events, fully persuaded in his own mind that
when Cromwell should cease to rule England, the
English nation would recall their rightful monarch.

His was not an isolated case.  There were many
young men--ay, old men too--in England in whom
Charles's death killed republicanism and awoke once
more the smouldering embers of loyalty.

As for Ann, she had not hidden her feelings any
more than Lady Fairfax had done; she worshipped
the martyred king.  Their mother was a Puritan,
of an old Puritan family, and the defection of her
children was a source of infinite trouble to her.
She ruled her house with Puritanical strictness.
Morning and evening the whole family assembled
for the reading of the Bible and for prayers.  She
herself dressed in the plainest attire, without
furbelows or jewels of any kind.  Her maids and the
men who served in the house were clothed after
the same fashion.  Ann at one time sought to
array herself something after the mode of the
French court, with laces and ribbons, and with
her hair curled; but her mother would not have it,
and more than once she was sent to her chamber
to dress herself decently; and so wisely Ann yielded
to her mother, and wore the plain muslins and sober
colours which marked a Puritan girl.

With her son Mistress Newbolt never discussed
matters, for she knew that he would not yield to
her one inch.  He had told her once and for all,
when he was quite a lad, that he was a king's
man, and that he would never draw his sword in
any other cause.  He was her own son, as steadfast
as she was, in holding fast by what he considered
to be right.  At the present moment she was deeply
grieved at her husband's action in furthering the
accession of Charles II.

It was of no use for Colonel Newbolt to reason
with his wife, to show her that the kingdom could
not be governed by such men as Richard Cromwell,
and who else was there to govern it?  The nation at
large called for their sovereign, for their old race of
kings; and he, Colonel Newbolt, hoped and believed
that the new king had learnt wisdom in exile, and
would govern with equity and justice.  He said as
much to his wife, but Mistress Newbolt laughed
scoffingly.  "Did you ever know a Stuart govern
wisely?" she asked.  "That man, Charles Stuart,
will surely bring his mother back again and lodge
her in Somerset House with her French people and
her priests, where so lately the Lord Protector hath
lain in state.  Ay, the tide has turned, and you with
it; but as for me, I stand by the good cause, as befits
the daughter of one who fell at Dunbar."

So there was a sharp division in the house.  Mistress
Newbolt spoke little, but they sometimes heard
her singing slowly and fervently in her own room to
the old tune sung before the victory at Dunbar:

   |  "O Lord our God, arise and let
   |  Thine en'mies scattered be;
   |  And let all them that do Thee hate
   |  Before Thy presence flee".
   |

Hearing her one day as they stood together at the
window in the picture gallery, Ann said to her
brother:

"If only she does not persuade our father to
change his mind again!"

"She will not do that; my father's mind is fixed
for once," answered Reginald.  "He said only the
other day, 'The great Lord Protector is dead; there
is none to take his place; we can but trust the future
to God.  It were foolish for me to set my face against
the new order of things.  I should neither make nor
mend, and I should probably lose all I have
gained--my lands and my money'."

Ann bent her head.  "Yes, that holds him," she
said.  "He loves this place; he would not part with
it on any consideration."

"But suppose the rightful heir should turn up?"
said Reginald.

"There is no rightful heir," answered Ann; "the
last man died at Worcester, childless."

"Was he married?" asked Reginald.

"Oh, yes!" said Ann; "there is an old woman
down the village who knew him, and saw his young
bride when he brought her home to this very house,
a lovely girl, she said, too tender to weather the
storms of these rough times; so when her husband
died, she, broken-hearted, died also."

"And we have stepped into their place," said
Reginald; "at least, there is no one to reproach us with
it.  No one seems to have any claim except perhaps
some distant cousins of the late De Lisles I once
heard of."

"Have you ever tried to find out aught concerning
these De Lisles?" asked Ann.

"Yes I have," answered Reginald, "for I have
always had a sort of feeling against ousting people
out of their rights."

"Ah, well! it would make no difference," said
Ann, "for my father told me that the deeds which
gave us this estate were well and securely made out
to him and to his heirs for ever."

"For ever!" repeated Reginald, with a light laugh;
"as if there could be a for ever in this world."  And
he turned on his heel and went his way across the
quadrangle beneath the great porch, where Ann lost
sight of him.

"If he did find a lost heir," said Ann, "he is
capable of throwing up his inheritance, at least if he
were the master, which he is not."

As Reginald swung down the broad avenue of
lime-trees, he saw his father coming towards him.
It vexed him, for they had but little in common.

Colonel Newbolt was a man who had risen from
the people.  He had displayed considerable military
talents, which Cromwell had been quick to recognize
and to make use of; so he had pushed John Newbolt,
stirring up his ambition and throwing titbits to him
as one does to a hungry dog, and Newbolt had
responded.  He was not a man likely to go back, or to
suffer himself to be defrauded of what he had gained
honestly, as he considered, therefore he now
persuaded himself that the change in his political
opinions was both desirable and lawful.  His position
had been, according to his lights, honestly won, both
in the field and in Parliament, where he had taken
his seat.  It was but natural that he should desire
to retain his place and wealth, and hand them down
to his son.

He was glad that circumstances had enabled him
to join hands with Reginald, and, as is often the case,
his new loyalty was somewhat exaggerated, almost to
bravado.

"Well, Reggie, will you be ready to ride
to-morrow?" he asked boisterously, as he came up
towards him.

"Where to?" asked the youth.

"Why, to London, of course, man!  We must
not be laggards.  I would not miss the king's
entrance into the city for a hundred pounds."

"I had not thought of going so soon," said Reginald;
"but if you desire it, I will accompany you."

"I do desire it," said his father; "we will go
together."

"As far as London," said Reginald; "but as for
presenting myself with you before the king, I cannot
do that; I have no place at court."

"Tush, tush, man!" said his father, "we will soon
find you one."

"Thanks! but I am in no hurry," said Reginald;
"nevertheless I will ride with you.  I should like to
see the pageant, and shout 'Long live the king!'"

A cloud had gathered on the colonel's brow.  He
perceived only too clearly that his son was unwilling
to appear at court under his auspices, and he did not
dare to press the matter, because, though Reginald
was always respectful and in a general way obedient,
the father was afraid of him.  He knew it was a case
of "so far and no farther".

"When are you thinking of starting?" asked Reginald.

"Not later than to-morrow early," said the colonel,
"so see you are ready.  You had better take two
men for your own service, and I will take two for
myself.  Look to their clothes, their horses' harness,
and their appointments altogether.  I would not be
behind my fellows."

"Am I to go as a Cavalier or as a Roundhead?"
said his son.

"Roundhead!" answered his father furiously.
"Who talks of Roundheads?  Are we not all Cavaliers?
Why, if you play your cards well, you may
yet be Sir Reginald Newbolt."

"Nay," said Reginald, "there are many better
men than we are, Father, who have won knighthood
fighting for the king; they must come first, we after,
if at all."

"Nonsense!" said his father; "if our new king
picks and chooses like that, he will make a great
mistake.  Why, who are bringing him back?  Not
Royalists, but Cromwell's men.  Let him remember
that!"

Reginald shrugged his shoulders.  "At least I
should not put myself to the fore, if I were you,
Father."

"You are a fool, Reginald.  If I hold back I shall
seem half-hearted, and that would never do.  I shall
ride and meet the king on his way to London,
and join his escort.  Will you come with me or not?"

"As far as London we will ride together," said
Reginald, "but then we will part company.  You
are an old soldier; I am not yet sworn in."

His father looked at him askance.  "Do you
doubt me, Reginald?"

"Not for one moment," answered his son; "but
in this matter I desire to stand alone.  We can never
tell, Father; I have a clean record, which may be of
use to you."

The colonel laughed.  "I don't think I run much
danger.  Why, there is scarce a man who is welcoming
Charles to London who has not fought with the
Parliamentarians.  He would have to take a scythe
if he were to sweep off the heads of all those who
have fought against him.  And there is the Treaty
of Breda to protect us."

"You forget the clause," said Reginald.

"Tut, tut!" answered the colonel.  "De Vere and
a few others will be arrested; the rest will get off."

"Possibly," said Reginald, "but I doubt it."

At that moment the supper-bell rang out from the
belfry, and father and son went together into the
great hall, which had been the refectory of the monks.
It was a beautiful place, with carved oak panelling
and fretted roof; but Ann noticed as she sat beside
her father that he was somewhat querulous that
night, and drank deeper than was his wont.

"Has anything happened?" she asked Reginald
after supper, looking at her father.

"Nothing that I am aware of," answered Reginald.
"Good-night, little one!"  And so they parted.

Father and son rode forth together the following
morning on their way to London.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Somerset House`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center large bold

   Somerset House

.. vspace:: 2

Somerset House, the English home in which Agnes
now found herself, was very different from the
magnificent but sombre Louvre she had left.

It stood almost in the centre of a great bend of
the Thames, so that from its fine terrace could be
seen, on one side the city of London, with its countless
spires and its old bridge, on the other the king's
palace and gardens of Whitehall and the great Abbey
of Westminster.

Built by the Protector Somerset, it had been
greatly improved for Queen Henrietta Maria, who
had furnished it with consummate taste.

On its charming south front, looking out over the
river, in full sunshine, were the queen's principal
apartments: her presence-chamber, private sitting-room,
and her bed-chamber, all protected by the
guard-room.  Her windows looked down on wide,
trim lawns, in the centre of which was a basin and
fountain, while beyond was a broad terraced walk,
the walls of which were at each high tide washed by
the Thames.

A handsome flight of steps led down to the river,
where the queen's barge was moored.  The Thames
was a high-road full of life and movement, for every
nobleman kept a splendid barge, rowed by many men
in fine liveries.

Beyond the queen's apartment were the smaller
rooms occupied by the Princess Henrietta and Agnes
Beaumont, who, though she was but twelve years
old, was raised to the dignity of maid of honour to
the princess, thus establishing her right to be always
beside her in private and in public.  Agnes was tall
for her age and slim; the golden curls of her
childhood had darkened to a rich auburn; her features
were delicate but very marked; her complexion fair,
with a soft pink colouring which suited well with the
brown eyes and dark, long lashes.  She had been a
beautiful babe, and now she was a fair girl, little
more than a child still, but giving great promise of a
beautiful womanhood.

Young as she was, there was a stateliness in her
carriage which betokened high birth.  More than
once the queen laughed with Patience:

"We cannot hide her dignity if we would," she
said; "she carries her head too high for common folk."

Patience smiled.  "Well, well," she said, "her
father did the same.  The proverb says, 'Pride will
have a fall'.  Thank God she cannot fall much lower
than she has!"

"Nay," answered the queen, "we will make of her
a duchess.  My son the king noticed her the other
day and remarked upon her beauty, and he is no
mean judge," she added with a light laugh.

But Patience flushed crimson.  "I would sooner
his majesty did not cast his eyes on her," she said
in a low voice.

"Pshaw!" answered the queen, "she is but a child."

"A child who will be a woman before we know it,"
said Patience.  "His majesty's court is too gay for
such young fledgelings."

"Well spoken, Patience!" said a man's voice
behind the queen.  "Why, methinks my lord Cromwell's
spirit still dwells amongst us in our own house.
You will be a Puritan yet, Patience."

Patience made no answer, but bowed and went out.

Then the speaker, Lord Jermyn, took the queen's
hand, kissed it, led her to a chair, and at a sign from
her sat down beside her.

"Patience is right," he said.  "I would keep
those children away from Whitehall as much as possible.
The king has had but a dull time of it in exile;
he is making up for it now."

Henrietta shrugged her shoulders.  "My nephew's
court in Paris is no better," she said, "and there
Henrietta, when she is Duchess of Orleans, will have
to live, and probably Agnes will go with her."

"Time enough for that," answered Lord Jermyn.
"Do not brush the bloom off the flowers sooner than
need be.  They are the prettiest couple at court,
those two, in their young freshness.  Have you
spoken to the king concerning Agnes?"

"No, there's time enough," answered the queen.
"It were difficult for the king to act at present.  The
estates have passed out of his hands, and he would
raise a hornet's nest if he attempted to take them
from their present owner."

"I think you are wrong," said Lord Jermyn; "the
sooner such things are done the better.  If his
majesty cannot restore to her her rightful heritage,
then he must create a new one for her."

"That is probably what he will do," said the
queen.  "These are early days, and his hands are full.
His first duty is to do what he is doing, punish the
murderers of his father."

"Ah, well! he is doing that without mercy," said
Lord Jermyn, and there was a certain bitterness in
his tone.

"Do you regret it?" asked Henrietta, looking up
at him.

"I suppose it has to be," he answered.  "But
such men as Harrison and Carew are being raised to
the dignity of martyrs; they die like men for the
cause they believe in.  There, we will not speak of it.
I wish it were all over."

"I agree with you, my lord," said the young Duke
of Gloucester, who had just come in.  "I wish it were
all over, this judging and this killing.  I cannot pass
in the streets but I see the scaffolds, and men dying
thereon with such firmness and show of piety, with a
semblance of joy in their sufferings."  And the young
Duke covered his face with his hands.  "Mother,
cannot you stop it?" he asked.

"Stop the avenging of your father's death!  Nay,
Henry, that I cannot do."

"Then, Mother, pray the king not to have the
scaffold so near us as Charing Cross, or else I will
go hence and never visit you.  My Lord Jermyn,
plead for me."  And the prince hastily left the room,
and, going along the gallery, knocked at the door
of his sister's apartment.

It was Agnes who opened to him.  She was
startled at the pallor of his face.

"Is your royal highness ill?" she asked.

"No, Agnes, but I am sick at heart and I am
sorely puzzled."

"Come in," said she, "and tell us what ails you."

The young duke entered, threw himself into an
arm-chair by the hearth, covering his face with his
hands.  The Princess Henrietta came and knelt
beside him.

"Tell me what ails you, Henry?" she asked.

"I would go hence, Henrietta, to that kingdom
where my father wears an immortal crown; these
earthly baubles are not worth the lives they cost.
It is all so puzzling.  What is truth?  My Father
died for it because he believed in his cause.  These
regicides who voted his death are as sure as he was
that they are in the right.  I was in the crowd to-day
when a man was being dragged upon a hurdle to
his shameful death.  His face was placid and even
cheerful.  A low wretch called out to him, 'Where is
your good old cause now?' and he answered with a
smile, clapping his hand upon his heart, 'Here it is,
and I am going to seal it with my blood.'  And as
he went on his way I heard him call out, 'I go to
suffer for the most glorious cause that ever was in
the world.'"  As if maddened by the sight he had
seen, the young duke rose, saying, "It is all wrong!
It is all wrong!  There is no right; I wish I were
out of it!"

They soothed and calmed him, and he remained
all the afternoon in the princess's apartment; but
Patience did not like the look of him.

"He is sickening for something," she said.

Later, when he tried to stand he could not, his
head was dizzy; so they carried him to his chamber
and they sent for the leech.  Perceiving he had high
fever, they bled him, and said, "He will be well on
the morrow."

Upon the morrow he was not well; indeed, the
fever had gained upon him and his mind wandered.
His sister Henrietta would have gone to him, but
the leech would not permit it.

"We cannot tell what he is sickening for," he said.

A few days later the whole court was scared, for
it was known that the Duke of Gloucester had been
attacked by that terrible disease small-pox, which
made as much havoc in high places as in low slums.
That he had been up to the very last with the young
girls, caused both the queen and Patience great
anxiety.  They were removed at once from Somerset
House and taken to Hampton Court, that they
might breathe fresh country air, and so rid
themselves of infection.  Matters went badly with the
prince.  The disease assumed its most virulent form,
and within a fortnight his wish was granted; he had
passed from earth to heaven.

And so the court for a time was thrown into
mourning, and Henrietta and Agnes were not permitted
to return until there should be no fear of any
further infection.  When the first shock was over
they enjoyed beyond measure their country life;
those beautiful gardens laid out by Cardinal Wolsey
afforded them never-ending pleasure.  True, it was
winter time; but the ponds and lakes were frozen
over, and after much pleading and the taking of
many precautions they were suffered to go upon
the ice under the care of some of the gentlemen of
the court.  Neither of them knew how to skate.
Henrietta was timid and would not even try to go
alone, holding on to her cavalier's hand, and
sometimes hardly moving; but Agnes grew impatient.

"Look at that young man and the girl out yonder!"
she said, pointing to a couple who were skimming
over the lake like birds.  "It seems so easy."

As she uttered the words the couple approached
and heard her.  The young man was handsome,
with fair hair and blue eyes, and with a certain
nobility of face.  The girl was like him; there was
no mistaking they were brother and sister.

"You are right.  It is quite easy," said the girl,
as she caught Agnes's last words.  "Will you let us
help you?"

"Oh, I shall be so glad, so very glad!" answered
Agnes.  "It is cold and stupid standing here and
creeping about."  And before Patience could
intervene, she had given one hand to the girl, the other
to the young man, and was off between them, slipping
and sliding and laughing.  But they steadied her
and told her how to use her feet, guiding her gently,
making it so easy for her that soon she began to feel at
home, and with her natural boldness ventured to say:

"Now let me go, let me go alone!"

"You can't," said the young man; "better not
try to-day."

"Oh, I must!" said Agnes, and so they let her go.

One step, two steps, then she staggered; but they
caught her before she had time to fall.

"You will soon learn; children always do," said
the young man.

"Child!" she cried; "I am not a child.  I am over
twelve years old, and maid of honour to Princess
Henrietta Maria.  Who are you?"  And she threw
up her head and looked him in the face.

His blue eyes laughed quizzically: "I am Reginald
Newbolt," he said, "and this is my sister Ann.  We
are not grand people like you."

"I am not grand at all; I am nobody," Agnes
answered, colouring.  "I must go; Patience is signing
to me, and Princess Henrietta is shivering on the
side of the lake.  Will you come again to-morrow
and help me?  I should like to be friends with you."

"We shall be only too glad," answered Ann.
"We will come every day as long as the frost lasts.
Now we will take you back to your people."

They took her hands and made her skate in time
with them.

"To think I can go so well with you and not
alone!" she said.  "It is annoying."

"You need not fear," said Reginald.  "In a few
days you will go alone; you have the knack of it."

They reached the edge of the lake where the
princess and Patience were standing.

"Oh, it is so cold!" exclaimed the princess,
shivering; "and it is very imprudent of you to go
off like that, Agnes."

"I am sorry to have vexed you," the girl answered;
"but it was just lovely.  Will you not try, Princess?
This is Mr. Reginald Newbolt and his sister Ann."

Doffing his cap, Reginald bowed to the princess
and Ann curtsied.  Henrietta having recovered
from her ill-temper, as she always did quickly, had
seen that to all outward appearance they were
gentlefolk.  She gave them a stately bow, then
repeated:

"Now we must go home, Agnes; I am frozen."

"I must take off my skates first," answered
Agnes, and she sat down at the edge of the lake
while Patience undid the straps.  Then she rose.

The princess took Patience's arm and turned
towards home.  Agnes followed with Mr. Delarry,
who said:

"You make friends easily, Mistress Agnes.  Do
you know who that young man is?"

"Did you not hear me tell the princess that he is
Mr. Reginald Newbolt, and that it is his sister who
is with him?" she asked.

"Well, they make a handsome couple," said
Mr. Delarry.  "Newbolt!  Did you say this man's name
was Newbolt?"

"Yes," said Agnes; "do you know them?"

"I know him after a fashion," answered Mr. Delarry.
"His father is, I believe, Colonel Newbolt.
He is, like many another, an old Parliamentarian who,
to feather his nest, turned king's man and welcomed
the king back.  The young man is seeking a commission
in the king's guards and will probably get it,
to the detriment of other and better men."

Agnes's face clouded over.  "I am sorry his father
was on the wrong side," she said.

"You need not trouble, or you will have to be
sorry for many," said Mr. Delarry; "but this young
fellow is a new recruit, and never drew his sword in
the late war.  They say he refused a commission in
Cromwell's army."

"I am glad of that," said Agnes, her face
brightening.  "There will be no harm in my skating with
them to-morrow, will there, Mr. Delarry?"

"None whatever, if Mistress Patience sees none.
He is a handsome fellow, Mistress Agnes, and will
make a fine cavalier."

"I like handsome men," she answered, with
childish glee; "and his sister too is pleasant, but she
is prim."

"I hear her mother is a strict Puritan," said
Mr. Delarry, "and that the colonel had much trouble in
getting her to come up to London with his son and
daughter.  She will not show herself at court, much
to his displeasure.  Have a care, Mistress Agnes,
or you will be turning Puritan too!"

"Oh, no!" Agnes answered, laughing.  "I do
not like them at all, at least the few of them I have
seen in the streets.  Patience has pointed them out
to me; they are mostly dressed in black, with white
ruffles and high hats; they look very stern.  The
women have black cloaks and white coifs.  I like
our own pretty clothes best, and our gay cavaliers
with their broad hats and sweeping plumes."

Delarry smiled at her.  "You are such a child,
Miss Agnes, still.  I thought you were to be a grown
woman when you came to England."

"Oh, it is coming, coming very fast!" she said.
"Good-bye, Mr. Delarry!"  And she left him, and
ran forward to join the princess.

"You talk to everybody," said Henrietta to her
reproachfully.  "I never knew such a child.  What
have you been talking to Mr. Delarry about now?"

"Only about my new friends," answered Agnes.
"Oh, you will be nice, Henrietta, and skate with
them to-morrow, won't you?  They just fly over the
ice.  It is the most delicious sensation I ever knew.
They say in two or three days I shall go alone,
and then," she added mischievously, "let who can
catch me."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`New Friends`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center large bold

   New Friends

.. vspace:: 2

On the following day Henrietta was nothing loath
to have good sport with Agnes, and Patience was
forced to yield to their desires.  Down to the lake
they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a
little persuasion Henrietta ventured on the ice.  They
brought a chair for her, and she was content at first
to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her
hands to Ann and Reginald and went off.  Presently
she came back alone, so sure of foot was she; her
figure was so light and easy.

"Do try," she said to Henrietta; "it is just
lovely!"  And the princess let herself be persuaded.

Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there
was much laughter and many tumbles, but no one
was hurt.  The time passed quickly, until the winter
day was drawing to a close, and still they were not
tired.

"I should never be tired," said Agnes, her face
rosy with the keenness of the air, and her eyes very
bright.

This went on for well-nigh a week.  The court
party they were called; they were so happy.  All the
commoners made way for them as they went hither
and thither, gliding over the ice.  Indeed, people
came from afar and stood on the edge of the lake
looking at them.

The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the
principal actors in that scene.  The two girls, muffled
in their soft furs, with their petticoats above their
ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight to
rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things
must be.  The winter sunshine glinted in Agnes's
bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes with the
happiest, softest merriment.

"I never saw such a pretty creature!" said Reginald
to Ann, when she had left them after the day's
sport.

"Take care.  You will be losing your heart to
her!" said Ann, laughing.

"I have done that long ago," he answered.  "The
first time she looked at me she took my heart away
with her.  If I had not been a king's man before, she
would have made me one."

"She is but twelve years old," said Ann, laughing;
"you will have to wait long for her, Reginald."

"And the time will seem but short," he answered,
"if I may but see her once and again.  Do you know
her name, Ann?"

"Agnes, I have heard; nothing more," she
answered.  "But that young man, Delarry, said
casually that she had been the darling of the
queen-mother and the princess ever since she was a baby.
Nobody knows aught about her save the queen and
Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France
when she was almost in swaddling clothes."

"I was sure of it," said Reginald.  "She is a
child of one of the great old families; she looks it,
my little sweetheart!"  And from that time forth
Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed
at her and called him her knight, and she was mighty
pleased and made no little boast of her handsome
cavalier.

It was all so open, so fresh, this budding
love; without depth or passion, it had sprung up
like the flowers, and like them was pure and serene.
There was no past, no future for those young
creatures; they lived just for the hour, as with flying
feet they skimmed the ice, the fresh, sharp air
cutting their faces.  The joy of life was with them
and upon them as it never would be again.  They
did not recognize how with each fleeting moment a
joy-note sounded and died away.  In after-years they
would listen for the echo with that intense longing of
hearts which have known unalloyed happiness; would
they hear it again, or would it go from them for ever,
with the flitting moments?  Blessed are those who
like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the
words, "I am so happy, so happy!"

They came like a song of joy to Agnes's lips as she
went hither and thither with Reginald beside her.
He, bending towards her, said with a note of triumph
in his voice:

"I would this might last for ever, my little
sweetheart----"

"For ever!" she repeated.  "For ever!  Why not?"

He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy.
Why tell her nothing lasts for ever?  And so he only
answered, "Why not?"

On the morrow the order came: "Back to Somerset
House; the air is purified; Christmas is coming;
you must come back."

Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald
Newbolt and his sister, and they bade each other
farewell.  "It will not be for long," said the princess.
"I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one
of her maids of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may
live with us, for I have taken a great liking to you."

"I am afraid the queen will not favour me," was
the quiet answer.  "I have not been brought up
after your foreign fashion.  I do not know your ways
or manners.  I am a plain English girl."

"Oh, that does not matter at all!  We have many
English ladies in our suite, and the queen loves them
well."

"But my mother would not let me dwell in the
queen's household; she says it is godless," said Ann,
colouring deeply; "it would, I think, break her
heart."

"Ah well," said Henrietta carelessly, "you must
please yourself if you are so over-strict."

"Say rather, I must obey my mother," answered
Ann; "but nevertheless I am grateful to you and
thank you."  And she stooped and kissed the princess's
hand.  So they parted.

As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her.
He was an Irishman who had been with the queen in
France, and of earthly possessions had few; but he
was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking
things lightly even as the Stuarts did, and, because
of this very carelessness, the noble sweetness of Ann
had attracted him.

They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase.
He paused, bowed before her, saying, "This is
no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall meet in London."

"Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not," returned
Ann.  "The princess is very good and desires to
give me a place at court, but my mother would not
hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct,
and has brought her children up as strictly."

"I am sorry," said Delarry, "but I daresay she is
right.  Still, that will not prevent our meeting,
Mistress Ann.  Your father is serving the king; your
brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely
you will mix in good society?"

"I greatly fear not," answered Ann.  "My mother
says that young maidens should remain at home, and
that the court is full of snares."

Delarry laughed.  "It is pretty bad," he said,
"but you will remember that if you owe your duty
to your mother, you owe it also to the king, your
master.  If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely
you will not refuse.  Somerset House is not Whitehall."

He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured
slightly, for she knew well that the king's palace was
far too gay and frivolous a place for young maidens
who respected themselves.

"If I am summoned to Somerset House," she said,
"and my father desires I should go there, I hope
my mother will let me, for the princess is very sweet
to me and my heart inclines towards her.  As for
little Agnes," and she laughed lightly, "I do not
think we shall lose sight of her.  My brother has lost
his heart to her."

"That is very evident," said Mr. Delarry; "she is
a pretty child."

"I must bid you adieu," said Ann.  She curtsied
and went quickly on her way down the corridor.
Delarry stood a second and watched her till she
disappeared.

"A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn't know they were
so smart," he thought.  "It will not be my fault if
we do not meet again before long, Mistress Ann."  And
so he too went his way.

That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with
Patience, entered the royal coach, and were driven
back to Somerset House.  They were neither of them
very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for
the air was heavy with snow ready to fall.  London
looked dark and sombre when they entered it, with
only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers held
them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver
through the narrow streets of the city.  The courtyard
of Somerset House was also lit up; but it was a
sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother
welcomed them with tears.

"I do not know how it is," she said to her
daughter.  "I loved this country once and I was
happy; now I am miserable here.  I would go
back to France; this death of your brother is an evil
omen."

"Nay, Mother, do not go just yet," said Henrietta.
"We have come home at a bad season of the year.
You tell me that the spring is lovely in England; let
us wait and see;" then, sitting before the fire, she
and Agnes told her what good sport they had at
Hampton Court, and they spoke of Reginald and Ann.

The queen frowned.  "Patience is over-indulgent
to you," she said.  "You have no right to make the
acquaintance of strangers, especially of these
upstarts.  You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he
was one of Cromwell's men.  Now, because it suits
himself and his purse, he is a king's man.  To-morrow,
if it suits him, he will be the people's man again.
I am sick of it all."

"Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage
these people to become faithful lieges to the king?"
said Henrietta.

"Faithful!" said the queen, with a mocking laugh.
"I have ceased to look for faithfulness anywhere.
As soon as you are married, Henrietta--and that
will, I trust, be before long--we will go back to
France.  Your brother's court does not suit me, and
his friends do not suit me.  Your brother, the Duke
of York, is enamoured of Clarendon's daughter, Ann
Hyde, and there has been much scandal--a secret
marriage.  It has set the people talking.  I tell you
I am sick of it all.  There is a vulgarity which
savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now."

Her daughter did not answer her; she could not--she
did not understand what was amiss.  She was but
a girl still.  When she was a woman she understood
better.

Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so
that season brought a certain amount of gaiety and
brightness.  They were not accustomed to make
as much of it in France as in England, where, then
as now, everyone rejoiced, everyone made merry.
It had gone out of fashion to a great extent during
the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back
to their old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great
hall.  It was a good season for the poor, when before
great fires bullocks and sheep were roasted whole
in the streets.  There were mummers, and
morris-dances, and all manner of sports.

To Agnes's great disgust a week or two before
Christmas she received a letter from Ann, telling her
that they were going away down to their country
place, because their mother could not abide in
London.  She was willing to feast the poor in the
country and those who needed help, but the frivolities of
London did not suit her, and she would not stay
there.  Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not
let her come back, which grieved her sorely, for she
loved her friends, and would have gladly served the
Princess Henrietta.

When she received this letter Agnes wept bitterly.

"Is there no means by which she could be brought
to court?" she said to Patience.

"I know of none except by the king's command,"
said Patience, "and unfortunately the queen-mother
is not well inclined towards the Newbolts."

"Where is their country place?" asked Agnes.

"How should I know?" answered Patience.
"They are new people who have old lands which by
rights belong to others."

She spoke bitterly, and Agnes noticed it.

"Well," she said, "I like the Newbolts; I met
the colonel last week when he was presented to the
king.  He is a fine man, but the queen received him
coldly; and when I asked the princess why her
mother did so, she said, 'Because she misdoubts all
old Parliamentarians.  There is not one of them but
had a hand in my father's death'."

"'Well, at least Reginald hadn't,'" I said.  "He
was very young at the time, and both he and Ann
have told me that when they heard of the king's
death they wept and stamped their feet at their
father, saying it was a shame, for which their mother
flogged them both and sent them to bed with bread
and water.  'But it only made us more loyal,' Ann
said.  By the bye, Patience, do you know I saw
Reginald ride past the other day on his way to
Whitehall in the full uniform of the King's Guard?  He
looked so handsome."

"Where did you see him from?" asked Patience.

"Oh, from the stained mullion window in the
corridor behind my room.  I often go and stand
there because I see into the Strand.  I think I like
the town better than the river."

"Happily, it is a stained window, so people do not
see you," said Patience.  "It is not seemly for a
maiden to be staring on to the public road."

"But people do see me," said Agnes.  "Reginald
saw me, and he saluted.  You know he is my knight,
Patience."

"I know I will not suffer you to behave thus,"
said Patience.  "A cavalier saluting a maiden at
her window, above all things a maiden in Somerset
House!  It must not be, Agnes; you are old enough
to know better."

"I do not know what I am," answered the girl
impetuously.  "Sometimes I am a child, sometimes
a girl, sometimes I am almost a grown woman,
as suits your fancy, Patience."  And the big tears
gathered in her eyes and rolled down her face.

"My pretty, my pretty, do not weep," said
Patience, and she put her arm round the girl's waist
and drew her upon her lap.  "You must mind what
I am going to say to you, Agnes," she continued.
"You are not like other girls, and you must be
circumspect.  You have no one to defend you from evil
tongues, no one to lift you up if you were to fall;
you are alone.  The queen loved your mother; your
father died for her husband, and so she harbours
you; but she may not always do so.  The day
may come when she will go back to France, and
that will be no place for you when the princess is
married."

"Why not--why not?" said Agnes.  "I shall go
with her."

"Not if I can help it," answered Patience.  "I love
you too well, my dove, to let you scorch your wings
in the court of the Palais Royal and Versailles.  We
must remain in England, Agnes, and the king must
pension you; it is your due."

"But have I no kith or kin, no one belonging to
me?" asked the girl.

"No one," answered Patience, "at least that I
know of."

"And did my father and mother leave me no
wealth and no lands?" said Agnes.

"What gold they had," said Patience, "I took to
France with me, and all these years it has served us.
There is not much left, and as for lands they are
forfeited.  Cromwell did what he chose with them and
gave them to whom he would.  So you see, my
child, you must be prudent.  One thing you have
which you must hold--your good name."

"Agnes Beaumont," said the girl.

"That is not all, you have another name," said
Patience, looking at her, "but I have sworn not to
reveal it to you until your wedding day or till you are
of age."

"Why not?" she asked.  "Why should not I know
my own name?"

"Because it might be a danger to you," answered
Patience.  "There are those who might wish you ill
and do you wrong.  When you have a husband you
will have someone to defend you; when you are of
age you must judge for yourself."

"Does no one except you know who I am?" asked Agnes.

"Yes, the queen-dowager knows, and the king,"
said Patience.  "When he gives you back what is
yours, then he will tell you himself what your station is."

Tears gathered in Agnes's eyes.

"I do not like it," she said.  "Have I anything to
be ashamed of?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Ashamed!" exclaimed Patience.  "No, indeed! far
from that.  I tell you it is for your own personal
good, to shield you from those who have taken your
lands from you and who might resent their being
restored to you.  You are the last of your race; your
very birth has been hidden, but it will all come right
one day if only you will be patient."

"Very well," said Agnes, "I will ask no questions;
I will wait.  It does not really matter, only I
heard someone say the other day, 'Agnes Beaumont!
What Beaumont is that?' and no one seemed to
know."

"It was your mother's name," said Patience;
"you have a right to bear it, for you were christened
Agnes Beaumont.  Your father's name alone is wanting,
and that you will surely claim one day, either
you or your husband for you."

"Oh, that husband!" said Agnes, laughing; "I
wonder who he will be!"

"A noble gentleman, I trust," said Patience, "who
will give you back all that you have lost."

Agnes pouted.

"I do not care to go to any man as a beggar
girl," she answered proudly.

"That you surely will not," answered Patience.
"Have no fear.  And now let me dress you.  The
princess is going to Whitehall with the queen
to-night, and you are to accompany her.  It is a
mistake, a great mistake," continued Patience; "you are
too young."

"Ah! but I like it," said Agnes; "I like going to
the king's court, and, if the Princess Henrietta goes,
surely it cannot hurt me."

Patience shook her head.

"I am not so sure of that," she said.

"Oh, well, never mind!" said Agnes; "you dear
old thing, you are always frightened lest something
should befall me.  Let me wear my satin gown
embroidered with rosebuds to-night; it becomes me
well."

"You cannot," said Patience; "the court is in
mourning still, have you forgotten?"

"Ah! yes, I forgot," said Agnes.  "The poor duke.
Well, give me my lilac gown with the black knots."  And
thus soberly attired she went to court.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`May-Day`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center large bold

   May-Day

.. vspace:: 2

Time flies for the young; the days, the weeks, the
months seem to have wings; they heed it not, they
are glad, because each day is a new joy, a new surprise.

So it was with the Princess Henrietta and Agnes.
They had no cares, at least Agnes had none.  She
loved the winter, the biting cold, the snow, the frost;
she would go out with Patience in all weathers, and
ofttimes with the princess to St. James's Park, where
they would skate and otherwise disport themselves.
Gradually, however, Agnes fell into the background;
she was too young to be at all the court parties, and
Patience observed this to the queen-dowager.

"She is but a child, and the late hours are injuring
her," she said; "let her abide at home with me."  And
the queen acquiesced; indeed, she knew full well
that the king's court was no place for the young.

Arrangements were being made for Henrietta's
marriage to the Duke of Orleans, and many noblemen
and courtiers came over from France to greet
her.  Her time was much taken up with all this, so
that Agnes naturally drifted into a quieter world, and
was seen less and less in public, excepting when
there were grand receptions at Somerset House.
Some of these she was permitted to attend, for
girls were older for their years in those days than
they are now; still, she was not as much at home in
the court circle as she had been when she was only
a spoilt child.  She did not care for, or rather she
did not understand, the compliments which were
sometimes addressed to her--for she was very pretty,
nay, she was beautiful, and attracted not a little
attention from women as well as men.  She was a
general favourite, and if Patience would have allowed
it she would have had many invitations and have
been made much of.  But Patience was a very
dragon of propriety.

"You shall not go," she said.  "You are too young."

"I do not care to go," Agnes answered.  "I
cannot abide it."

More than once Patience found her asleep, her
pillow wet with tears.  She did not question her,
she guessed what it was.  The first sorrow in her
life would soon come.  In June the Princess
Henrietta was to be married, and then they would be
parted and she would be alone.

"That will not be good for the child," Patience
reasoned.  "What shall I do with her, where shall
I take her?"

A curious thing happened.  Ann Newbolt had
returned to London and little by little had wound
herself into Patience's good graces.  More than
once they had met in the park when Agnes was
taking her morning airing.  Ann was given to
coming thither at the same hour with two dogs
which she brought with her to give them a free run.

"I could not be without them," she would say,
"and so I begged Father to let me bring them up
from the manor for company's sake.  Our big
London house is so dreary."

Now Agnes had never had any animals of her
own, and her delight was great when, after a few
outings, Cæsar and Juno--for so they were
called--learned to know her, and would bound across the
park when they saw her coming, and well-nigh
knock her down with joy.  She would run with
them, she would play with them.  At first this was
much to Patience's displeasure; but Ann had her
old nurse with her, and she said to Patience:

"Let the child be, let her run and play; she is
too much cooped up in your palace.  Do you not
see she is growing pale?"

Ann chimed in, "She is like a hot-house plant;
you are forcing her, Mistress Patience."

"Not I," returned Patience, "but those who
surround her, those who do not understand that
she is a child."

"Why do you not take her into the country and
let her run wild for a year or two?" asked Ann's
nurse.  "Then you would bring her back as fresh and
fair as a rose.  Court life is not good for children."

"I would I could do it," said Patience; "but I
am not mistress."

"Shall you go back to France with the queen?"
asked Ann.

"No, I will not do that," said Patience; "I
would rather carry her away and hide her.  King
Charles's court is bad enough; what the Duke of
Orleans will be I dare not even think.  No, I will
keep my sweet lamb unspotted if I can.  She
knows no evil, therefore she sees none, though she
be hedged in with wrong-doers.  But that will not
always be.  I promised her dear mother I would
protect her, and so, help me God, I will."

"You will do well," said Ann.  "She is a sweet
flower, and worthy of all care; I would she were
my sister."

"I pray I may live to see her an honest man's
wife," said Patience.

Such conversations as these were frequent between
the two, Patience not having the remotest idea that
it was the Newbolts who possessed the lands which
should have been Agnes's heritage.

The Newbolts were equally ignorant that Agnes
was a De Lisle.  To them she was, and had ever
been, plain "Agnes Beaumont", the queen's favourite
and the Princess Henrietta's devoted companion.

But enlightenment was soon to come to Patience.
The winter passed, and the spring began to show
itself.  The trees in the park were budding green;
April showers succeeded March winds, and there
was much gaiety in London.  Gilded coaches went
and came in the streets, barges floated up the
Thames, and no one troubled, though many knew,
that the royal exchequer was well-nigh empty.  The
people adored their king as they had never adored
his saintly father.  Wherever he passed there were
shouts of, "Long live the king!" and his smiles and
bows were received with enthusiasm.

Never had a king been so popular.  There was
laughter and merriment everywhere, dancing and
songs even in the streets.  The only place where
any decorum was observed was at Somerset House.
There the queen-dowager dwelt, and the people
did not love her.  She never had been a favourite.
Many people were ready to lay the blame of her
dead husband's errors upon her shoulders, so they
frowned upon the queen-dowager and her sombre
court, while they laughed at the merry court at
Whitehall, and would not listen to the evil reports
of the goings-on within its precincts.

The pendulum had swung back; the order of the
day had changed; they treated Charles, his follies,
his sins, as they might have treated the peccadilloes
of a spoilt child.  When he rode forth in his gilded
coach or went on horseback through the city with
his favourites and his brother, the Duke of York,
in his rich attire of gold and satin, his long, curled
wig, great hat with plumes which swept almost on
to his shoulders, the people were wild with delight,
and would press round him in their eagerness; and
he would speak to them, calling them his good people,
bidding them make way for him, with that wonderful
charm of manner, that smile, which was the inherent
gift of the Stuart race, and won every heart.  They
cared not what he did nor what he said; he was their
king, their chosen one, their beloved.  If he
squandered money they laughed, and hardly grumbled at
supplying his extravagances.  Had he not suffered
dire poverty in those evil days when Cromwell sat
in his seat and the Puritan preachers thundered
their maledictions against him from St. Paul's Cross?
Every old English custom which could be raked up
was brought to the fore, to the extreme delight of all
men.  He touched for the king's evil, and the sick
believed they were cured.  In the people's imaginings
he could not do wrong, though wrong stared them
in the face.

In olden days there had stood in the Strand a
big May-pole, which was decorated on the first of
May with flowers and ribbons, and round which
sports, and dances, and great merriment were wont
to take place; but when the Puritans were masters
they exclaimed against this device, as they did
against everything that savoured of pleasure, which
they considered unholy.  So the ancient May-pole,
which stood a hundred feet high in the Strand, had
been hewn to the ground; there were no more
sports on May-Day.  Indeed, there were few sports
in England at all during that season of strict
observance of the Sabbath.

Young men and maidens well-nigh forgot how to
dance.  They went softly, they laughed but little,
because at any sign of outward rejoicing their
elders frowned upon them.  The faces of the men
seemed to grow longer, the pretty curls on the
maidens' heads were smoothed away beneath tight-fitting
caps.  It was not a genial time, and so now,
when the sun shone, and the flowers burst forth,
there arose a gentle murmur throughout the land:
"Let us have our May-poles again."

London was, as usual, the first place whence this
cry proceeded, and thousands responded to it--the
king and the Duke of York among the foremost.
Yes, they would have a May-pole, larger and finer
than any previous one.

The citizens of London determined to make a
display of their loyalty.  We read in an old tract
of the times, called "The City's Loyalty Displayed",
how this tree was a most choice and remarkable
piece.  "'Twas made below bridge" (that is, below
London Bridge), and brought in two parts up to
Scotland Yard, near the king's palace of Whitehall,
and thence it was conveyed, on April 14, 1661, to
the Strand, to be erected there.  It was brought
with streamers flourishing before it, drums beating
all the way, and other sorts of music.  It was so
long that landsmen could not possibly raise it;
therefore the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of
England, commanded twelve seamen to come and
officiate in this business.

They came, and brought their cables, pulleys, and
other tackle, along with six great anchors.  After
these were brought three crowns, borne by three men,
bareheaded, and a streamer displayed all the way
before them, drums playing, and other music; people
thronging the streets with great shouts and acclamations
all day long.  The May-pole then being joined
together and looped about with bands of iron, the
crown and cane ("the sceptre"), with the king's
arms richly gilded, was placed on the head of it.  A
large hoop like a balcony was about the middle of it.
Then, amidst sounds of trumpets and drums, and
loud cheering, and the shouts of the people, the
May-pole, far more glorious, bigger, and higher than any
that had preceded it, was raised upright, "which",
we are told, "highly pleased the merry monarch and
the illustrious prince, the Duke of York, and the little
children did much rejoice, ancient people did clap
their hands, saying, 'the golden days had begun to
appear'.  A party of morris-dancers came forward,
finely decked with purple scarves and their half
shirts, with tabor and pipe--the ancient music--and
danced round about the May-pole."

This went on for some time, and there never was
seen again such a May-day as in this year of Our
Lord, 1661.

From the windows of Somerset House Princess
Henrietta and Agnes watched the ceremonies.  The
putting up and the decking of this token that "the
summer had come ", aroused a more tenacious loyalty
than ever.

Day by day, as they watched, Agnes's excitement
increased; it was no use for Patience to tell her she
should not be seen at the open window.

"I must, I must!" she cried; and, indeed, it would
have been cruel to hinder her.

All over England that May-Day was remembered
long afterwards.  The king had come into his rights
again, the people had come into theirs, and they
would not be gainsaid.

As for Agnes, she tried to put care on one side,
though she knew that Henrietta's marriage loomed
not far distant; sometimes she wondered what was
to become of her when it was accomplished.  Once
or twice she approached Patience on the subject, but
she frowned and answered her:

"Do not trouble, child.  Think ye that you are
of less account than the sparrows on the
house-tops or the lilies in the field?"  And she would
hurry away, leaving Agnes with her own thoughts
and her own fears.

No wonder if on the child's face there came a
serious expression, a certain sadness, which is often
to be seen on the faces of children who are motherless
and fatherless, a sort of yearning for something,
they know not what, that has been denied to them.

And yet Agnes was not unhappy.  Mistress Newbolt
had refused at first to come up to London, but
the colonel had insisted she should do so.

"It is injuring Ann's prospects," he said, "and
I cannot entertain guests in a house where there is
no mistress."  Therefore she had been obliged to
yield, but she did so only in so far that she ruled the
servants and saw that there was no wilful waste.
For herself she remained in her own apartments, and
would not join in the entertainments which her
husband delighted in, neither would she permit Ann to
do so.

Thus it came to pass that Agnes and Ann drew
closer and closer one to the other.  Not a day
passed but they saw one another.  Agnes
delighted to go to their house, and, strange to tell,
Mistress Newbolt took a vast liking to her.  She
would let her follow her into her store closet; she
would let her watch her make the dainty comfits
for which she was renowned; and she would send
her away with all manner of good things piled
in a little basket which she kept for that purpose.
But if she did her these kindnesses, she insisted
that every time she came to see her she should go
with her to her closet, and there she would read
to her some portion of the Bible and would pray
with her.  Agnes conformed meekly to her desires.
She looked upon her as a saint, and though she was
stern and cold, and never caressed her, there was a
certain motherliness about her which appealed to the
child's heart.

So the month of June came, and the Princess
Henrietta was carried over to France to meet the
saddest fate that can befall any woman, namely to
marry a bad man.  Agnes thought her heart would
break when she bade her and the queen adieu.
Indeed, she fell quite sick with sorrow, lay on her bed,
turned her face to the wall, and would not be
comforted.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A First Parting`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center large bold

   A First Parting

.. vspace:: 2

Queen Henrietta had been loath to part from
Agnes, and she would have kept the child about her
person had it been possible for her to do so, and had
Agnes been a few years older; but to take a child just
budding into girlhood alone, without any other
companion, or without any definite object in view, to the
French court seemed folly.

It had been settled that Patience should make a
home for her in England.  The queen had spoken
seriously to the king about Agnes, and he had
settled a pension on her, "until I can do better,"
he said.  "But we must first find out to whom
her estates have passed.  I'll enquire into the
matter.  I do not suppose I shall be able to
restore them to her; but something shall be done either
when she marries or comes of age.  Till then I
will give her a suite of apartments at Hampton
Court."

"That is good," said Henrietta, "and my little
lady shall have her town house too, for I will leave
Patience in charge of my private apartments in
Somerset House.  I do not care for all manner of
people to have access to them, and so Agnes can
come to town when she likes."

"And to court when she is old enough," said
Charles, with a merry laugh and twinkling eye.

"No, your majesty," answered Henrietta, "she
must wait for that till my return, and until her
position is settled.  She has no womankind to watch
over her except Patience, so she must abide at home."

"As you please," said Charles carelessly.  So the
matter was settled.

Henrietta explained all this to Patience, Agnes
standing by and listening.  They even went out to
Hampton Court and looked at the apartments which
the king had ordered to be prepared for her.  The
rooms were bright enough, looking out upon a sort
of private garden, in a wing of the palace.  The
queen thought them poorly furnished, and added
many little comforts and graceful remembrances,
which made them look more home-like.

At times over this unfortunate queen's soul, seared
and wounded by sorrow, the old gaiety, the warm,
affectionate nature with which she was endowed,
would once more show itself, oftener perhaps to
Agnes than to anyone else, even oftener than to her
own daughter.

"She grows so like her mother," she said one day
to Patience, tears filling her eyes, and then she would
give Agnes some present, and make much of her.

"My little girl," she said at parting, "it costs me
a great deal to leave you behind, but I think Patience
is right.  You have much to learn.  Apply yourself to
study; both you and Henrietta have been neglected.
It does not matter for her--the women at the French
court are for the most part ignorant, some of them
can scarcely read or write; but your home will be in
England--your father and mother desired it--and
some women are very learned in England.  I have
left you good teachers, a tutor, and a governess, so
see that your time is well employed."

Then she kissed her.

It was a very lonely little maiden who walked on
the terrace of Somerset House, a beautiful
dove-coloured greyhound, which the queen had given her,
her only companion.  The animal kept close to its
little mistress, thrusting its long muzzle into her hand
as if to console her, its speaking brown eyes looking
up at her as if to say, "Never mind.  We are both
young; we shall see them again"; and so she paced
up and down the terrace, then, bidding Duke lie
down and wait for her, she entered the chapel--a
lovely piece of architecture, the work of Inigo
Jones--the doors of which were always kept open, though,
now the queen was gone, they would be closed.

It required considerable tact in those difficult
religious times to bring up a child born of English
parents in the midst of the French court.  But
Patience was a wise woman, broad-minded, and with
what was then an almost unknown quality, a vast
toleration.  She held an anomalous position in the
queen's household, even as Agnes herself did; but
the marked deference the queen-mother showed her,
made it evident that she was a person of high
station.  The education both of Agnes and the
Princess Henrietta was left, to a very great extent, in
her hands; it was the same with the religious
teaching, the princess had the court chaplain, but
Agnes knelt with Patience and learnt the great
truths of religion from her lips; she guarded her
soul as she guarded her body, she would allow of no
religious discussions in her presence.  To the grand
services of the Church of Rome she did not take
her.  "You are too young, you would not
understand," she said; but morning and evening she
would go with her into one of the many beautiful
churches in Paris, and in silence and devotion watch
and pray.  So the child learnt all reverence and the
great gospel truths.  The Bible was a familiar book
to her, read in their quiet chamber.  "When you are
older you will learn many other things," she told
her; and since they had come to England Agnes
had awakened to the knowledge that the Christian
Church was divided against itself.  Sometimes the
thought troubled her.  Her soul was growing, she
was striving to see and understand.  Instinctively
now, in this her first sorrow, she sought comfort
where alone she knew it could be found, and so she
entered the beautiful chapel and knelt and prayed
that her friends might be given back to her.  Then
she crossed her arms on the back of the prie-Dieu,
and her tears flowed fast and little sobs escaped her.
Suddenly she felt a hand laid on her shoulder, and
looking up she saw Patience.  They both gazed into
each other's eyes and smiled.

"Be comforted, sweetheart," whispered Patience;
and the beauty of her face, the saintliness of it,
struck Agnes as it had never done before.

In truth, Patience, even in appearance, was by no
means an ordinary woman.  She had a marked
personality, was tall and slight, holding herself very
erect, always dressed in black, plainly but not
inelegantly.  She had a certain distinction about her.
In age she could not have been more than forty, and
she did not look that even.  Under her white coif
her brown hair waved softly; there were no wrinkles
or marks of age upon her face; her hazel eyes were
clear, but with an ineffable sadness in them--indeed,
sadness was the note which Patience struck.  She
was seldom seen to smile; even when Agnes was a
little child she played with her sadly; but she loved
her so intensely that the child did not feel this
sadness.  She would sooner be with Patience than with
anyone; Patience meant home to her.  She seldom
openly caressed her, but then her whole life toward
Agnes was one caress, and instinctively the child felt
this.

Now she rose quickly from her knees, and threw
her arms round her neck, murmuring:

"At least I have you, my own dear Patience; you
have not forsaken me."

"Did you think that possible, my darling?"  And
taking her by the hand, she led her out into the open.
With a short bark of joy and a prolonged whine,
Duke sprang upon them.

"I was looking for you," said Patience, "and
could not find you.  Duke saw me coming along the
terrace, and bounded whining to me.  'Where is
Agnes?' I asked him.  He turned, leapt towards
the chapel, looking round to see that I followed him."

"Ah, he is a dear dog!" said Agnes, laying her
hand on his head.  "Why were you looking for me,
Patience?  You knew I should not be far."

"Because you forget you are alone now," was the
quiet answer, "and you must not wander away; it
is not safe for a young girl like you to be alone.
You know how seldom I left you and the princess,
and then you had an attendant."

"I thought that was for the princess," said Agnes,
"because of her high dignity.  It does not matter
about me; I am nobody."

A slight smile played round Patience's mouth.
"We are all somebody," she said; "we have our
honour to safeguard, and a young maiden cannot be
seen alone, in these times especially."

"Is that why I am to have a governess?" asked
Agnes sharply.  "I do not like it; let me stay with
you, Patience."

"For you to run away as you have done now?"
was the answer.  "Besides, you need someone to
teach you many things of which I am ignorant."

"And I am to have a tutor too; I cannot require
both," Agnes continued.  "We shall be happier
alone, Patience, you and I.  I will promise you I will
work and never run away; and when you want to
leave me, to see after the queen's affairs, Ann Newbolt
will come and sit with me or stay with me if her
mother will let her.  I cannot have a governess
sending me to the right and to the left; it would
drive me wild; *that would* make me run away."

"Well, we will see," said Patience; "I am not
much inclined for it."

"Oh, you are not inclined for it at all!" said
Agnes.  "Think of someone always present in our
quiet evenings, or when we stroll about as we are
doing now; a third party would not be pleasing to
either of us.  If I must needs always have someone
with me, then there is old Martha; surely she will
frighten anyone away, and snarl like an angry dog
if man, woman, or child come within ten yards of me."

Again Patience smiled--she never laughed.  It was
a sad smile, as if there lay beneath it a whole world
of memories.

They moved to the edge of the terrace and looked
up and down the river.  The waters sparkled and
shone in the sunlight of this lovely June day.  Barges
went and came, boatmen shouted to one another, the
sky was blue, the light of the sun was dazzling: it
was one of those days which have a touch of Italy in
them--the very air was warm with perfume, and the
scene was so bright that it seemed to sweep away
the great sadness which had oppressed Agnes.

"Yes, you will think about it, Patience," she
persisted.  "We must be happy together, you and I.
After all, I knew the princess would go one day."

Once more the tears gathered in her eyes; but
they did not fall, for coming towards them was
Reginald Newbolt.

He made them a deep bow, his plumed hat sweeping
the ground, and his young handsome face alight
with kindly sympathy.  He saw the tears in Agnes's
eyes, but taking no note of them, said:

"My mother has sent me to ask you on this lovely
day to go with her in our barge to the park at
Greenwich, which adjoins the palace.  It is well in
the country, and the air is fresher there than it is
here in the city.  You must come, because my mother
so seldom proposes anything approaching a diversion.
I have not known her go beyond the precincts
of her own home for years.  I think, Mistress Agnes,
you have thrown your spell upon her."

Agnes blushed.  "I should like to go," she said.
"Can we, Patience?"

"Why not?" was the quiet answer, for Patience
knew that Mistress Newbolt had conceived this plan
to divert Agnes from her sadness.

"Yes, we will go," she said.  "Where is the barge?"

"At London Bridge.  You can use your own till
you get there, then you will use ours.  Ann and
mother will be waiting for us."

A barge not unlike a Venetian gondola always
stood moored to the steps leading down from the
terrace to the water's edge, so they had not far to
go.  The distance to London Bridge was but short,
and during the journey to Greenwich Agnes found
herself made much of, not allowed to grieve or feel
herself alone.  She was verily a spoilt child, and
whilst Patience and Mistress Newbolt sat beneath
the trees in the Park, Agnes, Reginald, and Ann
wandered into the quaint old garden of the palace
known as "The Queen's House", filled with all the
blossoms of summer, scented with great bunches of
lavender and sweet marjoram.  As they strolled
about there the strength of her youth overcame the
sorrow of her heart, and the great world in which
Agnes had lived so lonely, fine gentlemen and ladies,
valets and maid-servants, all those accessories to
court life, seemed to drop away from her as useless
and cumbersome.  The sweetness and simplicity of
nature, as she had never known it before, crept over
her.  She had lived all her life in palaces surrounded
by etiquette, now for the first time in her life she
walked with quiet folk, with neither queens nor
princesses, only with this simple maiden Ann and this
young man, who, notwithstanding his military attire,
was so easy and kindly of manner that she had no
fear of him.  To divert her thoughts Reginald and
his sister talked to her about things of which she
knew little--the country, the flowers.  They told her,
too, of Newbolt Manor, and how pleasant it was up
in the bonnie north.

"But you have not always dwelt there?" said Agnes.

"No," answered Ann, "we are new people.
Cromwell gave it to my father for his services.  One
thing comforts me," continued Ann, "we have
turned no one out, for there was no heir; the last
owner was killed fighting for King Charles."

"It would not have mattered if there had been an
heir," said Agnes, a little bitterly; "we Royalists
were dispossessed of all we had.  What was the
name of the people who came before you in the land?"

"De Lisle," said Reginald shortly.

An old man busy weeding a pathway suddenly
drew himself up and said sharply:

"De Lisle!  Who talks of the De Lisles?  They
were accursed and driven out, possessors of church
lands.  Fire and sword have purified them; they will
come back again."

He looked from one to another till his eyes rested
on Agnes.  Pointing at her, he added:

"Yea, verily, they will come back to their own
again.  Hate drove them out; love will bring them
back."

There was a prophetic tone in his voice and a
flash in his eye; both died out, and he went back to
his weeding.

"Let us go into the park," said Agnes; "he has
frightened me, I know not why."

Passing through a side gate they entered the park,
crossed a stretch of level grass, and came to the foot
of a steep hill.

"Let's see who will reach the top first," said Ann
gleefully.  "Not you, Reginald, that would not be
fair."  And off she went, Agnes running beside her,
the one a strong north-country girl, the other a fairy
creature, who had never climbed a hill in her life.
But Agnes was so light, so swift, that she outran
her companion, and stood at the top of the hill
clapping her hands and laughing with pleasure.
Reginald with long strides had followed them.

"You are a fay," he said.  "Now let us run down."

"All of us!" exclaimed Agnes, excited with the
unusual motion, and the fresh breezes which came
from land and river.

"Give me your hand," said Reginald, "or you
will be tripping."

She would have resisted, but he took it.  And it was
well he did, for she had not reckoned on the impetus
of a downhill race, and more than once her foot
slipped on the green sward; but he held her firmly,
and they reached the bottom, laughing merrily, her
pretty golden hair all ruffled with the wind, her face
flushed, and her eyes bright.

Ann was equally joyous.  They were a merry trio
when they joined Patience and Mistress Newbolt
under a great oak tree, where a cloth had been
spread, pies, and cakes, and a heap of ripe
strawberries presenting a tempting meal.

Verily there are bright days in life which leave
their mark in our hearts, and bring a rush of
gladness to the eyes and a smile to the lips when we
recall them.

This day was a red-letter day; it had begun sadly,
but it ended brightly.  They re-entered the barge, and
in the quiet evening twilight they floated up the great
river on the top of the tide, and, landing once more
at Somerset House, bade each other farewell, with
a feeling of regret that so lovely a day had its
ending.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A King's Vengeance`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center large bold

   A King's Vengeance

.. vspace:: 2

For some time past both Mistress Newbolt and Ann
had noticed a great restlessness in Colonel Newbolt's
speech and manner.  He was given to great rages.
If anyone came suddenly into the house, he would
start up and question them as to their business;
indeed, it seemed to his family as if he feared
something.

Ann told Reginald this one day, and the young
man looked grave.

"I am not surprised," he answered.  "Matters are
getting serious; the king's exchequer is somewhat
empty and difficult to refill, and those about him are
not scrupulous as to the ways and means by which it
may be replenished.  You know that all the principal
regicides, eighty or ninety odd, some of the best
men, have already been dragged to the scaffold, and
in most cases their property has been confiscated.
But this does not suffice; there are hundreds of
others, gentlemen and commoners, ministers, all
sorts and conditions of men, who, if they did not
vote for the king's death, did not vote against it.
Many have been arrested and thrown into prison;
some have fled to Geneva, where they are safe;
others are in hiding; but some, like my father, have
remained at home, fully persuaded that no harm is
likely to befall them, seeing they have given their
adhesion to Charles II.  But I am much afraid this
will not be enough.  Courtiers are turning a cold
shoulder to them, and I find myself somewhat put
on one side.

"I should not be surprised at any moment if my
father were called to account and in a certain
measure made to refund, for the old Royalists are
clamouring to be restored to their estates and to be
rewarded for their fidelity.  Charles tries to satisfy
them in many cases, but not in all; he cannot, and
there is much discontent.  An empty exchequer and
followers who have despoiled themselves for their
masters are difficult to deal with.  It is not a pleasant
prospect, and both he and his ministers seem to think
the only way of meeting it is by taking back what
Cromwell gave, if it can be proved that the recipients
were accessories to Charles's death."

"And our father commanded a regiment of horse
at Whitehall on the very day of the king's
execution," said Ann, looking up.

"I know it," answered Reginald.  "It was his
duty; he was under orders.  If this knowledge comes
to the king's ears, then his command, probably his
estates, will be taken from him and he will be brought
to trial."

"That is what troubles him, then," said Ann.

"It is enough to trouble any man," answered
Reginald.  "You see, he is trying to serve two
masters, which never answers, in this world or the
next."

"What would you have him do?" asked Ann, aghast.

"Do!  There is nothing to do," said Reginald,
"until the bomb bursts; then, if there is still time
and he can escape out of England, his life may be
spared, but his estates will be forfeited, and Newbolt
Manor will pass into other hands.  A case of pure
bartering," he added.  "His majesty will rob Paul
to pay Peter; it has ever been the same."

"Can nothing be done?" asked Ann.  "I do not
care for the loss of Newbolt Manor, but I care for
our father and our mother; it will break their hearts."

"I see nothing for it but to wait," said Reginald.
"It is not likely that our father will be passed over;
indeed, I am not sure myself that I shall not come in
for a certain amount of opprobrium."

"They cannot touch you, you were only a child,"
said Ann.

"No, they cannot touch me.  I am in the king's
service, and I did him homage before he came to the
throne; but still there are so many with better claims
seeking advancement, it is difficult for me to hold my
own."

Even while they were speaking there was a sound
of many steps outside in the street and in the hall,
and a porter came in in haste.

"Sir," he said, "there are men here asking for
the master in the king's name!"

Ann's face turned deathly white.

"So soon!" she exclaimed.

"The sooner the better," Reginald answered; "it
will be the quicker over."

"My father is not here," he said, going into the
hall and addressing the men.  "I do not know even
if he is in the house.  You had better assure
yourselves of this; but first let me see your order."

The commander of the company handed him a
sheet of parchment.  The colour mounted to the
young man's face as he read the order of his
father's arrest, "to answer certain questions as to
his having been treasonably concerned in the late
king's death".

.. _`"THE COMMANDER OF THE COMPANY HANDED HIM A SHEET OF PARCHMENT"`:

.. figure:: images/img-080.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE COMMANDER OF THE COMPANY HANDED HIM A SHEET OF PARCHMENT"

   "THE COMMANDER OF THE COMPANY HANDED HIM A SHEET OF PARCHMENT"

Ann had followed him.  He bent his head and
whispered to her:

"Go to our mother, but do not tell her."

She was trying to slip away, but she found her
passage barred by the officer in command of the
company.

"I regret it, madam," he said; "but I cannot let
you pass until the house has been searched and we
are assured the colonel is not here."

"I never told you he was not here," said Reginald.
"I bade you search for him."

As he uttered these words, a door at the farther
end of the hall opened, and the colonel came forward.

"What do you require of me?" he asked.

Before anyone could answer, Reginald handed him
the paper.

"It is well," he said; "I have expected this.  I
did not tell your mother nor you, children, because
I would not have you needlessly anxious; now it has
come to pass, I leave your mother to your care,
Reginald.  Deal gently with her.  Nay, weep not,
Ann.  You are a soldier's daughter; it is not
seemly."  Notwithstanding his rough words, he took her in his
arms and kissed her.

He shook Reginald by the hand, then saying:

"Gentlemen, I am ready for you," passed out of
the hall, and, mounting the horse that was waiting
for him, rode away surrounded by a guard of soldiers.

Ann and Reginald remained alone with the
frightened servants, who crowded around them.  In
a few words Reginald told them what had happened,
adding, "I do not think there is any danger for my
father's life; but that he will suffer imprisonment
and be heavily fined is probable.  I would entreat
of you all to keep quiet, and in public not to make
more ado than you can help."

Reginald was a great favourite in the household;
he was young and generous, and they served him
willingly.  So with a loud voice they all promised
obedience, adding also their hope that their master
would soon be amongst them again.

"I do not think there is the least fear but that he
will," Reginald said assuringly, and so they
dispersed, and Reginald and Ann remained alone.

Ann was very pale, but she was not trembling.
She had a courageous heart, and was at the present
moment thinking more of her mother than of her
father.  She knew full well that her mother had
always been averse from her husband joining the
present king's cause, and she felt sure now that she
would call this a just retribution; but she would not
take it the less to heart, for under a cold exterior she
had loved her husband dearly, and served him as a
true and honourable wife.

Whilst the two stood hesitating, the door opened
and Patience and Agnes entered.

"What's happened?" asked Agnes.  "We saw a
troop of soldiers riding away; the street was full of
them.  They seemed to have a prisoner in their
midst; we could not see who it was."

"It was my father," said Reginald.  "He has
been arrested for consenting to the late king's
death."

"May the Lord help him!" said Patience.  "Has
there not been bloodshed enough already, that they
must be ever seeking for more!"

"I do not think it is a case of blood," said
Reginald, with something approaching a sneer in his
voice.  "I think money will settle this;" and the
words and manner of the young man revealed a
bitterness which had been growing in his heart for
some time past.  He and Ann had been so eager for
King Charles to come back, they had welcomed him
with such unfeigned joy, such belief that he would
bring back all that was noble, all the greatness, the
courage, and the bravery, the high moral tone which
had been his father's, that whatever errors there had
been in the past would cease now, indeed were
already forgotten.  Had not the whole race of Stuarts
been chastised?  Had not the whole nation suffered?
And therefore they welcomed the king back as their
chief good.  The crown was his by Right Divine and
by the will of the people.  He had come back, and
made merry, but he had no thought of forgiveness
in his soul, only a fierce desire for vengeance against
those who had slain his father and sent him into
exile.  That father had been a saint, and they slew
him.  The son was a great sinner, and they bowed
down before him.

Reginald thought, and others thought with him, of
all the blood that had been shed.  They had hoped
that a great pardon would have sealed that
homecoming, instead of which it was vengeance and blood;
whilst in the very palace where they had witnessed
the death of Charles I, there was revelry and evil
living, and an ignoring of all sacred things.

Their idol was broken, and their ideals had faded
into nothingness.  For the young this is a terrible
experience: it cuts them to the heart, it wounds
them to the soul.  As men and women grow older
they become accustomed to the daily and hourly
disappointments of life.  The shadow of death has
passed over them, the lights have gone out; either
they have grown hard and self-contained, or they
have learnt to look beyond this world and patiently
abide in faith, hope, and charity, until they shall pass
into the kingdom of everlasting life.  But the lesson
has to be learnt, the road has to be trodden, and
the pricks hurt their feet.  The nobler the girl or
the youth, the harder it is for them to lose their
ideals.

Reginald was passing through this phase.  He had
built so much on this home-coming of his king, he
had thought of him almost as a god, from his youth
upwards; the son of that blessed saint and martyr,
how should he be less than a hero!  The disillusion
was great, the sorrow was greater.  Had he been of
a less sensitive, a less noble nature himself, he would
have thrown all care to the wind, have joined the
revellers, and been content to lead the wild life of
the young Cavaliers who had returned with Charles
from foreign lands, and who now thought of little
else but of making up for the years which had been
passed in poverty and exile.  Those lean years had
taught them no lesson of frugality or decorum; rather
they had made them impatient of restraint, desirous
of making up in folly and extravagances for the years
they called wasted.

Truly they were wasted, for they had brought
forth no fruit.  The lesson God would have taught
to the race of Stuarts and their adherents had been of
no avail.  These men were like the Israelites of old,
they had neither ears to hear nor eyes to see, and the
few faithful ones, who loyally in England had waited
for and prayed for their coming, were now sick at
heart.

Yet Reginald had no thought of throwing up his
allegiance; it was based on too good a foundation--his
God and his king.  He could not serve one and
forsake the other, and so, though his heart was sore
within him, and he felt that dark days were coming
both for him and his, as a brave man he looked
straight before him, trusting in a higher power than
his own to deliver them from evil.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Arrested`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Arrested

.. vspace:: 2

It was Patience who sought Mistress Newbolt in her
chamber and told her in a few words what had
happened.  It was even with her as her children had
thought it would be.

"It is the Lord's justice," she said.  "His will be
done."  She straightened herself, went down to her
household, and rebuked Ann when she wept.

"Shall not the Lord chastise His children?" she
said.  "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.  Indeed,
I am well pleased that our God careth for us so
well that He does chastise us; for, seeing we were so
prosperous, I feared He held us to be of no account,
but now I am exalted, and my spirit is glad within
me, for the Lord has laid His hand on my house."

This enthusiasm was wonderful; her face, which
before had been sad, shone now with an inner light
of satisfaction.  She went about her duties with an
energy and a briskness which had long failed her.

The maid-servants exclaimed, "The mistress is of
cheerful countenance; is it seemly that she should
rejoice over the master's misfortune?"

If she divined their thoughts she paid no heed to
them.

"Poor ignorant souls, they cannot understand,"
she said to Patience, who, to tell the truth, herself
did not understand why the wife should rejoice when
her husband was sent to prison and was in danger of
his life.

She remembered how sorely she had grieved over
the misfortunes which had befallen the royal
standard, and how she had mourned for those who were
then laid low.

"It is not natural," she said to Agnes; "we must
accept the will of the Lord, but we are not bound to
rejoice when He afflicts us."

Reginald had left the house almost immediately
after his father's departure, to find out where he had
been taken to and what could be done to further his
release, so Agnes and Patience remained with Ann
and cheered her as best they could.  Mistress Newbolt
needed no cheering; she busied herself arranging her
husband's clothes, packing them to send to his prison,
wherever that might be, and she employed the maids
in taking off the lace ruffles from his shirts, replacing
them with plain linen ones.

"He shall not appear before his judges like a
popinjay," she said, "but like a sober, righteous man."

"Mother, you are wrong," said Ann.  "He is a
king's man now, and is serving the king.  Why will
you try to show forth to the world that he was ever
aught else?"

"Because it is my duty, my joy," she answered,
and she would not be gainsaid.

"Do not trouble," said Patience to Ann.  "Let her
have her own way.  You can easily supplement what
is lacking."

The day seemed long to them all except to Mistress
Newbolt, whose pale face had a red spot on either
cheek from the excitement of her heart.  Her muslin
kerchief was crumpled, a thing Ann had never seen
before, and her hands trembled as she went about
her work.

Once Agnes crept on tiptoe to the small closet
which Mistress Newbolt called her own, where she
was wont to read and pray.  Opening the door
gently she looked in.  The window was wide open,
and Mistress Newbolt stood before it grazing up into
the sky, which was dark, threatening rain; but
sunshine or rain, storm or clouds, were naught to her,
her soul had soared beyond these earthly signs of
fair weather or foul.  Her hands were clasped, her
face was turned upwards as if she saw a vision, and
from her lips a quick flow of words poured forth so
rapidly that Agnes had difficulty in following them.

It was more conversation than prayer, as if she
were speaking to the Almighty as to a familiar
friend, thanking Him for having thus cast His eye
upon them, and chastening her husband for his sin.
She prayed also for Reginald and Ann, that they
might be reclaimed and brought back into the true
fold.  Then came an impassioned act of worship:

"Glory be to Thee, oh Lord Most High!" and so on.

Agnes stood transfixed.  She had never heard the
like before.  It moved her as if a great wave had
swept over her.  She listened, drinking in the words
with wonder and astonishment.

"It must be even as the prophets of old spoke,"
she thought.  "I wonder if she is right and we all
wrong;" and even as she was thus thinking Mistress
Newbolt turned round, saw her, came quickly, took
her in her arms, and almost carried her to the open
window, crying in exultation:

"Lord, behold this child!  Make her Thine; teach
her Thy ways; make her worship Thee, the only true
God, in truth and equity."

So tight were her arms wound round her that Agnes
could not move.  She held her as if she would have
almost carried her up to heaven in her exultation.
Looking into her face it struck Agnes as strangely
beautiful; she had never seen it thus before.  Her
eyes were as coals of fire; the lips parted as the
impassioned words dropped from them.

Suddenly the woman collapsed.  She loosened her
hold of Agnes, staggered, and would have fallen had
not the girl upheld her; but she threw her off, and,
casting herself on the ground, broke forth into fierce
weeping.  The bands of iron which had bound her
soul gave way and she could only cry:

"Save me, oh God, save me, for Thy mercy's sake!"

With that delicate instinct which is inherent in some
souls, Agnes felt that this was no place for her, that
she had no right to look upon the weakness of this
strong woman, and quietly, with tears pouring down
her face, she left the room, closing the door behind
her.

She paused for a moment on the landing, then,
descending the stairs, found her way into the little
sitting-room, where Ann and Patience were waiting
for her.  The discomposure of her face revealed to
them at once that something unusual had happened.

"Have you seen my mother?" asked Ann, coming
forward.

"Oh, it is too terrible, too terrible!" said Agnes,
her tears bursting forth again, and, letting herself
fall on the settle beside Patience, she clung to her
for protection.

"What has happened, dear? tell me," said Patience
softly.

"Nothing has happened," was the quiet answer,
"but her grief is terrible to see."

"I will go to her," said Ann, rising.

"It is of no use," said Agnes, standing before her;
"let her be.  Her soul is wrestling with the Lord;
she wants no human help; we do not understand her."

"I know what you mean," said Ann, "I have
seen her in that state before.  When my father
declared that he would welcome King Charles and
join himself to the royal cause, she was three days
and nights shut up in her own room and would see
no one; she would eat nothing but bread and water,
and we heard her pacing up and down, talking to
herself, apostrophizing the Almighty, praying aloud.
Sometimes she would sing psalms or hymns.  As I
tell you, she remained three days in this state, and
then she came forth haggard and thin, but quite
calm.  'I have left it in God's hands,' she said;
'what He doeth will be well done.'  Go home, dear
friend," Ann continued.  "You can give us no help,
we must await events.  I do not think my father's
life is in danger, but how long he will be deprived of
liberty, what his punishment will be, we cannot tell
until his trial, and that may be retarded for many
months.  We were going to Newbolt Manor for a
few weeks.  Now, of course, we must remain here.
I am sorry, because my mother's health suffers from
the confinement in London, but I know nothing will
move her hence so long as my father is in prison."

"Of course not," said Patience.  "We shall also
remain in town for the present.  The king has gone
with his court to Hampton, and I do not care to be
there when that is the case, for there is no peace--the
gardens are full of gallants and fine ladies--so we
will remain at Somerset House until the king returns
to town."

"I am glad of it," said Ann; "it is a comfort to
feel that you are near me.  We have many
acquaintances, but few friends."

"You must count us as friends," said Patience.

"I will gladly do so," answered Ann.  "I feel as
if I have known you all my life."

"Therefore, if you have any fear, send for us,"
said Patience.  "Now we will bid you farewell."

The distance between the Newbolts' house in
Drury Lane and Somerset House could be traversed
in a few minutes, but nevertheless the streets were
by no means pleasant for women to walk through
alone, therefore Patience and Agnes had come in
sedan-chairs, which were waiting in the courtyard.
These were now brought forward into the house, as
was the custom, and, taking a tender adieu of Ann,
they got in and were carried out.  Agnes drew the
curtain on one side, waved a last adieu, and then
Ann turned away and went up to the first story,
where was her mother's apartment.

She was sad at heart, and felt at a loss as to how
she should comfort her, for she knew full well that
there was no disguising the fact that her father had
been a prominent man under Cromwell, also that he
had commanded a body of horse at the late king's
execution.  One thing alone was in his favour: his
name was not on the list of those who had voted for
the king's death.

It was late at night when Reginald returned.  He
had no good news.  His father, he had ascertained,
was in Newgate, but he had not been able to gain
access to him.

"I fear much," he said, "that there is a traitor
somewhere, for why have we been thus suddenly
attacked?  The king was quite aware from the first
that my father was a Parliamentarian; the only thing
he did not know was that he was present at the late
king's death.  It is upon this charge that my father
has been arrested.  We cannot clear him; it is quite
hopeless; we can only trust to the king's clemency,
and that," he continued, "is of no great account.  I
am much afraid that I shall be obliged to resign my
commission, and thus, though I am blameless, I must
suffer, and the king will lose a good servant."

"Do you think he will be arraigned for treason?"
asked Ann.

"No, that he cannot be," was the answer, "seeing
that he was only captain at that time of a body of
horse.  He obeyed orders, and he kept the street
clear in the precincts of Whitehall, but he was not
actually on the spot."

"And though he has never allowed that it was
so," said Ann, "in his heart I believe he grieved
that the execution was carried out."

"His refraining from giving his vote was a proof
of it," said Reginald.  "Where is our mother?"

"In her own apartment," said Ann.  "It is no use
your trying to go to her; she will see no one.  Agnes
was with her, and I think she frightened the child;
she has been very much excited all day.  Martha
tells me she has gone to bed, which is proof that she
has worn herself out.  She may be more composed
to-morrow.  You see, she considers our father's
arrest a retribution."

"And she may not be quite wrong," said Reginald.
"If he had only voted against instead of
keeping silent, he would have been not only safe
from molestation, but honourably revered."

"That he could not do," said Ann.  "I have
heard him say that though he disapproved of the
king's execution, he did not see how otherwise order
and justice were to be restored, or the Civil War
ended."

"The whole thing is ineffably sad," said Reginald;
"it is too late in the day now to discuss the
pros and cons.  Go to bed, Ann, and sleep; you will
need all your strength and courage to face the next
few months."  And so they bade each other good-night
and parted.

So worn out was Ann that her head was no sooner
on the pillow than she slept; but Reginald sat till
an unusually late hour in the house-parlour thinking
matters over and trying to find out who could have
betrayed his father.

He rose at last, and stretched himself, muttering,
"It is folly and to no purpose my seeking to find the
man; there are so many witnesses of my father's
presence at Whitehall.  We must abide by the
results; but I will see Sir Nicholas Crisp to-morrow,
he has always been kindly disposed towards me, and
stands high in the king's esteem.  He may perchance
speak a word in my father's favour."  With this he
also retired to his chamber to await the events of the
morrow.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Old Newgate`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center large bold

   Old Newgate

.. vspace:: 2

We have all read, and we all know by hearsay, how,
till within the last century, the prisons were worse
than the lowest hovels.  We know and honour the
men and women by whose influence humanity was
brought to bear upon them.  What they must have
been two centuries earlier passes all imagination.

We learn from old chronicles that as far back as
1218 the prison of Newgate existed.  It was built in
the portal of the new gate of the city, and from that
fact took its name.  Two centuries later it was rebuilt
by the executors of the famous Sir Richard Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London, and his statue with his
cat stood in a niche.  This building was destroyed in
the great fire of which we shall soon be telling.  It
was here, in old Newgate, that Colonel Newbolt was
imprisoned--a noisome place, within high, dark, stone
walls, without windows, where the prisoners were
crowded together irrespective of age or sex.  At the
time we are writing of, it was crowded to excess.
To obtain a wisp of straw to lie upon at night, and
the space necessary for a litter, meant a hand-to-hand
fight between the occupants.

The jailers reaped a rich harvest, charging
fabulous prices for the merest necessaries.  There was
no provision made for sickness, not even for the
ordinary decencies of life; men and women of every
class were herded together.

It is easy to imagine Colonel Newbolt's feelings
when he was thrust into this den.  On the first day
he bore it with a certain amount of equanimity,
feeling assured that he would be released on the
morrow; but when two or three days passed by, and
all the money he had on his person was expended, he
was seriously disquieted, wondering why Reginald
or some other of his friends did not come to his
rescue.  He could not know that Reginald had been
daily at the prison, and had expended a considerable
sum of money in pleading with the jailers for news
of his father.  He was dismissed with the assurance
that his father's name was not on the prison list;
they could not find the man.

This answer was given purposely.  It would not
have suited the jailers to find their man too soon, for
then the enquiry money would cease to fall into their
pockets, so they sent Reginald to Aldersgate and
to smaller jails, of which there were several.  Four
days had elapsed after his father's arrest before
Reginald was admitted into the prison and allowed
to interview him.

He was horrified when he saw him.  From a hale,
fine-looking soldier he had dwindled into an old man,
with sunken eyes and haggard face.  His lace ruffles
and jabot had been torn to shreds.  He had had no
change of linen, the lappets of his coat had been
wrenched away, his head was bare, and his hair
bleached.

He staggered as he came into the guard-room,
and in his impotent rage shook his fist in Reginald's
face.

"What do you mean, sirrah," he cried, "by
leaving me in this condition?"

"Father, I did not leave you," said Reginald,
tears gathering in his eyes.  "I have been here
daily, and could get no news of you.  They have
sent me about to the right and to the left; only
to-day have I found you."

"The rascals!" said the colonel in a low voice,
fearful of being overheard.  "I am starved, Reginald,"
he continued, "I am unclean.  I would sooner die
than remain thus; ay, they will kill me before they
bring me to trial.  Is this what the king promised us?
Is this the royal clemency?"

"Hush, Father, hush!" said Reginald, for in his
excitement he had raised his voice.  "I have brought
gold; I will see what I can do for you."

He looked round, and seeing a keeper whose face
seemed less evil than the others, he beckoned to him.

Slowly and sullenly the man came forward.

"Look here!" said Reginald, "if you can find the
smallest cell in which my father can be alone I will
give you fifty crowns."

"If you offered me a hundred I couldn't do it,"
said the man; "the place is crowded from top to
bottom, and more prisoners are coming in every
hour."

"But surely there must be some place less horrible
than the one I am now in," said Colonel Newbolt.
"I am herded with the scum of the earth.  I hear
nothing but cursing and swearing all the live-long day
and throughout the night.  I am covered with vermin.
I will give thee a hundred crowns, sirrah, if
thou wilt get me out of this."

The man thrust his hands into his pockets.  A
hundred crowns was an offer he did not often get.

"I am sick, sick unto death," continued the
colonel.

"Then I will report you to the head keeper," said
the man quickly, "and he will report you to the
governor, and he will--I don't know what he'll think
proper to do."

"In the meantime must I go back to that hell?"
said the colonel.  "Give me a knife and let me cut
my throat!"

"We don't have that sort of thing done here,"
answered the jailer; "we keep no knives and no
ropes inside the jail."

"Listen!" said Reginald.  "Surely there must be
some place, some cell in which there are three or
four privileged prisoners, where you could manage
to put my father until I take measures for his
removal.  Go at once and speak to the head jailer."

Saying this, Reginald put money into the man's
hand.  "Not a groat more do you get," he said, "if
you do not succeed, but I will double it if you do."

He turned away, and, taking his father by the arm,
succeeded in finding a seat in a far corner of the
room.

"See, Father, I have brought you food!" he said.
He cut the strings of a basket which he had been
carrying and drew forth a pasty, some white bread,
and a flask of brandy.

The prisoner flew at the brandy.  Reginald was
forced to stop him.

"Gently, Father, gently," he said, "you will make
yourself ill; there is no hurry."  And he handed him
bread and meat, which he ate ravenously.

The keepers, noting that the young man wore the
king's uniform, and that the old man, even in his
soiled clothes, had an air of distinction, let them be.
Besides, Reginald was generous with his money; he
knew there was no other means by which to gain a
little respite.

When his father had eaten and drunk, more
perhaps than was good for him, he laid his head back
on the wall and went to sleep.  Reginald kept watch
over him.  Once or twice the keepers came up and
would have roused him and sent him back to the
common prison, but Reginald pleaded:

"Let him be a little longer," he said; "I am waiting
for a message from the governor."  Again money
passed from hand to hand, and they were let alone.

Not till the day was far advanced did the first
keeper return.

"The governor will see you," he said; "follow me."

Reginald looked at his father.  If he roused him
now would he be sensible?

"Father!" he said, bending over him.

The colonel started and opened his eyes, but his
mind seemed to be wandering.  He stood up, gave
the word of command, as if he had been on parade,
then, looking round him, he said: "Where am I?
What does it mean?"

"He is in delirium," said Reginald in a low voice
to the keeper.  "Take hold of him on one side and
I will take him on the other; the governor can judge
for himself."  So they crossed the room, the old man
muttering and talking to himself, until they came to
the governor's room.

To Reginald's surprise, he proved to be an old
friend of his father's, who, however, had kept fairly
quiet, and had not been in any way offensive either to
the Commonwealth or to the king's Government.  It
was not in his power to remedy the state of the
prison, and he had no thought of attempting to do
so.  A prison was a prison in those days.  Prisoners,
if refractory, were chained up like wild beasts and
kept on bread and water.  They lived or died, as the
case might be; some went under at once, others,
thanks to stronger constitutions, managed to survive,
until they were dragged on hurdles to execution, or
by some lucky chance found their way out of that
prison-house, brutalized, hating both God and man.

When the governor, looking up, saw Reginald and
his father, he said shortly:

"When I heard your name, I wondered what
Newbolt it was.  How happens it that your father
has let himself fall into this strait?  I thought he
was a cleverer man."

"There must be a traitor somewhere," said
Reginald.  "My father has taken the oath of
allegiance; he went with General Monk to meet the
king on his return.  I, who have never drawn
sword in any other cause, hold a commission from
the king in his own Guards.  But some traitor has
informed his majesty of what, alas! is only too
true, that my father was captain of a body of
troops who kept the streets at the time of the
execution of his most gracious majesty, Charles
I--hence his arrest."

"Ah, that is compromising!" said the governor.
"Do you know who the informant was?"

"No, I do not," answered Reginald, "but I will
make it my business to find out.  There is no
denying the fact that my father was on duty that
day.  He was arrested four days ago, and see what
it has made of him!  He was a strong, hale man
when he came here.  I ask your clemency for him."

"It is a common case," said the governor.
"The class of men to which your father belongs
cannot stand this place.  I will do what I can.  He
has caught jail fever.  Put him in yonder chair."

The keeper and Reginald obeyed, the old man
talking and jabbering all the time.

Reginald stood before the governor, who continued:
"You see, we cannot put him back into the
public room, and there is not a free cell.  You may
believe me or not as you choose, the prison is literally
swarming.  Knight," he said, addressing the keeper,
"is there any hole you can give the colonel to lie in
until I can get him removed?"

"There is the cell at the end of the right-hand
corridor, where that madman was confined; he died
yesterday.  His body was thrown out to-day, but the
cell has not been cleaned yet; it is not fit to put even
a dog into."

"Let it be done immediately," said the governor.
"Let fresh straw be laid down and the colonel
carried thither.  I give him into your hands,
Knight.  I think you will find it worth your while
to treat him well," he added, with a glance at
Reginald.

"I have promised him a hundred crowns; I do
not care if I make it two hundred," answered the
young man.

"Sir," said Knight, "I thank you.  May I leave
the gentleman here whilst I see to the cleaning of
that dog's kennel?"

The governor nodded.

Worn out, the colonel's head fell on his breast;
he was in a sort of coma.

"I'll write a letter," said the governor, "which
you may take to the Secretary of State, or, if you
prefer it, to the king himself.  If you can get an
audience, that might be better.  If your father is
really to be prosecuted, he must be removed from
this prison to Aldersgate."

"I do not think he will be removed anywhere
except fro his last resting-place," said Reginald.

"Tut, tut! men do not die so easily," said the
governor.  "That is our strong point.  I will represent
that if the colonel is left here he will certainly
die, and then who would pay the fine, which will be
the least thing imposed upon him?  The king's
exchequer, they say, is empty, and there is nothing
to be got out of a dead dog; therefore, you see, it
is to their interest to keep him alive.  Rest assured
they will nurse him with the utmost tenderness, so
that, if he be hanged, he may be hanged alive, and
his lands forfeited to the crown.  If he dies now,
you will inherit; you have committed no misdemeanour.
On the contrary, you are the king's man,
and they cannot, in all decency, prosecute you.  Do
you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," said Reginald, with evident
disgust.  "Write the letter for me, sir, and I will
carry it."

The governor scrawled a few lines, folded it, and
gave it to Reginald.

"I think you will find that serve your purpose," he
said.

"May I send clean linen and clothes for my
father?" asked Reginald.  "He cannot remain as he is."

"I should advise you to send nothing, but to
bring everything," said the governor; "otherwise
I greatly fear he will not benefit much.  This is a
den of thieves and robbers."

Reginald hesitated for a moment, then he said:

"And my mother!  When she knows I have found
my father, nothing will keep her away."

The governor shrugged his shoulders.

"Then you must bring her, that is all," he said.
"Knight will let you in the back way.  Your father
will not be so bad to look at when he is in his new
cell.  Now you must be gone; I have given you
more time, young man, than I have favoured anyone
with for months.  Look through that window in the
wall and you will see the crowd waiting to interview me."

"I am more than grateful to you, sir," said Reginald.

"All right, all right!" answered the governor,
holding out his hand.  "We will try to pull him
through; not that it will be easy, I warn you."

"I fear not," answered Reginald; "nevertheless
I thank you, sir," and, bowing to the governor, he
turned round to where his father still sat in a deep,
heavy slumber: his face was crimson, his hands, as
Reginald felt them, were burning.

"I have cleaned the place up as best I could, sir.
Shall we take him there at once?" said Knight,
coming up.

"Yes," said Reginald shortly; and between them
they carried the colonel down two or three long
passages, lined on either side with cells.  At the
very end there was an open door, showing a cell of
about eight feet square.  Upon the ground in one
corner was a heap of straw, which, with a table
and a chair, both riveted to the wall, and a basin,
completed the furniture.

"I found this here thing in the corner of the
public room where the gentleman has been lying.
I don't know how it has escaped the eyes of his
late companions, but it has.  I got it and brought it
here.  He will want it," said Knight.

Reginald recognized his father's cloak, so they
wrapped him up in it and laid him in the straw
which was strewn on the damp floor.

"Look here, man," said Reginald, "I must go.
I have pressing business.  Here are the hundred
crowns I promised you, and for every week he
stays here and you care for him decently, you shall
have as much again.  I shall be back in a couple
of hours with sheets and bedding, and all that is
necessary for his comfort.  You must fetch the
doctor, and whatever he orders that you must provide."

"Very good, sir, I understand," said Knight.
"But I have other duties, you know; I cannot
be always here."

"Pass them over to someone else.  I'll pay, as
paying is the order of the day.  Do you agree?"

"I should be a fool not to," answered Knight.
"I'll see to the old man; you shall have nothing
to complain of."  And with that half-promise
Reginald was obliged to be satisfied.  With one more
look at his father he went out.

Knight followed him, closing and locking the door.

"You will lose your way unless I take you out,"
he said to Reginald.  "You had better not come in
at the front gate in future."

So saying he guided him into a small courtyard,
which was evidently seldom used.  In it was a huge
mastiff, which walked to and fro, snarling and
growling.  He sprang forward to meet the two men, and
would have flown at Reginald if Knight had not
caught him by the collar.

"Speak to him, caress him, then in future he
will never hurt you," he said.  "When you come
back, bring him food; you must be friends."

Reginald had a great liking for all animals.  He
spoke to the mastiff, which, after a few minutes'
inspection, sniffed around, and suffered him to stroke
him.

"That's all right," said Knight, satisfied.

Taking a key off a bunch at his side he opened
a side gate, and Reginald passed out into the street
opposite the Old Bailey.

"You have only to ring that bell when you return,"
he said, pointing to a long iron chain by the
door.  "I shall answer."

Reginald nodded, and went forth with a heavy
heart, feeling as if years had passed over his head
since he penetrated within the mighty walls which
separated the prison of Newgate and its inmates
from the outside world.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Legend`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center large bold

   A Legend

.. vspace:: 2

When Reginald returned to his mother he found her
waiting impatiently for him; indeed, she had done so
for the last three days.  Her whole time had been
spent between prayer and waiting, seated in the
window with her hands folded.

In the morning she attended to her household
duties--she forgot nothing.  It was with difficulty
that they could get her to take any food; she seemed
to have no need of it.  Now, when she saw Reginald
coming up the street, she said to Ann:

"He has news--he has found your father."  And
she went to the door to meet him.

"Well?" she asked.

"Yes, I have found him," said Reginald; "but
you must not rejoice too soon, Mother, for he is in
a terrible condition."

"Dying?" she asked.

"I cannot say, for I do not know," answered
Reginald.  "He is very ill--his sufferings have been
great, and he is now delirious.  I saw the governor,
and he had him removed to a cell by himself.  He
is in want of everything.  There are no rules to
prevent our taking anything we choose to him."

"And I may go to him?" she asked.

"Yes, you may go to him, but Ann must not,"
said Reginald; "the place reeks of fever, small-pox,
and every other disease.  You must be prepared for
the worst, Mother."

"Whatever the Lord orders is for the best," she
answered.

"But what is to become of Ann?  She cannot
remain in this house alone," said Reginald.

"Take her to Patience," said Mistress Newbolt.
"She can abide with her all day, and at night when
I return you can fetch her--if I do return."

"At sunset you must leave the prison, Mother; it
is the rule."

"Very well," said Mistress Newbolt, "I will abide
by the rule.  Now order a coach; I have everything
ready."

"I am afraid not everything," said Reginald.
"He lacks bedding, sheets, the veriest necessaries.
I left him lying on straw in a damp cell.  I will order
a cart to come round to take the larger luggage, but
you must go in a coach."

"I can walk if necessary," said Mistress Newbolt;
"it is no great distance."

Two hours were spent putting things together,
providing food, broths, and jellies.  Ann went about
with her mother, thinking of everything.  When all
was ready and the coach was called, she said to
Reginald:

"Shall I not be allowed to go?"

"No, it is not a fit place for you," said Reginald;
"and you would do no good.  I don't know when I
shall return myself, therefore you had better get your
women to take you to Somerset House.  You can
tell them how matters stand, and I shall probably
fetch you at nightfall, or when my mother comes back."

Whilst they were still conversing, Mr. Delarry
came up.  It was by no means the first time he had
come to the house--indeed, he and Reginald were
very good friends, and he would frequently drop in
to supper--but he had been away with the king at
Hampton Court, and had only just heard of the
colonel's arrest.

"I am deeply grieved for you," he said, "and I
hastened here to tell you so.  Is there anything I can
do for you?"

"Nothing at present," said Reginald.  "I have
been three days finding my father, and now he is
sick unto death; I do not know whether he will live.
I am taking my mother to him.  I have no time to
say more, so farewell!"

Mistress Newbolt appeared on the steps, and
Reginald hastened to help her into the coach.  Many
of the servants had followed her, and were weeping.
Although she was a stern mistress, she was a just
one, and they all respected her.

"Delarry," said Reginald, before following his
mother into the coach, "will you see my sister to
Somerset House?  She cannot stay here alone, and
neither my mother nor myself can be back before
nightfall."

"If she will allow me to do so, I shall esteem it a
favour," said Delarry.  "And, Reginald, let me know
if I can be of any use to you; I am at your service."

"Many thanks!" said Reginald.  "It is something
to feel that one has a friend in these hard
times."  The two young men shook hands, Reginald took
his place beside his mother, and they drove away.
Ann went slowly back to the house, Delarry
following her.

"Shall you go at once to Somerset House?" he asked.

"In about an hour," she answered.  "I must put
my mother's room in order, and attend to a few
household duties.  But do not let me detain you; my
own woman will accompany me."

"You would not grieve me thus?" said Delarry.
"I esteem it a high honour to have been asked to
take care of you."

"Very well," said Ann, "come back in an hour,
and I will be ready."

He did so, and accompanied her the short distance
from Drury Lane to Somerset House.  They made
no haste, for they liked each other's society.

When they reached Somerset House they found
Patience and Agnes on the terrace taking their
mid-day airing.

"We did not venture to come to your house," said
Patience, after greeting Ann and her companion,
"for fear of disturbing your mother.  We felt
sure if you had news that you would send us word."

"We have news," said Ann, "but it is of such an
evil kind that the telling of it is grievous to me."

"Still we must hear it," said Patience.

They sat down on the bench facing the river, and
there Ann told them all she knew.

"It is a very terrible state of affairs," said Delarry,
looking serious; but he did not venture to say how
serious he thought it, for he knew full well that the
king was still very bitter against anyone who had
had a hand in his father's murder.  Nevertheless he
tried to speak cheerfully.

"It will be better," he said, "for Reginald to go
to the king himself.  He is rather partial to the young
man; indeed, only the other day he asked why he
was not in attendance.  He then learnt of the arrest
of Colonel Newbolt, and expressed his regret that
the son should have to suffer for the father."

Ann coloured.  "That means that Reginald will
have to resign his commission," she said.

"I am afraid so," answered Delarry.  "It would
hardly do, when his father is imprisoned for
connivance with the regicides, for him to remain in the
king's service.  But we cannot tell.  Charles is a
strange character; he may not choose to accept your
brother's resignation."

"It was not Colonel Newbolt's fault that he was
on duty on that day at that place," said Agnes.

"No," said Delarry, "that was a coincidence, but
still the fact is there."

"Don't let us talk about it," said Ann; "it will
not mend matters."

"My friend is right," said Agnes.  "We will talk
of other things.  Is there any news from France,
Mr. Delarry?"

"Yes, the king heard from her majesty the
queen no later than yesterday.  The marriage of
the duke and the princess is to be the occasion of
great festivities; it is to be conducted with royal
state.  The King of France is making much of the
bride."

"I wish I were in Paris," said Agnes; "I know
just how it will all be.  I think I like Paris better
than London."

"Oh no, you don't!" said Ann.  "You must not.
You are an English girl, and must love your own
country best."

"So she will in years to come," said Patience.
"There is so much in habit.  She has always lived
in France.  The sun shines more brightly there, and
the days are longer."

"And people are less stiff, and they are kinder and
more courteous," said Agnes.  "You English are
so cold!  I have lived a long time here now, and
I have only one friend--that is you, Ann."

"And is it not a grand thing to *have one friend*?"
said Mr. Delarry.  "We may have many acquaintances,
little lady, but a friend is a rare gem."

Having said this, Mr. Delarry rose and took his
leave.

Patience and the two girls went up to their own
apartment, and occupied themselves at that fine
tapestry work at which Agnes, like all French ladies,
was an adept.  Ann was not so clever with her
needle, but she loved to watch her friend, whose
proficiency was astonishing; the flowers, the birds,
the figures, seemed to grow under her fingers.

"I wish I could work as you do," she said.

"I love it," answered Agnes; "it makes me
forget.  When I have any trouble or any vexation I
come to my framework and create a bird, or a flower.
Sometimes I dream dreams.  It does not matter
what I do, but I grow quieter and happier."

"You are a town girl, and I am a country girl,"
said Ann.  "I have lived all my life in the open, in
the midst of the flowers and the birds, with my dogs
and horses, riding and hunting with Reginald and my
father over miles of moorland.  Oh, it is glorious!
Would you not love it?"

Agnes looked up.  "Love it?  Indeed I am sure
I should!" she answered.  "Patience said just now
we grow accustomed to things; that is true.  I was
accustomed to the great dark rooms at the Louvre,
and the long dull days; but sometimes, I remember,
I used to feel suffocated, as if I were a bird beating
against the bars of the cage.  I used to look up
through the windows at the sky, and long--oh, how
I used to long!--to have wings to fly away."

"And yet you say you like France better than
England," said Ann.

"I knew of nothing better," said Agnes.  "I loved
the queen and I loved Henrietta, but still I have
always known that it was not my own life, that there
must be something better!  We used to go to
Fontainebleau sometimes, but we children never went
beyond the edge of the wood.  We were allowed to
wander in the great gardens, which were very
beautiful, with long avenues of trees and a big
pond full of tame carp, which came when we called
them, and which we used to feed.  It was a great
pleasure, but still it was not liberty.  I longed for
liberty, to ride, to walk, as the desire might come
to me.  Ah, you are very happy!" she said to Ann.
"Tell me about that place up north of which you
speak so often."

"Newbolt Manor?" answered Ann.  "It is the
most beautiful place in the world.  Long, long ago
it was a monastery, and belonged to a religious
order.  There are the ruins of the most lovely chapel
you ever saw; and although the house has been
restored and rebuilt, there are still parts of it which
belong to the old days--the great hall, the refectory,
and the library.  They are very beautiful, with much
carved oak and many stained-glass windows."

"And it belonged to the De Lisles!" said Agnes
thoughtfully.

"Yes," answered her companion, "and there is a
long picture-gallery containing portraits of the family
of De Lisles; and now I come to think of it, Agnes,
there is one picture of a child who lived a long time
ago--oh! a hundred years ago, perhaps.  You are
exactly like her; is it not strange?"

"Very," said Agnes.  "Go on and tell me more."

"Well," said Ann, "the story is that when the
monks were driven out, King Henry VIII gave it to
a certain Reginald De Lisle."

"How did that old man at Greenwich know anything;
about them, I wonder?" said Agnes.  "How
did he know the De Lisles?"

"That I cannot tell," said Ann.  "He may have
been an old servant, and have known the legend
that the De Lisles, being possessed of church lands,
would be driven out."

"It has come true," said Agnes.

"Only to a certain extent," said Ann.  "They
were not driven out, they died out; the race is
extinct."

"How then can they come back again?" asked
Agnes.  "You know he said they would."

"Ah! that I cannot tell," answered Ann.  "If he
were an old servant of the De Lisles, the wish might
very possibly be father to the thought."

"But," said Agnes thoughtfully, "supposing it
were a mistake, and that one day a De Lisle should
turn up and claim his own?"

"I do not suppose it would make much difference
now," said Ann.  "The land is ours as far as lawyers
and parchment can make it so."

"You would be sorry to lose it," said Agnes.

"Yes, I should," answered Ann.  "I love the
place, and I would like to think that Reginald
would have it one day, and that he would marry
and have children; and so it would go down from
generation to generation, a fair heritage."

"As it was with the De Lisles," said Agnes
thoughtfully.  "Ah well!" she added, "it does not
much matter; the world passeth away, and the glory
of it."

Instinctively the words had come to her lips--how
they did so she knew not--it was the inspiration
of a moment.  She had dropped her needle whilst
listening to Ann, and there was a strange, dreamy
look in the great dark eyes as she gazed through the
window up to the sky which overhung the river.
The summer day had come to a close; she could no
longer see to put her stitches into the canvas.  A
sense of unreality crept over her, a sort of feeling as
if she had lived in another world once upon a time--she
was, and she was not--a spell seemed laid upon
her.  Would she awake and find her present life only
a dream?

Patience's voice roused her.

"Ann Newbolt," she said, "a messenger has
come from your brother.  Neither he nor your mother
can return to-night.  He requests me to keep you
with us."

"My father is dying, then?" said Ann.

"The messenger does not say so," answered
Patience, "merely that they cannot leave the prison."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Brave Woman`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center large bold

   A Brave Woman

.. vspace:: 2

Sooner or later we all find a place which fits us in
the world, and when Mistress Newbolt crossed the
threshold of Newgate to take charge of her husband,
unwittingly, even to herself, she had reached her
bourne.  She did not know it, she did not realize
it till long after; but her work had found her, and
she was not one of those who, having put her hand
to the plough, would turn back again.

An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the
misery which surrounded her, but she never did.  All
the sorrow, the discontent, which so often troubled
her, ceased to be as she stood beside her husband
in that narrow cell.  With strong hands, helped by
Reginald, she arranged his bed; she spoke to him,
she comforted him; even in his delirium he knew her
and clung to her.  That he was desperately ill she
saw at a glance, but even the doctor, a rough, hard
man, when he came to visit him, grew soft in Mistress
Newbolt's presence.

"Madam," he said, "I cannot tell whether he will
live or die.  His life is in your hands."

"Not in mine," said Mistress Newbolt, "but in God's."

"We do not hear much of God here," said the
doctor roughly.  "It is verily a God-forsaken place;
but your presence is potent, your care may save him."

"I can only stay here a few hours," she answered,
"at least, so I am told.  I will do what I can."

"You may stay here as long as you choose," said
the doctor.  "I will speak to the governor."

And so it came to pass that Mistress Newbolt was
established at Newgate.  That first night her husband
was seized with such violent delirium that it required
two men to hold him down.

Reginald therefore remained till early morning,
when, exhausted, the patient dropped into a deep
sleep.  Then his mother bade him go and rest.

"You have your duties to attend to; you have Ann
to see after," she said.  "I am sufficient here."

"Will you not be afraid to remain here alone,
Mother?" asked Reginald.

"Afraid!" she answered, "of what?  Is not God
with me?"  And that strangely inspired look came
into her face.  "I feel as if my place were here, as
if at last I had found my appointed task.  Go, and
do not trouble about me or your father."

Reginald kissed her hand.

"You are wonderful, Mother," he said.  "I will
return this evening before the prison gates
close."  And so he left her.

As Mistress Newbolt stood in the passage she
heard cries and moans, loud voices, and bitter
plaints.

"Are those the prisoners?" she asked of Knight,
the jailer.

"Yes," he answered, "they are hungry dogs
to-day.  They declared that the morning allowance
of food was insufficient.  There was not a hunch of
bread for each man, and it was sour, not fit to cast
to the dogs."

"How was it so?" asked Mistress Newbolt.

The keeper shrugged his shoulders.

"How can I tell?" he said.  "It is bought by
contract.  As we get it we give it them.  Those who
have no money of their own, and no friends, come
badly off.  Your husband is sleeping, will you come
and look at them?"

Mistress Newbolt acquiesced.

He took her down the passage to a great iron door,
in which there was a sliding panel, not large, but
large enough to allow an outsider to look into the
interior.  The keeper drew back the panel, and shrill
voices fell upon her ears, uttering curses and foul
language.  She saw men and women with scarce
any semblance of humanity, rather like wild beasts.
Some were tearing at hard crusts of bread, others at
meat of the worst kind; men belaboured the women
and thrust them back, snatching the food out of their
thin hands.  And they in their turn clutched at them
and tore their hair, scratching their faces in their
madness.  One or two had infants in their arms,
parodies of childhood.

"It is terrible!" said Mistress Newbolt, her pale
face paling.

"Here is gold," she said to the keeper; "go fetch
me food!  I will give it them.  And look you," she
continued, "that you are just, and bring me full
measure for the money."

Her stern eyes stared straight into Knight's, and
he, as if affrighted, looked away; nevertheless he
took the gold and departed to do her bidding.

Mistress Newbolt faced the opening again and
called out, "Peace, peace!"

Her words were received with a loud yell.

"Peace?  There is no peace here."

"Peace, peace, God's peace be with you!" she
continued; and then in a loud voice, which rose above
the turmoil, she began:

"Our Father which art in heaven."

Shrieks of mockery greeted her words.

"He who would have bread let him pray for
it," she cried out.  "Surely it will come to him
who asketh."

A loud voice greeted her words.

"We have asked, and they have given us stones
for bread," said a gaunt man.

"Because ye have asked amiss," she answered.
"Down on your knees and I will pray for you."

A moment's hesitation, then there was dead
silence, and that crowd fell down as if moved by some
invisible power.

"Repeat what I say, after me," she cried.  "Our
Father."

And so through that blessed prayer, the like of
which there is none other, these poor wretches, the
outcast of the earth, followed her, repeating the
words, some with sobs, some still cursing between
the words.

As the Amen died out, Knight stood beside her.

"Open the gate and let me in to them," she said,
"and then do as I bid you."

She took a great white loaf from the basket he
had brought.

"There are more coming," he said in a low voice;
"this is not all your bounty gives."

"A knife," she said.  "I will break each loaf in
four.  Open the gate," she continued, "and I will
go in and feed them myself."

"They will tear you to pieces," said Knight.

"No they will not," she answered; and she stood
erect as one inspired.

The jailer took the bunch of keys from his side,
unlocked the door, and she passed in.

In a second she was surrounded.

"The bread, the bread we have prayed for!" they
cried.

"It is coming," she answered; and she took the
lumps of bread which Knight handed her.  Quickly
they were snatched from her.

Suddenly she stopped, for she saw that the men
in their greed were thrusting the women back, and
fighting their way towards her.

"Cowards!" she cried, "stand back!  The women
and the children.  Have you nothing human left in
you?  Shame!  Shame!"

There was a deep growl of anger, but slowly
the men fell back, and the women rushed forward,
kneeling at her feet, kissing her hands.  Their
souls were touched, and she, stooping over them,
bade them rise, and gave them food.  She took
one child in her arms and fed it with her own
hands.

"Water!" they called out, "water!"  And they
showed her a pitcher filled with a foul liquid.

"Water, bring water!" she repeated; and the
keepers brought it as they would have brought it at
an angel's word.

She held the jars to the parched, thirsty lips,
and they drank, all those who could get near
enough; but it was not enough, there were so many.

"That is all," she said at last.  "I have no
more; but to-morrow I will come back and feed you
again; only be human and know there is a God who
careth for you.  Ye have sinned, but He will pardon
you if you repent.  He suffered, though He was sinless,
and you are sinners.  It is but just that you should
suffer for your sins.  Listen to what the psalmist of
Israel sang."  In a loud, clear voice she recited the
77th Psalm:

"'I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God
with my voice, and he gave ear unto me'," and so
on to the end.

Where there had been such an uproar there was
now a grave stillness, save for the groans of the
men and the weeping of the women.  She stood
with the half-naked child still in her arms, and looked
down upon the people, her tall figure resting against
the unclean wall of that prison-house.  Her voice
was steady; her eyes had in them that strangely
luminous look of inspiration.

When she had finished she gave the child back to
its mother.

"If they will let me, I will come to you
to-morrow," she repeated, "and so each day.  Only be
patient, and the Lord will be with you."

As she spoke she backed out of the cell, and
disappeared from their sight.

The keepers told the governor they had never had
such a quiet day; the prisoners seemed subdued.
They took their portions of food at night and hardly
murmured.  There were many brutes amongst those
men, and many shameless women, but their passions
were curbed and their evil tongues silenced.

Mistress Newbolt went back to her husband and
tended him all that day, praying beside him with
such earnestness, and with such impassioned
eloquence that the warders came and stood at the door
of the cell and listened.  There was not one of them
who would not gladly serve her; she might ask what
she would of them, they did it.

The governor, hearing what she had done, though
knowing it to be against the rules, said:

"Let her do what she will for the poor wretches!"

And so every morning for ten long days she went
in to them.  Some passed away, but the greater
number remained.  Every day she added something
to her bounty: she gave the women cloths and
brooms, and bade them try to keep some order and
cleanliness in the cells; but it was impossible, and
she soon recognized it was so.

Some days she would repeat a few verses from the
Bible to them, and they would listen.  Her heart
would be glad then, thinking she had won them, but
on the morrow there would be fresh cursing, swearing,
and evil-speaking.  Still, she never wearied.  She
brought fresh water and clean linen, and dressed
their wounds; she brought milk for the little children;
she spent herself and her wealth for these outcasts.
They grew to look upon her coming as the one thing
in the twenty-four hours for which they lived.

"Our mother's coming," they told one another,
as the hour approached, and like children they watched
for her.

It was wonderful how her strength stood it all--those
long days and nights at her husband's pallet,
and the horror of her surroundings.

The order came at last that her husband should be
removed to Aldersgate to await his trial.  The class
of prisoners there was of a higher degree, and the
prison was less crowded.  But the order came too
late; they could not move him.

"He will die on the way," the doctor said; "he
must die, therefore let him remain here in peace."

When she was not tending the prisoners or waiting
on her husband she was praying, this marvellous
woman, in whom verily the blood of martyrs must
have flowed.  She grew gaunter and gaunter, but
there came into her face a look of enthusiasm, as if
she no longer belonged to this world, but to the
heaven of which she spoke.

"If Ann is to see my father alive, I must bring
her soon, Mother," said Reginald, on the eighteenth
day of the colonel's illness.

"He will not die until the twenty-first," she
answered.

On the morning of the twenty-first it was evident
that he was sinking, that he would not outlive the
day, and so Reginald went for Ann and brought her
to the prison.  He had told her something of their
mother's doings, but it was difficult for anyone who
did not see it to know what that prison life was, and
Ann was spared the horror.  In the cell where her
father lay dying everything was spotless.  There
was scarcely standing room for two or three people,
but the door was left open; there was no fear of his
escaping--the spirit would go, but the shell would
remain, until it was given back to earth.  Man could
not hurt him; he need not fear being called to any
earthly judgment.

So changed was he that Ann hardly knew him.  If
she had not known he was her father she would not
have recognized him.  Looking at her mother, she
saw it was the same with her.

"Can this be my father," she thought, "by whose
side I have ridden over moor and fell, whose voice
was so strong to command, whose presence was so
good?"  And then, looking at her mother, she grew
faint with fear.

There was something unearthly in Mistress Newbolt's
appearance: her tall figure had grown supernaturally
thin, her hands and face were transparent
in their whiteness, her eyes shone with kind and
tender pity--they were no longer cold and hard as
they had been.

When Ann, overcome with grief, sank by her
father's bedside and sobbed out her sorrow, she felt
her mother's hand on her head, and her voice
whispering:

"Nay, my child, do not weep; it is well with him.
We have prayed together, he and I, when God has
vouchsafed to him short glimpses of reason, and I
am persuaded that his soul is safe in the hands of
his Maker.  Do not trouble; it is well with him."

Then she knelt beside her and poured forth her
soul in prayer.  It was wonderful to hear her; she
was as one inspired; the words flowed forth in a
stream of unbroken eloquence.  The warders, the
keepers, the women of the prison, all gathered round
to hear her, and many having come to mock,
remained to pray.  Throughout the day this went on.

Towards evening Reginald came to take Ann
away.  Suddenly life seemed to come back to the
dying man.  He sat up; they put pillows behind him.
He looked around him, and seeing Ann and Reginald,
beckoned them to come to him.  Laying his hands on
their heads, he blessed them.

"I have one desire," he said.  "I have loved lands,
and wealth, and all the good things of this world;
now I know they are of no value at all.  I charge
you two to discover if there be any child, kith or
kin, of those who possessed Newbolt Manor before it
came into my hands.  If so, give it back to them;
if not, then do as the disciples of old--succour the
poor, make a home for the destitute, let the wealth
go back to God who gave it.  You will remember?"

"I will remember, Father," said Reginald; "have no fear."

Colonel Newbolt sank back on his pillows as if
content, and quietly, without an effort, as if he were
falling asleep, passed away.

His wife rose from her knees and covered his face.
At a sign from her all those present left the cell,
except her children.  They remained with her until
the last offices for the dead had been accomplished,
then, at her command, hand in hand they went forth;
she remaining alone to keep watch beside him who
had been her husband.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Faithful Friend`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center large bold

   A Faithful Friend

.. vspace:: 2

In the life of every one of us, from the cradle to the
grave, there are landmarks.  The child's first tooth,
its first step as it half tumbles across the floor into
its mother's arms, the first word from the baby's
lips, are stages in the child's life and in the mother's
heart.  So it goes on imperceptibly--the child, the
youth, the man, school and college; these come to
all.  But there are waves which sweep over each
individual soul, casting it ashore; a master wave,
drawing us into the great sea of destiny.

The death of Colonel Newbolt changed the current
of more lives than one.  Ann had adored her father,
and when Reginald took her forth out of that
prison-house where he lay dead, she was as one stunned.
How great the change in her life was to be she did
not then conceive, for in the first hour of a *great*
sorrow, that sorrow alone holds us.

Ann went back to Somerset House, and Patience
and Agnes tried to comfort her; but on the morrow
Reginald fetched her, and she went home to her
mother.

Then a strange thing happened.  One morning,
as Patience and Agnes sat at work, a commissioner
came and informed them that the king had given
orders that the queen's apartments, and, in fact, the
whole of Somerset House, was to be put under
repair.  This was to be done quickly because of the
king's marriage and the return of her majesty, the
queen dowager.  "Therefore", he said, "the king
desires that you should remove to Hampton Court,
to the apartments he has given you there."

Patience listened in silence, and when the
messenger had departed she went and shut herself into
her own room and did not appear till supper-time,
much to Agnes's astonishment, for she had never
before been left so many hours alone.  The first
words she spoke startled Agnes.

"You heard the order for us to leave this house
and go to Hampton Court," she began.  "Well,
I will not obey, because I do not choose that you
should live in the midst of the king's court.  I find,"
she continued, "that with great economy, and by
living in some quiet country village, I have money
enough to keep us for two or three years.  Will you
be content to live thus?"

"I shall be glad to do so," said Agnes.  "Ever
since we were at Greenwich my heart has yearned
for a country life.  I told you a long time ago I was
tired of courts.  Take me where you will, Patience,
as far out of the world as it pleases you.  Of
course, Ann and Reginald will know where we go?"
she added.

"No," said Patience, "nobody must know.  I am
taking you where it would be a danger for you to be
known."

Agnes's face fell.  "But I love my friends," she
said, "and would not be wholly parted from them."

"For the present you must be," said Patience.
"What the future holds in store for you I cannot
tell.  May the Lord guide our footsteps in the right
way!"

When Reginald called the next day to ask them to
come to his mother and Ann, they were gone--no one
could tell where, no one knew.  They had left soon
after dawn, taking Martha with them, also Rolfe, a
north-country man who had accompanied Patience to
France many years before.  Evidently Patience had
judged these two to be fitting persons to serve them,
to be trusted.

Sad at heart, Reginald returned and told his mother
what had happened.

"I am sorry," she said.  "I was going to ask
Patience to take charge of Ann, because this night
I had a call--I heard voices and I saw visions.  The
spirit of the Lord bids me forsake the world and
serve Him only.  Nothing must hinder me, and yet
Ann stands in my way; she is there before me,
blocking my path.  What can I do with her?  The
Lord calls me and I must go.  Within those prison
gates my work lies; my work is the saving of the
souls which He has given into my hands."

"But, Mother," said Reginald, "what can you
do for so many?"

"Do!" she answered.  "I will feed their bodies
and souls; I will teach them and I will preach to
them, if perchance I may save but one soul alive."

"And who will care for you, Mother?" asked Ann.

"The Lord," answered Mistress Newbolt, "He
will care for me."

Tears were pouring down Ann's face.

"Ah, Mother, you will surely need someone," she
said.  "I will tend you, I will love you, I will care
for you; my heart tells me this is my work.  We
will leave this great house.  We will take just two
rooms without the prison gates; you can do your
work and I will do mine.  When you are weary you
can rest, and I will tend you.  Shall it not be so,
Reginald?"  And she turned to her brother.

"Ann speaks wisely, Mother," said Reginald.
"Let her remain with you."

"I will not hinder you, Mother," said Ann; "I
will help you.  To Newbolt we cannot go, because
you know my father has willed that we should not
dwell there."

"In any case," said Reginald, "I doubt if we
shall keep it long.  The king's greed is great; he
would not have suffered us to remain.  Doubtless,
now that my father is dead, he will take it in
payment for the fine which would have been imposed."

"Then sell it at once, and give the money to my
poor," said his mother.

"If I can," answered Reginald; "but I doubt if
that be possible.  For myself, I shall go abroad.
Surely better days will dawn ere long!"

He might well say this, he might well hope this.
Throughout England and Scotland a religious
persecution was waging: the Act of Uniformity was
passed.  Against the Independents and the Presbyterians
the utmost rigour of the law was enforced;
the prisons were filled with nonconformist ministers
and their people.  Many compared this time to the
great St. Bartholomew massacre of the Huguenots.
And what was still more grievous to all righteous
souls, the court was a hideous place, full of evil-doings,
grieving those who retained still the faintest
semblance of morality.

The marriage of the king did not improve the
state of things; indeed, it made matters worse, for
the misery endured by the young queen, Catherine of
Braganza, was very great.  She was left in solitude,
her own country-people were taken away from her,
and she was forced to consort with the king's friends,
who, for the most part, were distasteful to her.

All the ideal dreams which Reginald and Ann had
dreamt fell crumbling to the ground.  They looked
back with something almost of regret to the days
of Cromwell's rule, when the strictest observance of
religious duty and of virtue was at least commended.
Their hearts were sore within them.  How would it
end?  There seemed much trouble in the future for
both of them.

"If only a war would break out I would volunteer,"
said Reginald.  "I will not stay at home.  If
I cannot serve my king at home, I will serve my
country by sea or by land."

"And I will serve my mother," said Ann; and
timidly, because she feared her, and yet fondly,
because she knew she was her mother, Ann threw
her arms round her neck and whispered softly in her
ears:

"Where thou goest I will go; thy God shall be my God."

Mistress Newbolt did not return the caress, she
merely answered:

"It is the will of the Lord.  Thou shalt abide
with me."

That same day she dismissed all her servants,
acting justly by them, even kindly, for she gave them
their full wages and something over; then she and
Ann went together into the city, and found two or
three rooms at the top of a house in the Old Bailey.

Ann, who had been accustomed to open air and
freedom, wondered how she would live there; but
she did not oppose her mother.  On the contrary,
she fell in with her views, and for the next day or
two they were busy moving what furniture was
necessary from the great house to the poor lodging.
Ann thought of many things, and her activity was
very great.  She piled up the linen, she took all she
imagined could possibly be for their comfort; but
her heart sank as she went up those narrow stairs,
meeting ever and again strange faces of men and
women such as she had never looked on before.  To
her it was an ugly life: would anything make it
beautiful?  She never thought of that; she only knew
she had to live in the midst of it, and she prayed for
strength to do her duty.

Sometimes for days together she never saw her
mother.  She wondered where she was, until at last
Reginald told her that the governor had sent for her.
It came to pass that when Mistress Newbolt ceased
to go amongst the prisoners they had become
insubordinate and had clamoured for her.  Therefore the
governor besought her to renew her work amongst
them, for it meant a certain amount of peace, which
no one else could secure, and she answered him:

"I was waiting for your call, sir; God told me
it would come.  I am ready."

So Ann was left alone in the upper part of the
strange house, with only an old woman whom she
had taken to help her in the work, for her mother
would have no servants.  The old woman lived in
the same house in a garret, and she had no belongings.
The neighbours said that in winter time she
was well-nigh starving, but in the summer she
hawked flowers in the street, and sometimes fruit.

"You will do that no longer," said Ann.  "I will
feed you, and you will do the rough work for me
while my mother is out."

Thus it was arranged.  At first Ann would send her
marketing--she was herself afraid of being alone in
the streets--but gradually, as she grew familiar with
her new life, she ceased to do this, and went out
herself to make her purchases.  The air did her
good, and, as her mother gave her but little money,
she had to be economical.

One day, as she and Reginald were walking down
Drury Lane, she asked: "Where has all our father's
fortune gone?"

"Our mother is spending it," he answered.
"There are the rents of Newbolt Manor; she gets
them all.  I went to see our lawyer the other day.
He told me that by my father's will everything went
to our mother, unconditionally.  She is mistress of
everything; we are dependent upon her."

"It is not right," said Ann; "we shall be beggars."

"I am afraid we shall," said Reginald, "but it
cannot be helped.  You will care for our mother;
I, as best I can, will care for you both; but the
glory is gone out of my life."

"Tut, tut!" said a man's voice, and a hand came
down heavily on Reginald's shoulder.

He turned sharply, put his hand to his hat,
exclaiming: "My Lord Craven!"

"I was coming on behind you, and I heard you
say that wicked thing, that the glory was gone out
of your life," said Lord Craven, "and you but a lad
still.  You are starting in life, and because you have
one disappointment your heart fails you.  Is that
being a man?  Turn in with me, and we will speak
together.  I am no longer young, and verily the
glory has departed out of my life."  And his quaint
face, neither old nor young, grew very sad.

Lord Craven had been all his life the champion
of the Protestant religion throughout Europe, and
the acknowledged knight of that beautiful but
unfortunate queen, Elizabeth Stuart of Bohemia, aunt
of Charles II.  The queen had come to London, and
had lived a few months at Lord Craven's house in
Drury Lane.  She had died in the early spring, and
so a life-long service had come to an end, and
disappointment and ingratitude were to be his reward.

This is the romance of history, savouring of that
mediæval worship of a woman which we meet with
once and again, the Lauras and Beatrices of life;
stories scattered here and there to show us what
so few realize, the spiritual side of the life of man
and woman; love which is content to live, asking
for nothing, looking for nothing that this earth can
give, wholly unselfish, content to serve, content to
worship.

Both Reginald and Ann knew Lord Craven's story
well, they knew his devotion to the queen and to the
Protestant faith, also his untiring goodness to the
whole Stuart family.  They had seen him, as all
the world had seen him, follow the coffin of his
"queen", as he always called Elizabeth Stuart,
holding in his hand his plumed helmet, in which
was fastened always a small white glove, his token
of service.  Many mocked, some smiled at the little
Lord Craven, as he was ofttimes called; but in their
hearts all good-minded men honoured him.

That the earl should address him thus familiarly
was a high honour for Reginald, and he felt it as
such.

"My lord," he said, "I thank you, but I have my
sister with me, and cannot leave her."

"Mistress Ann," said Lord Craven, and his kindly
face smiled down upon the girl, "it seems to me we
do not live far apart.  Had you not a house about
here?"

"Yes, my lord, we lived in yonder house," answered
Reginald, and he pointed to their old home.  "But
my father was arrested and thrown into prison.  He
is dead, and we have moved to a humbler lodging."

"I thought as much," said the Earl.  "Come and
tell me all that has befallen you."  And with that
graciousness which bespoke the man who had lived
in courts, he bowed, and, looking at Ann, added:

"You will do me much honour if you will accompany
your brother to my house."  And he doffed his
hat, with the white glove.

Ann curtsied, and the three turned back together
until they reached the great portal leading to the
earl's house at the corner of Drury Lane and
Aldwych.  The door was wide open, as was often the
custom in those days, and men-servants stood here
and there ready to receive and execute their master's
orders.  Passing through the great hall, the earl
conducted his guests to his private library, where he
mostly sat himself.  It looked out upon gardens, and
seemed to all intents and purposes far removed from
the busy world.  Over the mantelpiece was a lovely
portrait of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and beneath
it was written:

"Your most affectionate and most obedient slave,
who loved you and will love you incessantly,
infinitely, unto death".

Such was the vow William Craven had made as
a young man, and from which, now his hair was
grey, death alone had released him.

To Ann and Reginald in their youth, with the
glamour of life still before them, this room seemed
a sanctuary.

"Sit down, sit down," said the earl, "and tell me
what your trouble is, and why the glory has gone out
of your young life."

He smiled as he repeated Reginald's words.  He
recognized in them the impatient cry of youth.

Reginald never knew how it happened, but he
poured out his whole soul to the earl.  He told him
how he had refused to have anything to do with
Cromwell and the Commonwealth, how he had vowed
allegiance to King Charles and the Stuarts, how his
father had been, so to speak, done to death, and how
he himself, seeing what the court of Charles II. was,
had lost heart.

"You have been serving a man and not a cause,"
said Lord Craven; "that is why you are in this
plight.  Forget the man, and think of the cause.  You
do not know the Stuarts as I know them.  They are
a wild race--they will not be curbed either for good
or evil--daring, brilliant, beautiful!"  He paused, his
eyes turning involuntarily to the portrait of his queen.
Then he continued, "They hold men's hearts in their
hands, and they break them without more ado than
if they were of common clay.  Look back to their
past history!" he exclaimed, and his face had in it
a strange beauty as he stood before the two young
people and spoke to them.  "Think of Mary Stuart;
she lost her crown, her kingdom, everything, for
love, and others lost everything for her.  It is in their
blood; they cannot help it any more than men can
help kneeling before their shrine and worshipping
them.  We were a score of gentlemen who first vowed
ourselves to the service of the Princess Elizabeth
when she went forth out of England to wed the
Prince Palatine.  They are all dead; I am left alone.
Do you think I have not suffered?  And yet you,
because you have high ideals and are disappointed,
turn away in disgust, and would go over to the enemy."

"No, not that," said Reginald, "not that, but I
will not be a courtier.  I will be what you are, my
lord, a soldier.  I will fight if there be still a cause
to fight for."

"I think that will be easily found," said the earl;
"there is likely to be war with Holland before long.
If you are truly desirous of seeing active service, I
will take care that you have a place found for you.
Will you serve under Prince Rupert?"

"Indeed I will," answered Reginald.  "I could
hope for nothing better."

"Then take courage," said the earl, "I will speak
for you.  You say that your father is dead.  He was
like many another; the tables turned.  Your estates
are likely to be forfeited, you will surely have heavy
fines to pay, but beyond that, seeing that you are
yourself in the king's service, and that you have
never drawn sword against him, you will not suffer.
What estates have you?"

"We have but one large estate," said Reginald,
"and my father with his dying breath bade me return
it either to its lawful heirs or to God's poor."

"Where is it?" asked the earl.

"Up north, in Westmorland," answered Reginald.
"Newbolt Manor it is called now, but it was
once De Lisle Abbey, and belonged to the De Lisles."

"That's strange," said the earl; "poor Gilbert De
Lisle!  I knew him well.  He was killed at
Worcester, and he left a fair young wife, who died of a
broken heart in child-birth.  I never heard whether
the child lived or died."

"I have always understood it died," said Reginald,
"and that there was no heir to the estate."

"Ah, well, then the king will bestow it on some
of his favourites," said Lord Craven.  "And your
sister, has she no fortune, no dower-money?"

"My father left some money," answered Reginald,
"but my mother is spending it."  And then rapidly
he told the earl of his father's imprisonment and
death, and how by natural instinct his mother had
taken up work in the prison, and now was spending
all the wealth they had upon it.

"Then, Mistress Ann, we shall have to see to
you," said the earl; "only prevent this brother of
yours from forsaking the cause.  It has had its dark
days; you must live them down.  Be not down-hearted,"
he said, turning to Reginald.  "We cannot
make the world as we would have it; we must take
it as it comes and make the best of it.  Resign your
commission in the King's Guards, and go abroad to
Holland; I will give you an introduction to Prince
Rupert."

Reginald hesitated for a moment.

"My mother and my sister," he said, "I cannot
leave them unprovided for."

"I will see to them," said the earl; "they shall
not suffer.  We cannot afford to let young earnest
souls like yours go adrift."

"Thank you!" said Reginald, "I will think the
matter over and bring you my answer, if you will let
me; but in any case I thank you for your kindness to
us strangers."

"You are no strangers," said Earl Craven.  "I
have heard of you from my friend Delarry."  As he
said this he looked at Ann, whose face coloured
and eyes drooped.  "Moreover, I have watched you
both.  I knew of your father's arrest and of his
death, and I shall be glad to be of service to you.  I
am afraid the king is making enemies of those who
would be faithful servants, so, as is my custom, I
must step into the breach."

"And we thank you," said Reginald; "your
generosity will not have been bestowed in vain."

He bowed to Lord Craven, Ann curtsied, but the
earl held out his hand to them both.

"We are friends.  Think of me as such," he said;
"for I am a lone man, and would gladly boast of a
son and daughter such as you are, to comfort me in
my old age.  My house is open to you; when you
need me you will not be refused."

With that he turned away, and Reginald and Ann
went out together.

"Surely it is God's hand," said Ann.  "We were
well-nigh despairing, you and I, Reginald, and now
we have a friend."

"Yes," answered Reginald, "not too soon; the
world seemed very dark, and now, well, I see the
sun."

Ann looked up and smiled at him.

"So do I," she said, and they went on together
with light hearts.  The young are so glad to cast
a burden off their shoulders, to greet the sunshine, to
welcome hope; it is the prerogative of youth!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Hamlet of St. Mary's`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Hamlet of St. Mary's

.. vspace:: 2

It was but a tiny village nestling in the midst of
moors and fells.  The river Eden ran through it, and
all around was the richest verdure, woods and
plantations, such as can only be seen in Westmorland,
one of the smallest but also one of the most fertile
counties in England.

It was just before harvest time--the golden corn
waved over many an acre.  A tiny church stood with
its white turret just under the hill-side; beside it was
the vicarage, and there for many a year the
Rev. John Ewan had dwelt and ministered to a scattered
moorland flock.  He had come there as a young man
with a young wife.  She lay in the little churchyard,
and of their three children there remained but one, a
girl of sixteen summers, who kept house and served
her father with untiring devotion.  She had never
been beyond the radius of the three counties which
bound Westmorland, and she had no ambition to
wander.  She had no companion save her father; she
rode and walked with him.  He had taught her all
she knew, and that was considerably more than most
girls, for the winters were long and the days short,
and in the evening, over the fireside, she read much,
and she listened to her father as he spoke to her of
things of the past.  She knew much of the history
of England; it was a passion with her, and she had
ever been a rigid loyalist, as her father was.

Strange to tell, throughout the Civil War this
little village and its minister had been left
unmolested, and yet it was at no great distance from
Appleby; but then it was such a little place, and
the farmhouses were so scattered.  Often during
those days of internal warfare they had seen men
on horseback, Roundheads and Royalists alike, ride
in hot haste through the village, and Jessie had
longed for them to stop.  She would have dearly
loved to speak with them, but they passed on.  There
was nothing to tempt them in the dozen low thatched
cottages which clustered together; there was no inn
for them to halt at for refreshment, so they invariably
rode on.  Almost at the top of the hill, beyond which
the moorlands stretched, there was an old farmhouse.
No one knew to whom by rights it belonged.  Some
said it was part of the De Lisle estate; others that
it was tithe land, and the vicar could lay claim to
it.  Be that as it may, it had been long uninhabited,
when one morning a serving-man stopped at the
vicarage gate and asked to see the minister.

He was shown into a room with great rafters
across the ceiling and walls lined with books.  At
a table in the centre, at his desk, sat the vicar.
He was a man something over forty, with a handsome,
clever face, but with a look of abstraction in
his eyes not unusual in one who lives far away from
the world and its doings.  This morning he had two
companions, a big sheep-dog and Jessie, the latter
curled up in an arm-chair deep in her book.

"A man wants to see you, sir," said the woman
servant, opening the door just wide enough to put in
her head.

"Show him in, Mary," answered the vicar; and
a big man in a rough brown jerkin, leggings, coarse
stockings, and hob-nailed shoes entered, holding his
cap in his hand.  He was a man of about five-and-thirty,
with a mass of brown hair and a somewhat
reddish beard.

He came up and stood at the vicar's table.  As he
did so he laid a letter before him.

"My mistress has sent me with this," he said;
"will you please read it, sir, and give me your
answer."

The vicar looked at the man.

"It seems to me I have seen you before," he said.

The man shook his head.

"It is many a long day since I have been in these
parts," he said.

"Then you *have* been in these parts before?"
asked the vicar.

"Will you read the letter, sir, because I have left
the missus in the wood out yonder," he answered
shortly, adding, "We have travelled all the way from
London, and shall be glad to have a roof over our
heads."

Jessie twisted herself round, looked at the man,
then rose, saying quickly:

"There is no room in this village, and no inn;
you must go farther on to Dearham."

The man looked at her, a queer smile lighting up
his rugged face.

"There be the Holt, missie, I ween."

"The Holt!" exclaimed Jessie; "people don't go
to the Holt, do they, Father?"

During this conversation the vicar was reading the
letter which had been given to him.  It consisted of
four pages of close writing, and the vicar's face
changed more than once while he was mastering its
contents.

When he had finished he laid the letter down and
rested his head in his hands.

"Well, sir?" said the man anxiously.

"I will go back with you, my man," he said.

"Jessie," he continued, "the key of Holt Farm is
on the nail; take it, go quickly and open the
house."  And without another word he and the man went out
together.

Jessie rose, took the key, whistled, and went to the
door, the sheep-dog at her heels.

"Where be you going, miss?" asked Mary, looking
out from the half-open kitchen door.

"I am going to Holt Farm," she answered, "to
open it."

"What for?  It was aired last Monday," said Mary.

"Father told me to go," answered Jessie; and with
that she left the house, went through the garden and
the adjoining churchyard, crossed a low stone bridge
which spanned the river a few yards lower down, and
began climbing the hillside.

It was pretty steep, but she did not feel it; she
had been born among the hills, and fells, and dales.
The dog bounded before her, sniffing the balmy air,
odorous with the scent of the heather and the
multitudinous wild flowers which grew on the hillside.
It was a good walk before she reached the wicket-gate,
and, lifting the latch, went into the farm garden.

A gravel path led up to the house.  There were no
weeds, no overgrowth of any sort, as is often the
case in an uninhabited homestead.

He had never given any reason for his doing so,
but the vicar had himself kept the place in order,
had had repairs done when necessary, and had
seen that the garden was trim and neat, and that
every week the windows were thrown open.  The
house was literally buried in trees, so that till you
came close up to it you could not see more than the
outline of a building.  There had been no clearance
made for the last fifteen years, and the boughs of the
elm-trees touched the windows.

It was not a large place: a stone house with a deep
porch in the centre, on either side of which were long
low windows, with lozenge-shaped panes of glass.
On the first and only story were two similar windows,
that was all; but the house extended far back,
looking out upon a somewhat large court-yard, in
which there were stables and outhouses, as was
common in farmhouses.

Jessie turned the big key in the door; it opened
immediately, and she entered a small, square hall.
It was red-tiled and furnished with some oak chairs,
and a great clock of the kind we nowadays call a
grandfather's clock.  From this hall a staircase led
to the upper rooms.  On either side of the hall were
doors, which Jessie now threw open.  The one on the
right hand showed a long, low, oak-panelled room,
with a large fireplace, a great oak table in the centre,
a sideboard, and a dresser, upon which were arranged
plates, and dishes, and great pewter mugs.

Evidently this was the dining-hall and kitchen in
one, for beyond was the scullery.  Everything was
spotlessly clean, save for a light covering of dust.
The door on the other side of the hall led into a
parlour, which was furnished with unusual luxury
for those days.  The sofas and easy-chairs were
covered with a delicately faded chintz.  There were
taborets and small tables, scattered here and there,
of highly-polished oak, upon which stood vases and
big bowls of old china.  A pair of virginals
occupied one corner of the room, and beside them, on a
stool, lay an unstrung guitar.  It was a room which
conjured up dreams.  Who had dwelt there?  What
gentle soul had once touched those now broken cords,
or let her fingers run over the notes of the virginals?
There were portraits also on the walls, not many;
but two attracted the eye at once.  They represented
a young man in full court dress of the time of Charles
I, and a young girl, a child almost, in a white satin
gown, with strings of pearls round her neck, and her
fair, golden hair in curls about her forehead.

Jessie from her childhood had always loved this
room.  Once or twice she had asked her father whom
these pictures represented, and what was the story of
this house where no one dwelt, but he had answered:

"I cannot tell you, Jessie.  I was a young man
when I came here.  I only saw the mistress once--when
she was dying.  Don't ask me anything more, child!"

So she had dreamt of many things, and made pictures
to herself of those who had once lived in those
rooms.

Upstairs there were two bed-rooms with great beds
in them, one shrouded in damask, the other in white
dimity.

Looking out of the window she saw her father and
the man coming up towards the house leading three
horses.  On two of them women were riding on
pillions; the other one had no rider, but instead a
girl was running on in front.  She had thrown off
her cloak, for although it was early morning the day
was warm, and she was bareheaded.

Jessie went out into the porch, and, looking down
at this girl, saw that her face and figure were unlike
any she had ever seen before.  She resembled a lily,
tall and willowy, with golden hair, upon which the
sun now glinted, and with a face so sweet that at a
distance it might have been an angel's.

She was evidently impatient, for she ran quickly
on in front of the others.  Once she paused and
looked back, and Jessie heard her call out:

"Is it up there--all the way up there?"

And her father, raising his hat, had answered her:

"Yes, up there, my child."

In a short time she had reached the wicket-gate,
caught sight of Jessie in the porch, and laughed at
her, such a glad, merry laugh, which seemed to bring
joy with it, and stir up all the echoes in the old house!

Jessie started.  Could it be that she heard that
laugh re-echoed from somewhere?  But she had no
time to listen; her hands were taken, and rosy lips
pouted to kiss her.

"You have come to welcome us!" exclaimed the
girl.  "That is good of you.  Oh, I am so glad to
be here; I am so tired!"

"One would not think so," returned Jessie; "you
have come so quickly."

"Of course, of course I came quickly, because I
am so tired," was the merry answer.  "Let me see."  And
she pushed her way past Jessie and ran straight
into the parlour.

"Oh, how sweet! how pretty!" she exclaimed.
"I thought it would be ugly and desolate.  Patience
would not tell me; she said she had seen Holt Farm
long long ago, and verily it looks as if someone had
just gone out and left it for us.  Oh, I shall be so
happy here, so happy!"  And she let herself fall into a
great arm-chair, which seemed to swallow her up.

Just at that moment the vicar and Patience reached
the house.  The vicar lifted Patience down, and,
turning, said to Rolfe, the man-servant:

"Take the horses round to the back.  I will come
and show you the way to the stables."

"Thank you kindly, sir, I know the way," answered
Rolfe.  "You had better get down here," he added,
speaking to the serving-woman, and he lifted her to
the ground; but she was stiff with her long journeyings,
and would have fallen if he had not steadied her.

"Lack-a-day!" she exclaimed, "I hope this is the
end of our journeyings.  A poor place, and a lonely
one!  Why, man, we might be murdered up here and
no one be any the wiser!"

"Have no fear; you will not be murdered," said
Rolfe, and, taking the three horses by their reins,
he led them away.

Patience had entered the house.  Her face was
very white, her eyes full of tears, as she stood inside
the parlour door looking around her.

Agnes, when she saw her, sprang up.

"Patience, you never told me it was so beautiful!
It is the loveliest little place I have ever seen."

"It is a very humble home," said Patience, "but
it is home."

"I have never had a home before," said Agnes,
"only big rambling palaces.  I shall love this; it
breathes of love."  And, taking Jessie's hand, she
said, "Take me, show me everything."

Jessie looked at her father.  This impetuous young
person was a revelation to them both; life was so
still and calm at St. Mary's, for so the hamlet was
called.  A little way down the river there had once
been a chapel, dedicated to the Virgin.  It formed
part of an old convent, but the convent and chapel
had been destroyed in the time of Henry VIII; a few
stones only remained to show where it had been, but
the name of St. Mary's had remained to the hamlet.

"Well," said Agnes, "are you not going to show
me anything?"  And she frowned at Jessie.

"Yes, yes!  Come, I will show you all!" Jessie
answered quickly, as if she were bound to obey this
newcomer.

"First tell me your name."

"My name is Jessie," was the answer.

"And mine is Agnes.  That will do; now, Jessie,
come along."  And the young feet pattered away over
the tiled floors, through the kitchen and scullery, out
into the court-yard, then up the stairs, and through
the bed-rooms, awakening echoes where there had
been a long silence.

Patience looked up at the vicar.

"Have I done well?" she asked.

"I think you have done well and wisely," he answered.

"And you, is it well with you?  How beautifully
you have kept the place.  It is just as we left it."

"I have done my best," the vicar answered; "it
has been a labour of love.  I thought you would
bring the child home one day."

"It is time I did," she answered.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Mystery Cleared Up`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   The Mystery Cleared Up

.. vspace:: 2

"Father, who are these people who have walked
into Holt Farm as if it belonged to them?" asked
Jessie that same evening.  "Is it for them you have
kept it so beautiful?"

The vicar hesitated a moment, looked at his daughter,
then said quietly:

"Yes, Jessie, it was for them."

"Why have you never told me about them?  Have
you known them long?" she asked.

"I baptized that child," he answered, "and I
buried her mother; she lies beneath the chancel in
our little church."

"Where the cross is in the pavement, Father?"
Jessie asked.

"Yes, there," he answered.

"There is no name," said Jessie softly.

"No, there is no name," answered her father.

"Does she know?" asked Jessie.

"Do you mean does the child know?" asked the vicar.

"Yes; who else should I mean?"

"I cannot tell," he answered; "I do not know
myself."

"And the person who is with her?" asked Jessie.

"She knows everything; more than I do," answered
her father.  "She carried the child away,
and I have not seen her since; only from time to
time I have heard from her, and have had sums of
money sent me to keep the house in order.  It
belongs to her.  Now you must ask no more questions,
and you must answer none.  Can I trust you?"

"Of course you can," said Jessie, with a little
touch of temper.  "How beautiful this Agnes is!"
she continued; "she is like two persons in one.  She
has the golden hair of the lady in the picture, and
the laughing brown eyes of the man."

"You saw that?" asked her father.

"Of course I saw it; anyone would," she answered.

"Well, then, say nothing about it," said her father.

They sat down to their evening meal.  Mary, the
faithful servant, who had been with them ever since
Jessie's birth, who had nursed the mistress, who had
seen the other little children laid beside her to rest,
was excited to-night, and could not keep silence as
she waited on the vicar and his daughter.

"The people in the village are all agog to know
who the newcomers are," she said.  "Only a few
are left who remember the coming and the flitting
from the Holt, fifteen years ago.  They remember
the christening of the babe and the burying of the
mother.  Old Thomas, the sexton, says he's sure
the child's name was Agnes.  Can that girl be the
child?"

"It is even so, Mary," said the vicar, "but you
need not talk about it.  Let them say what they will.
In a few days they will quiet down, and we shall hear
no more gossip."

"I am not given to gossiping," said Mary in an
injured tone, "but it's not that easy to shut other
people's mouths."

"Don't try," said her master; "let things be."

The vicar was right.  Things let alone settle down
by themselves, and before a month was over Agnes
and Patience had stepped into their places; it was as
if they had always been at St. Mary's.

To the child it was a homecoming, a joy to her
who had never had a home.  From the first it was
settled that she should go every day to the vicar to
be taught with Jessie.

"She is very ignorant," Patience said, "she can
barely read or write in English; but she is quick,
and I shall be much mistaken if she does not learn
as fast as you can teach her."

So the girlish figure running down the hillside,
crossing the bridge, picking her way over the
tombstones of the little churchyard on her way to the
vicarage garden, was soon a familiar sight.  The men
and women going to their work in the fields wished
her good morrow, and she answered them with a
glad voice and a brilliant smile, so that at last many
went out of their way to win that smile and that
gracious greeting.

"She be that beautiful," they would say amongst
themselves, and gradually a few remembered how
the vicar had baptized a babe who was born at the
Holt and how he had buried the mother a few days
later.  "If she be that babe," they said, "surely she
be one of us."  And they straightway adopted her.

Holt Farm, though not in itself an extensive holding,
consisted of fields which had always been used
by the vicar for grazing purposes.  Also there was
an acre or two of agricultural land, where the corn
and the barley waved in their seasons.  The vicar
had superintended the farming of all this, and had
gathered in the money, but now Patience took all
things into her own hands.  She engaged the labourers,
she presided over the dairy, and the cattle
and the poultry yard became a great feature of the
place.  Rolfe was her head man and Martha saw
to the house, and the vicar went each day to the
Holt to see that all was well with Patience, and if
she needed counsel, he gave it.

This homecoming of these two strangers changed
many things in the hamlet of St. Mary's.  Holt
Farm became a centre to which they all looked.  In
that scattered parish for miles round the peasants
soon learnt that for every ill and for every sorrow
they would find help and sympathy there, so they
came without fear and returned to their own homes
cured, they said, both in body and soul.

Never for one moment did Agnes complain of the
tasks set her by the vicar.  Jessie was always there,
and Jessie always helped her as long as she needed
help, but she had come to her teacher with a clear,
untired mind, and everything was easy to her.  The
vicar was a wonderful teacher; as he had taught
Jessie, so he taught Agnes, not dry regulation lessons,
but the pith of knowledge of people and of things.  He
let her talk; he let her tell him all her difficulties.
She had but little clear knowledge of religion.  This
he put down to her foreign life.  What she did know
was indeed a strange medley; but with his strong
mind he made things plain to her, so that she learnt
to see and to understand rightly.

She was very confidential with him, as if he had
been her father.

"I do not know anything about my father or my
mother," she said one day, "only that they are dead."  And
tears gathered in her eyes so that the vicar was
moved.  He laid his hand on her, saying, "I baptized
you, Agnes, and the same night your mother died.
Will you come and see where her body lies until the
great resurrection day?"  He took her by the hand,
and Jessie followed them.  The three knelt before the
altar, in front of which was a black cross embedded
in the stone.  It had been the vicar's own handiwork.

When they rose from their knees Agnes asked
under her voice:

"What was my mother's name?"

"Go home and ask Dame Patience," said the
vicar.  "I cannot tell you; she is your guardian."

Agnes went home, and that night the vicar came
and spoke to Patience, and told her she had best tell
the child the mystery of her birth.

"It is no mystery," said Patience, "only because
we feared those to whom Cromwell might give her
lands, and what evil might befall her in consequence,
have I kept it secret, and the queen also."  Then,
taking Agnes by the hand, she pointed to the two
pictures and said:

"That is your father, Sir Gilbert de Lisle, and
that is your mother, Agnes, his young wife, and my
sister.  This place belongs to me, it was part of my
inheritance, and when your father joined the king's
army he entreated me to bring his wife hither because
it is a quiet place, and because to leave her alone at
De Lisle Abbey would have been to expose her to great
danger if the king's army were routed.  I consented,
and he brought her himself to the Holt, and here
they parted never to meet again.  Our worst fears
were realized: your father was killed at Worcester,
and from that hour your mother never lifted her head.
She waited to give you birth, and died within the
week, desiring me to take you as soon as I could
over to France to Queen Henrietta Maria.  I was
loath to do so; I would sooner have kept you here.
But she proved right, for before long Cromwell laid
his hands on everything, distributed lands and estates,
and a child like you, with no one to protect you,
would probably have fared badly.  We heard that
the whole of the De Lisle estate had been bestowed
upon a Parliamentarian, but who he was we do not know."

Agnes turned sharply round:

"But I know," she said.

"Who?" asked Patience.

"Colonel Newbolt!" answered Agnes.

"How do you know?" asked the vicar.

"Because, as Aunt Patience knows, his son and
daughter are great friends of mine, and as we were
talking one day they told me they had come into
lands belonging to Royalists.  I asked the name of
the Royalists, and Reginald answered, 'The De
Lisles'.  Afterwards Ann told me all about the De
Lisles, and the legend concerning them.  Then
again, I heard from an old man that though they
had been driven out the De Lisles would come back
again.  But Ann and Reginald are my dear friends!
I will not have them turned out for me!  They
would have gone of themselves if they had been
asked, but they shall not be asked; they are my
friends."  And she burst out weeping.

It was such an unusual thing for Agnes to weep
that Patience took her in her arms, and petted and
made much of her.

"We will leave things in God's hands, my child,"
she said.  "If He gives you back your own it will be
well; if not, then it will be well also."

"What do I want more than I have?" said Agnes.
"I am your child, my own dear aunt, and this place
shall be my home; here I was born, and here my
mother is buried--I am content."

"So be it," said Patience.  "No one shall trouble
you; we will dwell in peace together."

Verily they did dwell in peace, buried in this little
out-of-the-way spot.  If Agnes sometimes thought of
her old friends, she silenced her longings, for to find
them she must go back to a world which she did not
love, to London or to Paris, to courts and court life.
In the quiet hours of study her mind grew with
such rapidity that even the vicar marvelled.

Jessie was no laggard at learning or at work of
any sort, but Agnes outstripped her, with that quiet
ease with which she did everything.  Her beautiful
soul was reflected in her form and face.  To see her
was to love her.  She was a sunbeam going in and
out of the cottages, running to and fro, kneeling in
church; wherever she passed, brightness followed in
her wake.

Excepting at night she and Jessie were never
parted.  The Holt and the Vicarage were one home
for both; so they grew side by side, Jessie a quiet
maiden, very wise and good, ordering her father's
house, teaching in the little school, visiting the sick
all day.  In the evenings the two would sit together
reading or talking, the vicar and Patience would
join them, and the former would bring tidings from
the outside world.  Two or three times a year he
would go into Appleby, and then he would come
back with a great store of court news.  He told them
of the battles which were being fought at sea, of the
selling of Dunkirk--a shame to England--of stories
of De Ruyter and many other great captains.

"England is losing her prestige," he said, "by
sea and by land.  The king loves pleasure too well,
and his country too little."

Like tall lilies the two girls grew, side by side,
with sunshine in their hearts and on their faces.  The
tender blossoms of spring, the bright summer days
with their fruits and flowers, the mellow autumn with
its crimson sunsets, the snows of winter, went and
came almost unheeded by them, for each season
had its joys.  There was not a cloud on those young
brows; unreasoningly, as if it were a natural thing,
they rejoiced in life.  Shadows had gone before and
might follow after, but for the time they walked in
light.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`At Court`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center large bold

   At Court

.. vspace:: 2

Men stopped their work, women turned out on to
their door-steps, to see a king's messenger riding
through the hamlet of St. Mary's.  He drew rein
at the vicarage gate, threw himself off his horse, and
would have knocked at the door had it not been
wide open; so he called out:

"In the king's name, parson!"

The vicar, bending over his next Sunday's sermon,
rose hastily and came out.

"Are you Parson Ewan?" asked the man.

"I am," answered the vicar, straightening himself.

"Then can you tell me if a woman by name
Patience Beaumont is living hereabouts at a place
called Holt Farm?"

"Certainly she is," said the vicar.  "She has dwelt
there for well-nigh three years."

"Will you direct me to the farm?" asked the
messenger.

Without any further answer the vicar stepped out
into the garden.

"You have but to cross yonder bridge and go
straight before you.  Holt Farm stands just behind
that clump of trees."

"It is a steep ride for a horse," put in the man.

"Yes; you would do better to go on foot," answered
the vicar.  "I will see to your horse; you will find it
here on your way back."

"Thank you!" said the messenger, "I shall be glad
to walk.  I have been riding since dawn."

"You come from London?" asked the vicar.

"Naturally," answered the man.  "Do you not
see I am a king's messenger?  But I come from a
queen."  And he showed on his sleeve the embroidered
lilies of France entwined with the rose of
England.

"Queen Henrietta Maria of France?" said the
vicar slowly.

"The same," answered the man, giving the reins
he still held to the vicar.  "Have you no inn in the
place?" he asked.

"No," said the vicar, "but you will find good
refreshment up yonder.  I would offer you some myself,
but it is better for a man to do his work first and
eat and drink afterwards.  You have not far to go."

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps you are wise," he said, and went off.

The vicar watched him.  "What news can he have
brought?" he thought.  "Is our peace going to be
broken into?"  And a look of regret crept over his
face.  Three peaceful years is a span in a man's
life which he does not willingly see disturbed.

He turned, re-entered the house, and was met by
Jessie in her bibbed apron, her hands white from
kneading the bread.

"Who is that man, Father?" she asked.

"The king's messenger," he answered.

"What can he want?  Why has he come here?"

"That I cannot tell you," answered her father.
"We shall probably know in due time."

"If I had not my first batch ready for the oven,
I would run up to the farm at once," she said regretfully.

"Better wait, my little girl," said the vicar.  "If
it is good news it will come to us quickly; if it is
bad, there is time enough.  Go back to your
bread-making; I will go back to my sermon."

"Oh, that is all very well!" Jessie muttered to
herself, "but I am always afraid of what will happen
up there, lest something should take them away
again, and then, then what should I do?"  And
tears gathered in her eyes.

If Jessie had had few joys in life, she had had no
sorrows, so that even this little cloud, no bigger
than a man's hand in her horizon, frightened her
soul.  She went back to her bread-making, but her
heart was no longer in her work, and the bread
suffered; it was long rising, and she felt guilty when
on the morrow Mary remarked:

"It's not so light as it might be, Jessie."

.. vspace:: 2

Agnes was in the garden tying up some plants,
gathering the roses, and clearing away any dead leaf
or bud which had faded on the bushes.  Suddenly she
heard a click at the garden gate, looked up, and saw
a man in the royal livery she remembered so well,
just walking up the gravel path to the house.

He saw her, came up, and doffed his cap.

"Are you Dame Patience Beaumont?" he asked.

"No," she answered, laughing; "I am Agnes
Beaumont.  Patience is my aunt.  What do you want
with her?"

"I have a letter for her," answered the messenger,
opening a satchel which was flung over his shoulder,
and drawing forth a somewhat large packet.  "I was
to deliver this into her own hands," he continued.
"Will you call her?  And then will you bid your
serving wench give me some food?  I have ridden
hard since dawn without breaking my fast, and I am
both hungry and thirsty--more thirsty than hungry,"
he added, with a meaning look.

"Come this way," said Agnes, and though she
was clad in simple homespun, with a white kerchief
folded across her bosom and an apron tied over her
skirt, and though she wore thick high-heeled shoes--on
which, however, were silver buckles--there was
about her a something which spoke of gentle birth.
She walked so erect, so easily, with such an
unspeakably graceful swing.

The man watched her curiously.  He was accustomed
to court dames, queens, and princesses.

"If you will come this way," she said, "Martha
will give you food and drink, and I will take your
letter."

He followed her to the back premises, and, opening
a side door which led into the kitchen, she called
out:

"Here is a king's messenger, Martha, asking for
Aunt Patience.  He has travelled from London, and
is hungry and thirsty.  Will you see to him?"

"Lack-a-day!" said Martha, coming forward, "I
guess he'll bring us no good."

"That's a hard speech, Mistress Martha," said
the man.  "Why should I bring you ought but
good from her gracious majesty, Queen Henrietta,
whose servant I am?"

She stood before him and looked at him.

"Why," she cried, "you're Peter Kemp!"

"And you be Martha," he said.  "Well, the place
has agreed with you, Martha; you look ten years
younger."  And he caught hold of her two hands
and shook them.

"Supposing you give me my aunt's letter," broke
in Agnes with a stately air, "you can greet each
other after."

"I beg your humble pardon," said the man, and
fumbling once more in the satchel, he drew out the
packet, and without any further trouble gave it to her.

.. _`"HE DREW OUT THE PACKETS"`:

.. figure:: images/img-160.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "HE DREW OUT THE PACKETS"

   "HE DREW OUT THE PACKETS"

She turned to go, but remembering, looked back
and said somewhat haughtily:

"You can feed him now, Martha."

She was hardly outside the door when she heard
them talking, fifty to the dozen.  She paused, and
looked doubtfully at the packet in her hand.

"Is it for good or evil?" she murmured; then she
added quickly: "Why should I fear?  Surely what
God sends must be good."

She was no longer a child but a girl, verging upon
womanhood, tall, not over slight of figure, but, as
we have said before, graceful and perfectly built.
The face was the same child's face; the tendrils of
golden hair still clustered round her head and lay on
her white neck; the brown eyes had the same luminous,
laughing look in them; her colouring was rich
and perfect, a little sunburnt, like a ripe peach, and
the lips were ripe too.

A door led from the kitchen to the living-room, so
she had not far to go.  Patience was sitting at the
table with a pile of snowy linen in front of her, which
she was sorting and arranging with housewifely care.

"Aunt Patience," said Agnes, going up to her, "a
king's messenger has just brought this;" and she
put the packet down before her.  Then she stood at
the other side of the table, her hands on her hips,
watching her aunt, who took the packet up, turned
it over, sighed, and exclaimed:

"Ah me, I have always feared this day would come!"

"Why have you feared it?" asked Agnes sharply.

"Because I am very much mistaken if it does not
mean an uprooting," said Patience.

"But if you do not choose to go, must you?"
asked Agnes.

"Yes, I must," answered Patience.  "You are
old enough to understand now, Agnes, that I owe it
to your father's honour to show you to the world as
his child, the heiress of the De Lisles.  There is no
need now to hide it; if the queen has sent for me it
is because she is of the same mind."  With that she
broke the seal and read the queen's letter.

It contained an express command for her to come
to London and bring the child, Agnes De Lisle, with
her, with all the papers necessary to prove her
father's marriage with Agnes Beaumont, and her
own birth.

"But I do not care," said Agnes.  "I do not want
to go; I am quite happy here."

"We are what we are born," said Patience.
"Have you forgotten your catechism, 'to do your
duty in that state of life in which it has pleased God
to place you'?  We will go to London, Agnes, and
come back here if we can, my child."

Then Agnes threw herself face downwards on the
table and sobbed her heart out.  Patience herself
was as white as the linen which lay before her, but
she never swerved from what she believed to be
right.  That, too, was her nature; she gave no
thought to her own likings or dislikings.  Young as
she had been when her sister died, all these years
she had lived for her child and her duty.  She sat
quietly waiting till Agnes's storm of sobs should
cease.  Upon this scene the vicar entered.

He was evidently very serious and very much
troubled.  Patience looked up as he entered and
their eyes met for one second, then she looked away,
and a faint flush coloured her face.  He went up to
Agnes.

"My little girl," he said, "why this great grief?"

"The queen has ordered us to London," said
Patience.  "She must have divined our hiding-place,
or someone must have told her, and she has bidden
me take Agnes with me."

"Well, of course you must go," said the vicar;
"what is there so very terrible in this, Agnes?  I
have heard you say you loved the queen well, and her
daughter too."

"So I did," said Agnes, "but all that is past like
a dream.  I have been so happy here."

"And you were happy before you came here,"
said the vicar, smiling.  "I thought you looked the
happiest child I had ever seen when I first saw you.
You will always find some joy in life, Agnes; it is in
your nature.  Come, cheer up!"

The vicar's power over Agnes had always been
unquestioned.  She stood up, wiped her eyes, and a
poor little smile crept over her pretty face.

"There, that's all right," said the vicar, patting
her on the shoulder.  "Now, Mistress Patience, let
me see your letter."

"Well," he said, laying it down, "much honour
awaits you, Agnes, and you must try and do us all
credit, and prove yourself worthy to be the
representative of so good and so old a family as the
De Lisles.  You are your father's daughter,
remember.  You never knew him, but your Aunt
Patience did, and she will tell you that he was a
man of high honour and a good Christian soldier.
He served God, he honoured his king, and he loved
your mother.  Is it not so, Patience?"

"Ah, it is indeed!" she said; "he worshipped his
young wife.  She was so young and fragile, it was
something more than ordinary love which he bore
her, and she could not live without him, that is why
she died, Agnes.  I see her now standing at his
stirrup as he bade her farewell.  She was brave as
long as she saw him, but she fainted in my arms
when he was out of sight.  I tried hard to make
her live for love of you, but she shook her head.
'I cannot', she said, and so she died."

Tears filled even the vicar's eyes as Patience told
this story of true love.

Fortunately Martha broke in upon them.

"Peter Kemp says he must be off, that he must
be at Skipton before nightfall.  The queen was
urgent that he should not tarry on the road.  He
waits your answer."

"He shall have it," said Patience, and going to
an ancient cabinet she opened it, drew forth paper
and pens, sat down and indited her letter, folded and
sealed it, and then went herself into the kitchen and
gave it to the man.

She knew him well, even as Rolfe, whom Martha had
fetched, did.  The men had been comrades together.

"You will come back to London, Rolfe," Peter
said, as he took up his cap to go.

"Not I," answered Rolfe.  "I never had much
liking for court life; I shall abide here and keep the
place together."

"Then you'll come, Martha," said Peter.

"I shall go where my mistress goes," answered
the woman.  "Good-day, and good luck go with
you, Peter Kemp!"

They shook hands.

"I'll go down the hill with you," said Rolfe.
"You left your horse at the vicarage?"

"Yes; he was well-nigh done, and it's a mighty
steep climb up here," said Peter.

"We are near the top," answered Rolfe carelessly;
"it's fine and airy."

They went down the hillside together.  Before
them, flitting like a fairy over the grass, they saw
Agnes; she sped so quickly that they could not
overtake her.  She crossed the bridge and disappeared
into the vicarage before they reached it.

"A bird of ill omen he is," said the vicar's Mary,
standing by Rolfe at the vicarage gate watching
Peter ride away; then she added, in a low voice,
"Those two young creatures are well-nigh breaking
their hearts over the news he brought."

"They're young," answered Rolfe; "their hearts
will mend, have no fear, Mary."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Under the Shadow of Newgate`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   Under the Shadow of Newgate

.. vspace:: 2

"Let Mistress Patience know that I am waiting to
receive her," said Queen Henrietta Maria, as she sat
before her dressing-table, the barber being engaged
in the dressing of her hair.

She was no longer the beautiful Henrietta Maria
who had come to England as the bride of Charles I.
Trouble had told upon her and aged her even before
her time, and we find her spoken of in the chronicles
as a "little old woman".  And yet she was not
more than fifty-six years of age; but she had grown
crusty, and evil-tempered, jealous of those who were
younger than herself, and nothing ages a woman like
jealousy and spite.  A kindly, loving heart softens
away the hard lines and keeps the face young because
of the love which dwells in the heart; but where
there is no love, there is no youth.

She had hardly given the order when the door was
thrown open and the usher announced: "Madam
Patience Beaumont and the Lady Agnes De Lisle."

The queen turned sharply round, despite her
barber's exclamation of despair, and the tired face
brightened up.  "At last, you truants!" she
exclaimed, as Patience hurried forward, knelt, and
kissed the extended hand.  The queen's eyes passed
over her and rested on Agnes: "Verily a beauty!"
she whispered.  "Well, ma mie," she said aloud,
as Agnes approached her, "have you quite
forgotten your queen-mother?"

"I have not forgotten her at all, your majesty,"
answered Agnes, as she followed her aunt's example,
knelt, and kissed the royal hand; but Henrietta
lifted her face between her hands and looked at her,
tears filling her eyes.

"Patience," she said, "she is the most beautiful
thing I have seen for many a day; she is father and
mother welded together.  Is she as good as she is
beautiful?"

"Ah, Madam, who can tell?" answered Patience;
"she is very young, and has not been tempted."

The queen's brow darkened as she repeated the
words.  "Ah, that is it; she has not been tempted!
You have kept her in cotton wool, Patience."

"Nay," answered Patience, "I have kept her
beneath God's heaven in the world of nature, and
I would have kept her there still had your majesty
not sent for her."

Again the queen's brow darkened, but she answered
quickly: "It was our duty to her father and mother.
If I had not interfered you would have married her
to some country bumpkin.  Now we will see that she
is restored to her rightful position; is it not so,
Agnes?"  And she tapped the girl on her cheek.
Then she turned back again and the barber renewed
his offices.

"Come, stand beside me, child, and tell me what
you have been doing all these years, and why you
did not write even to Henrietta?  She is mightily
angry with you!"

"I did not let her," answered Patience; "it would
have only been a disturbing element in her life."

"I have not forgotten that she was my first
friend," said Agnes.  "I have prayed for her every
day, and I should love to see her, only----"

"Only what?" asked the queen sharply.

"I do not think I like court life."

"Ah, you will soon speak differently," said the
queen, "when you are flattered and made much of!
Have you brought the necessary papers, Patience,
that I may show them to my son?  I see she has
taken her rightful name, Agnes De Lisle; the next
thing will be to restore her estates.  Do you know
who holds them?"

"We know who did," answered Patience, "but
they may have been dispossessed."

"Who may it be?" asked the queen.

"The De Lisle estates were given to Colonel
Newbolt, who was imprisoned and died at Newgate,"
answered Patience.  "His son Reginald was his
heir."

"Has he not inherited?" asked the queen.

"He certainly has put in no claim," answered
Patience, "for he went abroad soon after his father's
death and has not returned."

"But someone has taken the rents," said the queen.

"That remains for your majesty to find out," said
Patience.  "I cannot tell."

"Well, we will enquire into the matter," said the
queen, as, released from her barber, she stood up and
faced Agnes.  Again she smiled as she looked at the
girl, who was simply charming, in a plain, white
gown, unbedizened, with only a coil of pearls round
her white throat, and her hair in natural curls.  She
was as fresh as a flower, and the queen, delighted,
clapped her hands, and, turning to her friend, Lord
Jermyn, said in a low voice, "She will make a
sensation.  Did you ever see anything so fresh?"

"Not of late years, certainly," he answered.
"But your majesty is forgetting your appointment
with the king at Whitehall."

"Well, well, I must be gone," said the queen,
"but I shall expect you to be here when I return,
Patience; I have many things to ask you.  Bring
the child with you; mind you always bring the
child."

"Your majesty does her great honour," said
Patience.  "I will not forget."

Then the queen nodded kindly to Agnes, and
gave her hand to Lord Jermyn, who conducted her
down the stairs and across the hall to her coach,
which was in waiting.

Patience and Agnes returned to their own apartments,
which were the same as they had occupied
before; for, although Somerset House had been
restored and a certain portion rebuilt, these rooms
had been left almost as they were.

Agnes was very serious when they found
themselves alone.  "I wish we were home again,
Patience!" she sighed.  "Do you know, I am
frightened--frightened of the queen, frightened of
everything; and yet I used not to be.  I did not
care a bit for queens and princesses in olden days.
I remember quite well sitting on the queen's lap and
talking to her as I would to anyone else.  I could
not do that now.  And then, again, I thought she
was very beautiful; but she is not beautiful now,
yet it is not so very long ago."

"It has been long enough to make a woman of
you, Agnes, and therefore long enough to age the
queen and mar her beauty."

"It has not marred yours, Patience," said the
girl.  "I never remember you any other than you
are now; your face was always so sweet.  It is like,
well, it is like a madonna's face.  It must be because
you are so good."

"Hush, hush!" said Patience, her pale cheeks
colouring.  "I am not at all good, Agnes; I have
been very wilful, as wilful as you could be if you
were driven to it."

"I hope that will never be," said Agnes.  "Do
you know, Aunt Patience, I heard you tell the queen
that I had never been tempted.  Surely to be tempted
is not a necessity.  I always stop in my prayers and
say twice over, 'Lead us not into temptation; but
deliver us from evil'."

"As long as you do that, you will never go far
wrong," said Patience, stroking the fair face which
she loved so well.

"Now, what shall we do this afternoon, little one?
It is very hot."

"Yes, it is very hot," said Agnes; "this London
is stifling."  She went to the window and threw it
wide open.  "Ah, it is like a furnace outside!" she
added, and quickly shut the window.

"I think we had best stay where we are," said
Patience, "and later we will take a barge and go up
or down the river; surely there will be some air
there!"

Agnes did not answer, she seemed to be thinking.

"Does not what I propose suit you, child?" asked
Patience.

The girl threw herself on her knees beside her aunt.

"Dear," she said, "I have a great wish.  I don't
seem to care for anything else in London, but I
want to find Ann Newbolt!  How can we do it?
You remember we heard that Reginald had gone
abroad, and that Ann was living somewhere with
her mother not far from Newgate."

"That is no good," said Patience; "it would be
like hunting for a needle in a haystack.  Besides,
I am not sure that it would be well for you to find
those Newbolts again.  You see, if the king is
determined to restore you to your own they must be
driven out."

"I should hate that; oh, I should hate it terribly!"
cried Agnes.

"But it must be well," said Patience.  "Cromwell
had no right to give what was not his own."

There was a pause, then Agnes looked up and
said quietly:

"Jessie and I were looking through an old book
which treated of the estates and lands in
Westmorland, and we found De Lisle Abbey.  Henry VIII
seized it, drove the monks out, and gave it to a
Sir Gilbert de Lisle--not my father, but one long
before him.  So you see, Aunt Patience, it was
stolen land, and, what is worse, there was a curse
upon it; the De Lisles were to be driven out by fire
and sword, and so we have been.  Let things be as
they are, Aunt Patience, and let us live at Holt Farm
and be happy once again."

"Do not think I wish for anything better, Agnes.
It is for you, my child," said Patience.

"I'm sure I don't want it," said Agnes.  "Let us
go back as soon as we can, Aunt.  I have a sort of
feeling that something dreadful is going to happen."

"That is because you are tired, and London is
strange to you now," said Patience.  "Lie down
and rest, then we will go out, and, as your heart
is set upon it, I will enquire about the Newbolts;
they may be dead or gone away from London."

The knowledge they desired came to them quite
unexpectedly.  Martha was by no means sorry to
find herself amongst old acquaintances.  She had
already been out and about, gossiping here and
there.  Amongst other scraps of knowledge, she
had learnt much concerning the Newbolts.  Dame
Newbolt, she was told, always lived near Newgate.
She was looked upon as a guardian angel.  "She
works there night and day," they told her, "preaching
and teaching, and when the prisoners chance to
come out she succours them.  Men and women alike
worship the ground she treads on."

"And Mistress Ann, her daughter, what has
become of her?" Martha had asked.

"She lives in a mean lodging-house near the Old
Bailey, over against Newgate, and but for her, her
mother would well-nigh starve.  But Mistress Ann
will not suffer it; she makes her take her food, she
fetches her from the prison, and brings her home at
night.  They say her devotion knows no bounds.
She is never weary, never goes abroad save once
and again when my Lord Craven fetches her, and
insists on taking them both in his barge for a breath
of fresh air, or driving them out into the country
beyond St. Giles'.  My lord is as good to her as
a father.  Ah, there are queer people in the world,"
said the speaker, "but the queerest are sometimes
the best, and my Lord Craven is one of them.  He
has seen many things in his time, and has succoured
many people.  I doubt much whether the Stuarts
would have been able to hold their own but for his gold."

"Have you heard of Reginald, the colonel's son?"
asked Martha.

"Oh, yes; he comes and goes.  He has joined
Prince Rupert, and is half the time at sea with the
White Squadron."

Primed with all this news, Martha hastened back
to Somerset House, and poured it all out afresh into
the eager ears of Patience and Agnes.

"Then we will go this afternoon and find Ann,"
said Agnes; "shall we, Aunt Patience?"

"She lives in a bad part of the town," said
Martha.  "There are rumours that there have been
some cases of the plague in the by-ways round
Newgate.  It would be well to be careful.  I know not
how it is," continued Martha, "but people seem
anxious.  There are men who go about preaching
that the times are so evil, that the Lord will sweep
London off the face of the earth because of its sins."

"As for the plague, I do not think we need be
alarmed," said Patience; "there are always some
cases in London, I am told.  It only affects the
very poor and the unclean.  Last year I remember
Mr. Ewan telling me that there were a few cases,
just three, but it did not spread; the winter checked
it.  No, I do not think we need be anxious; besides,
it would be of no use.  What is to be will be.  We
shall not be long in London, I hope."  And with that
the subject dropped.

It was late in the afternoon when they sallied
forth.  Even then the heat was so intense, and
the air so dry, that they decided they would take
a barge and go down to Blackfriars, land there, and
find their way to the Old Bailey.  Martha went
with them, because she knew the way better than
they did.  When they landed from the barge, it was
but a little distance across the Fleet until they
gained the narrow streets leading to the Old Bailey.

On the summer night, with all the refuse of the
day lying about waiting for the night scavengers to
pass their rounds, the stench which arose from many
a foul heap was noisome.

Patience and Agnes held their kerchiefs to their
faces.  Fresh from the sweet moors and the scented
flowers, they were the more susceptible.

"Fit for swine!" muttered Martha behind them.
"Talk of the plague!  The dirt is enough to breed
any amount of plagues."  And she was right.  It
was the dirt and uncleanliness which was about to
cost thousands of lives.  For the last ten years the
plague had been raging in Europe.  In Genoa 60,000
persons died of it; in Holland, in the years 1663 and
1664, upwards of 50,000 people died of plague in
Amsterdam alone; and yet during all these years
London had been singularly free.

The origin of the plague has been much discussed.
Some authorities imputed its arrival in London to
have been caused by bales of merchandise from
Holland which came originally from the Levant,
where it was quite usual to sell the clothes of those
who had died of plague at once, without disinfecting
them; according to others, it was introduced by the
Dutch prisoners of war.  In any case, we may
attribute its spread to the uncleanliness of London,
which, we are told by contemporary writers, was
comparable to that of Oriental cities at the present
day.  The disease gradually increased because there
was everything to encourage it to do so, especially in
a squalid neighbourhood and among the poor.  For
this reason it was called "the poor's plague".

Those who lived on the river in ships or barges
were free of it; those in the houses on London Bridge
were also little affected.  Probably the slowness with
which it gained ground in London was owing in a
great measure to the beautiful streams of flowing
water which intersected the city--the Fleet, the
Walbrook, &c.  At all events, it was not until the autumn
of 1664 that a few isolated cases were observed in the
neighbourhood of St. Martin's, St. Giles', and Charing
Cross.  The winter of that same year happened to
be a very severe one, which checked it, and nothing
more was heard of the plague until this month of
May, 1665.  Then one or two cases were reported,
but so few that they excited but little attention;
many, doubtless, of the inhabitants had not even
heard of them.

Then, as now, such things were hushed up for fear
of creating a scare, so that with perfect equanimity
Patience and her companion walked along the very
streets which were soon to be the centre of that
terrible epidemic.  They came at last to the house
which had been described to Martha.  It was at the
top of the street, almost opposite Newgate, and was
entered by a low oak door which gave into a passage,
beyond which lay a court-yard, in which were outside
staircases giving access to wooden balconies leading
into the tenements.  Martha had been told that
Mistress Newbolt lived at the front, almost at the top of
the house, and that her rooms were reached by an
interior staircase.  So they stumbled up in the dark,
until at last they came to a landing in which was a
small window, which Patience was thankful to see
wide open, but which, on this hot evening, seemed,
instead of cooling the air, rather to let in heat and
bad odours.

The three stood wiping their faces, Martha
panting.  Suddenly a door opened, and a voice, which
Agnes recognized at once, said:

"Who are you?  What are you doing here?  My
mother is sleeping; you will waken her."

Agnes went forward instantly, threw her arms
round the girl, saying:

"Ann, do you not know me?"

"Know you!" repeated Ann.  "Is it Agnes or her
spirit?  Surely in her body she would not come here,
and yet how I have longed for her!"

"Why should I not come, if you are here?" said
Agnes.

"You must go," said Ann.  "Go quickly!  I cannot
let you in; I dare not.  My mother came home an
hour ago.  All day and all night she has been in the
prison.  Do you know what I have done?  I have
taken her clothes and burnt them, they were so foul.
I stood for hours waiting for her outside the gates,
and when she came forth she dropped down like one
dead, and I carried her home in my arms.  If you
could see her, she is almost a skeleton!  Ah me! what
will the end be?"  And, covering her face with
her hands, she wept.

"I will see her," said Patience.  "We have come
here to help you, Ann, and we will help you, have no
fear, child.  Stay with Martha, Agnes.  Now, Ann,
show me the way."

Ann hesitated.  "You do not understand," she said.

"Then it is time I did," answered Patience.  "Take
me to your mother."

As she spoke she looked at Ann.  Could this be
the same girl she had known so fresh and blooming?
She seemed to have grown taller, and her face was
sallow and thin; she might have been any age, she
looked so worn and anxious.  She was scrupulously
neat in a linen gown, with a white apron and a
muslin kerchief folded across her bosom; over her
head she wore a sort of linen wrapper, which hid all
her hair, leaving only a small band on either side of
her forehead.  She had adopted this dress because
she was able thus to keep herself clean amidst so
much foulness.

Agnes still held on to Ann, and pleaded!

"May I not go too, Aunt Patience?"

"No, my child, one of us is enough."

Still she would not let go of Ann's hand.

"Kiss me, dear," she said; and Ann stooped and
kissed her.

It was so long since any lips had touched hers
that it brought tears to her eyes.

"Wait here," she said, "I will come back."  And
she passed into the room with Patience.

It is curious how, in times of great excitement, we
see everything so clearly; even the smallest details
strike us.  Patience noted that the first room they
entered was comparatively well furnished and
spotlessly clean.  It was evidently the living room, with
tables and chairs, a dresser, and a few articles of
luxury which had been brought from the old home.
They passed through this into another room, which
served as bed-room for Ann and her mother.  There
was a small fire in the hearth, notwithstanding the
great heat.  Ann pointed to it.

"The doctor told me to have it always, to purify
the air," she said.

A great four-poster bed of carved oak occupied
the middle of the room.  It had once been curtained
round, but the curtains were gone now, and Patience
saw, lying upon the white pillows, a face which might
well have been that of a dead woman.

"Can it be Dame Newbolt?" she thought.  The
closed eyes were sunk in the sockets; the features
stood out sharp and hard, yellow as parchment; the
hair, parted on the forehead, was thin and snowy
white; and the hands, which rested on the coverlet,
were like the hands of a skeleton.

"Oh, Ann," exclaimed Patience, "how could you
let her get into this condition?"

"How could I help it?" said the girl, bursting into
tears.  "I have watched over her, I have fed her, I
have stood outside the prison gates waiting, always
waiting, but she has paid no heed to me.  Had it
not been for my Lord Craven I should have had no
food to give her, for she would spare me no money.
I have known her go for days, eating nothing but
a crust of bread.  More than once the jailers have
brought her here, carrying her in their arms.  It was
of no use, on the morrow she was up and about, and
with them again; even as you see her she has still
great strength."

"It is wonderful," said Patience.

Though they were speaking loudly, Mistress Newbolt
did not hear them.  She did not move; indeed,
one could hardly hear her breathe.

"She will sleep like that for twelve hours at least,"
said Ann, "longer perhaps; then she will wake up
and eat what I shall have prepared for her; then
she will go back to the prison, and I shall not see her
again for perhaps twenty-four hours, when I shall
bring her home, or one of the warders will.  It is a
terrible life, so terrible, I wonder how she lives at all."

"And you, you poor thing?" said Patience, taking
Ann's hand in hers, then stooping over the sleeper
she added, "She will die."

"No, she will not," answered Ann.  "Good Doctor
Bohurst, whom Lord Craven sent to visit her, says
she will not die, that she has more vitality than many
a younger woman, and that these long sleeps restore
her completely, only I have to feed her.  See," she
continued, and going to a table she took up a bottle,
poured a little of the contents into a spoon, and held
it to her mother's lips.

Without waking, she just sucked it down like a
child.

"There," said Ann, "in two hours I shall give it
her again, and so on until she wakes.  Then she will
eat and drink.  It is a wondrous life."

"How long has this been going on?" asked Patience.

"For many months," answered Ann; "but of late
it has been much worse, for the prison is fuller than
it ever was, and disease is rampant there.  Then,"
lowering her voice, she added, "they say there has
been a case of the plague.  If it be so, and that foul
disease break out within those walls, God only knows
what will happen!  The prisoners themselves are in
terror of it.  I think they will go mad with fright."

"And you?" said Patience.

"I try not to think of it," she answered quietly;
"what is the use?  Come, let us go into the other
room; Agnes may come in there, may she not?"

"If you think there is no danger," said Patience.

"There is nothing infectious here," she said.  "You
see all the windows are open, and either I burn my
mother's clothes, or old Doris takes them away and
washes them."

"Very well," said Patience, and Agnes and Martha
were admitted.  They sat together round the tables
and Ann learnt what had brought them to London.

"You would have done better to have stayed
away," she said; "one never knows what may
happen, and there are strange signs in the heavens.
People say London is accursed, and will be destroyed
because of its great sin.  Have you seen the comet?"

"No, not yet," answered Patience; "I shall not
linger long in London.  I wish we could take you
away with us, Ann!"

"How can I leave my mother?" she answered;
"and Reginald is away."

Her head drooped on her hands as she spoke; her
spirit seemed broken.

"Listen, Ann," said Patience, "I will come
to-morrow with Martha and fetch you out; you shall
spend the whole day with us.  We will go down the
river.  You shall breathe sweet, country air; it will
strengthen you."

"It will, indeed!" said Ann.  "I think I am
cowardly because I am so much alone.  But now you
must be gone.  It is getting late, and this
neighbourhood is not safe at night; indeed, you must not
go back by the river.  Go to Holborn and find a
coach there, so that you can be driven back."

Alarmed, Patience rose quickly.  "Yes, we will
go, Ann," she said; and they made their way out,
down the stairs into the street.  They had not gone
far when they were accosted by a gentleman.

"Madam," he said, looking at Patience, "this is
no place for such as you at this time in the evening."

"I have just been told so, sir," said Patience,
"but I am a stranger to London.  Cannot I procure
a coach?"

"No," he answered sharply.  "Step this way; you
shall have mine."

Patience looked at him.

"I thank you kindly, sir," she said, "but before
I can accept your offer, I must know who you are."

"I am Lord Craven," he answered; "you can trust me."

Without another word he walked on in front of
them to the top of the street, where a coach was
waiting.  He signed to the driver, who wore the
Craven livery.

"My man will take you wherever you choose,
madam," he said.

"I would be driven to Somerset House," said
Patience.

He started and looked askance at her.  She understood.

"You gave me your name, I must give you mine,"
she said.  "I am Mistress Patience Beaumont and
this young girl is Agnes De Lisle, my niece.  We
are the queen-dowager's guests."

Lord Craven uttered an exclamation of surprise
and swept them a low bow.

"I have been fortunate in meeting you," he said;
"but take my advice and do not wander out so late
at night."

"We have been to see a protégé of yours," said
Patience, "Ann Newbolt."

"Ah, I am glad!" he answered; "she needs
friends, poor thing."

Then he signed to his valet to open the coach door,
and helped Agnes and Patience to mount, for the
step was high.  Martha followed, and they were
driven quickly in the direction of Somerset House.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Great Plague`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Great Plague

.. vspace:: 2

Again and again we read of miraculous signs in the
heavens before some great disaster befalls a country.
A fiery sword is said to have hung over the ill-fated
city of Jerusalem for long months before its
destruction.  At the time of which we are writing a great
blazing star, probably a comet, appeared in the
heavens over the city of London, terrifying the
inhabitants.  Crowds of people would turn out at night
into the open fields to see this wonderful thing, and
would go back, with terror in their hearts, feeling
assured that it was an omen of evil.  Every night it
appeared, a great, blazing star hanging in the
firmament.  Gradually, very gradually, the plague crept
into the city; so slowly did it come, that only those
whose business it was to note the mortality were
aware of the gradual increase of deaths.  It began
first in the heart of the city, then it spread to the
suburb of St. Giles'.  Just two or three isolated cases
against which no precaution was taken; indeed, they
caused but little alarm.  There are always pessimists,
and people do not heed them.  A small evil, therefore,
remains unchecked until it becomes a great evil;
then, and then alone, when it is too late, men take
note of it.  Such was the case at the present time.
At Whitehall feasting and revelling were the order
of the day throughout this month of May.  The king
and his court were to be seen in St. James's Park,
gilded coaches rolled through the narrow streets of
the city, despite the overpowering heat.  It was as if
that blazing comet, unseen by day, burnt the land up.
The animals suffered fearfully: horses fell down dead,
dogs had to be killed because they went mad.  Even
before the month of June streams were running dry,
there was no rain, no moisture in the air, and gradually,
striking men down by ones and twos, the scourge
crept on, until at last people awoke to the knowledge
that the fell disease was in their midst.

One morning Queen Henrietta summoned Patience to her.

"I do not care for it to be generally known," she
said, "but it is settled that the court is going to
Oxford.  You, of course, will follow; make your
preparations as quickly as you can.  We shall
probably leave here the day after to-morrow; it is to be
done quietly not to scare the people."

"Is it necessary we should accompany your
majesty?" said Patience.  "With your permission, I
think we would rather go home."

The queen turned haughtily towards her.

"Why must you always oppose me, Patience?"
she asked.  "Why do you wish to bury the child
alive in that out-of-the-way place?  The king is well
disposed towards her.  The Marquis of Orford has
spoken of her with admiration.  I am set upon
making a marriage between them.  If you do not choose
to come, at least give me the child."

"I promised her mother I would never part from
her," said Patience, "and so far I have kept my
word.  If your majesty insists upon her going to
Oxford, I will go also."

"Do you mean to say that you wish to keep her in
this infectious atmosphere?" said the queen.

"Not longer than I can possibly help," answered
Patience; "but your majesty must know that the
plague is confined so far to certain quarters of the
city.  Here, on the river front, we run but little
danger."  Then, approaching nearer Henrietta, she
said in a low voice:

"Will not his majesty's gay court at Oxford be
worse for my child than the plague?  Is not her soul
more precious than her body? and that Marquis of
Orford of whom you speak, is he worthy to touch the
hem of her gown?  Nay, let her be, your majesty;
sooner let her live and die a maid than be coupled
with such a man; and if she be doomed to die, then,
at least, let me give her back to her mother
'unspotted from the world'."

It was not often Patience let herself go, but at
the present moment she spoke with intense earnestness,
almost with exaltation, and she possessed
more influence over Henrietta Maria than any other
member of her household.

The queen kept silence, her head resting on her
hands, and, to Patience's surprise, tears fell on the
table.  She knew that she had hit hard.  The mother's
heart was aching at the thought of her own daughter
whom she had given up to that bad man, Philip,
Duke of Orleans.  She knew well what she suffered;
could she condemn another girl to the same fate!

"Take her away, Patience," she said impetuously,
"take her away, and may the Lord have you both in
His keeping!"

Patience knelt at the queen's side.

"Forgive me," she said, "if I have hurt you."

The queen held out her hand.

"Go," she said, "whilst I am in the mood, and do
not let me see the child again or I may repent giving
her up to you."

"That you will surely never do," said Patience,
and, rising, she curtsied and left the room.

In her own mind Patience was sorely troubled how
to act.  To go back at once to Westmorland would
have been the most natural thing; but then there was
Ann Newbolt, how could she leave that girl alone in
the worst part of the city?  She did not herself
believe that there was much danger for any
inhabitant of Somerset House, because it gave on to the
river, and so far all the habitations near the river,
even the houses on London Bridge, had remained
unaffected; also, the dwellers in ships and barges
had escaped infection.

"If the worst come to the worst," she thought,
"we will take the barge and go down the river; but the
great thing will be not to let the child get frightened."

Whilst she was still cogitating Martha came into
the room.

"Madam," she said, "everybody is leaving the
palace; what are we to do?"

"I have just come from the queen, Martha," said
Patience.  "She desired me to pack our belongings
and follow her to Oxford, whither she is going with
the court.  What say you?  Shall I do so?  Shall I
thrust Agnes into the midst of all the profligacy and
all the evil which dwells in the king's house?"

"For God's sake, no!" said Martha.  "It is the
talk of the court that our young lady is to be wedded
to the Marquis of Orford, but you will not let it be.
We servants know more of what goes on in the great
houses than you do, and he is not worthy of her;
besides, she is only a child."

"You are right, Martha," said Patience; "I will
not let her go.  I have told the queen so, and she
has consented that I shall keep her with me."

"That is well," said Martha, her face brightening
up, "only we must guard her, for I have heard that
the Marquis of Orford has set his heart on wedding
her, and the king has promised him the De Lisle
estates, forfeited by Colonel Newbolt.  They were to
have been sold at once to the highest bidder to pay
the fines and law expenses, &c., but the king has
been so engrossed with his pleasures that he has let
the matter slip.  Now, however, he has made up his
mind not to sell, but to dower our Lady Agnes with
what is by right her own."

"How do you know all this?" asked Patience,
surprised.

"I know it from Peter Kemp, who is at Whitehall,
and hears all the gossip in the ante-chambers and in
the servants' department; he also knows Jefferson,
Lord Orford's first valet."

"Perhaps the king will change his mind now that
I will not suffer Agnes to go to Oxford," said Patience.

Martha shrugged her shoulders.

"We shall have to be careful," she said, "for the
marquis is not a man to be thwarted, and if he has
set his heart on the Lady Agnes, he will surely win or
take her."

"I think we had better start at once for Westmorland,"
said Patience; "it seems to me the only
place where we can live in safety."

Martha shook her head.

"That's just what he will expect you to do," she
said.  "And as he has more horses than we have
and more serving men, he will surely follow us, and
who will protect us on the road?  There are many
desolate places between London and Westmorland."

"Surely he would not dare assault us?" said Patience.

"Ah, Madam!" said Martha, "he will stand at
naught.  If he has set his heart on the Lady Agnes,
he will leave no stone unturned to possess her.  You
must devise some other plan for her safety."

"I am loath to believe all you say; but leave me,
Martha, I must think it over."

The following day the court started on its way to
Oxford, and the queen announced to the king that
the Lady Agnes De Lisle would not accompany her.

"She is ailing," the queen said, "and she is rather
young still for all the dissipations of court life.  Let
my Lord Orford wait till the scare of this plague is
over.  Patience Beaumont is going to take Agnes
back to Westmorland to restore her health, which
the heat of London has injured."

"I never saw a brighter face than the Lady Agnes's
yesterday," said the king.  "She was the star of
your suite, ma mère.  I do not think much ails her."

"Possibly she was flushed and excited," said the
queen, "and Patience has my permission to take her
away.  I cannot go back upon my word."

"But I have not said the last word either," said
Charles angrily, "and my Lord Orford has had no
say in the matter at all."

"He had better let his suit drop for the present,"
said Henrietta; "when we come back from Oxford
it will be time enough."  And with that she left the
room.

Charles shrugged his shoulders; he never opposed
his mother's will.

When Lord Orford was informed of Agnes's
defection he was in a white rage, but he gave no
outward sign of it, only that night he was closeted
for a long time with his man, Jefferson, and the
next day he himself followed the king to Oxford.

The palace was very silent; indeed, the whole city
of London was beginning to be what we should call
hushed.  The plague was gaining rapidly.  The
citizens stopped their trading, and every man looked
with fear at his fellow.

In the gardens belonging to noblemen's houses,
which in many cases sloped down towards the
river, the flowers were in full bloom.  It was the
season for roses, and they had never been so plentiful,
but no one gathered them, for fear of infection,
no one dared even to inhale their sweet perfume;
people went about with a bunch of rue and
wormwood in their hands, for these herbs were thought
to ward off contagion; and yet this was only the
beginning of what was to be.

There was a certain cruelty in the egoistical way in
which men strove to protect themselves.  For
example, if it was known that someone had died in a
certain house of the plague, no matter the number
of the inhabitants who were still resident there, a
red cross was painted over the door with these
words in great letters over it, "Lord, have mercy
upon us!" and watchmen with halberds stood on
guard before it to prevent anyone either leaving the
house or entering it.

All the inhabitants of that house were thus shut
off from the outside world, lest they should carry
infection; semi-starvation and death therefore stared
them in the face.  This was in the early days.  It
was a great mistake, for the houses were thus made
the centres of disease; later it was found impossible
to carry this plan into effect, and it was therefore
openly ignored.

A few noblemen and gentlemen had the courage to
remain in London and face the evil.  Among these
was Lord Craven.  We are told that his servants
packed his luggage and brought his coaches into the
court-yard of his house; but to their dismay he told
them they could go if they chose, every one of them,
but he should remain and do what he could to stay
the evil which surrounded them.

"A man can die but once," he said.  He had faced
death ofttimes on the battlefield, he was not going
to turn his back on it now; and, brave man that he
was, he set about his work with diligence.  He
founded a kind of cottage hospital for the
plague-stricken in the Soho; he also gave a piece of land
for burial purposes in the same neighbourhood.  He
himself remained at Craven House.

A day or two after the court left London, Patience
sent for him and told him of her decision.

"And now," she said, "I must get out of this
place as quickly as possible, for if anything happens
to the child I shall never forgive myself."

"And yet," said Lord Craven, "this is the only
place in which you are free from the Marquis of
Orford.  I know the man.  He is but watching his
opportunity; if he see you start to go north he will
follow."

"That is what old Martha said," answered Patience,
"and she is a wise woman."

"She is right.  Remain where you are for the
present, keep the windows open on to the river side
by night and by day, and do not let the Lady Agnes
go abroad."

"But she is so anxious about Ann Newbolt!" said
Patience.  "I found her weeping yesterday because I
would not let her go and would not go myself to the
Old Bailey."

"You did well," said Lord Craven; "the disease
is spreading from there right up to St. Giles'.  Rest
assured I will bring you news of Ann as often as I
can.  The authorities will not let her mother leave
the prison now because of infection.  She spends
her days, ay, her nights, tending those wretched
creatures, preaching to them of the world to come,
closing their dying eyes amidst the most frightful
agonies, and seeing to their burial."

"And she lives through it all!" said Patience.

"Yes, marvellous to tell, she lives through it all,"
he answered, "and is but little changed.  She seems
to have no material body, to live in and by the spirit.
The poor creatures cling to her, and she has no fear
of them."

"Is the plague very bad at Newgate?" asked Patience.

"Bad!" said Lord Craven.  "They carry the bodies
out at night that they may not be seen.  What is
worse, the poor creatures go mad with fear, and can
hardly be restrained from killing one another."

"It is terrible," said Patience.  "And Ann, what
is she doing?"

"She is in her own two rooms with that old hag
who waits upon her, and I have entreated her on no
account to move out of it," said Lord Craven.

"But if she came to us," said Patience, "surely
that were better for her!"

"She will not hear of it.  She says she would be too
far from her mother; now she can have news of her
continuously.  The old woman goes backwards and
forwards, and I go to her.  So long as the plague does
not enter her dwelling-place, she will remain there."

"And when it does it will be too late," said
Patience; "they will not let her out."

"We shall see," said Lord Craven.

At that moment Agnes came into the room.  Except
that she was very pale, which might be attributed to
the great heat, there was no change in her appearance.
She wore a thin, white linen gown, with long,
open sleeves; her beautiful golden hair was gathered
up away from her neck because of the heat, and she
had sandals on her feet.

"Oh, my lord," she exclaimed, "this is truly
terrible!  Why cannot we go back to Westmorland
and take Ann with us?"

"Because, my child," said Lord Craven, "the
roads just now are not safe."  He had to make some
such excuse because she had not been told anything
concerning Lord Orford.

"I thought the plague was in London, not on the
roads," she answered peevishly.

"But there are other things besides the plague, my
child," said Lord Craven.  "All sorts and kinds of
people have left the city, bad as well as good.  We
must let this first rush go by, and then you shall go.
In this heat you could not travel," he continued.
"The horses could only carry you a few miles at a
time, evening and morning.  It would take you an
infinitely long time to reach your haven of rest."

"You call it by its right name," said Agnes; "If
is a haven of rest.  I wish we were there, Aunt
Patience."  And she sat down on a stool beside her
aunt, laid her head on her lap with the air of a spoilt
child, and wept.

"We will go as soon as ever we can," said
Patience, stroking her hair; "and now, see if you
cannot find some of that fruit which we brought in
yesterday from the country.  Lord Craven will, I
know, take it to Ann.  It has been well covered up,
so that no impure air can have reached it."

Agnes sprang up, ran across the room to a cupboard,
and drew forth a basket in which there were
some luscious strawberries, red currants, and wall
peaches.  She packed them carefully in a little
basket, and took them to Lord Craven, with her
pretty childish air, saying:

"Tell Ann, with my dear love, that they are the
only things worth eating.  I would she could come
to me, as you will not let me go to her."

"She shall come to you as soon as possible," he
answered, "but at present she cannot;" and with
that he rose, bade both Patience and her farewell,
and left them.

"Let us go on to the terrace, aunt," said Agnes;
"maybe we shall get a breath of air from the river."  So
they went down the magnificent staircase, through
the gorgeous banqueting-hall, on to the terrace.

Though the day was over and the sun had set, the
heat was beyond description.  The whole city seemed
to glow with the after-math.  The girl was tired,
and quietly, without knowing it, she began again to
weep.

"Oh Agnes, my child, what is it?" said Patience.

"I don't know," she answered; "my soul is heavy
within me.  I am afraid."

Patience did not ask her what she was afraid of;
she knew only too well she was afraid of everything.
She put her arm round her and talked to her quietly
of life and death.

After a little time the child's soul was comforted,
and Patience took her by the hand and led her to
her own chamber; as she could not sleep, she sat
with her far into the night, and only when the day
was dawning did she leave her.





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   CHAPTER XVIII


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Suddenly out of her sleep Agnes woke to full
consciousness.  She heard distinctly the cry of the
watchman call out three o'clock in the morning as he passed
his rounds.

She turned her face to the window and looked out--the
sky was blood-red.  A great horror seized her.
She sprang out of bed and began putting on her
clothes.  She hardly knew what she was doing.  One
door in her room opened into Patience's, the other
on to a landing leading to the grand staircase.  She
felt she must have air--she could not stay in that
closed-up room; so, slipping her clothes on and
wrapping a light cloak round her, she drew the hood
over her head and left the room.  She had not gone
far when she was confronted by one of the watchers,
men told off to guard the queen's house.

The sight of the girl walking about surprised him.
He thought she must be one of the maids and spoke
to her coarsely, laying his hand on her arm.  Agnes
wrenched herself free and ran, as she thought, in
the direction from which she had come; but she had
mistaken her bearings and found herself in a small
turret-chamber at the farther end of the passage, in
which there was a winding staircase.

At that moment the remembrance of Ann came
to her.

"They will not let me go to her, but I will go.  I
cannot stay here," she thought; "I will go now at
once.  Surely this staircase must lead somewhere!"  And,
feeling in the darkness, she groped her way
to the bottom, where a gleam of light came from
a door which stood half-open.  She remembered
having noticed this turret from the terrace one day,
when, to amuse herself, she had reconnoitred, and
she had discovered that it led out into a small courtyard.

"I shall find means of getting out into the street,"
she thought, "and then I can easily find my way to
the Old Bailey."

She was not mistaken; the staircase gave into a
court-yard, at the farther end of which was an iron
gate.  She had some difficulty in forcing the bolt back
and in pulling the gate open, but it yielded at last,
and, quick as lightning, she passed out into the street.
She had a sort of hunted feeling; she did not know
herself what drove her to act thus.  She was as one
walking in her sleep.  She was not naturally a
coward, nor even fearful, but at the present moment
a feeling of terror dominated her whole being.

When she found herself alone in the deserted
streets she did not hesitate; she went straight
forward without reasoning, moved by some inexplicable
impulse.  Here and there she saw the houses marked
with the red cross, with the words, "Lord, have
mercy upon us!" written in red letters over the doors,
and she shuddered.

"Supposing, when I reach Ann, I find her in such a
house, and cannot get to her!" she thought.

She had gone some distance when she heard steps
following her.  She dared not look back, but, hastening
her speed, turned up the street which led to the
Old Bailey.  The steps came nearer and nearer, and
suddenly she was caught up, a cloth thrown over her
face, a hand pressed over her mouth, and a voice
said sharply:

"Lie quiet and you are safe; move and I will kill you!"

Instinctively she obeyed, and felt herself carried
she knew not whither.

When Patience awoke a few hours later from a
restless sleep, her first thought was naturally for
Agnes.  She rose, went into her room, and found it
empty.  To call Martha, to rouse the whole house,
was the work of a few seconds.  The house-watchman
told how he had met a girl in the gallery, and
how at sight of him she had fled; he could not tell
where she had disappeared to, indeed, for aught he
knew, it might have been a ghost.  There were
ghosts in Somerset House.  It was said that the
young Duke of Gloucester might be seen in the old
building gliding along the passages, down to the
terrace walk.

Patience had no such superstitions.  If the man had
seen a girl, that girl, to her mind, must have been
Agnes.  But how could she have got out of the house?
Why should she go?  In the search that followed,
the door of the turret was found open, also the gate
in the court-yard.  That was sufficient proof that she
must have gone out that way.

A messenger was immediately sent to Lord
Craven, and throughout that day the search
continued, but no Agnes was forthcoming.  Through
the deserted streets Patience wandered, indifferent
to all danger, searching for the child.  She went to
Ann, and with tears told her what had happened;
and Ann came down, and they wandered together till
they reached St. Paul's.  Then they entered the
church, knelt, and prayed, and wept, as did many
others, for there was nothing but weeping and
moaning throughout this afflicted city.

"She will come back, surely she will come back!"
repeated Ann.

"If she had gone forth of her own free will, I
should say yes," Patience answered; "but I am
persuaded she has not done so.  Someone was lying in
wait for her."

Those who sought for Agnes were many, but it
was all in vain.  Martha wept and wrung her hands
in wild despair, but neither weeping nor moaning nor
prayers availed.  Throughout that long summer day
and the night which followed, they sought but did
not find her.  Hour after hour, day after day, the
search was continued, but in vain.  The plague was
ever on the increase.  At night long lines of coffins
were carried hastily by men through the city out to
some far-distant burial-place; even that did not long
suffice, and carts, with tingling bells on the horses'
heads, wound their way through the deserted streets,
men calling out as they went:

"Bring forth your dead, bring forth your dead!"
and the bodies, ofttimes in nothing but a winding
sheet, were tossed into the cart and carried forth to
the common pit.

Ann still refused to go to Somerset House.  She
would not leave the precincts of the prison, neither
could Patience go to her.  They waited for their
loved ones in their homes, and Lord Craven went
and came between them--he was their only comforter,
their only guide.  Never was a braver or more
honourable man; he had no fear of infection.  He was
"in God's hands," he said, "to live or to die".

All those who possibly could left the city.  The
streets were deserted, but the churches were crowded.
A few ministers remained faithful to their duty, but
many, to their shame, fled.  But there were found
other devoted men from the country to replace these
deserters, the churches were all thrown open, and
within their precincts was weeping and wailing.
"Surely the scourge was sent by God because of
their sins," people said, and their ministers bade
them repent, ay, in dust and ashes; therefore it came
to pass that men and women alike fell upon their
faces and made their humble confession to Almighty
God, praying for pardon and deliverance.

Still the disease continued to spread.  The lord
mayor, the chief councillors, the physicians, all those
in authority, made laws, saw to the cleansing of the
city, and did their very utmost to check the frightful
ravages of the plague, but throughout the month of
August it raged unremittingly.

One morning a message came to Lord Craven
from Newgate to say that Mistress Newbolt had
departed that night, that her last hours had been
most edifying, that she had sung and prayed, and
glorified God even in the agony of death.  He it was
who broke the news to Ann.  In vain she asked for
a sign by which she might know it was her mother
who had died.  The prison authorities answered it was
impossible.  All she had possessed was destroyed,
and she was carried forth and buried in the common
pit, amongst the malefactors, the thieves, the
murderers, the cut-throats, whom she had tended.

Thus Ann found herself alone.  Then she went to
Patience and the two dwelt together.

"Why do you not both go north?" said Lord
Craven.  "I see no end to our afflictions."

"I cannot go," said Patience.  "If Agnes were to
come back and find me gone, what would she do?"

A message had been sent to the queen to tell her
what had happened, and her anger was very great
against Patience.

"If you had let me have the child, she would have
been safe," she said; "now she is dead, or worse
than dead."

Lord Orford, when he heard the news, appeared
astounded.  He would have gone up to London
himself, but the king would not permit him.

"My Lord Craven will do all that there is to be
done," he said.

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"Well, sirrah, what have you done with her?"

"The only thing which in reason could be done,
my lord," answered a small, insignificant man,
almost a dwarf, who was known everywhere as the
Marquis of Orford's factotum.

He was intensely ugly, with an extraordinary look
of cunning in his eyes when you saw them, but that
was not often--they were small, with heavy lids which
were seldom raised, and if they were, it was with a
sidelong glance.  He was standing now before Lord
Orford in a room which that nobleman had succeeded
in hiring at Oxford, and for which he paid an
enormous price, for the town was crowded to excess, and
yet was kept so cleanly by the authorities that the
plague had not come near it.  The lovely city with
its colleges and chapels, the walks in the surrounding
country, the beautiful river upon which the boats
went and came all day long in gay succession, made
of it a most delightful resort, and but for the daily
reports from London, the life led by the court would
have been ideal.

"Give an account of yourself," said Lord Orford.

"I set Ben Davies to watch his opportunity," said
the man, "bidding him never lose sight of the lady.
Ben is a bargeman, and has a craft which he takes
from London Bridge to Holland or to France as he
chooses.  His wife, two children, and a boy, live
on board.  It is by no means a bad craft, and
Mistress Ben is an uncommonly cleanly, thrifty
woman, so I just told him that if ever he could
catch the lady and take her on board, and then
strike off to Holland with her, he might reckon on
a hundred pounds."

"You did not mention my name?" said his lordship.

"I'm not quite such a fool, though I look it,"
answered the man, with a short laugh.  "No; he
thinks I am doing business on my own account.  He
took it in good part.  'It's a service you're doing the
lady,' I explained; 'she has a whim for staying in
London because of her lover, but it's a pest-hole, it
will be a good deed if you can get her out.'  And so
he watched and watched, and one morning at dawn,
as he was passing by Somerset House, he saw a girl
come running out and making her way down the
Strand.  There was no one else to be seen, the streets
were deserted, so he dodged her to find out who she
was, and as good luck would have it, her hood fell
back from her face, and he saw that it was none other
than the Lady Agnes I had pointed out to him one
day.  Then it was all quickly done: he caught her up,
took her in his arms, and, muffling her face, carried
her down to the barge.  It was in the Old Bailey he
got her."

"And where is she now?" asked Lord Orford.

"Coasting about, maybe on her way to Holland,"
said the man.  "At all events she is out of that
pest-hole; you ought to be satisfied, my lord."

Lord Orford walked up and down the room.

"Have you any further orders, sir?" asked the man.

"Only that I have been a fool.  I should have
done better to have left her alone," said the marquis;
"the queen's moving heaven and earth to find her."

"Ah well, sir!" said the man, "when the plague's
over we can drop her at Somerset House again--she
will be none the wiser.  And Ben Davies's wife
will keep her comfortable; she'll take no harm."

"But that does not answer my purpose," said
Lord Orford.  "I wanted to marry her, and I see
very little likelihood of doing so under present
circumstances."

"Oh, you can marry her right enough!" said his
factotum.  "You just tell her you did it for love,
to save her life.  Girls are soft.  Now will you pay
me the money?  These sort of folk won't wait, you
know."

"I suppose not," said the marquis, "but I have
precious little coin; however, what I have you shall
have."  And, putting his hand in his pocket, he took
out a bag of money and threw it on the table.

"Count and see how much there is," he said.

The dwarf emptied the bag on the table, and with
his long thin fingers counted the gold.

"There are ten pieces missing," he said.

"Then you must find them," answered the marquis,
"for I am sucked dry."

"I suppose I must put it down to your account,"
said the man; "it's already a pretty long one."

"I was reckoning on the girl's dower to pay it
up," answered Lord Orford, "so you see it's as much
to your interest as mine that I should have her.  You
know she is sole heiress of the De Lisles, and the
king dowers her."

The dwarf stuck his tongue into his cheek and
muttered, "That's not much of a recommendation."

"Well, you run a risk and so do I; it is for you
to make the matter sure," said Lord Orford.

"I can't make her say 'Yes' if she says 'No',"
grumbled the dwarf.

"I'm of opinion you have done wrong in carrying
her off to Holland.  I never bade you do so.  I told
you to hide her away," said Lord Orford.

"Sure she'd have got the plague if I had not sent
her to sea," answered the dwarf.

"I only wish we could get her into the queen's
hands," said Lord Orford, "that would settle the
matter."

"If that's all you want, it can be easily managed,"
answered the dwarf; "leave it to me."

"I must, for I can't help myself," muttered Lord
Orford.  "Now get you gone; I'm sick of you."

The man shuffled the gold into his pockets, and
with a "Good-day, sir!" went his way.

When the dwarf was gone, Lord Orford paced
up and down the room, muttering between his teeth:

"Gone to Holland!  How am I to get at her there?
The fool was mad to imagine such a thing.  If it
leaks out that I have had a hand in this business, it
will be to my discredit, unless, as the fool advises,
I say I did it out of my great love for her, to save
her from the plague; but it will cost me a hundred
pounds and more, perhaps, for hush-money.  However,
matters must take their course now.  They'll
not land in Holland at present, for no barge from
London will be allowed to put into port; in the
meantime I can consider what is to be done."  And
with the natural carelessness which belonged to the
habitués of Charles II's court, he strove to forget
the matter altogether.

Weeks went by and he was surprised at having no
news from his factotum.

It was not until his return to London with the
court that he learnt that the man had died of the
plague.

So as far as he was concerned the matter ended.
Later, seeing the course events took, he was too
wise a man to rake up ugly stories.  The dwarf dead,
there was only the bargeman to reckon with, and he
was ignorant even of the existence of my Lord
Orford.  So the bubble burst, and he had to look
about for another bride to pay his debts!  Besides,
Reginald Newbolt was now Prince Rupert's friend,
and it was therefore unlikely he would be dispossessed
of his estates even for Lady Agnes De Lisle.  The
wheel of fortune had turned.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`On the Track`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   On the Track

.. vspace:: 2

Pestilence on land, battle on the seas!  The
jealousy between the English merchants and the
Dutch was a matter of long standing, and on both
sides there had been a clamouring for war.  It came
in due time.

On the third of June, just when the plague was
at its height, the Duke of York encountered the
Dutch fleet off Lowestoft.  A terrible battle took
place.  It is said that eight or ten thousand men
were killed and eighteen ships blown up--this was
on the Dutch side; but on the English side also there
were many disabled ships and many wounded men
cast ashore.  Had the English admiral chosen, he
might have followed the Dutch up in their flight,
and the war would have come to a speedy end,
but instead an order came from the Duke of York
to slacken sail, and so the Dutch escaped to Texel.
The neglect and misery of the seamen of the royal
navy, who were cast ashore to go where they would,
without money, food, or clothing, was piteous.  A
great number found their way to London, thinking
that there, at least, they would get their pay from
the admiralty, but there was no money to be had for
the arrears of payment.  The Commons had voted
the king a large sum for war expenses, and he had
squandered the whole of it on his own pleasures.

The result was that these men, to whom England
owed her safety, lay about the streets and in hovels,
and many of them died of the plague.

Reginald Newbolt had enlisted under Prince
Rupert.  He was not in this fray because Rupert's
squadron had sailed to the West Indies.  When the
news of the plague reached Reginald, he had written
entreating his mother to go to Newbolt Manor for
her own safety and for Ann's, but naturally he
received no answer, and knew little or nothing of the
events which were taking place.  He had risen to
high favour with the prince, for on many occasions
he had distinguished himself, and was always at
hand when there was any deed of daring to be
accomplished.  Indeed, he and Prince Rupert agreed in
many ways, and Reginald's natural good sense served
as a check on the hastiness of the almost pirate
prince.  Rupert had found there was little doing save
pleasure at King Charles's court, and for that reason
he entered the navy, and made for himself a name as
the admiral of the White Squadron.  Every man in
those days was a lord himself on the high seas, and
any ship which did not hoist the English colours was
a legitimate prey to the numberless pirate vessels
which floated here, there, and everywhere.  Many
merchant vessels disappeared with their cargoes of
wealth, and no questions were asked.

It was a wild life and a daring one; but when
Rupert heard of the war with the Dutch, and a
possible war with the French, he set sail for the
west.  Neither he nor Reginald had any idea of the
ravages the plague was making until they neared
England, and then the accounts were so horrible
that Rupert refused to allow any man to land.

It was in vain that Reginald, as they sailed along
the coast, entreated to have a small boat and be
allowed to go ashore by himself.  The prince was
firm, and all knew his discipline was severe.

"If you attempt to go I will have you put into irons,"
he said to Reginald; and he was certain the Prince
would be as good as his word, so he was obliged
to be satisfied with writing to Lord Craven and to
Ann.  But his letters never reached their destination.

Before he left England Agnes had gone north, he
knew not whither; the secret had not been told him,
and he had been greatly hurt, but now he was glad,
for he was assured of her safety.  So the days went
by, and throughout the months of July and August
the terrible scourge laid thousands low; but in the
beginning of September it began to lessen.  Many
people had left the city and were encamped outside
it, but Patience and Ann had remained in Somerset
House, and had even gone forth amongst the
sufferers and tended them.  Their good works, their
many deeds of charity, had made them well known.
Without ceasing, using every means in their power,
they had sought to trace Agnes, but in vain.

They were assisted in this by young Delarry,
who, when he had heard of Agnes's disappearance
and Mrs. Newbolt's death, had returned to London
and sought Ann and Patience.

"You cannot remain here," he said.  "Let me take
you away out of London, if it be but to a village in
the suburbs."  But Patience had refused to go, and
Ann remained with her.

"If the child be still living," said Patience, "it is
here she will come to find us.  I am persuaded Lord
Orford is at the bottom of this thing.  He knows
who Agnes is; he knows that the De Lisle property
will be hers, and he himself is a beggar.  The queen
told me as much."

"But he has gained nothing by her disappearance,
and I know for sure he has not heard of her
whereabouts," said Delarry.

"I think you are wrong there," said Patience;
"he knows where she is."

"We must find that out," said Delarry.  "Now
I have come to London I cannot go back to Oxford;
I am in quarantine!  As for the Lady Agnes, I fully
believe she has been taken out of the city and is in
safety.  No one has any interest in her death; on the
contrary, her life is valuable, and, believe me, she
will not be attacked."

With this Patience had to be satisfied.  The
devotion and the bravery which Ann showed under these
trying circumstances excited not only Delarry's
admiration, but increased the feeling of devotion
which had long existed in his heart for her.

She was so simple and so brave, so devoutly
religious.  Morning and evening, and ofttimes at
mid-day, he would meet her on her way to St. Paul's, and
they would go together and pray for the deliverance
of the nation, and listen to the preachers, who
upbraided men for their sins and besought them to
repent.  It is not surprising if the link between
them grew to be strong, and so one day, finding
himself alone with her on the terrace, he asked her
to be his wife.

"Then I shall have a right to do what I will for
you," he said, "in life or in death."

"This is no time for marrying or giving in
marriage," answered Ann.

"Why not," he asked, "if it unites two souls
in good works?  You are so utterly alone, having
neither father, nor mother, nor brother, no kith or
kin.  I ask your leave to be all things to you.  I
have no need to tell you that I love you; I prove it
by my desire to serve you."

The tears gathered in Ann's eyes.

"Truly you have given me the best proof of love a
man can give," she answered.

Her hand was resting on the stone parapet; he
laid his on it.

"Well," he said, "which is it to be? yea or nay?"

Ann looked up at him; a glint of Irish mirth,
which she had not seen for many a day, lighted up
his eyes, She was tempted to say "Yea", but she
still hesitated.

"I will give you your answer to-night," she said,
"after vespers.  Now let us go and find Patience."

.. _`"I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR ANSWER TO-NIGHT," SHE SAID`:

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   :alt: "I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR ANSWER TO-NIGHT," SHE SAID

   "I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR ANSWER TO-NIGHT," SHE SAID

"As you will," he answered; but he took her
hand, placed it on his arm, and they went together
to Patience's room.

At the door Delarry left her.

"Till to-night," he said.

Ann went in to Patience, and, standing at the open
window looking over the deserted city, she told her
what Delarry had said.

"What think you?" asked Ann.

"I think," said Patience, "that life is so short,
that if something comes to gladden our hearts we do
well to accept it.  This thing is a joy to you, is it
not, Ann?"

"To be George Delarry's wife?  Oh, yes!" answered
Ann, and her face flushed.

"Then take him," said Patience, "and thank God."

So that same evening, as she came down the steps
of St. Paul's, her hand sought Delarry's, and he
knew what his answer was.

To find a minister, to go in the early morning to
plight their troth one to another, with only Patience
and Lord Craven as witnesses, was an easy matter,
and did not interfere with the work of the day which
followed after; only, as Patience had said, some of
the sadness passed out of their hearts, and joy crept
in.  The knowledge of the tie which bound them, the
union of two in one, seemed to strengthen both their
hands and hearts for the work they had to accomplish.

It was decided that they should stay at Somerset
House with Patience because of that hope, which was
nevertheless growing vaguer and vaguer each day,
that Agnes would come home.

A few days later Delarry came in quite excited.
He found Patience and his young wife picking lint,
making bandages, and doing other things which were
necessary for their vast hospital.  They never stopped
their labours, those two women, but when Ann looked
up with a smile to greet her husband, she saw
something in his face which startled her.

"What has happened?" she asked.

He came and sat down beside her.

"I have found a clue," he said.  "It is only a little
one, but it may lead to something bigger."

"About Agnes?" asked Patience.

"Well, I suppose it is connected with her," he
answered.  "I have followed up your idea of Lord
Orford being at the bottom of this affair, and just
now I met a creature I loathe sauntering down the
Fleet."

"Who?" asked Ann.

"The Marquis of Orford's factotum," he answered,
"a scurvy little rascal, with a mind as crooked as his
body.  He is not full-grown, a dwarf, or very nigh
one, with a growing hump and an evil countenance.
I accosted him and asked him where his master was.

"'Where should he be,' he answered, 'save in his
master's company at Oxford?'

"'And why are you not with him?' I asked.

"'Since when, Mr. Delarry, are you my master's
keeper?' he answered.  'I am Lord Orford's
servant, not yours.'

"'I'll keep my eye upon you until I find you out in
some dark deed,' I answered, 'and then I'll get you
hanged.'  The man turned white to his lips, and
even as I spoke to him there came up another man
from behind, a bargeman.  I know him, because he
happens to have taken me up to Gravesend more
than once.  When he saw me talking to that little
imp, he turned suddenly and went back the way he
had come.

"'I wish you good morning,' said the dwarf,
'there's Ben Davies waiting for me.'

"I fired a shot at random: 'Is he in the plot?' I
asked.

"'What plot?' he shrieked.

"'I'll leave you to tell me that,' I answered, 'only
I warn you, if you brew evil you shall swing for
it.'  Therewith I went off and left him to digest my words,
the real meaning of which I do not myself know."  And
he laughed.

"Oh, George," said Ann, "you may be all wrong!
How could they know anything about Agnes?"

"How can I tell?  The clue is faint, but there is a
connection."

"You are right," said Patience.  "I shall always
believe Lord Orford is at the bottom of it."

"So shall I," answered Delarry; "at all events,
we will follow that track."

Towards the middle of August Patience received
by special messenger a letter from the queen.

"I am deeply grieved ", she wrote, "at having no
news from you.  My own health is failing, my life
here does not please me.  I am of no account at my
son's court, therefore I have decided that I will go
back once more to France, where I may possibly be
of some use to my daughter, and where the climate
at least suits me.  If all things go well, I shall return
to England in the spring.  In the meantime, send
me news of yourself and Agnes, but not while you
are in London, lest your letter should carry contagion.
I cannot understand why you remain in the city.  I
much fear me the child is dead, and probably cast,
as so many others I hear are, into the common pit.
I have wept many tears over her; but then this world
is a world of sorrow, at least it has proved itself so
to me.  England is a dreary place; I would I could
persuade you to join me and spend the rest of your
life at my side, for I have loved you and your sister
better than any other of my English so-called friends.
I had a letter from the little duchess a short time
since.  She is well, and her child is well.  She does
not speak of her husband--it is not worth while, we
know what he is--but she takes life philosophically,
and the King of France makes much of her.  She
wrote very sadly concerning Agnes, blamed both you
and me for letting her remain in London; but, as
you know, it was not my fault, but your will.

"I trust you will come safely out of the great
dangers which surround you, and that we may yet
meet under happier circumstances.  Commend me to
my Lord Craven and to George Delarry.  I am glad
they are with you, for I am sure they will be
helpful.  My Lord Orford is still here, but his humour
is not of the best.  He feels he has been cheated
of his bride, and I think he is in money
difficulties; he reckoned on Agnes's dower to set him
straight.

"Now farewell, my good Patience.  I shall keep
you in my remembrance.  Your ever faithful friend
and mistress, HENRIETTA MARIA, R."


In a postscript the queen had added:

"I have spoken to the king concerning you, and
he has decided that you are to continue to occupy,
as long as you choose, your present apartment in
Somerset House."


Patience read the letter sadly.  She had never been
blind to the queen's faults, but she had both loved
and pitied her, and this farewell letter was the
breaking of another link.

She folded the letter and put it with her private
papers, among the things of the past.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Throughout the months of August and September
the plague raged in London, then it gradually died
out, and the court ventured to return to Hampton
Court, until, in the month of December, there was so
little fear of contagion that the king took up his
residence again at Whitehall; and indeed all those who
had left the city crowded back as thick as they had
fled.  The empty houses were thrown open, the grass
which had grown in the streets was once more trodden
under foot, and to all intents and purposes the
ordinary life of the city was renewed.

It is wonderful how soon people forget, how ready
everyone is to fall back into the old routine.  Such
was the case now.  There were many empty houses.
Some families had been swept clean away, and in
others there were vacant chairs; but those who
remained had still to live, and though hearts were sore
and many longed "for the touch of a vanished hand,
and the sound of a voice that is still", they had to
gather up the threads of life and live their new lives,
bare and empty though they seemed to them at first,
until, from beneath the deep clouds which overhung
them, they caught the glimpse of a silver lining.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Great Sea-Fight`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center large bold

   A Great Sea-Fight

.. vspace:: 2

As the plague died out in England, and life resumed
its ordinary course, the war with the Dutch threatened
to be more formidable than ever, for the French
king made common cause with the Dutch.  The great
Admiral de Ruyter came out of the Texel and made
straight for England with a splendid fleet of eighty-four
ships.  They were to be joined by the French
fleet from the Mediterranean, consisting of thirty more
ships.

Wholly unsuspicious of what was taking place, the
English admiral, Monk, now his Grace of Albemarle,
awoke one summer's morning to find to his great
surprise that the Dutch fleet was lying at anchor half
the channel over.  Prince Rupert should have been
with him, but with his usual impatience of inaction,
he had steered westward with his White Squadron,
therefore Albemarle had but sixty vessels, great and
small, with which to face the enemy, but nevertheless,
with English pluck, he gave the signal to attack.

"He would neither wait for the weather nor Prince
Rupert," he said.

There was a great south-west wind, which blew the
English ships straight upon the Dutch, who were
surprised at the suddenness of the attack, and had
not so much as time to weigh anchor, but cut their
cables and made their way back to their own shore.

Everything was against the English.  Their ships
were so laid down by the gale that they could not
open their lower port-holes to leeward, whereas the
Dutch, facing them with their broadsides to windward,
had the free use of all their tiers of guns.  A
terrible fight ensued.  Monk had followed the Dutch
to Dunkirk, but being forced suddenly to tack, his
topmast came to grief, and he was obliged to lie to.

It were in vain to tell here of the gallant deeds
done alike by Dutch and English.  It was a fight
for the supremacy of the seas.  Many of the English
officers had protested against the unequal attack
made upon them by the Dutch.  "A mad fight" it
is called in history.  The English suffered severely;
many of their ships were sunk, some were taken, and
nearly all those which came into action were ruined
in their masts and rigging by the chain-shot, a new
invention.

So night fell; but on the morrow Monk resumed
the conflict, and all day long the English fought
against a far superior force.  Another night fell and
another day dawned--the third day of carnage--and
the fight was renewed; but now Monk fought retreating,
and after removing the men from some of the
disabled ships, he caused them to be burnt.

Where was the White Squadron?  Where was
Prince Rupert and his brave men?  On the first day
of the battle the prince had stopped on his westward
course, intelligence having reached him that the
Dutch were at sea.

To put back, to make for Dover, was speedily
done; but when he reached the Downs he heard
no sound of battle, nor could he obtain any
information concerning the enemy.  Reginald was beside
him, and together they strained their ears to catch
the least sound.  At last, on the 3rd of June, heavy
cannonading was heard.  Instantly the prince spread
his flying canvas to the wind.

He came up just in time to save Monk.  All day
they fought, and all the following day also.  How
any man survived to tell the tale is marvellous.  In
the beginning of their second day the *Prince Royal*,
esteemed the best man-of-war in the world, struck
on a sand-bank, and was taken by the Dutch.  It
seemed as if nothing human would stop the fighting
and the carnage; only God's hand could stay it.

Suddenly there arose and enveloped both fleets a
thick and impenetrable fog.  The guns were silenced
and the slaughter ceased.  When it lifted, the Dutch
fleet was in full retreat, and the English were too
disabled to follow them.  Victory or no victory, it
had been a cruel experience.  It was called an
English victory, and thanksgivings were ordered.

Truly we had reason to thank God that we had
not lost our whole fleet.

Monk and Prince Rupert from henceforth remained
close together, and when De Ruyter again put to sea
with a stronger force than ever, they went out
together to meet him, and drove him back in rage and
despair to the Texel.  Then the English scoured the
Dutch coast, burned and destroyed two ships of war
and one hundred and fifty merchantmen, and laid
two defenceless villages in ruins.

It was in vain that some brave English officers tried
to prevent this last deed of savage warfare.  They
could not do so; the anger of their men, their thirst
for blood, was in the ascendant.

In the hope of stopping the carnage, Reginald, now
commander, besought Rupert to let him land, believing
that by his presence he might bring a certain
amount of discipline to bear upon the excited sailors,
but he accomplished little.  He was standing in the
midst of a group of men when he caught sight of two
women, one with a child in her arms, trying to make
their way along the bank of the canal towards a
barge which was floating still uninjured on the water.
Two half-drunken sailors were pursuing them.

To shout to them to desist Reginald knew would
have been useless, so with quick strides he caught
them up, seized one man by the neck and threw him
to the ground, threatening the other with his sword.
The men recognized their officer, and muttering an
excuse kept quiet.  The two women, exhausted, had
sunk on the ground, unable to go a step farther.
Reginald went up to encourage them; the youngest
woman, a mere girl, sprang to her feet.

"Save us," she cried, "save us!"

Then she stopped short, for, notwithstanding his
changed appearance, she recognized their deliverer
and cried out:

"Reginald Newbolt!"

"My Lady Agnes!" he answered, and, kneeling
before her, he seized her hand.

The sense of safety relaxed the tension on her
nerves, and she would have fallen had he not caught
her in his arms.

"How on earth did she come here?" he exclaimed,
addressing himself to the woman who was with her.

"No time to ask that now," was the answer; "for
God's sake, carry her to yonder barge!"

Without hesitation Reginald proceeded to obey.
He noticed how light she was and how thin too the
face was which rested on his shoulder.  For a second
he almost doubted whether it could be Agnes, the
girl who had skated so merrily with him on the lake
at Hampton Court.

It was a good ten minutes before they reached the
barge.  The woman had run on in front, slipped
down the bank, and, notwithstanding the weight of
the child in her arms, had leapt into the barge.
Reginald followed her example.

"We must put off," she said, "or the soldiers will
be after us."

"There is no fear whilst I am with you," said
Reginald, as he laid Agnes down on a wooden
bench.  "Get some water."  But it was not needed,
for of herself Agnes opened her eyes, and, seeing
Reginald stooping over her, a smile of wonderful
sweetness lighted up her face, and, holding out her
hands to him, she said:

"I am so glad, so glad!"

He could not answer her, but, taking both her
hands in his, he kissed them, not once but thrice.
She blushed rosy red and sat up.

"Is it not wonderful," she said, "wonderful that
you should save me?"

"Yes, it is wonderful--God's will," said Reginald;
"but how on earth are you here?  I thought you
were in England, up north somewhere."

"I wish I could get there now," said Agnes, tears
filling her eyes, "But you will take me, take me
now at once!"

"How can I?" he said.  "There is war on land,
and war on sea, and I am not my own master.  But
tell me quickly how you came here at all."

"Jeanne, tell him; I do not remember," said Agnes.

"My lord," said the woman, "I cannot tell you
much.  My husband brought her to me one night.
He told me to keep her safely, for she was worth
much money to him.  He had been paid to find her
and bring her out of London from the midst of the
plague by a person he knew of, a dwarf, the servant
of some great lord.  We presumed he was her lover."

"I had no lover," said Agnes indignantly; "I
do not know who the man could be.  This is all I
can remember: I was very miserable; Ann had gone
into a poor house, and I was alone with Patience in
Somerset House.  The plague was getting worse
each day, and I was frightened.  One night I went to
sleep and woke up, and the whole place was red as if
in flames.  Patience had been sitting beside me when
I fell asleep, but she was gone, and I was frightened.
I got up, and somehow I found myself in the streets.
They were quite empty, I saw nobody.  I will go to
Ann, I thought; she will take me in, and I ran as
fast as I could.  It seemed to me that I heard steps
behind me, but I dared not look round.  Suddenly I
felt myself caught up, my breathing stopped, and I
remember nothing more until I found myself alone
with this good woman on this very barge."

"And she was like mad," said Jeanne.  "I could
not quiet her, I could not keep her still; my husband
had to threaten her.  'You are quite safe,' he said,
'if you will keep quiet.'  But she cried so bitterly and
called out so loudly that he was fearful others would
hear her, so he shoved out into the middle of the river;
we kept afloat for several days up and down; but she
knew nothing of what went on, for she never
recovered her senses.  She was stricken with a terrible
fever of the brain, which lasted well-nigh two months.
At first she made much noise, but at last she was
quite still.  Once only my husband landed and got
to London.  He came back with much money; he
told me it was his reward for saving the girl.  I
took all the care I could of her.  We put out to sea
and came over to Holland, hoping to do some
business, as we always did--the shipping of wood and
various other sorts of merchandise--but we did
nothing because of the plague and the war which
followed, so he put us ashore in this little village, and
he went to and fro picking up what odd jobs he
could.  Happily we had that money, and my husband
told me that if he could get to England he would
have much more, for he had received only half what
had been promised to him.  But we managed to live,
and I did what I could for her."

"Ay, indeed she did; she has been very good to
me," said Agnes.  "I was ill a long, long time, and
she nursed me well and kindly, and always promised,
'as soon as we can we will go back to England', for
I told her who I was, and that I felt sure a mistake
must have been made, that no one wanted me, that
I had been safe with Patience.  Both she and her
husband think also there must have been a mistake,
only, the man who gave him the business to do took
him several times to Somerset House and pointed
me out to him.  Is it not strange, Reginald?"

"Very," he answered; "I do not understand it at all."

"Do you know what Ben Davies was told the last
time he saw his employer?" said Agnes.  "That it was
not only because of the plague that I was removed,
but because I was a great heiress, and that my
estates had been stolen from me, that the people who
now held them wanted to get rid of me, but that
there was a man who loved me, and wished to save me."

"And you believed him?" said Reginald.

"No, I did not," she answered, "because you see
I am Agnes De Lisle and you are Reginald Newbolt,
and Newbolt Manor is De Lisle Abbey, and I knew
you would not hurt me."

"If I had only known it!" he said.  "I would to
God I had!"

"Well, you know it now," she answered, "and
you can take me home."

"I wish I could," he answered, "but I am not
going home myself.  To whom can I trust you?"

"I have waited so long," said Agnes, "I can wait
a little longer, and until you are ready I can stay
with Jeanne.  I am not afraid of her."

She had risen and was standing before him.  He
almost laughed as he looked at her in her quaint
Dutch dress, short petticoats and sabots, and on her
head a little tight cap which could not hide the golden
hair curling about her face.  Ah! she was very pretty
and very young, a pale white shadow of the Agnes of
olden days; but to him the very sadness of her sweet
face added to its beauty.  She had been all smiles
and dimples; now one had to watch, for the smiles
and the dimples were gone.

He left her standing, and walked twice round the
deck of the little barge; then he came back to her.

"I think you are wise," he said; "remain with
Jeanne; only you must go farther up the canal.  It
is not safe for you to stay here.  Where is the
woman's husband?"

"We do not know; we thought he would have
come back before this," said Agnes.  "Perhaps he
is killed!"

Jeanne, hearing this, began to weep.

"Oh no, the good God would not afflict me so!"
she said.  "If we did wrong in taking the money
our eyes were blinded, and we did not know.  Surely
we shall not be punished!"

"Your husband did wrong," said Reginald severely.
"It is quite certain no man has a right to kidnap
a girl; but you have been kind to her, and that will
stand you in good stead.  Tell me how I can find
your husband."

"If I only knew!" said Jeanne.

Even as she uttered the words, a man came running
along the side of the canal.

"Ah, there he is!" said Jeanne, clapping her hands;
"thank God!"  And she took the kerchief off her neck
and waved it to him.

When he came near, and was about to leap into
the barge, he saw the English officer and hesitated.

"Come on!" said Reginald.

The man obeyed, and in a minute more stood in
front of him frowning deeply.

"What does he here?" he whispered to his wife.

"He has saved our lives, and he is the little lady's
friend," she said.

"I have heard your story," said Reginald, looking
at him severely, "and it is by no means a creditable
one.  For a sum of money you could kidnap a girl
and carry her away.  Do you know it is a punishable
offence?"

"I know it," answered Ben Davies, "and I ran
the risk.  There was no work going, and we were
reduced to our last coin.  I never meant any harm
should happen to her.  I was told it was to save
her from the plague and from a bad man who would
despoil her."

"She is the queen's ward," said Reginald, "and I
am the man who would despoil her."

The bargeman doffed his hat.  "I am in your
hands, sir," he said, "to do as you will with me, but
I pray you to remember that we have given her the
best we could, and my wife has nursed her by night
and by day."

"That shall go to your account," said Reginald
severely; "in the meantime, what are we to do now?"

"I would have taken her to England long ago if
I could," said Ben, "but you know the high seas
have been impossible for little crafts like mine.  We
should have been made prisoners, and goodness
knows what might have befallen us."

"There you're right," said Reginald; "but is there
no place of safety farther inland where you can go
for the present until I can arrange to take my Lady
Agnes home?"

"Yes, higher up away from the sea; we were
going there," answered Ben Davies.

"Then I think you had better go," said Reginald.
"I am on Prince Rupert's ship, and I will tell his
highness what has happened."

Agnes clapped her hands.  "Ah, Prince Rupert
will remember me!" she said.  "He has known me
always.  I saw him last at my Lord Craven's.  He
is a great friend of mine."

"Rest assured he will see you righted," said
Reginald.  "What is the name of the village you propose
taking her to?" said Reginald, turning to the barge-man.

"It is off the great canal," he said, "and therefore
safe;" and he named a little village unknown to
Reginald.  "It is not far.  I can take them there
to-night and be back here to-morrow for you, sir,
if you choose to visit it."

"Are you sure they will be quite safe there?" he
asked.

"Quite safe," he answered.  "My father was an
Englishman, my mother is a Dutch woman.  She
lives there; I will take them to her."

"Will this suit you, Lady Agnes?" asked Reginald.

"Quite well," she answered, "if you think it
right; but why do you call me my Lady Agnes?
I am not so; I am simply Agnes Beaumont De
Lisle;" and there was just a touch of pride as she
spoke the last name.

Reginald smiled.  "Then I will leave you," he
said, "until to-morrow, when I hope we shall be able
to manage something for your return home; but it
will be difficult.  We cannot take you on our
battleships," he said, smiling.

"Why not?" she asked.  "I should not be afraid.
I can never understand why I was so frightened the
night I was lost; I must have been ill.  Have you
heard anything of Aunt Patience or of Ann?"

"Nothing," answered Reginald.  "You know I
left home immediately after my father's death, and I
have not been back since.  I have been wandering
half over the earth, or rather the seas, and communication
is not easy.  But we shall hear soon now," he said.

"Alas, if they have died of the plague!" said
Agnes; "what shall I do?  It was awful when I
was there!"

"We will hope not; we must not look on the black
side of things.  Let us trust we shall find them safe
and well," answered the young man.

"Patience will have grieved sorely for the loss of
me," said Agnes.

"Well," said Reginald, "'joy cometh in the
morning', and now I must leave you, or I shall be
reported missing.  Farewell; may God be with you!"

She smiled up at him, holding out her hand.

"Everything is coming all right," she said.  "I
am well content."

"So am I," said Reginald, "but I am loath to
lose sight of you even for a time."

"Sir, I will answer for it, no harm shall come to
her," said Jeanne.

"Thank you, my good woman!" said Reginald;
and he would have put a piece of money in her hand,
but she would not touch it.

"I will not barter a human life again," she
answered.

"You're right there," said Reginald, and he sprang
ashore, waving his hat as he walked rapidly back
towards the village.

"How brave and handsome he looks!" thought
Agnes to herself.  "I did not know he was so fine a
man."  And certainly the last two years had worked
a wonderful difference on Reginald.

He had changed from a youth to a man.  His
seafaring life had bronzed his fair complexion; the
habit of command, the discipline (though it was
somewhat lax in those days), had given him a more
manly deportment.  Altogether the alteration in his
appearance was wholly to his advantage, and it was
even surprising that Agnes had recognized him.

As soon as he had disappeared, Ben Davies began
loosening his little craft.

"We must be quick," he said, "or night will
overtake us before we reach Broek, and there are so
many adventurers about, one is not safe even on the
canal."  Turning quickly to Agnes, he said:

"I understand you are a great lady; I always
thought you were.  I earnestly beg your pardon if
I have injured you, and I entreat you to plead my
cause with your friends."

"Indeed I will," she answered.  "Of course you
were very wrong to carry me away; but you have
been so good to me, and Jeanne, dear Jeanne, and
my little Lisette, I love you all."  She picked the
child up from the deck and hugged and kissed her.

"I have been very happy with you sometimes, since
I got well," she said.

"Oh, no harm shall come to you, I promise!" he
answered; and she smiled again in answer that
wonderful bright smile of hers, which brought a look of
gladness to the two other faces.

Thank God that there are in the world some who
have this gift of joy giving!  They are like angels
dropped down upon the earth to scatter little grains
of gladness in sad places.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`London on Fire`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   London on Fire

.. vspace:: 2

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:

"Do you see, sir, down yonder by the river, near
London Bridge, that light?  It is not the light of the
moon.  It is a fire.  Well, we need not be anxious, fires
are frequent; it will be nothing.  My Lord Craven
will be at his best, he never misses a fire.  It is said
his horse is so used to take him to fires that he knows
the smell of it a long distance off, and will gallop to
it as soon as he feels his master's foot in the stirrup."

"I have heard that a fire is a very fascinating
sight," said Mr. Ewan.  "After all, it is a battle with
the elements.  But it would not be a good thing
to-night, with this east wind blowing."

As they watched that little light they saw that by
degrees the sky grew red and strong flames came
driving westward.  The east wind blew a fierce gale;
cries rose up from the streets; there was much
rushing about and confusion even in their neighbourhood,
though the fire was certainly at a great distance.

"I think we had best go down and see what is
happening," said Delarry.  "Shall we take you
ladies into the house?  We shall not be long absent."

"No; we will abide here," said Patience.  "It
would be intolerable to be below and see nothing."

Indeed, even as she spoke many of the servants
came up, anxious also to witness the conflagration.

"You need have no fear," said Delarry, "I am
going to the king."

"I wish you would not go," said Ann.  "See
how the flames are riding, and how quickly they
spread!"

"It is my duty to go to the king, Ann," he said,
"but I will be back as quickly as possible.  In the
meantime, Mr. Ewan," he continued, "if the ladies are
fearful it would be well to put them into a barge and
send them out into the river.  You had better see
if the barges are in order," he added to the chief
steward of the household, "and Peter Kemp, you
will help Parson Ewan with the ladies; but there
can be no haste, the fire will be cut off in no time."

Even as he spoke these words he looked anxiously
at the great flames which kept rising from amidst
volumes of smoke.

"Courage, dearest," he said, kissing Ann, "I shall
be back immediately."  And without more ado he
left her.

Martha was in tears.  Patience had risen and was
standing leaning upon Jessie, looking at the
wonderful sight.  By this time the whole centre of the
city seemed to be one mass of flames, driven in long
tongues of fire westward, spreading quickly along
the water side.

"Do you think it will come this way?" asked
Mr. Ewan of Peter Kemp, who stood beside him.

"Lor' no, sir," answered the man; "it's a pretty
long way off yet, but the houses be so dry and so
near together, and many of them are tarred, so that
they set one another on fire."

Peter Kemp was right.  The chronicles of the
time tell us that the fire broke out in the house of
one Farryner, the king's baker, in Pudding Lane,
where the Monument now stands, and that it spread
so quickly that before three o'clock in the morning
three hundred houses were down.  St. Magnus, by
the bridge foot, was alight, and the houses near it in
flames; the wind was so strong it seemed to sweep
everything before it.

Unfortunately no one knew what to do, and the
first few hours were lost.  The lord mayor was at
his wits' end, and when he received the command
from the king to spare no houses, but pull them down
before the fire, he exclaimed:

"Lord! what can I do?  I am spent; people will not
obey me.  I have been pulling down houses, but the
fire overtakes us faster than we can do it."

People were wandering about the streets distracted,
and there was no efficient means of quenching
the fire.[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Pepys's account.

.. vspace:: 2

Delarry found the king leaving Whitehall in his
barge with the Duke of York.

"You had better come with us, Delarry," he said;
"you have a steady head, and we may need your
services."  And so Delarry went down on the king's
barge to Thames Street, where they landed.  And
the king and the Duke of York behaved splendidly,
encouraging the men, speaking cheerfully and with
authority to the distracted people; their presence did
much to control the populace.

Almost as soon as they had landed, the king had
said to Delarry, "Go back and bring soldiers and
gunpowder; we must stop it even if we blow up half
the town."  And Delarry had gone.

He came back with a score of men, and it was
done as the king desired.

Suddenly there came running into the very midst
of this scene of destruction a tall, fair man in the
dress of a naval officer, and with him a dozen or
more blue-jackets with axes in their hands; they
looked like men who had both the will and the power
to do good work.  A cry went up from the crowd:

"Hurrah for the 'blue-jackets'!"  And the men
answered the greeting with a shout and a wild hurrah.
The Duke of York, who had taken his part in the
Dutch wars, left the king's side, and, riding forward,
greeted the young officer, who paused in his running,
and by a word of command drew up his men in front
of the duke.

"You've come in the very nick of time, Commander
Newbolt," he said; "I wish we had more
men like you."

"Others are following, your highness," answered
Newbolt.  "My ship, the *Orient*, anchored in
Harwich this morning, and the news reached us that
London was burning, so I got permission from Prince
Rupert to come on and see if we could help, if help
were needed."

"It is needed," said the duke, "and badly; go to
work.  Do not spare the houses; it is the king's
order.  The fire must be cut off, but above all things
save as many lives as you can.  Away with you!"

No second bidding was needed; from that moment
Reginald Newbolt and his blue-jackets did such
strenuous work that he and Delarry together were
the heroes of the day.  Many were the women and
the children whom they carried out of danger; many
were the poor wretches, sick, and halt, and maimed,
whom they took to places of refuge.

It is impossible to relate here the agony of that
first day of the fire, a Sabbath day never to be
forgotten, the Lord's day as it was called then.  The
river was crowded to excess with lighters and boats
taking in goods of every description.  The water
itself was thick with baskets, boxes, anything that
would float, and above in the air there was the
screaming of birds, of pigeons which would not leave
their houses, and which hovered about the windows
and balconies licked by the flames, until they burnt
their wings and fell down.

Black with smoke and grime, almost beyond recognition,
Lord Craven and Reginald Newbolt came face
to face, and, strange to tell, recognized each other.
It was no time for ceremony, they clasped hands.

"You here!" said Lord Craven; "it is well, for
we need brave men, and I have been hearing all day
long of the blue-jackets and their commander."

They had no time to say more, for even as they
spoke there was a great crash, and a block of houses
fell as in a burning pit, and such a cloud of smoke
and dust arose that for a few seconds they were in
darkness, half smothered in the suffocating furnace
of heat and dust.  When they recovered themselves,
they found that they were still together.

"Can you tell me anything of Ann?" asked
Reginald quickly.

"She is safe with Patience Beaumont at Somerset
House," said Lord Craven.  "You know she is
Delarry's wife; he will see after her."

"I know nothing," said Reginald, "but I have
one bit of news--Mistress Agnes De Lisle is, or
rather was, safe a week ago.  She was to start for
England; let us hope she has not done so.  You can
carry the news to Patience; she must have had a
hard time of it."

"She is dying of it," said Lord Craven.  "Who
knows, this may make her live!"  But another burst
of flames, another rush of half-distracted men and
women separated them, and each went his way,
brave men and true, ready to face every danger, not
thinking of themselves, doing their duty to God and
man as Christian knights and English gentlemen.

At Somerset House, as the danger increased, Mr. Ewan
and Peter Kemp decided that as the rapidity of
the fire was so great that at any time it might sweep
up westward and render even Somerset House untenable,
they had better get the women on to a barge
and go out into the river.  It was difficult to steer,
as there were so many other vessels filling the river.
The heat was intolerable, and they were almost burnt
by the shower of fire-drops which fell continuously.
It was by these fire-drops that the fire spread.  They
fell into the barges, beyond the range of the actual
fire.  It was as if the heavens showered down
burning coals.  Many persons threw themselves on the
ground or into the river itself, saying it was the last
day, and that the judgment of God had fallen upon
the city.

The sky was a lurid sheet, like the top of a burning
oven.  The fall of houses, the sudden collapse of the
churches, was hideous to hear and see.

The air was so hot and inflamed, that at last no
one was able to approach the radius where the fire
raged fiercest.  This circle of fire was nearly two
miles in length and one in breadth, and because of
the long trail of smoke the whole town and country
for six miles round was in total darkness, so that at
noonday travellers could not see each other, though
there was no cloud in the sky!  The Guildhall was a
fearful spectacle.  It stood in view for several hours
after the fire had taken hold of it, a great lurid body
without any flames, because the timber with which it
was built was of solid oak.  It shone forth a bright
mass, as if it had been a palace of gold.

St. Paul's was under repair as has been said,
and the scaffolding helped to set the cathedral on
fire.  The great stones of which it was built were
calcined.

Patience, Jessie, and Ann watched the scene with
terror.  They had only Mr. Ewan, Peter, and the
house steward with them, along with one bargeman.
Martha and one or two maid-servants had followed them.

We have already said that the heat was so fierce,
the shower of fire-drops so continuous, that but for
the water which surrounded the barge they would
of necessity have been burnt up.  The water in the
river was almost boiling, and hissed and bubbled as
the red-hot drops fell into it.  At last, overcome
with fatigue and fear, Patience became unconscious.
Heavy drops of perspiration were pouring down the
faces of all; it was intolerable.

"Cannot you steer the barge across to the other
side?" asked Mr. Ewan of the bargeman.

It was late in the afternoon when he made this
proposition.

"I will try," he answered, "but you can see for
yourself, sir, the river is covered with craft and
with floating bales; it is not easy."

Mr. Ewan had been an oarsman when he was a
student at Oxford, and with his assistance at steering
they succeeded in crossing the river and reaching the
Surrey side, which put them comparatively out of
danger.  It was called "the Bank side" in those days.

"I know of a little ale-house where, if not
overcrowded, they would take us in," said Peter.

"Then for God's sake guide us there," said Mr. Ewan,
as he lifted Patience in his arms and carried
her out of the barge on to land.

The refugees swarmed along the river front, but,
guided by Peter, the little party found its way at last
to the ale-house, which stood back in a garden of
its own.

As good fortune would have it, there was one room
still unoccupied.  Of this the women took immediate
possession, and where Patience could be tended.
Late in the afternoon they were able to join the men
in the little garden, and witnessed the fire growing
ever more and more vivid, creeping up the steeples,
appearing between the churches and the houses, as
far as they could see up the hill on which the city
stands, a most horrid, malicious, bloody flame, not
like the fine flame of a fire, but in fashion like a
bow--a dreadful bow it was, a bow which had God's
arrow in it with a flaming point.[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Vincent.

.. vspace:: 2

It was an awful sight, and throughout Monday
and Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, the fire
continued, at times seeming to die down, and then
bursting forth again with redoubled fury.  Up and
down the city the Duke of York rode.  Lord Craven,
Delarry, Reginald Newbolt, and many other brave
men fought the fire as they had never fought a living
enemy.  There was no thought of rest, no thought
of staying their hand--desolation, ruin, surrounded
them on every side.  The town itself was in those
days hardly more than a mile wide at any point;
open country was all around, and the people who
had made their escape camped out on Moorfields and
in the meadows of the hillside slopes.

Fortunately the weather continued warm and dry,
and there was bright moonlight.  By mid-day on
Friday all danger was past; but what had been the
most picturesque city in Europe, was now a heap of
ruins and ashes.  Few lives had been lost, but old
London had ceased to exist.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Found`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   Found

.. vspace:: 2

It was Sunday morning, just a week since the fire
had broken out and consumed the city.  The bells
of the churches that remained uninjured were ringing
out, and crowds were passing over the ruins to reach
the churches, there to confess their sins and their
misdoings, and to pray the Lord to stay His wrath,
and not utterly destroy His people.

No such scene of desolation was ever witnessed
before, and let us pray it may never be witnessed
again in the capital of the English nation.  She had
fallen very low, and now her people humbled
themselves, acknowledging the hand of God which had
chastised and yet had not slain them.

A man, a woman, and a girl were making their
way from the crowded banks of the river up the
Strand towards Somerset House.  When they reached
it they found the gates closed and guarded by
soldiers, for the people who remained in the city were
afraid of the many marauders and thieves who had
escaped from the prisons and places of detention
during the last few days.  Newgate had been burnt
down, and it had been impossible to keep a close
watch over the prisoners, so that, now the danger
of fire was over, a great fear of rapine, theft, and
murder fell upon the honest inhabitants.

Those who could afford it, themselves set watchmen
before their houses, and barred and bolted their
doors.  In the court-yard of Somerset House there
were both soldiers and sailors mingled together.
There was also a watch-box, used at night by the
watchman, but at present a soldier stood in it with
fixed bayonet.  Seeing all this array, the three
strangers slunk back and began conversing together.

"What shall we do?" asked Ben Davies.  "To
whom shall we address ourselves to gain admittance?"

"Oh, it will be quite easy!" said Agnes, who was
still in her peasant's dress.  "I must know if Patience
is here.  If she is not, then perhaps Martha will be."

Even as she spoke, Martha's portly figure came
through the gate out into the street.  She was
accompanied by Peter Kemp, to whom she was saying
in a loud voice, hugging a book of prayers in her
arms:

"Indeed, if ye have never prayed before, it would
be well if ye did so now.  Come along with me."

Peter looked somewhat sheepish, but he had no
time to answer, for Agnes sprang forward, exclaiming:

"Martha, Martha, take me to Aunt Patience!"

"Ah, my lamb!" said Martha, "where have you
sprung from?"

"Oh, never mind that, never mind anything!" said
Agnes; "only take me to Aunt Patience."  And she
clung to the woman.

"I'll take you fast enough," said Martha, tears
rolling down her face.  "Maybe it will be the saving
of her."  And she turned back, holding Agnes's hand
tightly in hers.

They heard a scuffling behind them, and, looking
round, they saw the guards driving back Ben Davies
and his wife.

"Oh, let them come!" Agnes said, "they are my
friends.  Go and fetch them, Peter; I must go to
Aunt Patience."  And she ran across the court-yard,
not heeding the groups of sailors who instinctively
moved on one side to let her pass.  Old Martha
followed her as fast as she could, but Agnes ran on
through the great vestibule.  Her foot was on the
first step of the stairs when a hand was laid on her
shoulder, and looking up she saw Parson Ewan.

"Agnes!" he exclaimed.

"Aunt Patience--take me to Aunt Patience!" she
cried, not heeding him.

"Come!" said Parson Ewan; and they went quickly
on together, without speaking.

They paused at the door of Patience's sitting-room.

"Agnes," said the parson, "your aunt has been
ill--very ill, indeed; and the last few days have tried
her beyond measure.  We must be careful.  Jessie is
with her.  I will call her out, and I will go into your
aunt and tell her you are here."

"Be quick, then," said Agnes.  "Joy does not
kill; she will get well now I am here."

She had raised her voice a little, and as the door of
the room opened, a voice they both knew called out:

"Agnes, Agnes!"

"She has heard me," said the girl, and, running
forward, she found herself in Patience's arms.

"My darling, my well-beloved!" said the elder
woman, sinking into a chair and drawing Agnes on
to her knees; and the two loved each other with
kisses and with tears, in silence, because their hearts
were overflowing.

Parson Ewan closed the door and left them alone.

Ben Davies and his wife were conducted by Peter
Kemp to the servants' hall, and were being
questioned, but they were very reticent.  Ben Davies
simply said that the Lady Agnes had been given into
their charge, he did not even know by whom.  Her
very name had been hidden from them for many
months.  When they did know it, but for the war
they would have brought her to England at once.
Then a young commander, who knew the lady, had
found them in Holland, and bidden them keep her
quiet until the war should be over; but she was so
impatient to come home, that she had persuaded Ben
to hire a larger barge and to put out to sea.

They came up by the Medway and had expected
to be in London in a day or so, when the fire broke
out, and they had had to lay to.  As soon as it was
possible, the Lady Agnes had insisted on pushing
forward.  She would not let them rest.  Her one cry was:

"Aunt Patience, Aunt Patience!"

Presently Parson Ewan came in, accompanied by
Reginald Newbolt, who said sharply:

"Well, Ben, you haven't obeyed orders."

"I couldn't, sir," answered Ben; "the young lady
would not let me.  When I told her I had no money
to charter a ship, she said it did not matter, that I
could promise the owner what I chose; she was sure
she was rich, she was sure the money would be
found, and my wife took sides with her.  What
could I do?  So I chartered a boat, and we crossed
over; but when we came within reach of London, and
saw the fire raging, still she would not go back.
So we waited in the river until we could move on,
which we did as soon as possible.  She seemed to
have no fear, and but one thought--to get home."

"Well, you had better remain here for the present,"
said Reginald.  "Martha will take care of your wife."

"Please, your honour, I must go back to my ship
to-night," said Ben Davies, "and my wife cannot
leave the little one.  Fortunately my mother came
with us, and took charge of the child; but my wife
must be back before night."

"Very well," said Reginald; "tell me in what
dock your ship is lying and I will go to you.  You
must not go without seeing the Lady Agnes.  Stay
here and take proper refreshment.  I will see to
your getting back the quickest way possible."

"Thank you, sir!" said Ben Davies; then, speaking
in a low voice so that no one else could hear, he said:

"You will not betray me, sir?  You will not let
evil happen to me because I listened to that wicked
man?"

"No, I will not," said Reginald, "I promise you.
You have redeemed yourself.  You shall go scot-free.
Indeed, I expect you will be rewarded for your
care of the Lady Agnes."

"Thank you kindly, sir!" said the man.  And then
Reginald and Mr. Ewan left the hall.

That same evening there was a great consultation,
and it was agreed that the very next day Mr. Ewan,
Patience, and the two girls, with their men and
women servants, should start north.  They would
have to go very slowly because of Patience.  It was
impossible for her to travel on horseback, so a
carriage had to be hired, and everything done to ensure
the least possible fatigue for her.

Patience wrote to the king, telling him how Agnes
had been found.  She dwelt but slightly on her
disappearance.  All she said was: "She was carried
away from us by some misadventure or by some evil
design, which the Lord has frustrated, and she has
mercifully been given back to my arms.  Surely her
angels have watched over her that her foot should
not slip.  With your majesty's leave I am taking her
back to Westmorland to my home, seeing she has
none of her own--De Lisle Abbey, her ancestral
home, having passed into the hands of strangers.
I would entreat your majesty to inform the
queen-dowager of these facts; and also I would remind
your majesty that her father died serving that saint
and martyr, your most gracious majesty's father, and
of your promise to befriend the child, who is
fatherless and motherless, with nothing she can call her
own.  As regards myself, I shall not be here long
to protect her.  The late events have shattered my
health, and I am going home to die; then she will
be alone.  Praying your majesty's goodness for the
orphan, I kiss your majesty's hand, and leave her to
your tender mercy.

.. vspace:: 1

"PATIENCE BEAUMONT."

.. vspace:: 2

"I will take the letter," said Reginald, "and you,
Delarry, shall accompany me."

"Willingly," said the young Irish officer; and the
two went off together.

The conduct of the young men had been so remarkable
during the late events of the fire that they were
in high favour with both the king and the Duke of
York, to whom they had access at any hour of the
day or night.

When the king had read the letter, he looked at
Reginald with that peculiar expression of bonhomie
which was so familiar to his courtiers.

"Are not you the present possessor of the De Lisle
estates?" he asked.

"Yes, sire," answered Reginald boldly; "they
were given my father in return for his services in the
Parliamentary army.  But let not that trouble your
majesty; I am ready to restore them to their rightful
owner."

"And their rightful owner is this Lady Agnes
Beaumont De Lisle," said the king.  "Well, Captain
Newbolt, I have a bit of advice to give you, and
at the same time a tangible recognition of your
services during the Dutch War, of which my cousin,
Prince Rupert," and he turned to the prince, who
was standing by him, and smiled, "has given me
full account.  Go courting this lady; make her your
wife.  It will not be very difficult, seeing she is the
fairest maiden at our court, and my mother has kept
her hidden as a pearl in an oyster shell.  It is for
you to bring her forth, and when you present her at
our court as your wife, I will create you Sir Reginald
De Lisle, and ratify to you and to her conjointly
the estates of which you have defrauded her; so shall
we do away with all difficulties.  What say you to
this, my cousin?"  And he turned once more to Prince
Rupert.

"That your majesty has as usual solved the question
with your happy wit.  What can be better than
love, and marriage, and wedding-bells?"

But Reginald answered:

"I am only too willing, your majesty; but there is
one thing I would beseech of you, namely, to restore
the estate to Lady Agnes without delay, and with no
regard as to whether I win her hand or not."

"But unless you wed her you cannot be Sir Reginald
De Lisle," said the king.

"Then, with your permission, I will be Sir
Reginald something else," said the young man boldly;
"but I would have the Lady Agnes left free, quite
free, to wed me or not as it seems best to her."

"But you will go a-courting her?" said Charles,
laughing.

"Ah, verily I will!" answered Reginald, drawing
himself up, "and I hope to win her."

"Have it your own way," said the king.  "Send
us the parchments concerning the De Lisle estate
and we will make them over to the young lady, and
you, you will be penniless and a soldier of fortune.
Now, begone, and do not tarry on the road, but win
your spurs and a wife."

Reginald bent his knee before the king and kissed
his hand; then rose and went his way.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Home at Last`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Home at Last

.. vspace:: 2

It was a long journey north, and a wearisome one.
They had to make many halts on the road because of
Patience's weakness.  She was as a queen amongst
them; they loved and tended her, each one in his or
her own way.  Jessie fairly worshipped her, and was
almost jealous of Agnes.  How was it possible that,
thus cradled in love, she should not live! and it was
evident to them all that as she approached north
there seemed to dawn upon her face a look of happiness,
and in her voice there was a note of gladness.
So they were content and ceased to fear for her.

"You are getting well so quickly, Aunt Patience!"
said Agnes.  But Patience shook her head; she could
not think so herself, for she could not shake off the
horror of the past months--the plague, the fire, and
the loss of Agnes--she could not believe it possible
that she should live, she who had ceased to desire
life.  Again and again she said to Parson Ewan, "If
only I could see Agnes married and settled with a
good man, I should be content to go."

"Have you not learnt through all this time of
trial," said Parson Ewan reproachfully, "to leave
things in God's hands?  Each day you say 'Thy Will
be done', and yet you make plans for the future.
You say you do not care to live, but if it be His will
that you should live, surely you will be content.  You
are still a young woman, and there may be work for
you to do--others to comfort and care for.  Who
can tell what God requires of us?"

"When Agnes is married I shall be alone," said
Patience, "and I do not like the thought of being
alone.  I would sooner go home to my dear ones."

"Loneliness is a thing we have all to face," said
Parson Ewan sadly; "but there is no need to trouble
about it until it comes.  Rest assured that when it
does, with God's grace you will bear it.  The vicarage
is not far from Holt Farm, and there is Jessie."

"You are right," said Patience, and a slight
colour crept over her face; "besides, we are talking
as if Agnes were married and gone, and we do not
even know that she thinks of either love or marriage."

"Just so," said the parson; "as I told you, you
were taking trouble by the forelock."

Their last halting-place was at Appleby, which was
but a short distance from De Lisle Abbey.

"Would you like me to take Agnes over to see
the old home?" asked Mr. Ewan the following morning.

"No," said Patience; "she shall not go there until
it is her own, and that may never be.  I have had no
answer from the king."

"All in good time," said Mr. Ewan, and he
smiled, for he had had a conversation with Reginald
and Delarry the morning before they started, when
he had learnt the king's pleasure, "that De Lisle
Abbey was to be restored to Agnes, and that Reginald
was to go a-courting."

"I don't think he will need to do that long,"
Delarry had said.  "Agnes has always been his
sweetheart."

"Ah, but I was a rich man in those days, now I
possess nothing!  You know this full well, Delarry,
seeing you have had no dower with Ann, and I can
give you none."

"I am quite content," said Delarry.

"But I, 'a soldier of fortune', shall have to woo
an heiress," said Reginald, "so I am not content."

"What matters it; what matters anything," said
Mr. Ewan, "if she loves you?"

"True," said Reginald, "if she loves me."  And
then they parted company, for Reginald and Delarry
were much in request at court, and could not even
wait to see them off; but, as Reginald bade Agnes
farewell, he said:

"As soon as I can get leave of absence, may I
come north and visit you?"

"If you will," said Agnes; "but we are poor folk
now.  We live at Holt Farm, and you are master
of Newbolt Abbey."

"I shall not be master there long," he answered;
and so he bade her farewell.

.. vspace:: 2

At every cottage door in the little hamlet of
St. Mary's, women and children, even the men in the
fields, stopped now and again, and, shading their eyes
with their hands, looked up over the hills in the
direction of Appleby.  There was an air of
expectancy and gladness on every face, for the news had
reached them through Rolfe that the parson, Mistress
Patience Beaumont, and the two young maidens were
coming home that day.

"It's a wonder they're alive," one woman said to
another; "to think they've been through the plague
and the fire!"

"But it seems that Mistress Patience is terribly
ill," answered her companion.

"So I heard," said the first speaker, "but she'll
soon get hale and hearty when she is home again.
There they be;" and she pointed down the valley to
where a coach was just visible, accompanied by
horses and riders.  A general movement took place
among the villagers, as if they would have all gone
forward to meet the travellers.

Suddenly there arose a cry of pleasure, for they
saw two youthful figures come running on in front.

"Ah, it's the maidens!" said an old man, leaning
on his stick.  "I thank the Lord my eyes will see
them once again!" and then there was no holding
back.  Children and women and men left their
cottages to take care of themselves, and went on their
way cheering and waving their kerchiefs until Agnes
and Jessie were in their midst, shaking hands with
one and all, half-laughing and half-crying.

"Follow us," said Jessie.  "Father says we must
thank God first of all for His great mercies
vouchsafed to us;" and she and Agnes led the way to the
little parish church, and the old sexton threw the
door open, and they entered.  Patience, very pale
and very feeble, but with a glint of life and gladness
in her eyes, walked between the two girls, leaning
on them both, and Mr. Ewan went first, entered the
church and stood on the altar steps, whilst the people
crowded in.  Then he spoke to them and told them
something of the danger through which Patience
and Agnes had passed, of that terrible plague, of the
fire, and the long separation, for which no one could
account.  Tears poured down his hearers' faces, and
the women sobbed.

"But it is over," he said, "and God has been very
merciful, for He has brought them home again;
therefore, let us kneel and give thanks to Him Who
is the Lord of life and death."

They knelt for a time in silence, which spoke more
eloquently than words, and then there broke upon
the stillness the first words of that great song of
triumph:

   |  "We praise Thee, O Lord, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord.
   |  All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting."

It poured forth from every heart and every tongue,
the sound rolled out through the open door into the
sweet country beyond; and it seemed to Patience, as
she listened, as if healing were coming to her, the
love of life, the gladness which belongs to the true
believer.  As the last words, "O Lord, in Thee have
I trusted, let me never be confounded", died out, with
one accord they knelt again; every head was bowed,
as the pastor raised his hands and blessed them.

Then they went forth.  Patience was lifted on to
a horse, and it was, "Who should lead it?"  And
so they trooped up to Holt Farm.  Doors and
windows were wide open, and the scent of the summer
flowers, roses and sweet lavender, filled the air.

Oh, the joy of that home-coming, the sweet peace
which crept over them as they crossed the threshold
and stood for a second waving their thanks and their
good-byes to those who had followed them!

Mr. Ewan stepped into the midst of his flock.

"You will go now," he said, "all of you, because
the Mistress must have rest and peace to recover her
strength."  So they went, and Patience was taken
up-stairs and put to bed in the sweet lavender-scented
sheets, with open windows looking out over the
moors; and as she lay there it seemed to her as if the
past were an ugly dream from which she had just
awakened.  As she listened to the birds singing, and
the voices of Agnes and Jessie as they went and
came, she buried her face in the pillow and wept
tears of gladness and thanksgiving.  All the
bitterness of her soul for those dark years of mourning
passed away.  Her youth had departed from her,
but it seemed to her almost as if there were a
resurrection within her, a new life dawning, a life which
did not belong to others, as all her past had done,
but to herself.  A strange gladness, a sense of peace,
crept over her, and she fell asleep.

What would her awakening be?  None but God
knew.  Surely she was one of God's elect; she had
possessed her soul in patience.

In a different way Agnes realized the same feeling.
It was not likely she would ever forget what she had
gone through or what she had seen and heard, but it
grew to be almost like a dream from which she had
awakened.  She had been away from home and she
had come back again, and as she linked her arm
in Jessie's, and with Mr. Ewan walked back to the
vicarage, she said as much.

"I hope I may never go back to London," she
said.  "I will stay here all my life.  Could anything
be more lovely?"

"Make no rash promises," said Mr. Ewan, laughing.
"You are too young to do that.  What if
someone fetches you away?"

Agnes coloured.  "I cannot leave Aunt Patience,"
she answered.  "Think what she has done and
suffered for me.  Can I ever repay her?"

"We can never repay love; we can but give it in
return," answered Mr. Ewan.

After the first two or three days life resumed its
even course for them all.

If the Ewans and Patience and Agnes had been
friends before, they were more than friends now.  It
seemed as if they could not bear to be parted.

"If we could only live all together, Aunt Patience,"
Agnes said one morning.

Patience laughed, for she did laugh now, with a
certain ring of gladness which had never been there
before.  "That we cannot do," she answered.  "I
cannot leave the farm, and Mr. Ewan cannot leave
the vicarage."

As she said these words Mr. Ewan entered the
sitting-room, smiled at Aunt Patience, who coloured
deeply, for she knew he must have heard Agnes's
last words, but he gave no sign, only laid a
voluminous packet of papers in front of her.

"These are for you, Agnes," he said.  "I met a
king's messenger bringing them, and he entrusted
them to me."  Both Patience and Mr. Ewan
exchanged glances, while Agnes fingered the
parchment and slowly broke the seal.

"What is it?" she said.  "I cannot read this
cramped writing.  What have I to do with the king?"

"Give it to me; let me read it to you," said
Mr. Ewan.

"Oh no, not all these long pages!" said Agnes,
"just tell me what it means.  What does the king
want with me?"

"Nothing," answered Mr. Ewan, "except to give
back to you what by right is yours, the lands and
estates of De Lisle Abbey."

"There is no De Lisle Abbey; it is Newbolt
Manor," said Agnes sharply, "and I won't have it."

"You cannot help yourself.  I think you must,"
said Patience.

"No, Aunt Patience, you may say what you will,
but I will never go there.  It would never be to me
like home; I would sooner remain with you always.
I will write and tell the king as much; I do not want
to be Lady of De Lisle Abbey."

"It would be of no use your sending to the king;
there are your title-deeds," said Patience.

"Then I will throw them into the fire; I will have
none of it," she said, and she caught at them.  But
Parson Ewan put his hand on hers.

"Let be, Agnes," he said.

She burst into tears.

"I will not; I tell you I will not!" and she stamped
her foot.

A step had come up the gravel path which she had
not heard, neither had she seen the figure of a man
standing in the doorway; but Patience and Mr. Ewan
had both heard and seen, and quietly they
turned and left the room.

Agnes, her arms crossed on the table, sobbed with
childish anger, repeating: "I will not; I will not!"

"What will you not do, you naughty child?" said
a man's voice, and a somewhat heavy hand was laid
on her shoulder.

She started, looked up, and saw Reginald standing
over her.  "I will not be Lady De Lisle," she
said.

"Very well," answered Reginald seriously; "I am
very sorry if that be your last word, Agnes."

"What can it matter to you?" she said passionately.
"I will not take your lands; I will not rob you."

She looked so pretty in her anger, with her
tear-stained face and ruffled hair, still such a child.

"Nevertheless I am sorry," he said, "for I have
come to ask you to be my wife; and the king has
promised to knight me Sir Reginald De Lisle if I
win you."

"I cannot be your wife," she answered slowly.
"I am too young; and then there is Aunt Patience.
You must be Sir Reginald something else."

"I will not be Sir anything, unless I am Sir
Reginald De Lisle, and you knight me," he answered.

She shook her head.  "I tell you, you can't.  I
will not have the land."

He put his arm round her, turned her face up to
his, and looked into her eyes.  "Now, tell me you
do not love me, my little sweetheart," he said.

Evidently she could not so answer him, for a smile
broke over her face.

"Yes or no, Agnes?" he asked softly.

A short gasp and then a timid "Yes", and he
would have kissed her, but she slipped away from
him and stood at the farther end of the room.

"I cannot; you know I cannot.  What will become
of Aunt Patience?" she said.

He laughed.  "I think that will settle itself,
Agnes," he answered.  "Don't run away, little
one."  And he took both her hands in his.

"Have you seen nothing?"

"Seen!  What should I have seen?" said Agnes.

"Well, then, wait awhile and you will see," said
Reginald.  "In the meantime, you love me and I
love you; so you must be my wife, and the king will
knight me, and we will go and live in the place I love
best in the world, De Lisle Abbey."

"Then Aunt Patience must come too," she said.
"She cannot stay here alone."

She did not know that Aunt Patience had come
back until she felt her arms round her, and heard
the voice she loved so well say:

"I shall not hinder you, my darling.  Did you not
yourself say it would be a good thing if the vicarage
and the farm were one dwelling-place?"

"Yes, I did," answered Agnes, "because we are
all such good friends."

"Just so," said Patience.  "But as the vicarage
is too small for us all, Mr. Ewan and myself have
settled that he and Jessie shall live up here with me
after you are married."

"Oh," answered Agnes, "then you will not want
me!"  And her face fell.

"We shall always want you, dear.  Only, I think
someone else wants you more, and someone wants
me too, and we shall never be quite happy without
our lovers.  Am I not right?"  She drew Agnes
into her arms, and they kissed tenderly, in
remembrance of the past, and for joy in the future.

And so it came to pass that a few weeks later Sir
Reginald De Lisle and Agnes were married in the
little church where her mother lay sleeping; and they
rode away together, she on her white palfrey, he on
his black charger, and he took her to her old home,
the home of her race, now his and hers.

They left no sadness behind, for Mr. Ewan and
Patience were also married a few days later in the
same village church, and Jessie's heart was glad
because she had a mother.  And so, for one and all,
the evil days were over.

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