More than two months must be passed over in silence. During that time, the pestilence had so greatly abated as no longer to occasion alarm to those who had escaped its ravages. It has been mentioned that the distemper arrived at its height about the 10th of September, and though for the two following weeks the decline was scarcely perceptible, yet it had already commenced. On the last week in that fatal month, when all hope had been abandoned, the bills of mortality suddenly decreased in number to one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four. And this fortunate change could not be attributed to the want of materials to act upon, for the sick continued as numerous as before, while the deaths were less frequent. In the next week there was a further decrease of six hundred; in the next after that of six hundred; and so on till the end of October, when, the cold weather setting in, the amount was reduced to nearly one thousand.
At first, when the distemper began to lose somewhat of its malignancy, a few scared individuals appeared in the streets, but carefully shunned each other. In a few days, however, considerable numbers joined them, and for the first time for nearly three months there was something like life abroad. It is astonishing how soon hope and confidence are revived. Now that it could no longer be doubted that the plague was on the decline, it seemed as if a miracle had been performed in favour of the city. Houses were opened—shopkeepers resumed their business—and it was a marvel to every one that so many persons were left alive. Dejection and despair of the darkest kind were succeeded by frenzied delight, and no bound was put to the public satisfaction. Strangers stopped each other in the streets, and conversed together like old friends. The bells, that had grown hoarse with tolling funerals, were now cracked with joyous peals. The general joy extended even to the sick, and many, buoyed up by hope, recovered, when in the former season of despondency they would inevitably have perished. All fear of the plague seemed to vanish with the flying disorder. Those who were scarcely out of danger joined in the throng, and it was no uncommon sight to see men with bandages round their necks, or supported by staves and crutches, shaking hands with their friends, and even embracing them.
The consequence of this incautious conduct may be easily foreseen. The plague had received too severe a check to burst forth anew; but it spread further than it otherwise would have done, and attacked many persons, who but for their own imprudence would have escaped. Amongst others, a barber in Saint Martin's-le-Grand, who had fled into the country in August, returned to his shop in the middle of October, and, catching the disorder from one of his customers, perished with the whole of his family.
But these, and several other equally fatal instances, produced no effect on the multitude. Fully persuaded that the virulence of the disorder was exhausted—as, indeed, appeared to be the case—they gave free scope to their satisfaction, which was greater than was ever experienced by the inhabitants of a besieged city reduced by famine to the last strait of despair, and suddenly restored to freedom and plenty. The more pious part of the community thronged to the churches, from which they had been so long absent, and returned thanks for their unexpected deliverance. Others, who had been terrified into seriousness and devotion, speedily forgot their former terrors, and resumed their old habits. Profaneness and debauchery again prevailed, and the taverns were as well filled as the churches. Solomon Eagle continued his midnight courses through the streets; but he could no longer find an audience as before. Those who listened to him only laughed at his denunciations of a new judgment, and told him his preachings and prophesyings were now completely out of date.
By this time numbers of those who had quitted London having returned to it, the streets began to resume their wonted appearance. The utmost care was taken by the authorities to cleanse and purify the houses, in order to remove all chance of keeping alive the infection. Every room in every habitation where a person had died of the plague—and there were few that had escaped the visitation—was ordered to be whitewashed, and the strongest fumigations were employed to remove the pestilential effluvia. Brimstone, resin, and pitch were burnt in the houses of the poor; benjamin, myrrh, and other more expensive perfumes in those of the rich; while vast quantities of powder were consumed in creating blasts to carry off the foul air. Large and constant fires were kept in all the houses, and several were burnt down in consequence of the negligence of their owners.
All goods, clothes, and bedding, capable of harbouring infection, were condemned to be publicly burned, and vast bonfires were lighted in Finsbury Fields and elsewhere, into which many hundred cart-loads of such articles were thrown. The whole of Chowles's hoard, except the plate, which he managed, with Judith's aid, to carry off and conceal in certain hiding-places in the vaults of Saint Faith's, was taken from the house in Nicholas-lane, and cast into the fire.
The cathedral was one of the first places ordered to be purified. The pallets of the sick were removed and burned, and all the stains and impurities with which its floor and columns were polluted were cleansed. Nothing was left untried to free it from infection. It was washed throughout with vinegar, fumigated with the strongest scents, and several large barrels of pitch were set fire to in the aisles.
"It shall undergo another species of purification," said Solomon Eagle, who was present during these proceedings; "one that shall search every nook within it—shall embrace all those columns, and pierce every crack and crevice in those sculptured ornaments; and then, and not till then, will it be thoroughly cleansed."
During all this time the grocer had not opened his dwelling. The wisdom of this plan was now made fully apparent. The plague was declining fast, and not an inmate of his house had been attacked by it. Soon after the melancholy occurrence, he had been informed by Doctor Hodges of Amabel's death; but the humane physician concealed from him the painful circumstances under which it occurred. It required all Mr. Bloundel's fortitude to support him under the shock of this intelligence, and he did not communicate the afflicting tidings to his wife until he had prepared her for their reception. But she bore them better than he had anticipated; and though she mourned her daughter deeply and truly, she appeared completely resigned to the loss. Sorrow pervaded the whole household for some weeks; and the grocer, who never relaxed his system, shrouded his sufferings under the appearance of additional austerity of manner. It would have been a great consolation to him to see Leonard Holt; but the apprentice had disappeared; and even Doctor Hodges could give no account of him.
One night, in the middle of November, Mr. Bloundel signified to his wife his intention of going forth, early on the following morning, to satisfy himself that the plague was really abating. Accordingly, after he had finished his devotions, and broken his fast, he put his design into execution. His first act, after locking the door behind him, which he did as a measure of precaution, was to fall on his knees and offer up prayers to Heaven for his signal preservation. He then arose, and, stepping into the middle of the street, gazed at the habitation which had formed his prison and refuge for nearly six months. There it was, with its shutters closed and barred—a secure asylum, with all alive within it, while every other dwelling in the street was desolate.
The grocer's sensations were novel and extraordinary. His first impulse was to enjoy his newly-recovered freedom, and to put himself into active motion. But he checked the feeling as sinful, and proceeded along the street at a slow pace. He did not meet a single person, until he reached Cheapside, where he found matters completely changed. Several shops were already opened, and there were a few carts and other vehicles tracking their way through the broad and yet grass-grown street. It was a clear, frosty morning, and there was a healthful feel in the bracing atmosphere that produced an exhilarating effect on the spirits. The grocer pursued his course through the middle of the street, carefully avoiding all contact with such persons as he encountered, though he cordially returned their greetings, and wandered on, scarcely knowing whither he was going, but deeply interested in all he beheld.
The aspect of the city was indeed most curious. The houses were for the most part unoccupied—the streets overgrown with grass—while every object, animate and inanimate, bore some marks of the recent visitation. Still, all looked hopeful, and the grocer could not doubt that the worst was past. The different demeanour of the various individuals he met struck him. Now he passed a young man whistling cheerily, who saluted him, and said, "I have lost my sweetheart by the plague, but I shall soon get another." The next was a grave man, who muttered, "I have lost all," and walked pensively on. Then came others in different moods; but all concurred in thinking that the plague was at an end; and the grocer derived additional confirmation of the fact from meeting numerous carts and other vehicles bringing families back to their houses from the country.
After roaming about for several hours, and pondering on all he saw, he found himself before the great western entrance of Saint Paul's. It chanced to be the morning on which the pallets and bedding were brought forth, and he watched the proceeding at a distance. All had been removed, and he was about to depart, when he perceived a person seated on a block of stone, not far from him, whom he instantly recognised. "Leonard," he cried—"Leonard Holt, is it you?"
Thus addressed, and in these familiar tones, the apprentice looked up, and Mr. Bloundel started at the change that had taken place in him. Profound grief was written in every line of his thin and haggard countenance; his eyes were hollow, and had the most melancholy expression imaginable; and his flesh was wasted away from the bone. He looked the very image of hopeless affliction.
"I am sorry to find you in this state, Leonard," said the grocer, in a tone of deep commiseration; "but I am well aware of the cause. I myself have suffered severely; but I deem it my duty to control my affliction."
"Iwouldcontrol it, if it were possible, Mr. Bloundel," replied Leonard. "But hope is dead in my breast. I shall never be happy again."
"I trust otherwise," replied the grocer, kindly. "Your trials have been very great, and so were those of the poor creature we both of us deplore. But she is at peace, and therefore we need not lament her."
"Alas!" exclaimed Leonard, mournfully, "I am now only anxious to rejoin her."
"It is selfish, if not sinful, to grieve in this way," rejoined Mr. Bloundel, somewhat sternly. "You must bear your sorrows like a man. Come home with me. I will be a father to you. Nay, do not hesitate. I will have no refusal."
So saying, he took Leonard's arm, and led him in the direction of Wood-street. Nothing passed between them on the way, nor did Leonard evince any further emotion until he entered the door of the grocer's dwelling, when he uttered a deep groan. Mrs. Bloundel was greatly affected at seeing him, as were the rest of the family, and abundance of tears were shed by all, except Mr. Bloundel, who maintained his customary stoical demeanour throughout the meeting.
Satisfied that the pestilence had not declined sufficiently to warrant him in opening his house, the grocer determined to await the result of a few weeks. Indeed, that very night, he had reason to think he had defeated his plans by precipitancy. While sitting after prayers with his family, he was seized with a sudden shivering and sickness, which he could not doubt were the precursors of the plague. He was greatly alarmed, but did not lose his command over himself.
"I have been most imprudent," he said, "in thus exposing myself to infection. I have symptoms of the plague about me, and will instantly repair to one of the upper rooms which I have laid aside as an hospital, in case of any emergency like the present. None of you must attend me. Leonard will fetch Doctor Hodges and a nurse. I shall then do very well. Farewell, dear wife and children! God bless you all, and watch over you. Remember me in your prayers." So saying, he arose and walked towards the door. His wife and eldest son would have assisted him, but he motioned them away.
"Let me go with you, sir," cried Leonard, who had arisen with the others; "I will nurse you; my life is of little consequence, and I cannot be more satisfactorily employed."
The grocer reluctantly assented, and the apprentice assisted him upstairs, and helped to place him in bed. No plague-token could be found about his person, but as the same alarming symptoms still continued, Leonard administered such remedies as he thought needful, and then went in search of Doctor Hodges.
On reaching Watling-street, he found Doctor Hodges about to retire to rest. The worthy physician was greatly distressed by the apprentice's account of his master's illness; but was somewhat reassured when the symptoms were more minutely described to him. While preparing certain medicines, and arming himself with his surgical implements, he questioned Leonard as to the cause of his long disappearance. "Having seen nothing of you," he said, "since the fatal night when our poor Amabel's sorrows were ended, I began to feel very apprehensive on your account. Where have you been?"
"You shall hear," replied Leonard, "though the relation will be like opening my wounds afresh. On recovering from the terrible shock I had received, I found myself stretched upon a bed in a house whither I had been conveyed by Rainbird the watchman, who had discovered me lying in a state of insensibility in the street. For nearly a week I continued delirious, and should, probably, have lost my senses altogether but for the attentions of the watchman. As soon as I was able to move, I wandered to the lesser plague-pit, in Finsbury Fields, you will guess with what intent. My heart seemed breaking, and I thought I should pour forth my very soul in grief, as I gazed into that dreadful gulf, and thought she was there interred. Still my tears were a relief. Every evening, for a month, I went to that sad spot, and remained there till daybreak admonished me to return to Rainbird's dwelling. At last, he was seized by the distemper; but though I nursed him, voluntarily exposing myself to infection, and praying to be carried off, I remained untouched. Poor Rainbird died; and having seen his body thrown into the pit, I set off into Berkshire, and after three days' toilsome travel on foot, reached Ashdown Park. It was a melancholy pleasure to behold the abode where she I had loved passed her last few days of happiness, and where I had been near her. Her aunt, good Mrs. Buscot, though overwhelmed by affliction at the sad tidings I brought her, received me with the utmost kindness, and tried to console me. My sorrow, however, was too deeply seated to be removed. Wandering over the downs, I visited Mrs. Compton at Kingston Lisle, from whose house Amabel was carried off by the perfidious earl. She, also, received me with kindness, and strove, like Mrs. Buscot, to comfort me, and, like her, ineffectually. Finding my strength declining, and persuaded that my days were drawing to a close, I retraced my steps to London, hoping to find a final resting-place near her I had loved."
"You are, indeed, faithful to the grave, Leonard," said the physician, brushing away a tear; "and I never heard or read of affection stronger than yours. Sorrow is a great purifier, and you will come out all the better for your trial. You are yet young, and though you never can love as youhaveloved, a second time, your heart is not utterly seared."
"Utterly, sir," echoed Leonard, "utterly."
"You think so, now," rejoined the physician. "But you will find it otherwise hereafter. I can tell you of one person who has suffered almost as much from your absence as you have done for the loss of Amabel. The Lady Isabella Argentine has made constant inquiries after you; and though I should be the last person to try to rouse you from your present state of despondency, by awakening hopes of alliance with the sister of a proud noble, yet it may afford you consolation to know that she still cherishes the warmest regard for you."
"I am grateful to her," replied Leonard, sadly, but without exhibiting any other emotion. "She was dear to Amabel, and therefore will be ever dear to me. I would fain know," he added, his brow suddenly contracting, and his lip quivering, "what has become of the Earl of Rochester?"
"He has married a wealthy heiress, the fair Mistress Mallet," replied Hodges.
"Married, and so soon!" cried Leonard. "And he has quite forgotten his victim?"
"Apparently so," replied the doctor, with an expression of disgust.
"And it was for one who so lightly regarded her that she sacrificed herself," groaned Leonard, his head dropping upon his breast.
"Come," cried Hodges, taking his arm, and leading him out of the room; "we must go and look after your master."
With this, they made the best of their way to Wood-street. Arrived at the grocer's house, they went upstairs, and Hodges immediately pronounced Mr. Bloundel to be suffering from a slight feverish attack, which a sudorific powder would remove. Having administered the remedy, he descended to the lower room to allay the fears of the family. Mrs. Bloundel received the happy tidings with tears of joy, and the doctor remained a short time to condole with her on the loss she had sustained. The good dame wept bitterly on hearing the whole particulars, with which she had been hitherto unacquainted, attending her daughter's untimely death, but she soon regained her composure. They then spoke of Leonard, who had remained above with his master,—of his blighted hopes, and seemingly incurable affliction.
"His is true love, indeed, doctor," sighed Mrs. Bloundel. "Pity it is that it could not be requited."
"I know not how it is," rejoined Hodges, "and will not question the decrees of our All-Wise Ruler, but the strongest affection seldom, if ever, meets a return. Leonard himself was insensible to the devotion of one, of whom I may say, without disparagement to our poor Amabel, that she was, in my opinion, her superior in beauty."
"And does this person love him still?" inquired Mrs. Bloundel, eagerly. "I ask, because I regard him as a son, and earnestly desire to restore him to happiness."
"Alas!" exclaimed Hodges, "there are obstacles in the way that cannot be removed. We must endeavour to cure him of his grief in some other way."
The conversation then dropped, and Hodges took his leave, promising to return on the morrow, and assuring Mrs. Bloundel that she need be under no further apprehension about her husband. And so it proved. The powders removed all the grocer's feverish symptoms, and when Doctor Hodges made his appearance the next day, he found him dressed, and ready to go downstairs. Having received the physician's congratulations on his entire recovery, Mr. Bloundel inquired from him when he thought he might with entire safety open his shop. Hodges considered for a moment, and then replied, "I do not see any great risk in doing so now, but I would advise you to defer the step for a fortnight. I would, also, recommend you to take the whole of your family for a short time into the country. Pure air and change of scene are absolutely necessary after their long confinement."
"Farmer Wingfield, of Kensal-Green, who sheltered us on our way down to Ashdown Park, will, I am sure, receive you," observed Leonard.
"If so, you cannot go to a better place," rejoined the physician.
"I will think of it," returned Mr. Bloundel. And leading the way downstairs, he was welcomed by his wife and children with the warmest demonstrations of delight.
"My fears, you perceive, were groundless," he remarked to Mrs. Bloundel.
"Heaven be praised, they were so!" she rejoined. "But I entreat you not to go forth again till all danger is at an end."
"Rest assured I will not," he answered. Soon after this, Doctor Hodges took his leave, and had already reached the street-door, when he was arrested by Patience, who inquired with much anxiety whether he knew anything of Blaize.
"Make yourself easy about him, child," replied the doctor; "I am pretty sure he is safe and sound. He has had the plague, certainly; but he left the hospital at Saint Paul's cured.
"O then Ishallsee him again," cried Patience, joyfully. "Poor dear little fellow, it would break my heart to lose him."
"I will make inquiries about him," rejoined Hodges, "and if I can find him, will send him home." And without waiting to receive the kitchen-maid's thanks, he departed.
For some days the grocer continued to pursue pretty nearly the same line of conduct that he had adopted during the height of the pestilence. But he did not neglect to make preparations for resuming his business; and here Leonard was of material assistance to him. They often spoke of Amabel, and Mr. Bloundel strove, by every argument he was master of, to remove the weight of affliction under which his apprentice laboured. He so far succeeded that Leonard's health improved, though he still seemed a prey to secret sorrow. Things were in this state, when one day a knock was heard at the street-door, and the summons being answered by the grocer's eldest son, Stephen, he returned with the intelligence that a person was without who desired to see Patience. After some consideration, Mr. Bloundel summoned the kitchen-maid, and told her she might admit the stranger into the passage, and hear what he had to say. Patience hastened with a beating heart to the door, expecting to learn some tidings of Blaize, and opening it, admitted a man wrapped in a large cloak and having a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows. Stepping into the passage, he threw aside the cloak and raised the hat, discovering the figure and features of Pillichody.
"What brings you here, sir?" demanded Patience, in alarm, and glancing over her shoulder to see whether any one observed them. "What do you want?"
"I have brought you news of Blaize," returned the bully. "But how charmingly you look. By the coral lips of Venus! your long confinement has added to your attractions."
"Never mind my attractions, sir," rejoined Patience, impatiently. "Where is Blaize? Why did he not come with you?"
"Alas!" replied Pillichody, shaking his head in a melancholy manner, "he could not."
"Could not!" half screamed Patience. "Why not?"
"Do not question me," replied Pillichody, feigning to brush away a tear. "He was my friend, and I would rather banish him from my memory. The sight of your beauty transports me so, that, by the treasures of Croesus! I would rather have you without a crown than the wealthiest widow in the country."
"Don't talk nonsense to me in this way," sobbed Patience "I'm not in the humour for it."
"Nonsense!" echoed Pillichody. "I swear to you I am in earnest. By Cupid! I am ravished with your charms." And he would have seized her hand, but Patience hastily withdrew it; and, provoked at his impertinence, dealt him a sound box on the ear. As she did this, she thought she heard a suppressed laugh near her, and looked round, but could see no one. The sound certainly did not proceed from Pillichody, for he looked very red and very angry.
"Do not repeat this affront, mistress," he said to her. "I can bear anything but a blow from your sex."
"Then tell me what has become of Blaize," she cried.
"I will no longer spare your feelings," he rejoined. "He is defunct."
"Defunct!" echoed Patience, with a scream. "Oh, dear me!—I shall never survive it—I shall die."
"Not while I am left to supply his place," cried Pillichody, catching her in his arms.
"You!" cried Patience, contemptuously; "I would not have you for the world. Where is he buried?"
"In the plague-pit," replied Pillichody. "I attended him during his illness. It was his second attack of the disorder. He spoke of you."
"Did he?—dear little fellow!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what did he say?"
"'Tell her,' he cried," rejoined Pillichody, "'that my last thoughts were of her.'"
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Patience, hysterically.
"'Tell her also,' he added," pursued Pillichody, "'that I trust she will fulfil my last injunction.'"
"That I will," replied Patience. "Name it."
"He conjured you to marry me," replied Pillichody. "I am sure you will not hesitate to comply with the request."
"I don't believe a word of this," cried Patience. "Blaize was a great deal too jealous to bequeath me to another."
"Right, sweetheart, right," cried the individual in question, pushing open the door. "This has all been done to try your fidelity. I am now fully satisfied with your attachment; and am ready to marry you whenever you please."
"So this was all a trick," cried Patience, pettishly; "I wish I had known it, I would have retaliated upon you nicely. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Major Pillichody, to lend a helping-hand in such a ridiculous affair."
"I did it to oblige my friend Blaize," replied Pillichody. "It was agreed between us that if you showed any inconstancy, you were to be mine."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Patience. "I would not advise you to repeat the experiment, Mr. Blaize."
"I never intend to do so, my angel," replied the porter. "I esteem myself the happiest and most fortunate of men."
"You have great reason to do so," observed Pillichody. "I do not despair of supplanting him yet," he muttered to himself. "And now, farewell!" he added aloud; "I am only in the way, and besides, I have no particular desire to encounter Mr. Bloundel or his apprentice;" and winking his solitary orb significantly at Patience, he strutted away. It was well he took that opportunity of departing, for the lovers' raptures were instantly afterwards interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Bloundel, who was greatly delighted to see the porter, and gave him a hearty welcome.
"Ah, sir, I have had a narrow escape," cried Blaize, "and never more expected to see you, or my mother, or Patience. Ihavehad the plague, sir, and a terrible disorder it is."
"I heard or your seizure from Leonard Holt," replied Mr. Bloundel. "But where have you been since you left the hospital at Saint Paul's?"
"In the country, sir," rejoined Blaize; "sometimes at one farm-house, and sometimes at another. I only returned to London yesterday, and met an old friend, whom I begged to go before me, and see that all was right before I ventured, in."
"We have all been providentially spared," observed Mr. Bloundel, "and you will find your mother as well as when you last quitted her. You had better go to her."
Blaize obeyed, and was received by old Josyna with a scream of delight. Having embraced him, and sobbed over him, she ran for a bottle of sack, and poured its contents down his throat so hastily as nearly to choke him. She then spread abundance of eatables before him, and after he had eaten and drank his full, offered him as a treat a little of the plague medicine which she had in reserve.
"No, thank you, mother," replied Blaize. "I have had enough ofthat. But if there should be a box of rufuses amongst the store, you can bring it, as I think a couple might do me good."
Three days after this event, the apprentice was sent forth to ascertain the precise state of the city, as, if all proved favourable, the grocer proposed to open his house on the following day. Leonard set out betimes, and was speedily convinced that all danger was at an end. A severe frost had set in, and had completely purified the air. For the last few days there had been no deaths of the plague, and but little mortality of any kind. Leonard traversed several of the main streets, and some narrow thoroughfares, and found evidences of restored health and confidence everywhere. It is true there were many houses, in which whole families had been swept off, still left untenanted. But these were only memorials of the past calamity, and could not be referred to any existing danger. Before returning to Wood-street, an irresistible impulse led him to Finsbury Fields. He passed through the postern east of Cripplegate, and shaped his way towards the lesser plague-pit. The sun, which had been bright all the morning, was now partially obscured; the air had grown thick, and a little snow fell. The ground was blackened and bound by the hard frost, and the stiffened grass felt crisp beneath his feet. Insensible to all external circumstances, he hurried forward, taking the most direct course, and leaping every impediment in his path. Having crossed several fields, he at length stood before a swollen heap of clay, round which a wooden railing was placed. Springing over the enclosure, and uttering a wild cry that evinced the uncontrollable anguish of his breast, he flung himself upon the mound. He remained for some time in the deepest affliction, and was at last roused by. a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, raising himself, beheld Thirlby.
"I thought it must be you," said the new comer, in accents of the deepest commiseration. "I have been visiting yonder plague-pit for the same melancholy purpose as yourself,—to mourn over my lost child. I have been in search of you, and have much to say to you. Will you meet me in this place at midnight tomorrow?" Leonard signified his assent.
"I am in danger," pursued Thirlby, "for, by some means, the secret of my existence has been made known, and the officers of justice are in pursuit of me. I suspect that Judith Malmayns is my betrayer. You will not fail me?"
"I will not," returned Leonard. Upon this, Thirlby hurried away, and leaping a hedge, disappeared from view.
Leonard slowly and sorrowfully returned to Wood-street. On arriving there, he assured his master that he might with entire safety open his house, as he proposed, on the morrow; and Doctor Hodges, who visited the grocer the same evening, confirmed the opinion. Early, therefore, the next morning, Mr. Bloundel summoned his family to prayers; and after pouring forth his supplications with peculiar fervour and solemnity, he went, accompanied by them all, and threw open the street-door. Again, kneeling down at the threshold, he prayed fervently, as before. He then proceeded to remove the bars and shutters from the windows. The transition from gloom and darkness to bright daylight was almost overpowering. For the first time for six months, the imprisoned family looked forth on the external world, and were dazzled and bewildered by the sight. The grocer himself, despite his sober judgment, could scarcely believe he had not been in a trance during the whole period. The shop was scarcely opened before it was filled with customers, and Leonard and Stephen were instantly employed. But the grocer would sell nothing. To those who asked for any article he possessed, he presented them with it, but would receive no payment.
He next dispatched Blaize to bring together all the poor he could find, and distributed among them the remainder of his store—his casks of flour, his salted meat, his cheeses, his biscuits, his wine—in short, all that was left.
"This I give," he said, "as a thanksgiving to the Lord, and as a humble testimony of gratitude for my signal deliverance."
The first day of his deliverance being spent by the grocer in the praiseworthy manner before related, he laid his head upon his pillow with a feeling of satisfaction such as he had not for months experienced. A very remarkable dream occurred to him that night, and its recollection afterwards afforded him the greatest consolation. While thinking of Amabel, and of the delight her presence would have afforded him, slumber stole upon him, and his dreams were naturally influenced by his previous meditations. It appeared to him that he was alone within his house, and while visiting one of the upper rooms, which had formerly been appropriated to his lost daughter, he noticed a small door in the wall that had never before attracted his attention. He immediately pushed against it, and yielding to the touch, it admitted him to an apartment with which he seemed acquainted, though he could not recall the time when he had seen it. It was large and gloomy, panelled with dark and lustrous oak, and filled with rich but decayed furniture. At the further end stood a large antique bed, hung round with tarnished brocade curtains. The grocer shuddered at the sight, for he remembered to have heard Doctor Hodges assert, that in such a bed, and in such a room as this, his daughter had breathed her last. Some one appeared to be within the bed, and rushing forward with a throbbing heart, and a foreboding of what was to follow, he beheld the form of Amabel. Yes, there she was, with features like those she wore on earth, but clothed with such celestial beauty, and bearing the impress of such serene happiness, that the grocer felt awe-struck as he gazed at her!
"Approach, my father," said the visionary form, in a voice so musical that it thrilled through his frame—"approach, and let what you now hear be for ever graven upon your heart. Do not lament me more, but rather rejoice that I am removed from trouble, and in the enjoyment of supreme felicity. Such a state you will yourself attain. You have run the good race, and will assuredly reap your reward. Comfort my dear mother, my brothers, my little sister, with the assurance of what I tell you, and bid them dry their tears. I can now read the secrets of all hearts, and know how true was Leonard Holt's love for me, and how deep and sincere is his present sorrow. But I am not permitted to appear to him as I now appear to you. Often have I heard him invoke me in accents of the wildest despair, and have floated past him on the midnight breeze, but could neither impart consolation to him nor make him sensible of my presence, because his grief was sinful. Bid him be comforted. Bid him put a due control upon his feelings. Bid him open his heart anew, and he shall yet be happy, yet love again, and have his love requited. Farewell, dear father!"
And with these words the curtains of the bed closed. The grocer stretched out his arm to draw them aside, and in the effort awoke. He slept no more that night, but dwelt with unutterable delight on the words he had heard. On rising, his first object was to seek out Leonard, and to relate his vision to him. The apprentice listened in speechless wonder, and remained for some time lost in reflection.
"From any other person than yourself, sir," he said, at length, "I might have doubted this singular story, but coming from you, I attach implicit credence to it. Iwillobey your sainted daughter's injunctions; Iwillstruggle against the grief that overwhelms me, and will try to hope that her words may be fulfilled."
"You will do wisely," rejoined Mr. Bloundel. "After breakfast we will walk together to the farmhouse you spoke of at Kensal Green, and if its owner should prove willing to receive my family for a few weeks, I will remove them thither at once."
Leonard applauded his master's resolution, expressing his firm conviction that Farmer Wingfield would readily accede to the proposal, and the rest of the family having by this time assembled, they sat down to breakfast. As soon as the meal was over, Mr. Bloundel intrusted the care of the shop to Stephen and Blaize, and accompanied by Leonard, set forth. On the way to the west end of the town, the grocer met one or two of his old friends, and they welcomed each other like men risen from the grave. Their course took them through Saint Giles's, where the plague had raged with the greatest severity, and where many houses were still without tenants.
"If all had acted as I have done," sighed the grocer, as he gazed at these desolate habitations, "how many lives, under God's providence, would have been saved!"
"In my opinion, sir," replied Leonard, "you owe your preservation as much to your piety as to your prudence."
"I have placed my trust on high," rejoined the grocer, "and have not been forsaken. And yet many evil doers have escaped; amongst others—"
"I know whom you mean, sir," interrupted Leonard, with some fierceness, "but a day of retribution will arrive for him."
"No more of this," rejoined the grocer, severely. "Remember the solemn injunction you have received."
At this moment they observed a horseman, richly attired, and followed by a couple of attendants, riding rapidly towards them. Both instantly recognised him. The apprentice's cheek and brow flushed with anger, and Mr. Bloundel had much ado to control his emotion. It was the Earl of Rochester, and on seeing them he instantly dismounted, and flinging his bridle to one of the attendants, advanced towards them. Noticing the fury that gleamed in Leonard's eyes, and apprehending some violence on his part, the grocer laid his hand, upon his arm, and sternly enjoined him to calm himself.
By this time, the earl had reached them. "Mr. Bloundel," he said, in a tone of much emotion, and with a look that seemed to bespeak contrition. "I heard that you had opened your house yesterday, and was about to call upon you. I have a few words to say to you on a subject painful to both of us, but doubly painful to me—your daughter."
"I must decline to hear them, my lord," replied the grocer, coldly; "nor shall you ever cross my threshold again with my consent. My poor child is now at peace. You can do her no further injury, and must settle your own account with your Maker."
"Do not refuse me your forgiveness," implored the earl. "I will make every reparation in my power."
"Youcanmake none," replied the grocer, repelling him; "and as to my forgiveness, I neither refuse it nor accord it. I pray your lordship to let me pass. The sole favour I ask of you is to come near me no more."
"I obey you," replied the earl. "Stay," he added to Leonard, who stood by, regarding him with a look of deadly animosity. "I would give you a piece of caution. Your life is in danger."
"I can easily guess from whom," replied the apprentice, scornfully.
"You mistake," rejoined Rochester; "you have nothing to apprehend from me. You have promised to meet some one to-night," he added, in so low a tone as to be inaudible to the grocer. "Do not go."
"Your lordship's warning will not deter me," rejoined the apprentice.
"As you will," rejoined Rochester, turning away. And springing upon his horse, and striking his spurs into his side, he dashed off, while Leonard and the grocer took the opposite direction. In less than half an hour they reached the little village of Paddington, then consisting of a few houses, but now one of the most populous and important parishes of the metropolis, and speedily gained the open country. Even at this dreary season the country had charms, which Mr. Bloundel, after his long confinement, could fully appreciate. His eye roamed over the wide prospect; and the leafless trees, the bare hedges, and the frost-bound fields seemed pleasant in his sight.
He quickened his pace, and being wholly indifferent to the cold, greatly enjoyed the exercise. Leonard pointed out to him the spots where the fugitives from the plague had pitched their tents, and also the pest-house near Westbourne Green, where he himself had been received during his second attack of the distemper, and which was now altogether abandoned.
Soon after this, they mounted the hill beyond Kensal Green, and approached the farmhouse. Leonard descried Wingfield near one of the barns, and hailing him, he immediately came forward. On being informed of Mr. Bloundel's desire, he at once assented, and taking them into the house, mentioned the matter to his dame, who was quite of the same opinion as himself.
"The only difference between us," he said to Mr. Bloundel, "is as to the payment you propose. Now I will take none—not a farthing. Come when you please, bring whom you please, and stay as long as you please. But don't offer me anything if you would not offend me. Recollect," he added, the moisture forcing itself into his eyes, and his strong clear voice becoming husky with emotion, "that I loved your daughter for her resemblance to my poor child. She, too, is gone. I do this for her sake."
Mr. Bloundel shook the worthy man warmly by the hand, but he made no further objection, resolved in his own mind to find some other means of requiting his hospitality. It was then agreed that the grocer should bring his family on the following day, and remain there for a month; and every other arrangement being made, and a hearty meal partaken of, he cordially thanked his host, and returned with Leonard to Wood-street.
In spite of his efforts to resist the impression produced by the earl's warning, Leonard could not banish it from his mind; and though he did not for a moment think of abandoning his purpose, he resolved to attend the meeting armed. He told Mr. Bloundel he should go out that night, but did not state his object, and the grocer did not inquire it. Blaize sat up with him, and displayed much anxiety to know whither he was going, but, as may be supposed, his curiosity was not gratified. As the clock struck eleven, Leonard thrust a sword into his girdle, and arming himself furthermore with his staff, proceeded towards the door, and bade Blaize lock it after him.
"I shall probably be back in a couple of hours," he said, as he went forth. "You must sit up for me."
"I wonder where he is going!" thought Blaize, "From his gloomy looks, and the weapon he has taken with him, I should judge he is about to murder some one—perhaps the Earl of Rochester. It must be prevented."
With this view, though perhaps rather more influenced by curiosity than any better feeling, the porter waited a few seconds to allow the apprentice to get out of sight, and then locking the door outside, put the key in his pocket, and followed him. The night was profoundly dark, but he had noticed the direction taken by Leonard, and running noiselessly along the street, soon perceived him a little in advance. Regulating his pace by that of the apprentice, and keeping about fifty yards behind him, he tracked his course along several streets, until he saw him pass through the second postern in the city wall, near Moorgate.
Here he debated with himself whether to proceed further or turn back; but at length, curiosity got the best of his fears, and he went on. A few steps brought him into the open fields, and fancying he saw Leonard at a little distance before him, he hurried on in that direction. But he soon found he had been deceived by the stump of a tree, and began to fear he must have taken the wrong course. He looked around in vain for some object to guide him. The darkness was so profound that he could see nothing, and he set off again at random, and not without much self-reproach and misgiving. At last, he reached a hedge, and continued to skirt it, until he perceived through the bushes the light of a lantern in the adjoining field. He immediately called out, but at the cry the light disappeared. This did not prevent him from making towards the spot where he had seen it; but he had not proceeded far when he was forcibly seized by some unseen person, thrown on the ground, and a drawn sword—for he felt the point—placed at his throat.
"Utter a cry, and it is your last," cried a stern voice. "Where is he?"
"Who—who?" demanded Blaize, half dead with terror.
"He whom you appointed to meet," replied the unknown.
"I appointed to meet no one," rejoined Blaize.
"Liar!" exclaimed the other; "if you do not instantly lead me to him, I will cut your throat."
"I will lead you wherever you please, if you will only let me get up," rejoined Blaize, with difficulty repressing a cry.
"By the daughters of Nox and Acheron!" exclaimed a voice which sounded like music in the porter's ears, "I think you are mistaken in your man, my lord. It does not sound like the apprentice's voice."
"It isnotthe apprentice's voice, good Major Pillichody," rejoined the porter. "It is mine, your friend—Blaize's."
"Blaize!" exclaimed Pillichody, unmasking a dark lantern, and revealing the terror-stricken countenance of the porter; "so it is. In the devil's name, what are you doing here?"
"The devil himself, who put it into my head to come, only knows," replied Blaize; "but I followed Leonard Holt."
"Which way did he take?" asked the person who had assailed him.
"I cannot exactly say," replied Blaize, "but he seemed to go straight into the fields."
"He is no doubt gone to the plague-pit," replied the other. "You are now at liberty," he added to Blaize, "and I counsel you to make the best of your way home. Say nothing to your master of what has occurred. The city walls lie in that direction."
Overjoyed to be released, Blaize ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, and never stopped till he reached Moorgate. Meanwhile, Leonard had reached the place of meeting. As he stood by the rail surrounding the plague-pit, he thought of Mr. Bloundel's singular dream, and almost hoping to be similarly favoured, flung himself on his knees, and besought Amabel, if it were possible, to appear to him. But his entreaties produced no result. The chill blast whistled past him, and, mindful of what had been told him, he was fain to interpret this into an answer to his request. The night was bitterly cold, and Leonard, whose limbs were almost stiffened by long kneeling, walked round and round the enclosure at a quick pace to put his blood into circulation. As the hour of midnight was tolled forth by the neighbouring churches, he heard footsteps, and could just detect a figure advancing towards him.
"Are you there?" was asked in the voice of Thirlby. Leonard replied in the affirmative, and the other instantly joined him.
"Have you mentioned our meeting to any one?" inquired Leonard. "I ask, because I was warned by the Earl of Rochester not to attend it."
"Strange!" exclaimed Thirlby, musingly. "However, do not let us waste time. I am about to leave London, perhaps this country—for ever. But I could not depart without an interview with you. You are aware of my strong attachment to my poor lost child. My daughter Isabella now supplies her place in my heart. She is the only being I love on earth, for my son has alienated himself from my affections. All I desire is to see her happy. This, I find, can only be accomplished in one way."
Here he paused for a moment, but as Leonard made no remark, he proceeded. "Why should I hesitate to declare it," he said, "since it was for that object I brought you hither? She loves you—devotedly loves you—and if her wishes were opposed, I should tremble for the consequences. Now listen to me. Situated as you are, you never can wed her. I will, however, point out a means by which you can raise yourself to distinction in a short time, and so entitle yourself to claim her hand. I will supply you with money—more than you can require—will place you at court—near the king's person—and if you act under my direction, your rise is certain. I have extorted a promise to this effect from my own son. I told him my object, and that if he did not make your fortune, I could ruin him by revealing myself. I may, perhaps, pay the penalty of my crime on the scaffold; but I may also escape. In the latter case, my reappearance would be fatal to him. He has consented to cooperate with me, to watch over your fortunes, and, as soon as you have attained sufficient eminence, to bestow his sister upon you. Now do you understand?"
"I do," replied Leonard; "and I understand also against whom the Earl of Rochester warned me."
"And you consent," demanded Thirlby.
Leonard, was about to answer, when he felt a light and trembling hand placed upon his own. "Do not answer inconsiderately, Leonard," said a low, sweet voice, which he recognised as that of the Lady Isabella; "I am here to receive your determination."
"I am glad of it," replied the apprentice. "The deep devotion you have displayed towards me deserves to be requited. I will strive to render myself worthy of you, and I feel that by so doing I shall best fulfil the injunctions of her who lies beside us. Henceforth, Lady Isabella, I wholly devote myself to you."
A murmur of delight escaped her. "My blessings on you both!" exclaimed her father. "Give me your hand, Isabella," he added, taking it and placing it in that of the apprentice. "Here, beside the grave of her whom you both loved, I affiance you. Pursue the course I point out to you, Leonard, and she will soon be yours."
As he spoke, the light of a lantern was suddenly thrown upon them, disclosing two persons who had noiselessly approached. They were Lord Argentine and Pillichody. "You affirm more than you have warrant for, my lord," said the former. "I will never consent to this ill-assorted and dishonourable union; and, so far from permitting it, will oppose it to the utmost of my power. If this presumptuous apprentice dares to raise his views towards my sister, let him look to himself. Your safety lies in instant flight. The officers are in search of you."
"They shall find me," replied Thirlby, sternly.
"As you please," rejoined Argentine. "Come with me, Isabella," he added to his sister. But she flew with a cry towards Leonard.
"Ah!" exclaimed her brother, drawing his sword. "Do you dare to detain, her? Deliver her to me, villain, instantly!"
"Not when thus menaced, my lord," rejoined Leonard, likewise drawing his sword, and standing upon the defensive.
"Then look to yourself," replied Argentine, assaulting him.
Isabella uttered a wild shriek, and Thirlby tried to rush between them. But before they could be separated, Lord Argentine's fury had exposed him to his adversary, whose sword passed through his body. He fell to the ground, weltering in his blood. While Leonard stood stupefied and confounded at what had occurred, and Isabella, uttering a loud cry, threw herself upon the body and tried to stanch the wound—two men, with halberds in their hands rushed forward, and seizing Thirlby, cried, "We arrest you as a murderer!"
Thirlby, who seemed utterly overcome by surprise and horror, offered no resistance. At this juncture Leonard felt his arm seized by a bystander—he did not know whom—and scarcely conscious of what was taking place, suffered himself to be dragged from the scene.