foreshadows
h! with that little gipsey-party went all the smiles i was to see for many a day, though i knew it not.
my father about this time seemed dull and sorry of cheer. i asked him if aught ailed him in body or mind, or had gone wrong in his affairs. he said, no—that he was sensible of a heaviness on his spirits, but could no ways account for it. and, with that stoutness of heart which had become a second nature, he bustled about and tried to cast it off. still i watched him narrowly, but could 148detect no signs of disorder. i lay awake at night, thinking of him; and amid the stillness all about, could faintly hear the distant wail of that poor distracted madman, who incessantly ran about the streets of the city, crying, “oh! the great and dreadful god!”
after breakfast, my father said to me, “cherry, i shall be absent for an hour or two, but you may expect me punctually at dinner.”
i said, “oh, father! why must you go forth? is there any pressing occasion?”
“why, yes, there is,” said he, “for a man who owes me money is going to make the plague a pretext for leaving the country, and has succeeded, i understand, in getting a clean bill of health.”
i said, “let it be, if it be no great matter.”
149“nay,” he said gently, “it is a great matter to people in our condition, with whom trade is at a stand-still. i have not yet held aloof from any necessary affairs, but i give you my word i will run no needless risks.”
and so was going forth, when i said, “there is a little white on your shoulder,” and brushed it off with my apron. when i had done it, he turned about and kissed me.
we were to have bacon and eggs that day. i had a presentiment he would be after his time, in spite of what he had said, and told dolly not to fry them till he came in. hour after hour passed, long after dinner-time, and still he came not. then i grew troubled, and kept looking along the bridge.
at last, when it was growing dusk, i 150put on my hood and went to the bridge gate. i said to the gate-keeper, “did you see my father pass the gate this morning, master princeps?”
“yes, mistress cherry, i did,” returned he, “more by token he said he was going either through or to lime street, i forget which.”
i said, “i can’t think why he don’t come back.”
“oh!” says he, “he’ll be back presently,” which, though spoken entirely at random, yet being uttered in a cheerful tone, somewhat heartened me, and i returned home.
master benskin was putting up his shop shutters. i said, “i can’t think what has become of my father, master benskin.” he said, “has not he come home? oh, something unforeseen must have delayed him. you know 151that might happen to any of us.” and put the screw in his last shutter.
i said, “what should you do if you were me?” he said, “well, i’m sure i can’t tell what i should do—i don’t see i could do anything—he’ll come home presently, i dare say ... don’t be uneasy.” and went in. i thought, “job’s comforters are ye all.”
about ten o’ the clock at night, i went down to the bridge gate again. they were shutting it up for the night, and making up the great bonfire in the middle of the street. this time i could hardly speak for crying; i said, “master princeps, i can’t think why my father doesn’t come back! i think something must have happened!”
“nay,” says he, “what can have happened? very likely he has been unexpectedly detained, and thinks he shall 152not be back before the gate is shut, and is too neighbourly to wish to knock me up. so he takes a bed with the friend he is with.—now we’ve got it all clear, depend upon it!”
“but,” said i, “there’s no friend he can be with, that i know of.”
“why, in lime street!” says he, with all the confidence imaginable.
“lime street? dear master princeps, my father knows nobody in lime street.”
—“don’t he though?” says he doubtfully. “well, i’m sure i think he said he was going through or to lime street, i can’t justly remember which.”
i turned away in deep disappointment and trouble. as i passed under the deep shade of the houses, some one coming close up to me, said, “cherry! pretty cherry! is that you?” but it was not 153my father’s voice, and i passed on in disgust. i would not fasten the house-door, and sat just within it all night, a candle set in the window. i opened my bible at random, in hope of something to hearten and comfort.—the words i lighted on were, “i sought him, but could not find him; i called him, but he gave me no answer.” and the page was wet with my tears.
as soon as day broke, i was again at the door. people going to market early looked at me strangely as they passed. it struck me my appearance was not very tidy, so i went in, washed and re-dressed myself, which refreshed me a little, drank a cup of milk, and then put on my hood and went down to the gate. i said, “master princeps, i can’t think what’s come to my father.”
“bless my soul!” cries he, “what, 154has he not been home all night? then you see, he must be sleeping out, and will not have risen yet, to disturb his friend’s family. so, go your ways back, mistress cherry, and don’t be fretting; rely on it he will return as soon as he has breakfasted, which he cannot have done yet.”
so i turned away, sad at my heart; and as i passed john armytage’s shop, i looked up at violet’s window, and saw her dressed, and just putting back her white curtains. she looked down on me, and nodded, and smiled, but i shook my head sorrowfully, and turned my face away. before i reached my own door, i felt some one twitching my cloak behind, and she comes up to me all panting.
“cherry! dear cherry!” says she breathlessly, “what’s the matter?”
155“i’ve lost my father,” said i, with filling eyes.
“dead!” cries she, looking affrighted.
“he may be,” said i, bursting into tears, “for he has not come home all night.”
“oh, if that’s all,” says she, putting her arm round me and drawing me into the house, “all may yet be well.—how many women might cry, cherry, if they thought their husbands and fathers were dead, every time they stayed out all night! come, tell me all about it——” and she entered with such concern into my grief that its bitterness was allayed.
“come,” she said, “let us give him till dinner-time—he may drop in any minute, you know, and if you go looking for him, you know not where, you may miss him. so give him till 156dinner-time, and after that, if he comes not, go and knock at every door in lime street, if you will.”
and she stayed, wiling the slow time as long as she could with talking of this and that. at length, dinner-time came; i could scarce await it, and directly the clock struck, i started forth. it occurred to me i would go to mark.
as i approached the gate, i heard master princeps say to the second gate-keeper, “i’ll lay you a wager this girl is coming again to ask me why she can’t find her father.”
cherry seeking her father
instead of which, i only said as i came up to him, “i’m going to look for my father, master princeps.”
“well,” says he, “i wish you may find him with all my heart, but it seems like looking for a pin in a hayfield.—perhaps he’ll return while you 157are away.... take care where you go; the streets and lanes are dangerous——”
there were people paying toll; and while i was waiting to pass, i heard one man ask another if he had seen the great plague-pit dug in aldgate, forty feet long, and twenty feet deep; adding, he believed many people that were picked up in the streets were cast into it before it was well known if they were dead or alive.
i darted through the toll-gate the moment it was clear, and made for cheapside. oh! how awful the change, during a few weeks! not a creature stirring, where lately all had been alive.—at the turn of a lane i met a man wheeling a dead person in a hand-barrow, and turning his own head aside. houses were deserted or silent, marked 158with the fatal red cross. within one, i heard much wailing and sobbing. at length i reached mark’s house. ’twas all shut up!—and a watchman sat smoking on the door-step. he said, “young woman, what do you want?” i said, “i want to speak to mark blenkinsop.” ... he said, “nobody must go out or in—the house is under visitation.”—my heart sank when i remembered mark’s forebodings of himself, and i said, “is he dead?” “i know not whether he be dead or no,” replied the watchman; “a maid-servant was put into the cart the night before last, and a ’prentice the night before that.—since then, they’ve kept mighty quiet, and asked for nothing, though i’ve rung the house-bell two or three times. but the night-watch told me that a woman put her head out of window during 159the night, and called out, ‘oh! death, death, death!’ three several times.”
i said, “ring the bell again!”
he did so, and pulled it so violently this time, that the wire broke. we gave each other a blank look.
“see!” said i, “there’s a window open on the second story——”
“’tis where the woman put out her head and screeched, during the night,” said he.
“could not you get a ladder,” said i, “and look in?”
“well,” said he, “i will, if you will stay here and see that no one comes out while i’m gone.”
so i said i would, but i should have been a sorry guard had any one indeed rushed forth, so weak was i and trembling. i thought of mark lying within, perhaps stiff and cold.
160presently the watchman returned with a ladder, but it was too short, so then he had to go for another. this time he was much longer gone, so that i was almost beside myself with waiting. all this time not a creature passed. at length a man came along the middle of the street, holding a red rod before him. he cried, “what do you there?” i said, “we know not whether the family be dead or have deserted the house—a watchman has gone for a ladder to look through the open window.” he said, “i will send some one to look to it,” and passed on.
then the watchman and another man appeared, carrying a long ladder between them. they set it against the window, and the watchman went up. when he had looked in, he cried out in a fearful voice, “there’s a woman in white, lying 161all along on the floor, seemingly dead, with a casket of jewels in her hand.—shall i go in?”—“aye, do,” i exclaimed. the other man, hearing talk of jewels, cried, “here, come you down, if you be afraid, and i’ll go in,” and gave the ladder a little shake; which, however, only made the watchman at once jump through the window. then up came two men, saying, “we are from my lord mayor, empowered to seal up any property that may be left, if the family indeed be dead.”—so they went up the ladder too, and the other man had no mind to go now; and presently the watchman comes out of the house-door, looking very pale, and says he, “besides the lady on the floor, with all her jewels about her, there’s not a soul, alive nor dead, in the house; the others must have 162escaped over the back walls and out-houses.”
then my heart gave a great beat, for i concluded mark had escaped, leaving his wife to die alone; and now all my thoughts returned to my father. i hastened to one or two acquaintances of his, who, it was just possible, might have seen him; but their houses were one and all shut up, and, lying some way apart from each other, this took up much time. i now became bewildered and almost wild, not knowing where to look for him; and catching like a drowning man at a straw, i went to lime street. here i went all up one side and all down the other, knocking at every door that was not padlocked. at first i made my inquiries coherently enough, and explained my distress and got a civil answer; but, as i went on and still did 163not find him, my wits seemed to unsettle, and, when any one came to the door, which was often not till after much knocking and waiting, i had got nothing to say to them but, “have you seen my father?” and when they stared and said, “who is your father?” i could not rightly bring his name to mind. this gave me some sign of wildness, i suppose, for after a while, the people did not so much look strange as pitying, and said, “who is your father, poor girl?” and waited patiently for me to answer. all except one rough man, who cried fiercely, “in the dead-pit in aldgate, very likely, where my only child will be to-night.” then i lost sense altogether, and shrieked, “oh! he’s in the pit! father! father!” and went running through the streets, a-wringing my hands. at length a 164voice far off answered, “daughter! daughter! here i am!” and i rushed towards it, crying, “oh, where? i’m coming! i’m coming!” and so got nearer and nearer till it was only just at the turn of the next street; but when i gained it, i came upon a party of disorderly young men. one of them cries, “here i am, daughter!” and burst out laughing. but i said, “oh, you are not he,” and brake away from him.
“stay, i know all about him,” cries another. “was he tall or short?” oh, wicked, wicked men, thought i, ’tis such as you that break fathers’ hearts!
how i got back to the bridge, i know not. i was put to bed in a raging fever. in my deliration i seemed to see my father talking earnestly with another man whose face i knew not, 165and who appeared to hear him with impatience, and want to leave him, but my father laid his hand upon his arm. then the other, methought, plucked a heavy bag from under his cloke, and cast it towards my father, crying, “plague take it and you too!” then methought my father took it up and walked off with it into the street, but as he went, he changed colour, stopped short, staggered, and fell. presently i seemed to hear a bell, and a dismal voice crying, “bring out your dead!”—and a cart came rumbling along, and a man held a lanthorn to my father’s face, and without more ado, took him up and cast him into the cart. then methought, a man in the cart turned the horse about, and drove away without waiting to call anywhere else, to a dismal lone field, lying all in the blackness of darkness, where 166the cart turned about, and shot a heap of senseless bodies into a great, yawning pit ... them that a few hours back had been strong, hearty men, beautiful women, smiling children.
