CHAPTER VII. THE EARL'S BARGE.
Shocks of joy, they tell me, seldom kill. Of my own knowledge I cannotsay, for I have had precious little experience of such shocks in mylifetime, Heaven knows; but in the present instance, I can safely aver,they had no such dismal effect on Ormiston. Nothing earthly could havegiven that young gentleman a greater shock of joy than the knowledge hewas to behold the long hidden face of his idol. That that face was ugly,he did not for an instant believe, or, at least, it never would be uglyto him. With a form so perfect--a form a sylph might have envied--avoice sweeter than the Singing Fountain of Arabia, hands and feet themost perfectly beautiful the sun ever shone on, it was simply a moraland physical impossibility that they could be joined to a repulsiveface. There was a remote possibility that it was a little less exquisitethan those ravishing items, and that her morbid fancy made her imagineit homely, compared with them, but he knew he never would share in thatopinion. It was the reasoning of love, rather than logic; for whenlove glides smiling in at the door, reason stalks gravely, not to saysulkily, out of the window, and, standing afar off, eyes disdainfullythe didos and antics of her late tenement. There was very little reason,therefore, in Ormiston's head and heart, but a great deal of somethingsweeter, joy--joy that thrilled and vibrated through every nerve withinhim. Leaning against the portal, in an absurd delirium of delight--forit takes but a trifle to jerk those lovers from the slimiest depths ofthe Slough of Despond to the topmost peak of the mountain of ecstasy--heuncovered his head that the night-air might cool its feverishthrobbings. But the night-air was as hot as his heart; and, almostsuffocated by the sultry closeness, he was about to start for a plungein the river, when the sound of coming footsteps and voices arrestedhim. He had met with so many odd ad ventures to-night that he stoppednow to see who was coming; for on every hand all was silent andforsaken.
Footsteps and voices came closer; two figures took shape in the gloom,and emerged from the darkness into the glimmering lamp light. Herecognised them both. One was the Earl of Rochester; the other, hisdark-eyed, handsome page--that strange page with the face of the lostlady! The earl was chatting familiarly, and laughing obstreperously atsomething or other, while the boy merely wore a languid smile, as ifanything further in that line were quite beneath his dignity.
"Silence and solitude," said the earl, with a careless glance around,"I protest, Hubert, this night seems endless. How long is it tillmidnight?"
"An hour and a half at least, I should fancy," answered the boy, with astrong foreign accent. "I know it struck ten as we passed St. Paul's."
"This grand bonfire of our most worshipful Lord Mayor will be a sightworth seeing," remarked the earl. "When all these piles are lighted, thecity will be one sea of fire."
"A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold inanother world," said the page, with a French shrug. "I have heardLilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire, like a secondSodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night."
"Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place toview the conflagration."
"The river will do almost as well, my lord."
"We will have a chance of knowing that presently," said the earl, as heand his page descended to the river, where the little gilded barge laymoored, and the boatman waiting.
As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched thoughtfullyafter them. The face and figure were that of the lady, but the voicewas different; both were clear and musical enough, but she spoke Englishwith the purest accent, while his was the voice of a foreigner. It mosthave been one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimessee among perfect strangers, but the resemblance in this ease wassomething wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself and hisown fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and hisplague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he could possiblybe about just then, or what he had discovered in the old ruin. Suddenlyhe was aroused; a moment before, the silence had been almost oppressivebut now on the wings of the night, there came a shout. A tumult ofvoices and footsteps were approaching.
"Stop her! Stop her!" was cried by many voices; and the next instant afleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and plunged head foremostinto she river.
A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair ofdeepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms. Only foran instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his very heart stoodstill. "Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the plague!" shouted thecrowd, preying panting on; but they came too late; the white vision hadgone down into the black, sluggish river, and disappeared.
"Who is it? What is it? Where is it?" cried two or three watchmen,brandishing their halberds, and rushing up; and the crowd--a small mob ofa dozen or so--answered all at once: "She is delirious with the plague;she was running through the streets; we gave chase, but she out-steppedus, and is now at the bottom of the Thames."
Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to thewaters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and manyeyes within them were turned in the direction whence she had gone down.Soon she reappeared on the dark surface--something whiter than snow,whiter than death; shining like silver, shone the glittering dress andmarble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormistonstood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowingvigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he wasforestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over theedge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted herin. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, thebatteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited facetoward the Earl of Rochester.
"I know that lady, my lord! She is a friend of mine, and you must giveher to me!"
"Is it you, Ormiston? Why what brings you here alone on the river, atthis hour?"
"I have come for her," said Ormiston, pressing over to lift the lady."May I beg you to assist me, my lord, in transferring her to my boat?"
"You must wait till I see her first," said Rochester, partly raising herhead, and holding a lamp close to her face, "as I have picked her out, Ithink I deserve it. Heavens! what an extraordinary likeness!"
The earl had glanced at the lady, then at his page, again at the lady,and lastly at Ormiston, his handsome countenance full of the mostunmitigated wonder. "To whom?" asked Ormiston, who had very little needto inquire.
"To Hubert, yonder. Why, don't you see it yourself? She might be histwin-sister!"
"She might be, but as she is not, you will have the goodness to let metake charge of her. She has escaped from her friends, and I must bringher back to them."
He half lifted her as he spoke; and the boatman, glad enough to get ridof one sick of the plague, helped her into the batteau. The lady wasnot insensible, as might be supposed, after her cold bath, but extremelywide-awake, and gazing around her with her great, black, shining eyes.But she made no resistance; either she was too faint or frightenedfor that, and suffered herself to be hoisted about, "passive to allchanges." Ormiston spread his cloak in the stern of the boat, andlaid her tenderly upon it, and though the beautiful, wistful eyes weresolemnly and unwinkingly fixed on his face, the pale, sweet lips partednot--uttered never a word. The wet bridal robes were drenched anddripping about her, the long dark hair hung in saturated masses over herneck and arms, and contrasted vividly with a face, Ormiston thought atonce, the whitest, most beautiful, and most stonelike he had ever seen.
"Thank you, my man; thank you, my lord," said Ormiston, preparing topush off.
Rochester, who had been leaning from the barge, gazing in mingledcuriosity, wonder, and admiration at the lovely face, turned now to herchampion.
"Who is she, Ormiston?" he said, persuasively.
But Ormiston only laughed, and rowed energetically for the shore. Thecrowd was still lingering; and half a dozen hands were extended to drawthe boat up to the landing. He lifted the l
ight form in his arms andbore it from the boat; but before he could proceed farther with hisarmful of beauty, a faint but imperious voice spoke: "Please put medown. I am not a baby, and can walk myself."
Ormiston was so surprised, or rather dismayed, by this unexpectedaddress, that he complied at once, and placed her on her own prettyfeet. But the young lady's sense of propriety was a good deal strongerthan her physical powers; and she swayed and tottered, and had to clingto her unknown friend for support.
"You are scarcely strong enough, I am afraid, dear lady," he said,kindly. "You had better let me carry you. I assure you I am quite equalto it, or even a more weighty burden, if necessity required."
"Thank you, sir," said the faint voice, faintly; "but I would ratherwalk. Where are you taking me to?"
"To your own house, if you wish--it is quite close at hand."
"Yes. Yes. Let us go there! Prudence is there, and she will take care ofme.".
"Will she?" said Ormiston, doubtfully. "I hope you do not suffer muchpain!"
"I do not suffer at all," she said, wearily; "only I am so tired. Oh, Iwish I were home!"
Ormiston half led, half lifted her up the stairs.
"You are almost there, dear lady--see, it is close at hand!"
She half lifted her languid eyes, but did not speak. Leaning panting onhis arm, he drew her gently on until they reached her door. It was stillunfastened. Prudence had kept her word, and not gone near it; and heopened it, and helped her in.
"Where now?" he asked.
"Up stairs," she said, feebly. "I want to go to my own room."
Ormiston knew where that was, and assisted her there as tenderly as hecould have done La Masque herself. He paused on the threshold; for theroom was dark.
"There is a lamp and a tinder-box on the mantel," said the faint, sweetvoice, "if you will only please to find them."
Ormiston crowed the room--fortunately he knew the latitude of the place--and moving his hand with gingerly precaution along the mantel-shelf,lest he should upset any of the gimcracks thereon, soon obtained thearticles named, and struck a light. The lady was leaning wearily againstthe door-post, but now she came forward, and dropped exhausted into thedowny pillows of a lounge.
"Is there anything I can do for you, madame?" began Ormiston, with assolicitous an air as though he had been her father. "A glass of winewould be of use to you, I think, and then, if you wish, I will go for adoctor."
"You are very kind. You will find wine and glasses in the room oppositethis, and I feel so faint that I think you had better bring me some."
Ormiston moved across the passage, like the good, obedient young manthat he was, filled a glass of Burgundy, and as he was returning withit, was startled by a cry from the lady that nearly made him drop andshiver it on the floor.
"What under heaven has come to her now?" he thought, hastening in,wondering how she could possibly have come to grief since he left her.
She was sitting upright on the sofa, her dress palled down off hershoulder where the plague-spot had been, and which, to his amazement, hesaw now pure and stainless, and free from every loathsome trace.
"You are cured of the plague!" was all he could say.
"Thank God!" she exclaimed, fervently clasping her hands. "But oh! howcan it have happened? It must be a miracle!"
"No, it was your plunge into the river; I have heard of one or two suchcases before, and if ever I take it," said Ormiston, half laughing, halfshuddering, "my first rush shall be for old Father Thames. Here, drinkthis, I am certain it will complete the cure."
The girl--she was nothing but a girl--drank it off and sat upright likeone inspired with new life. As she set down the glass, she lifted herdark, solemn, beautiful eyes to his face with a long, searching gaze.
"What is your name?" she simply asked.
"Ormiston, madame," he said, bowing low.
"You have saved my life, have you not?"
"It was the Earl of Rochester who reserved you from the river; but Iwould have done it a moment later."
"I do not mean that. I mean"--with a slight shudder--"are you not one ofthose I saw at the plague-pit? Oh! that dreadful, dreadful plague-pit!"she cried, covering her face with her hands.
"Yes. I am one of those."
"And who was the other?"
"My friend, Sir Norman Kingsley.
"Sir Norman Kingsley?" she softly repeated, with a sort of recognitionin her voice and eyes, while a faint roseate glow rose softly overher face and neck. "Ah! I thought--was it to his house or yours I wasbrought?"
"To his," replied Ormiston, looking at her curiously; for he had seenthat rosy glow, and was extremely puzzled thereby; "from whence, allowme to add, you took your departure rather unceremoniously."
"Did I?" she said, in a bewildered sort of way. "It is all like a dreamto me. I remember Prudence screaming, and telling me I had the plague,and the unutterable horror that filled me when I heard it; and then thenext thing I recollect is, being at the plague-pit, and seeing your faceand his bending over me. All the horror came back with that awakening,and between it and anguish of the plague-sore I think I fainted again."(Ormiston nodded sagaciously), "and when I next recovered I was alone ina strange room, and in bed. I noticed that, though I think I must havebeen delirious. And then, half-mad with agony, I got out to the street,somehow and ran, and ran, and ran, until the people saw and followed mehere. I suppose I had some idea of reaching home when I came here; butthe crowd pressed so close behind, and I felt though all my delirium,that they would bring me to the pest-house if they caught me, anddrowning seemed to me preferable to that. So I was in the river beforeI knew it--and you know the rest as well as I do. But I owe you my life,Mr. Ormiston--owe it to you and another; and I thank you both with allmy heart."
"Madame, you are too grateful; and I don't know as we have done anythingmuch to deserve it."
"You have saved my life; and though you may think that a valuelesstrifle, not worth speaking of, I assure you I view it in a verydifferent light," she said, with a half smile.
"Lady, your life is invaluable; but as to our saving it, why, you wouldnot have us throw you alive into the plague-pit, would you?"
"It would have been rather barbarous, I confess, but there are few whowould risk infection for the sake of a mere stranger. Instead of doingas you did, you might have sent me to the pest-house, you know."
"Oh, as to that, all your gratitude is due to Sir Norman. He managed thewhole affair, and what is more, fell--but I will leave that for himselfto disclose. Meantime, may I ask the name of the lady I have been sofortunate as to serve!"
"Undoubtedly, sir--my name is Leoline."
"Leoline is only half a name."
"Then I am so unfortunate an only to possess half a name, for I neverhad any other."
Ormiston opened his eyes very wide indeed.
"No other! you must have had a father some time in your life; mostpeople have," said the young gentleman, reflectively.
She shook her head a little sadly.
"I never had, that I know of, either father or mother, or any one butPrudence. And by the way," she said, half starting up, "the first thingto be done is, to see about this same Prudence. She must be somewhere inthe house."
"Prudence is nowhere in the house," said Ormiston, quietly; "and willnot be, she says, far a month to come. She is afraid of the plague."
"Is she?" said Leoline, fixing her eyes on him with a powerful glance."How do you know that?"
"I heard her say so not half an hour ago, to a lady a few doors distant.Perhaps you know her--La Masque."
"That singular being! I don't know her; but I have seen her often. Whywas Prudence talking of me to her, I wonder?"
"That I do not know; but talking of you the was, and she said shewas coming back here no more. Perhaps you will be afraid to stay herealone?"
"Oh no, I am used to being alone," she said, with a little sigh, "butwhere"--hesitating and blushing vividly, "where is--I mean, I shouldlike to thank sir Nor
man Kingsley."
Ormiston saw the blush and the eyes that dropped, and it puzzled himagain beyond measure.
"Do you know Sir Norman Kingsley?" he suspiciously asked.
"By sight I know many of the nobles of the court," she answeredevasively, and without looking up: "they pass here often, and Prudenceknows them all; and so I have learned to distinguish them by name andsight, your friend among the rest."
"And you would like to see my friend?" he said, with malicious emphasis.
"I would like to thank him," retorted the lady, with some asperity:"you have told me how much I owe him, and it strikes me the desire issomewhat natural."
"Without doubt it is, and it will save Sir Norman much fruitless labor;for even now he is in search of you, and will neither rest nor sleepuntil he finds you."
"In search of me!" she said softly, and with that rosy glow againillumining her beautiful face; "he is indeed kind, and I am most anxiousto thank him."
"I will bring him here in two hours, then," said Ormiston, with energy;"and though the hour may be a little unseasonable, I hope you willnot object to it; for if you do, he will certainly not survive untilmorning."
She gayly laughed, but her cheek was scarlet.
"Rather than that, Mr. Ormiston, I will even see him tonight. You willfind me here when you come."
"You will not run away again, will you?" said Ormiston, looking at herdoubtfully. "Excuse me; but you have a trick of doing that, you know."
Again she laughed merrily.
"I think you may safely trust me this time. Are you going?"
By way of reply, Ormiston took his hat and started for the door. Therehe paused, with his hand upon it.
"How long have you known Sir Norman Kingsley?" was his careless, artfulquestion.
But Leoline, tapping one little foot on the floor, and looking down atit with hot cheeks and humid ayes, answered not a word.