The Midnight Queen, May Agnes Fleming [phonics books .txt] 📗

throbbings. But the night-air was as hot as his heart; and, almost suffocated by the sultry closeness, he was about to start for a plunge in the river, when the sound of coming footsteps and voices arrested him. He had met with so many odd ad ventures to-night that he stopped now to see who was coming; for on every hand all was silent and forsaken.

Footsteps and voices came closer; two figures took shape in the gloom, and emerged from the darkness into the glimmering lamp light. He recognised them both. One was the Earl of Rochester; the other, his dark-eyed, handsome page--that strange page with the face of the lost lady! The earl was chatting familiarly, and laughing obstreperously at something or other, while the boy merely wore a languid smile, as if anything 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 till midnight?"

"An hour and a half at least, I should fancy," answered the boy, with a strong 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 sight worth seeing," remarked the earl. "When all these piles are lighted, the city will be one sea of fire."

"A slight foretaste of what most of its inhabitants will behold in another world," said the page, with a French shrug. "I have heard Lilly's prediction that London is to be purified by fire, like a second Sodom; perhaps it is to be verified to-night."

"Not unlikely; the dome of St. Paul's would be an excellent place to view the conflagration."

"The river will do almost as well, my lord."

"We will have a chance of knowing that presently," said the earl, as he and his page descended to the river, where the little gilded barge lay moored, and the boatman waiting.

As they passed from sight Ormiston came forth, and watched thoughtfully after them. The face and figure were that of the lady, but the voice was different; both were clear and musical enough, but she spoke English with the purest accent, while his was the voice of a foreigner. It most have been one of those strange, unaccountable likenesses we sometimes see among perfect strangers, but the resemblance in this ease was something wonderful. It brought his thoughts back from himself sad his own fortunate love, to his violently-smitten friend, Sir Norman, and his plague-stricken beloved; and he began speculating what he could possibly be about just then, or what he had discovered in the old ruin. Suddenly he was aroused; a moment before, the silence had been almost oppressive but now on the wings of the night, there came a shout. A tumult of voices and footsteps were approaching.

"Stop her! Stop her!" was cried by many voices; and the next instant a fleet figure went flying past him with a rush, and plunged head foremost into she river.

A slight female figure, with floating robes of white, waving hair of deepest, blackness, with a sparkle of jewels on neck and arms. Only for an instant did he see it; but he knew it well, and his very heart stood still. "Stop her! stop her! she is ill of the plague!" shouted the crowd, preying panting on; but they came too late; the white vision had gone 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 of a 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-stepped us, and is now at the bottom of the Thames."

Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to the waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and many eyes 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 and marble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston stood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over the edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted her in. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, the batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited face toward the Earl of Rochester.

"I know that lady, my lord! She is a friend of mine, and you must give her to me!"

"Is it you, Ormiston? Why what brings you here alone on the river, at this 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 her head, and holding a lamp close to her face, "as I have picked her out, I think 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 fall of the most unmitigated wonder. "To whom?" asked Ormiston, who had very little need to inquire.

"To Hubert, yonder. Why, don't you see it yourself? She might be his twin-sister!"

"She might be, but as she is not, you will have the goodness to let me take charge of her. She has escaped from her friends, and I meet bring her back to them."

He half lifted her as he spoke; and the boatman, glad enough to get rid of one sick of the plague, helped her into the batteau. The lady was not insensible, as might be supposed, after her cold bath, but extremely wide-awake, and gazing around her with her great, black, shining eyes. But she made no resistance; either she was too faint or frightened for that, and suffered herself to be hoisted about, "passive to all changes." Ormiston spread his cloak in the stern of the boat, and laid her tenderly upon it, and though the beautiful, wistful eyes were solemnly and unwinkingly fixed on his face, the pale, sweet lips parted not--uttered never a word. The wet bridal robes were drenched and dripping about her, the long dark hair hung in saturated masses over her neck and arms, and contrasted vividly with a face, Ormiston thought at once, the whitest, most beautiful, and most stonelike he had ever seen.

"Thank you, my man; thank you, my lord," said Ormiston, preparing to push off.

Rochester, who had been leaning from the barge, gazing in mingled curiosity, wonder, and admiration at the lovely face, turned now to her champion.

"Who is she, Ormiston?" he said, persuasively.

But Ormiston only laughed, and rowed energetically for the shore. The crowd was still lingering; and half a dozen hands were extended to draw the boat up to the landing. He lifted the light form in his arms and bore it from the boat; but before he could proceed farther with his armful of beauty, a faint but imperious voice spoke: "Please put me down. I am not a baby, and can walk myself."

Ormiston was so surprised, or rather dismayed, by this unexpected address, that he complied at once, and placed her on her own pretty feet. But the young lady's sense of propriety was a good deal stronger than her physical powers; and she swayed and tottered, and had to cling to 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 equal to it, or even a more weighty burden, if necessity required."

"Thank you, sir," said the faint voice, faintly; "but I would rather walk. 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 in there, and she will take care of me.".

"Will she?" said Ormiston, doubtfully. "I hope you do not suffer much pain!"

"I do not suffer at all," she said, wearily; "only I am so tired. Oh, I wish I were home!"

Ormiston half led, half lifted her up the stairs.

"You are almost there, dear lady--see, it is close st hand!"

She half lifted her languid eyes, but did not speak. Leaning panting on his arm, he drew her gently on until they reached her door. It was still unfastened. Prudence had kept her word, and not gone near it; and he opened 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 he could have done La Masque herself. He paused on the threshold; for the room was dark.

"There is a lamp and a tinder-box on the mantel," said the faint, sweet voice, "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 the articles named, and struck a light. The lady was leaning wearily against the door-post, but now she came forward, and dropped exhausted into the downy pillows of a lounge.

"Is there anything I can do for you, madame?" began Ormiston, with as solicitous an air as though he had been her father. "A glass of wine would be of use to you, I think, and then, if you wish, I will go for a doctor."

"You are very kind. You will find wine and glasses in the room opposite this, and I feel so faint that I think you had better bring me some."

Ormiston moved across the passage, like the good, obedient young man that he was, filled a glass of Burgundy, and as he was returning with it, was startled by a cry from the lady that nearly made him drop and shiver 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 her shoulder where the plague-spot had been, and which, to his amazement, he saw 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! how can it have happened? It mast be a miracle!"

"No, it was your plunge into the river; I have heard of one or two such cases before, and if ever I take it," said Ormiston, half laughing, half shuddering, "my first rush shall be for old Father Thames. Here, drink this, I am certain it will complete the cure."

The girl--she was nothing but a girl--drank it off and sat upright like one inspired with new life. As she set down the glass, she lifted her dark, solemn, beautiful eyes to his face with a long, searching gaze.

"What is your name?" she simply asked.

"Ormiston,