It came. We sat there tense, not looking at each other.
"Bring out your dead."
It was close now. We opened the door. Maggie and I carried her out and there she was, our dear Kitty, once beautiful and merry, who had dreamed of becoming a great actress, and yet ... one blow, perhaps a chance encounter with an old acquaintance, and that was the end of her dreams. Life was cruel. This was happening in thousands of homes in London. Ours was a common tragedy. But this was Kitty—our Kitty—and she was no more.
Lost Illusion
We had to remain in the house. A month had to elapse before we emerged, and during that time the dreaded sign of the red cross would remain on our door.
Ours was a house of mourning, a silent house. I know Kitty was in all our minds; we did not speak of her, but she was with us every moment.
In the evenings we sat together, Maggie and I with Martha and Rose. How silent everything was. I longed to hear the old sounds of those pestilence-free days: the street-sellers shouting of the excellence of what they had to sell, the rattle of a passing vehicle ... people laughing, quarreling ... fighting sometimes ... perpetual noise. But now there was only this unnerving quiet.
Kitty was always in my thoughts. She lay buried in a pit with many others. Never again should I hear her voice, never see her ... there was nothing left but to mourn her. I could see that Maggie's thoughts were similar to mine, Martha's and Rose's too. And the silence seemed unbearable.
If we went to our beds we could not sleep. We were imprisoned in this house for another month and if, by that time, none of us had contracted the disease, we would be considered free of infection and free to go out.
Where to, I wondered? To closed theaters and empty streets and more memories of Kitty.
Martha had warned that the flour would run out soon and there would be no bread, but no one seemed very excited about that.
We were too deeply sunk in gloom to think about such a trivial matter.
One evening, as we sat there, there was a knocking on the door.
Startled, we looked at each other. Who could be there? Had whoever it was not seen the dreaded notice on the door warning all to stay away from a contaminated house?
"Someone has failed to see the sign," said Martha. "They will, and then they will run as though the Devil were at their heels."
We sat still, and the knocking started again.
"Who in the world can it be knocking at a door like that?" said Martha.
"There is one way to find out," I said. I went to the door and opened it.
A man stood there. Tall and thin, he wore no wig on his fine fair hair. He was somberly dressed like a Puritan.
I said: "Go at once. Have you not seen the sign?"
I was preparing to shut the door when he said: "It is because of the sign that I have come."
I stared at him. He must be mad, I was sure. Did he not know the law? Did he think anyone would put up such a sign without good reason for doing so?
"I am Rupert Lawson, a priest. I visit such as you in the hope that I can be of some help. I could bring you food. Would you allow me to come in?"
Startled, I stood back and he entered the house.
Maggie had come out. I saw Martha and Rose behind her.
I said: "This is the Reverend Rupert Lawson. He visits those in our position in order to help them."
"I thought you might be in need of comfort, and perhaps food."
"Let him come in," said Martha.
Maggie said: "Do you realize, sir ..."
Martha interjected: "We're running short of flour ..."
"We have had a death in this house," I explained. "It is less than a week since ..."
"I am aware. I have visited houses such as this since this terrible epidemic came to us. Yet I have never caught the sickness. I believe that God protects me so that I might do His work of mercy."
It might have been hard to believe such a statement, but there was an air about him of what I think of now as saintliness. In any case, unlikely as his story seemed, I believed him and I think we all did.
"If I might come in, and hear your particular needs ..."he said with a smile.
Maggie was silent for a moment, then said: "As long as you realize what risk you are running. I must repeat, it is a very short time ago that a victim of the plague was carried from this house."
"We have already told him that," I said.
"It is of no consequence to me. I am here to help."
He sat there among us. The promise of food had interested Martha; Rose was round-eyed with wonder. Maggie was inclined to be a little suspicious, but even she was beginning to believe his story with every passing minute. As for myself, I immediately felt a great trust in him.
He said: "Your grief must have been intense."
We were all too moved for speech.
He went on: "God will help you. I will pray for you. You must speak to Him too. Just little simple prayers as you go about your daily tasks ... just naturally, as you might speak to each other. He will understand. Tell me about the friend you have lost."
Strangely enough, it was easy to talk to him. In a little while I was telling how I had come to London with Kitty and had just been getting a few small parts when the theaters had been closed down.
I had expected him to say that it was good to close the theaters and that God was punishing the wicked city by making it impossible to continue with its licentious ways; but nothing of the sort. He said that the theaters would doubtless open when the plague had passed. We had only to wait for the end of the summer, for the plague thrived in the heat, and the cold would kill it as it had before.
He talked to us of the people he had visited. He had been doing this since the beginning of June. He was a priest of God and he believed that in what he was doing he was serving Him far more effectively than he could by preaching to a congregation.
"Do the work that is at hand," he said. "That is a good law to follow. People cannot get to church, so I visit them. It is true that in the beginning, when people were aware that the sickness was about to come upon them, the churches were filled with people who had never thought to visit them before. It is often only in times of terror that some people remember God. I have found a great satisfaction in this work ... such as I never had before."
Martha said: "We are getting short of flour, and we're living mainly on bread and ale. It suffices, but I can't think what we will do when it's gone. We can't get out and none will come to us. I do not know how we shall live."
"I shall bring you flour," he said. "There is no fresh food I can bring, but flour I am sure I can procure."
"While I have flour I can bake bread," said Martha.
"You still have a little?"
"I'm using the winter's store. It won't last the month, and then what, I say? Who knows ... ?"
"The winter will soon be with us. When the cold weather comes this must pass."
Martha was looking at him superciliously. I could see then that she did not believe he would bring us flour.
He sat down with us and talked. He told us there were signs that the plague was abating. We could only wait and hope. He asked if he might say a prayer, and we sat with our eyes downcast.
"Lord," he said, "give us courage to bear this cross; give us hope that it may soon pass from us, and the fortitude to rebuild the lives which are left to us."
Then he left us, promising to return the next day with flour.
"He's a madman," said Maggie when he had gone. "Stop thinking of that flour, Martha, we've seen the end of him."
I did not believe that. He had made a deep impression on me. There was an aura of saintliness about him, of absolute selflessness. It was sincerity. He seemed to have no thought for his own safety. I was aware that he believed that God would spare him to do the work he had chosen. His faith was absolute.