V. HOW SAINT PATHOS WAS USED AS A PEST-HOUSE.
The distemper had by this time increased to such a frightful extent, that the pest-houses being found wholly inadequate to contain the number of sick persons sent to them, it was resolved by the civic authorities, who had obtained the sanction of the Dean and Chapter of Saint Paul's for that purpose, to convert the cathedral into a receptacle for the infected. Accordingly, a meeting was held in the Convocation House to make final arrangements. It was attended by Sir John Lawrence, the Lord Mayor; by Sir George Waterman, and Sir Charles Doe, sheriffs; by Doctor Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury; by the Duke of Albemarle, the Earl of Craven, and, a few other zealous and humane persons. Several members of the College of Physicians were likewise present, and, amongst others, Doctor Hodges; and the expediency of the measure being fully agreed upon, it was determined to carry it into immediate execution.
The cloisters surrounding the Convocation House were crowded with sick persons, drawn thither by the rumour of what was going forward; and when the meeting adjourned to the cathedral, these unfortunate beings followed them, and were with some difficulty kept aloof from the uninfected by the attendants. A very earnest and touching address was next pronounced by the archbishop. Calling upon his hearers to look upon themselves as already dead to the world,—to regard the present visitation as a just punishment of their sins, and to rejoice that their sufferings would be so soon terminated, when, if they sincerely and heartily repented, they would at once be transported from the depths of wretchedness and misery to regions of unfading bliss; he concluded by stating that he, and all those around him, were prepared to devote themselves, without regard to their own safety, to the preservation of their fellow-citizens, and that they would leave nothing undone to stop the ravages of the devouring scourge.
It chanced that Leonard Holt was present on this occasion, and as he listened to the eloquent discourse of the archbishop, and gazed at the group around him, all equally zealous in the good cause, and equally regardless of themselves, he could not but indulge a hope that their exertions might be crowned with success. It was indeed a touching sight to see the melancholy congregation to whom his address was delivered—many, nay most of whom were on the verge of dissolution;—and Leonard Holt was so moved by the almost apostolic fervour of the prelate, that, but for the thought of Amabel, he might have followed the example of several of the auditors, and devoted himself altogether to the service of the sick.
His discourse concluded, the archbishop and most of his companions quitted the cathedral. Hodges, however, and three of the physicians, remained behind to superintend the necessary preparations. Shortly after, a large number of pallets were brought in, and ranged along the nave and aisles at short distances from each other; and, before night, the interior of the structure presented the complete appearance of an hospital. Acting under the directions of Doctor Hodges, Leonard Holt lent his assistance in arranging the pallets, in covering them with bedding and blankets, and in executing any other service required of him. A sufficient number of chirurgeons and nurses were then sent for, and such was the expedition used, that on that very night most of the pallets were occupied. Thus the cathedral underwent another afflicting change. A blight had come over it, mildewing its holy walls, and tainting and polluting its altars. Its aisles, once trodden by grave and reverend ecclesiastics, and subsequently haunted by rufflers, bullies, and other worthless characters, were now filled with miserable wretches, stricken with a loathsome and fatal distemper. Its chapels and shrines formerly adorned with rich sculptures and costly ornaments, but stripped of them at times when they were looked upon as idolatrous and profane, were now occupied by nurses, chirurgeons, and their attendants; while every niche and corner was filled with surgical implements, phials, drugs, poultices, foul rags, and linen.
In less than a week after it had been converted into a pest-house, the cathedral was crowded to overflowing. Upwards of three hundred pallets were set up in the nave, in the aisles, in the transepts, and in the choir, and even in the chapels. But these proving insufficient, many poor wretches who were brought thither were placed on the cold flags, and protected only by a single blanket. At night the scene was really terrific. The imperfect light borne by the attendants fell on the couches, and revealed the livid countenances of their occupants; while the vaulted roof rang with shrieks and groans so horrible and heart-piercing as to be scarcely endured, except by those whose nerves were firmly strung, or had become blunted by their constant recurrence. At such times, too, some unhappy creature, frenzied by agony, would burst from his couch, and rend the air with his cries, until overtaken and overpowered by his attendants. On one occasion, it happened that a poor wretch, who had been thus caught, broke loose a second time, and darting through a door leading to the stone staircase in the northern transept gained the ambulatory, and being closely followed, to escape his pursuers, sprang through one of the arched openings, and falling from a height of near sixty feet, was dashed in pieces on the flagged floor beneath.
A walk through this mighty lazar-house would have furnished a wholesome lesson to the most reckless observer. It seemed to contain all the sick of the city. And yet it was not so. Hundreds were expiring in their own dwellings, and the other pest-houses continued crowded as before. Still, as a far greater number of the infected were here congregated, and could be seen at one view, the picture was incomparably more impressive. Every part of the cathedral was occupied. Those who could not find room inside it crouched beneath the columns of the portico on rugs or blankets, and implored the chirurgeons as they passed to attend them. Want of room also drove others into Saint Faith's, and here the scene was, if possible, more hideous. In this dismal region it was found impossible to obtain a free circulation of air, and consequently the pestilential effluvia, unable to escape, acquired such malignancy, that it was almost certain destruction to inhale it. After a time, few of the nurses and attendants would venture thither; and to take a patient to Saint Faith's was considered tantamount to consigning him to the grave.
Whether Judith Malmayns had succeeded or not in curing Sir Paul Parravicin, it is not our present purpose to relate. Soon after the cathedral was converted into a lazar-house she returned thither, and, in spite of the opposition of Doctor Hodges, was appointed one of the nurses. It must not be supposed that her appointment was the result of any ill design. Such was the difficulty of obtaining attendance, that little choice was left, and the nurses being all of questionable character, it was supposed she was only a shade worse than her fellows, while she was known to be active and courageous. And this was speedily proved; for when Saint Faith's was deserted by the others, she remained at her post, and quitted it neither night nor day. A large pit was digged in the open space at the north-east corner of the cathedral, and to this great numbers of bodies were nightly conveyed by Chowles and Jonas. But it was soon filled, and they were compelled to resort, as before, to Finsbury Fields, and to another vast pit near Aldgate. When not engaged in this revolting employment, Chowles took up his quarters in the crypt, where, in spite of his propinquity to the sick, he indulged himself in his customary revelry. He and Judith had amassed, in one way or other, a vast quantity of spoil, and frequently planned how they would spend it when the pestilence ceased. Their treasure was carefully concealed in a cell in one of the secret passages with which they were acquainted, leading from Saint Faith's to the upper structure.
One night, on his return from Finsbury Fields, as Chowles was seated in the crypt, with a pipe in his mouth, and a half-finished flask of wine before him, he was startled by the sudden entrance of Judith, who, rushing up to him, seized him by the throat, and almost choked him before he could extricate himself.
"What is the matter?—would you strangle me, you murderous harridan?" he cried.
"Ay, that I would," replied Judith, preparing to renew the attack.
"Stand off!" rejoined Chowles, springing back, and snatching up a spade, "or I will dash out your brains. Are you mad?" he continued, gazing fearfully at her.
"I am angry enough to make me so," she replied, shaking her clenched fists at him. "But I will be revenged—revenged, I tell you."
"Revenged!" cried Chowles, in astonishment—"for what! What have I done!"
"You do well to affect ignorance," rejoined Judith, "but you cannot deceive me. No one but you can have done it."
"Done what!" exclaimed Chowles, in increased astonishment. "Has our hoard been discovered?"
"Ay, and been carried off—by you—you!" screamed Judith, with a look worthy of a fury.
"By my soul, you are wrong," cried Chowles. "I have never touched it,—never even approached the hiding-place, except in your presence."
"Liar!" returned Judith, "the whole hoard is gone;—the plunder I obtained in Newgate,—the Earl of Rochester's plate,—all the rings, trinkets, and rich apparel I have picked up since,—everything is gone;—and who but you can be the robber?"
"It is difficult to say," rejoined Chowles. "But I swear to you, you suspect me wrongfully."
"Restore it," replied Judith, "or tell me where it is hidden. If not, I will be the death of you!"
"Let us go to the hiding-place," replied Chowles, whose uneasiness was not diminished by the menace. "You may be mistaken, and I hope you are."
Though he uttered the latter part of his speech with seeming confidence, his heart misgave him. To conceal his trepidation, he snatched up a lamp, and passing through the secret door, hurried along the narrow stone passage. He was about to open the cell, when he perceived near it the tall figure of the enthusiast.
"There is the robber," he cried to Judith. "I have found him. It is Solomon Eagle. Villain! you have purloined our hoard!"
"I have done so," replied Solomon Eagle, "and I will carry off all other spoil you may obtain. Think not to hide it from me. I can watch you when you see me not, and track you when you suppose me afar off."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Chowles, trembling. "I begin to think he is possessed of supernatural power," he added, in an undertone to Judith.
"Go on," pursued Solomon Eagle, "continue to plunder and destroy. Pursue your guilty career, and see what reward you will reap."
"Restore what you have robbed us of," cried Judith in a menacing tone, "or dread the consequences."
"Woman, you threaten idly," returned Solomon Eagle. "Your ill-gotten treasure is gone—whither, you will never know. Get hence!" he added, in a terrible tone, "or I will rid the earth of you both."
So awed were they by his voice and gestures, that they slunk away with a discomfited air, and returned to the crypt.
"If we are always to be robbed in this manner," observed Chowles, "we had better shift our quarters, and practise elsewhere."
"He shall not repeat the offence with impunity," returned Judith. "I will speedily get rid of him."
"Beware!" cried a voice, which they recognised as that of Solomon Eagle, though whence proceeding they could not precisely determine. The pair looked at each other uneasily, but neither spoke a word.
Meanwhile, Leonard Holt did not omit to pay a daily visit to the cathedral. It was a painful contemplation, and yet not without deep interest, to behold the constant succession of patients, most of whom were swept away by the scourge in the course of a couple of days, or even in a shorter period. Out of every hundred persons attacked, five did not recover; and whether the virulence of the distemper increased, or the summer heats rendered its victims more easily assailable, certain it is they were carried off far more expeditiously than before. Doctor Hodges was unremitting in his attentions, but his zeal and anxiety availed nothing. He had to contend with a disease over which medicine exercised little control.
One morning, as he was about to enter the cathedral, he met Leonard beneath the portico, and as soon as the latter caught sight of him, he hurried towards him.
"I have been in search of you," he said, "and was about to proceed to your residence. Mr. Bloundel wishes to see you immediately. Amabel is worse."
"I will go with you at once," replied the doctor.
And they took the way to Wood-street.
"From a few words let fall by my master, I imagine he intends sending Amabel into the country to-morrow," said Leonard, as they proceeded.
"I hope so," replied Hodges. "He has already delayed it too long. You will be glad to hear that Nizza Macascree is quite recovered. To-morrow, or the next day, she will be able to see you with safety."
"Heaven knows where I may be to-morrow," rejoined Leonard. "Wherever Amabel goes, I shall not be far off."
"Faithful to the last!" exclaimed Hodges. "Well, I shall not oppose you. We must take care the Earl of Rochester does not get a hint of our proceeding. At this time a chance meeting (were it nothing more) might prove fatal to the object of our solicitude."
Leonard said nothing, but the colour fled his cheek, and his lips slightly quivered. In a few seconds more they reached the grocer's house.
They found him at the window anxiously expecting them; and Doctor Hodges, being drawn up in the same way as before, was conducted to Amabel's chamber. She was reclining in an easy-chair, with the Bible on her knee; and though she was much wasted away, she looked more lovely than ever. A slight hectic flush increased the brilliancy of her eyes, which had now acquired that ominous lustre peculiar to persons in a decline. There were other distressing symptoms in her appearance which the skilful physician well knew how to interpret. To an inexperienced eye, however, she would have appeared charming. Nothing could exceed the delicacy of her complexion, or the lovely mould of her features, which, though they had lost much of their fulness and roundness, had gained in expression; while the pencilled brows clearly traced upon her snowy forehead, the long dark eyelashes shading her cheek, and the rich satin tresses drooping over her shoulders, completed her attractions. Her mother stood by her side, and not far from her sat little Christiana, amusing herself with some childish toy, and ever and anon stealing an anxious glance at her sister. Taking Amabel's arm, and sighing to himself to think how thin it was, the doctor placed his finger upon her pulse. Whatever might be his secret opinion, he thought fit to assume a hopeful manner, and looking smilingly at her, said, "You are better than I expected, but your departure to the country must not be deferred."
"Since it is my father's wish that I should do so," replied Amabel, gently, "I am quite willing to comply. But I feel it will be of no avail, and I would rather pass the rest of my life here than with strangers. I cannot be happier than I am now."
"Perhaps not," replied Hodges; "but a few weeks spent in some salubrious spot will remove all apprehensions as to your health. You will find your strength return, and with it the desire of life."
"My life is in the hands of my Maker," replied Amabel, "and I am ready to resign it whenever it shall be required of me. At the same time, however anxious I may be to quit a world which appears a blank to me, I would make every effort, for the sake of those whose happiness is dearer to me than my own, to purchase a complete restoration to health. If my father desires me to try a removal to the country, and you think it will have a beneficial effect, I am ready to go. But do not urge it, unless you think there is a chance of my recovery."
"I will tell you frankly," replied the doctor, "if you remain here, you have not many weeks to live."
"But if I go, will you promise me health?" rejoined Amabel. "Do not deceive me. Is there a hope?"
"Unquestionably," replied the doctor. "Change of air will work wonders."
"I beseech you not to hesitate—for my sake do not, dearest daughter," said Mrs. Bloundel, with difficulty repressing tears.
"And for mine," added her father, more firmly, yet with deep emotion.
"I have already expressed my readiness to accede to your wishes," replied Amabel. "Whenever you have made arrangements for me, I will set out."
"And now comes the question—where is she to go?" remarked Hodges.
"I have a sister, who lives as housekeeper at Lord Craven's seat, Ashdown Park," replied Mr. Bloundel. "She shall go thither, and her aunt will take every care of her. The mansion is situated amid the Berkshire hills, and the air is the purest and best in England."
"Nothing can be better," replied Hodges; "but who is to escort her thither?"
"Leonard Holt," replied Mr. Bloundel. "He will gladly undertake the office."
"No doubt," rejoined Hodges; "but cannot you go yourself?"
"Impossible!" returned the grocer, a shade passing over his countenance.
"Neither do I wish it," observed Amabel. "I am content to be under the safeguard of Leonard."
"Amabel," said her father, "you know not what I shall endure in thus parting with you. I would give all I possess to be able to accompany you, but a sense of duty restrains me. I have taken the resolution to remain here with my family during the continuance of the pestilence, and I must abide by it. I little thought how severely my constancy would be tried. But hard though it be, I must submit I shall commit you, therefore, to the care of an all-merciful Providence, who will not fail to watch over and protect you."
"Have no fear for me, father," replied Amabel; "and do not weep, dear mother," she added to Mrs. Bloundel, who, unable to restrain her grief, was now drowned in tears; "I shall be well cared for. If we meet no more in this world, our reunion is certain in that to come. I have given you much pain and uneasiness, but it will be an additional grief to me if I think you feel further anxiety on my account."
"We do not, my dear child," replied Mr. Bloundel. "I am well assured all is for the best, and if it pleases Heaven to spare you, I shall rejoice beyond measure in your return. If not, I shall feel a firm reliance that you will continue in the same happy frame, as at present, to the last, and that we shall meet above, where there will be no further separation."
"I cannot bear to part with her," cried Mrs. Bloundel, clasping her arms round her daughter—"I cannot—I cannot!"
"Restrain yourself, Honora," said her husband; "you will do her an injury."
"She must not be over excited," interposed Hodges, in a low tone, and gently drawing the afflicted mother away. "The sooner," he added to Mr. Bloundel, "she now sets out the better."
"I feel it," replied the grocer. "She shall start to-morrow morning."
"I will undertake to procure horses," replied Hodges, "and Leonard will be ready at any moment."
With this, he took his leave, and descending by the pulley, communicated to Leonard what had occurred.
In spite of his fears on her account, the prospect of again beholding Amabel so transported the apprentice that he could scarcely attend to what was said respecting her. When he grew calmer, it was arranged that all should be in readiness at an early hour on the following morning; that a couple of horses should be provided; and that Amabel should be let down fully equipped for the journey. This settled, Leonard, at the doctor's request, accompanied him to his residence.
They were scarcely out of sight, when a man, who had been concealed behind the hutch, in such a position that not a word that had passed escaped him, issued from his hiding-place, and darting down the first alley on the right, made the best of his way to Whitehall.
Up to this time, Doctor Hodges had not judged it prudent to allow a meeting between Leonard and Nizza Macascree, but now, from reasons of his own, he resolved no longer to delay it. Accordingly, on reaching his dwelling, he took the apprentice to her chamber. She was standing in a pensive attitude, near a window which looked towards the river, and as she turned on his entrance, Leonard perceived that her eyes were filled with tears. Blushing deeply, she advanced towards him, and greeted him with all the warmth of her affectionate nature. She had quite recovered her good looks, and Leonard could not but admit that, had he seen her before his heart was plighted to another, it must have been given to her. Comparisons are ungracious, and tastes differ more perhaps as to beauty than on any other point; but if Amabel and the piper's daughter had been placed together, it would not have been difficult to determine to which of the two the palm of superior loveliness should be assigned. There was a witchery in the magnificent black eyes of the latter—in her exquisitely-formed mouth and pearly teeth—in her clear nut-brown complexion—in her dusky and luxuriant tresses, and in her light elastic figure, with which more perfect but less piquant charms could not compete. Such seemed to be the opinion of Doctor Hodges, for as he gazed at her with unaffected admiration, he exclaimed, as if to himself— "I'faith, if I had to choose between the two, I know which it would be."
This exclamation somewhat disconcerted the parties to whom it referred, and the doctor did not relieve their embarrassment by adding, "Well, I perceive I am in the way. You must have much to say to each other that can in nowise interest me. Excuse me a moment, while I see that the horses are ordered."
So saying, and disregarding Leonard's expostulating looks, he hurried out of the room, and shut the door after him.
Hitherto, the conversation had been unrestrained and agreeable on both sides, but now they were left alone together, neither appeared able to utter a word. Nizza cast her eyes timidly on the ground, while Leonard caressed little Bell, who had been vainly endeavouring by her gamesome tricks to win his attention.
"Doctor Hodges spoke of ordering horses," said Nizza, at length breaking silence. "Are you going on a journey?"
"I am about to take Amabel to Ashdown Park, in Berkshire, to-morrow morning," replied Leonard. "She is dangerously ill."
"Of the plague?" asked Nizza, anxiously.
"Of a yet worse disorder," replied Leonard, heaving a deep sigh—"of a broken heart."
"Alas! I pity her from my soul!" replied Nizza, in a tone of the deepest commiseration. "Does her mother go with her?"
"No," replied Leonard, "I alone shall attend her. She will be placed under the care of a near female relative at Ashdown."
"Would it not be better,—would it not be safer, if she is in the precarious state you describe, that some one of her own sex should accompany her?" said Nizza.
"I should greatly prefer it," rejoined Leonard, "and so I am sure would Amabel. But where is such a person to be found?"
"I will go with you, if you desire it," replied Nizza, "and will watch over her, and tend her as a sister."
"Are you equal to the journey?" inquired Leonard, somewhat doubtfully.
"Fully," replied Nizza. "I am entirely recovered, and able to undergo far more fatigues than an invalid like Amabel."
"It will relieve me from a world of anxiety if this can be accomplished," rejoined Leonard. "I will consult Doctor Hodges on the subject on his return."
"What do you desire to consult me about?" cried the physician, who had entered the room unobserved at this juncture.
The apprentice stated Nizza's proposal to him.
"I entirely approve of the plan," observed the doctor; "it will obviate many difficulties. I have just received a message from Mr. Bloundel, by Dallison, the porter, to say he intends sending Blaize with you. I will therefore provide pillions for the horses, so that the whole party can be accommodated."
He then sat down and wrote out minute instructions for Amabel's treatment, and delivering the paper to Leonard, desired him to give it to the housekeeper at Ashdown Park.
"Heaven only knows what the result of all this may be!" he exclaimed. "But nothing must be neglected."
Leonard promised that his advice should be scrupulously attended to; and the discourse then turning to Nizza's father, she expressed the utmost anxiety to see him before she set out.
Hodges readily assented. "Your father has been discharged as cured from the pest-house," he said, "and is lodged at a cottage, kept by my old nurse, Dame Lucas, just without the walls, near Moorgate. I will send for him."
"On no account," replied Nizza. "I will go to him myself."
"As you please," returned Hodges. "Leonard shall accompany you. You will easily find the cottage. It is about two hundred yards beyond the gate, on the right, near the old doghouses."
"I know the spot perfectly," rejoined Leonard.
"I would recommend you to put on a mask," observed the doctor to Nizza; "it may protect you from molestation. I will find you one below."
Leading the way to a lower room, he opened a drawer, and, producing a small loo mask, gave it her. The youthful pair then quitted the house, Nizza taking Bell under her arm, as she intended leaving her with her father. The necessity of the doctor's caution was speedily manifested, for as they crossed Saint Paul's churchyard they encountered Pillichody, who, glancing inquisitively at Nizza, seemed disposed to push his inquiries further by attempting to take off her mask; but the fierce look of the apprentice, who grasped his staff in a menacing manner, induced him to abandon his purpose. He, however, followed them along Cheapside, and would have continued the pursuit along the Old Jewry, if Leonard had not come to a halt, and awaited his approach. He then took to his heels, and did not again make his appearance.
As they reached the open fields and slackened their pace, Leonard deemed it prudent to prepare his companion for her interview with her father by mentioning the circumstance of the packet, and the important secret which he had stated he had to disclose to her.
"I cannot tell what the secret can relate to, unless it is to my mother," rejoined Nizza. "She died, I believe, when I was an infant. At all events, I never remember seeing her, and I have remarked that my father is averse to talking about her. But I will now question him. I have reason to think this piece of gold," and she produced the amulet, "is in some way or other connected with the mystery."
And she then explained to Leonard all that had occurred in the vault when the coin had been shown to Judith Malmayns, describing the nurse's singular look and her father's subsequent anger.
By this time, they had entered a narrow footpath leading across the fields in the direction of a little nest of cottages, and pursuing it, they came to a garden-gate. Opening it, they beheld the piper seated beneath a little porch covered with eglantine and roses. He was playing a few notes on his pipe, but stopped on hearing their approach. Bell, who had been put to the ground by Nizza, ran barking gleefully towards him. Uttering a joyful exclamation, the piper stretched out his arms, and the next moment enfolded his daughter in a strict embrace. Leonard remained at the gate till the first transports of their meeting were over, and then advanced slowly towards them.
"Whose footsteps are those?" inquired the piper.
Nizza explained.
"Ah, is it Leonard Holt?" exclaimed the piper, extending his hand to the apprentice. "You are heartily welcome," he added; "and I am glad to find you with Nizza. It is no secret to me that she likes you. She has been an excellent daughter, and will make an excellent wife. He who weds her will obtain a greater treasure than he expects."
"Not than he expects," said Leonard.
"Ay, than he expects," reiterated the piper. "You will one day find out that I speak the truth."
Leonard looked at Nizza, who was blushing deeply at her father's remark. She understood him.
"Father," she said, "I understand you have a secret of importance to disclose to me. I am about to make a long journey to-morrow, and may not return for some time. At this uncertain season, when those who part know not that they shall meet again, nothing of this sort ought to be withheld."
"You cannot know it while I live," replied the piper, "but I will take such precautions that, if anything happens to me, it shall be certainly revealed to you."
"I am satisfied," she rejoined, "and will only ask you one farther question, and I beseech you to answer it. Does this amulet refer to the secret?"
"It does," replied her father, sullenly; "and now let the subject be dropped."
He then led the way into the cottage. The good old dame who kept it, on learning who they were, and that they were sent by Doctor Hodges, gave them a hearty welcome, and placed refreshments before them. Leonard commented upon the extreme neatness of the abode and its healthful situation, and expressed a hope that it might not be visited by the plague.
"I trust it will not," rejoined the old woman, shaking her head; "but when I hear the doleful bell at night—when I catch a glimpse of the fatal cart—or look towards yon dreadful place," and she pointed in the direction of the plague-pit, which lay only a few hundred yards to the west of her habitation—"I am reminded that the scourge is not far off, and that it must needs reach me ere long."
"Have no fear, Dame Lucas," said the piper; "you see it has pleased a merciful Providence to spare the lives of myself, my child, and this young man, and if you should be attacked, the same benificent Being may preserve you in like manner."
"The Lord's will be done!" rejoined Dame Lucas. "I know I shall be well attended to by Doctor Hodges. I nursed him when he was an infant, and he has been like a son to me. Bless his kind heart!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude, "there is not his like in London."
"Always excepting my master," observed Leonard, with a smile at her enthusiasm.
"I except no one," rejoined Dame Lucas. "A worthier man never lived, than Doctor Hodges. If I die of the plague," she continued, "he has promised not to let me be thrown into that horrible pit—ough!—but to bury me in my garden, beneath the old apple-tree."
"And he will keep his word, dame, I am sure," replied Leonard. "I would recommend you, however, as the best antidote against the plague, to keep yourself constantly employed, and to indulge as few gloomy notions as possible."
"I am seldom melancholy, and still more seldom idle," replied the good dame. "But despondency will steal on me sometimes, especially when the dead-cart passes and I think what it contains."
While the conversation was going forward, Nizza and the piper withdrew into an inner room, where they remained closeted together for some time. On their re-appearance, Nizza said she was ready to depart, and taking an affectionate farewell of her father, and committing Bell to his charge, she quitted the cottage with the apprentice.
Evening was now advancing, and the sun was setting with the gorgeousness already described as peculiar to this fatal period. Filled with the pleasing melancholy inspired by the hour, they walked on in silence. They had not proceeded far, when they observed a man crossing the field with a bundle in his arms. Suddenly, he staggered and fell. Seeing he did not stir, and guessing what was the matter, Leonard ran towards him to offer him assistance. He found him lying in the grass with his left hand fixed against his heart. He groaned heavily, and his features were convulsed with pain. Near him lay the body of a beautiful little girl, with long fair hair, and finely-formed features, though now disfigured by purple blotches, proclaiming the disorder of which she had perished. She was apparently about ten years old, and was partially covered by a linen cloth. The man, whose features bore a marked resemblance to those of the child, was evidently from his attire above the middle rank. His frame was athletic, and as he was scarcely past the prime of life, the irresistible power of the disease, which could in one instant prostrate strength like his, was terribly attested.
"Alas!" he cried, addressing the apprentice, "I was about to convey the remains of my poor child to the plague-pit. But I have been unable to accomplish my purpose. I hoped she would have escaped the polluting touch of those loathly attendants on the dead-cart."
"She shall escape it," replied Leonard; "if you wish it, I will carry her to the pit myself."
"The blessing of a dying man rest on your head," cried the sufferer; "your charitable action will not pass unrequited."
With this, despite the agony he endured, he dragged himself to his child, kissed her cold lips, smoothed her fair tresses, and covered the body carefully with the cloth. He then delivered it to Leonard, who received it tenderly, and calling to Nizza Macascree, who had witnessed the scene at a little distance, and was deeply affected by it, to await his return, ran towards the plague-pit. Arrived there, he placed his little burden at the brink of the excavation, and, kneeling beside it, uttered a short prayer inspired by the occasion. He then tore his handkerchief into strips, and tying them together, lowered the body gently down. Throwing a little earth over it, he hastened to the sick man, and told him what he had done. A smile of satisfaction illumined the sufferer's countenance, and holding out his hand, on which a valuable ring glistened, he said, "Take it—it is but a poor reward for the service you have rendered me;—nay, take it," he added, seeing that the apprentice hesitated; "others will not be so scrupulous."
Unable to gainsay the remark, Leonard took the ring from his finger and placed it on his own. At this moment, the sick man's gaze fell upon Nizza, who stood at a little distance from him. He started, and made an effort to clear his vision.
"Do my eyes deceive me?" he cried, "or is a female standing there?"
"You are not deceived," replied Leonard.
"Let her come near me, in Heaven's name!" cried the sick man, staring at her as if his eyes would start from their sockets. "Who are you?" he continued, as Nizza approached.
"I am called Nizza Macascree, and am the daughter of a poor piper," she replied.
"Ah!" exclaimed the sick man, with a look of deep disappointment. "The resemblance is wonderful! And yet it cannot be. My brain is bewildered."
"Whom does she resemble?" asked Leonard, eagerly.
"One very dear to me," replied the sick man, with an expression of remorse and anguish, "one I would not think of now." And he buried his face in the grass.
"Is there aught more I can do for you?" inquired Leonard, after a pause.
"No," replied the sick man; "I have done with the world. With that child, the last tie that bound me to it was snapped. I now only wish to die."
"Do not give way thus," replied Leonard; "a short time ago my condition was as apparently hopeless as your own, and you see I am now perfectly recovered."
"You had something to live for—something to love," groaned the sick man. "All I lived for, all I loved, are gone."
"Be comforted, sir," said Nizza, in a commiserating tone. "Much happiness may yet be in store for you."
"That voice!" exclaimed the sick man, with a look denoting the approach of delirium. "It must be my Isabella. Oh! forgive me! sweet injured saint; forgive me!"
"Your presence evidently distresses him," said Leonard. "Let us hasten for assistance. Your name, sir?" he added, to the sick man.
"Why should you seek to know it?" replied the other. "No tombstone will be placed over the plague-pit."
"Not a moment must be lost if you would save him," cried Nizza.
"You are right," replied Leonard. "Let us fly to the nearest apothecary's."
Accordingly, they set off at a quick pace towards Moorgate. Just as they reached it, they heard the bell ring, and saw the dead-cart approaching. Shrinking back while it passed, they ran on till they came to an apothecary's shop, where Leonard, describing the state of the sick man, by his entreaties induced the master of the establishment and one of his assistants to accompany him. Leaving Nizza in the shop, he then retraced his steps with his companions. The sick man was lying where he had left him, but perfectly insensible. On searching his pockets, a purse of money was found, but neither letter nor tablet to tell who he was. Leonard offered the purse to the apothecary, but the latter declined it, and desired his assistant, who had brought a barrow with him, to place the sick man within it, and convey him to the pest-house.
"He will be better cared for there than if I were to take charge of him," he observed. "As to the money, you can return it if he recovers. If not, it of right belongs to you."
Seeing that remonstrance would be useless, Leonard did not attempt it, and while the assistant wheeled away the sick man, he returned with the apothecary to his dwelling. Thanking him for his kindness, he then hastened with Nizza Macascree to Great Knightrider-street. He related to the doctor all that had occurred, and showed him the ring. Hodges listened to the recital with great attention, and at its close said, "This is a very singular affair, and excites my curiosity greatly. I will go to the pest-house and see the sick man to-morrow. And now we will proceed to supper; and then you had better retire to rest, for you will have to be astir before daybreak. All is in readiness for the journey."
The last night (for such she considered it) spent by Amabel in her father's dwelling, was passed in the kindliest interchanges of affection. Mr. Bloundel had much ado to maintain his firmness, and ever and anon, in spite of his efforts, his labouring bosom and faltering tones proclaimed the struggle within. He sat beside his daughter, with her thin fingers clasped in his, and spoke to her on every consolatory topic that suggested itself. This discourse, however, insensibly took a serious turn, and the grocer became fully convinced that his daughter was not merely reconciled to the early death that to all appearance awaited her, but wishful for it. He found, too, to his inexpressible grief, that the sense of the Earl of Rochester's treachery, combined with her own indiscretion, and the consequences that might have attended it, had sunk deep in her heart, and produced the present sad result.
Mrs. Bloundel, it will scarcely be supposed, could support herself so well as her husband, but when any paroxysm of grief approached she rushed out of the room, and gave vent to her affliction alone. All the rest of the family were present, and were equally distressed. But what most strongly affected Amabel was a simple, natural remark of little Christiana, who, fixing her tearful gaze on her, entreated her "to come back soon."
Weak as she was, Amabel took the child upon her knee, and said to her, "I am going a long journey, Christiana, and, perhaps may never come back. But if you attend to what your father says to you, if you never omit, morning and evening, to implore the blessing of Heaven, we shall meet again."
"I understand what you mean, sister," said Christiana. "The place you are going to is the grave."
"You have guessed rightly, Christiana," rejoined Amabel, solemnly. "Do not forget my last words to you, and when you are grown into a woman, think upon the poor sister who loved you tenderly."
"I shall always think of you," said Christiana, clasping her arms round her sister's neck. "Oh! I wish I could go to the grave instead of you!"
Amabel pressed her to her bosom, and in a broken voice murmured a blessing over her.
Mr. Bloundel here thought it necessary to interfere, and, taking the weeping child in his arms, carried her into the adjoining apartment.
Soon after this, the household were summoned to prayers, and as the grocer poured forth an address to Heaven for the preservation of his daughter, all earnestly joined in the supplication. Their devotions ended, Amabel took leave of her brothers, and the parting might have been painfully prolonged but for the interposition of her father. The last and severest trial was at hand. She had now to part from her mother, from whom, except on the occasion of her flight with the Earl of Rochester, she had never yet been separated. She had now to part with her, in all probability, for ever. It was a heart-breaking reflection to both. Knowing it would only renew their affliction, and perhaps unfit Amabel for the journey, Mr. Bloundel had prevailed upon his wife not to see her in the morning. The moment had, therefore, arrived when they were to bid each other farewell. The anguish displayed in his wife's countenance was too much for the grocer, and he covered his face with his hands. He heard her approach Amabel—he listened to their mutual sobs—to their last embrace. It was succeeded by a stifled cry, and uncovering his face at the sound, he sprang to his feet just in time to receive his swooning wife in his arms.