It struck four by Saint Paul's as Doctor Hodges, accompanied by Leonard and Nizza Macascree, issued from his dwelling, and proceeded towards Wood-street. The party was followed by a man leading a couple of horses, equipped with pillions, and furnished with saddle-bags, partly filled with the scanty luggage which the apprentice and the piper's daughter took with them. A slight haze, indicative of the intense heat about to follow, hung round the lower part of the cathedral, but its topmost pinnacles glittered in the beams of the newly-risen sun. As Leonard gazed at the central tower, he descried Solomon Eagle on its summit, and pointed him out to Hodges. Motioning the apprentice, in a manner that could not be misunderstood, to halt, the enthusiast vanished, and in another moment appeared upon the roof, and descended to the battlements, overlooking the spot where the little party stood. This was at the northwest corner of the cathedral, at a short distance from the portico. The enthusiast had a small sack in his hand, and calling to Nizza Macascree to take it, flung it to the ground. The ringing sound which it made on its fall proved that it contained gold or silver, while its size showed that the amount must be considerable. Nizza looked at it in astonishment, but did not offer to touch it.
"Take it!" thundered Solomon Eagle; "it is your dowry." And perceiving she hesitated to comply with the injunction, he shouted to Leonard. "Give it her. I have no use for gold. May it make you and her happy!"
"I know not where he can have obtained this money," observed Hodges; "but I am sure in no unlawful manner, and I therefore counsel Nizza to accept the boon. It may be of the greatest use to her at some future time."
His scruples being thus overcome, Leonard took the sack, and placed it in one of the saddle-bags.
"You can examine it at your leisure," remarked Hodges to Nizza. "We have no more time to lose."
Solomon Eagle, meanwhile, expressed his satisfaction at the apprentice's compliance by his gestures, and, waving his staff round his head, pointed towards the west of the city, as if inquiring whether that was the route they meant to take. Leonard nodded an affirmative; and, the enthusiast spreading out his arms and pronouncing an audible benediction over them, they resumed their course. The streets were silent and deserted, except by the watchmen stationed at the infected dwellings, and a few sick persons stretched on the steps of some of the better habitations. In order to avoid coming in contact with these miserable creatures, the party, with the exception of Doctor Hodges, kept in the middle of the road. Attracted by the piteous exclamations of the sufferers, Doctor Hodges, ever and anon, humanely paused to speak to them; and he promised one poor woman, who was suckling an infant, to visit her on his return.
"I have no hopes of saving her," he observed to Leonard, "but I may preserve her child. There is an establishment in Aldgate for infants whose mothers have died of the plague, where more than a hundred little creatures are suckled by she-goats, and it is wonderful how well they thrive under their nurses. If I can induce this poor woman to part with her child, I will send it thither."
Just then, their attention was arrested by the sudden opening of a casement, and a middle-aged woman, wringing her hands, cried, with a look of unutterable anguish and despair—"Pray for us, good people! pray for us!"
"Wedopray for you, my poor soul!" rejoined Hodges, "as well as for all who are similarly afflicted. What sick have you within?"
"There were ten yesterday," replied the woman. "Two have died in the night—my husband and my eldest son—and there are eight others whose recovery is hopeless. Pray for us! As you hope to be spared yourselves, pray for us!" And, with a lamentable cry, she closed the casement.
Familiarized as all who heard her were with spectacles of horror and tales of woe, they could not listen to this sad recital, nor look upon her distracted countenance, without the deepest commiseration. Other sights had previously affected them, but not in the same degree. Around the little conduit standing in front of the Old Change, at the western extremity of Cheapside, were three lazars laving their sores in the water; while, in the short space between this spot and Wood-street, Leonard counted upwards of twenty doors marked with the fatal red cross, and bearing upon them the sad inscription, "Lord have mercy upon us!"
A few minutes' walking brought them to the grocer's habitation, and on reaching it, they found that Blaize had already descended. He was capering about the street with joy at his restoration to freedom.
"Mistress Amabel will make her appearance in a few minutes," he said to Leonard. "Our master is with her, and is getting all ready for her departure. I have not come unprovided with medicine," he added to Doctor Hodges. "I have got a bottle of plague-water in one pocket, and a phial of vinegar in the other. Besides these, I have a small pot of Mayerne's electuary in my bag, another of the grand antipestilential confection, and a fourth of the infallible antidote which I bought of the celebrated Greek physician, Doctor Constantine Rhodocanaceis, at his shop near the Three-Kings Inn, in Southampton-buildings. I dare say you have heard of him?"
"Ihaveheard of the quack," replied Hodges. "His end was a just retribution for the tricks he practised on his dupes. In spite of his infallible antidote, he was carried off by the scourge. But what else have you got?"
"Only a few trifles," replied Blaize, with a chap-fallen look. "Patience has made me a pomander-ball composed of angelica, rue, zedoary, camphor, wax, and laudanum, which I have hung round my neck with a string. Then I have got a good-sized box of rufuses, and have swallowed three of them preparatory to the journey."
"A proper precaution," observed Hodges, with a smile.
"This is not all," replied Blaize. "By my mother's advice, I have eaten twenty leaves of rue, two roasted figs, and two pickled walnuts for breakfast, washing them down with an ale posset, with pimpernel seethed in it."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Hodges. "You must be in a pretty condition for a journey. But how could you bear to part with your mother and Patience?"
"The parting from Patiencewasheart-breaking," replied Blaize, taking out his handkerchief, and applying it to his eyes. "We sat up half the night together, and I felt so much overcome that I began to waver in my resolution of departing. I am glad I did not give way now," he added, in a more sprightly tone. "Fresh air and bright sunshine are very different things from the close rooms in that dark house."
"You must not forget that you were there free from the contagion," rejoined Hodges; "while you are here exposed to its assaults."
"True," replied Blaize; "that makes a vast difference. I almost wish I was back again."
"It is too late to think of returning," said Hodges. "Mount your horse, and I will assist Nizza into the pillion."
By the time that Blaize, who was but an indifferent horseman, had got into the saddle, and Nizza had taken her place behind him, the window opened, and Mr. Bloundel appeared at it.
Amabel had only retired to rest for a few hours during the night. When left to herself in her chamber, she continued to pray till exhaustion compelled her to seek some repose. Arising about two o'clock, she employed herself for more than an hour in further devotion, and then took a last survey of every object in the room. She had occupied it from her childhood; and as she opened drawer after drawer, and cupboard after cupboard, and examined their contents, each article recalled some circumstance connected with the past, and brought back a train of long-forgotten emotions. While she was thus engaged, Patience tapped at the door, and was instantly admitted. The tenderhearted kitchenmaid assisted her to dress, and to put together some few articles omitted to be packed by her mother. During this employment she shed abundance of tears, and Amabel's efforts to console her only made matters worse. Poor Patience was forced at last to sit down, and indulge a hearty fit of crying, after which she felt considerably relieved. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak, she observed to Amabel, "Pardon what I am about to say to you, my dear young mistress, but I cannot help thinking that the real seat of your disease is in the heart."
A slight blush overspread Amabel's pale features, but she made no answer.
"I see I am right," continued Patience, "and indeed I have long suspected it. Let me entreat you, therefore, dear young lady, not to sacrifice yourself. Only say the word, and I will find means of making your retreat known to the Earl of Rochester. Blaize is devoted to you, and will do anything you bid him. I cannot wonder you fret after so handsome, so captivating a man as the earl, especially when you are worried to death to marry a common apprentice like Leonard Holt, who is not fit to hold a candle to your noble admirer. Ah! we women can never blind ourselves to the advantages of rank and appearance. We are too good judges for that. I hope you will soon be restored to your lover, and that the happiness you will enjoy will make amends for all the misery you have endured."
"Patience," said Amabel, whose cheek, as the other spoke, had returned to its original paleness—"Patience," she said, gravely, but kindly, "I have suffered you to proceed too far without interruption, and must correct the very serious error into which you have fallen. I am so far from pining for an interview with the Earl of Rochester, that nothing in the world should induce me to see him again. I have loved him deeply," she continued in a tremulous tone; "nay, I will not attempt to disguise that I feel strongly towards him still, while I will also freely confess that his conduct towards me has so preyed upon my spirits, that it has impaired, perhaps destroyed, my health. In spite of this, I cannot sufficiently rejoice that I have escaped the earl's snares—I cannot be sufficiently thankful to the merciful Being who, while he has thought fit to chastise me, has preserved me from utter ruin."
"Since you are of this mind," returned Patience, in a tone of incredulity, "you are more to be rejoiced with than pitied. But we are not overheard," she added, almost in a whisper, and glancing towards the door. "You may entirely confide in me. The time is arrived when you can escape to your lover."
"No more of this," rejoined Amabel, severely, "or I shall command you to leave the room."
"This is nothing more than pique," thought Patience. "We women are all hypocrites, even to ourselves. I will serve her whether she will or not. Sheshallsee the earl. I hope there is no harm in wishing you may be happy with Leonard Holt," she added aloud. "Hewill make you a capital husband."
"That subject is equally disagreeable—equally painful to me," said Amabel.
"I had better hold my tongue altogether," rejoined Patience, somewhat pertly. "Whatever I say seems to be wrong. It won't prevent me from doing as I would be done by," she added to herself.
Amabel's preparations finished, she dismissed Patience, to whom she gave some few slight remembrances, and was soon afterwards joined by her father. They passed half an hour together, as on the former night, in serious and devout conversation, after which Mr. Bloundel left her for a few minutes to let down Blaize. On his return he tenderly embraced her, and led her into the passage. They had not advanced many steps when Mrs. Bloundel rushed forth to meet them. She was in her night-dress, and seemed overwhelmed with affliction.
"How is this, Honora?" cried her husband, in a severe tone. "You promised me you would see Amabel no more. You will only distress her."
"I could not let her go thus," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "I was listening at my chamber door to hear her depart, and when I caught the sound of her footsteps, I could no longer control myself." So saying, she rushed to her daughter, and clasped her in her arms.
Affectionately returning her mother's embrace, Amabel gave her hand to her father, who conducted her to the little room overlooking the street. Nothing more, except a deep and passionate look, was exchanged between them. Both repressed their emotion, and though the heart of each was bursting, neither shed a tear. At that moment, and for the first time, they greatly resembled each other; and this was not surprising, for intense emotion, whether of grief or joy, will bring out lines in the features that lie hidden at other times. Without a word, Mr. Bloundel busied himself in arranging the pulley; and calling to those below to prepare for Amabel's descent, again embraced her, kissed her pale brow, and, placing her carefully in the basket, lowered her slowly to the ground. She was received in safety by Leonard, who carried her in his arms, and placed her on the pillion. The pulley was then drawn up, and her luggage lowered by Mr. Bloundel, and placed in the saddle-bags by the apprentice. Every one saw the necessity of terminating this painful scene. A kindly farewell was taken of Hodges. Amabel waved her hand to her father, when at this moment Patience appeared at the window, and, calling to Blaize, threw a little package tied in a handkerchief to him. Doctor Hodges took up the parcel, and gave it to the porter, who, untying the handkerchief, glanced at a note it enclosed, and, striking his horse with his stick, dashed off towards Cheapside.
"Pursue him!" cried Amabel to Leonard; "he is flying to the Earl of Rochester."
The intimation was sufficient for the apprentice. Urging his horse into a quick pace, he came up with the fugitive, just as he had reached Cheapside. Blaize's mad career had been checked by Nizza Macascree, who, seizing the bridle, stopped the steed. Leonard, who was armed with a heavy riding-whip, applied it unsparingly to Blaize's shoulders.
"Entreat him to hold his hand, dear, good Mistress Amabel," cried the porter; "it was for your sake alone I made this rash attempt. Patience told me you were dying to see the Earl of Rochester, and made me promise I would ride to Whitehall to acquaint his lordship whither you were going. Here is her letter which I was about to deliver." And as he spoke, he handed her the note, which was tied with a piece of packthread, and directed in strange and almost illegible characters.
"Do not hurt him more," said Amabel; "he was not aware of the mischief he was about to commit. And learn from me, Blaize, that, so far from desiring to see the Earl of Rochester, all my anxiety is to avoid him."
"If I had known that," returned the porter, "I would not have stirred a step. But Patience assured me the contrary."
By this time, Doctor Hodges had come up, and an explanation ensued. It was agreed, however, that it would be better not to alarm Mr. Bloundel, but to attribute the porter's sudden flight to mismanagement of his steed. Accordingly, they returned to the residence of the grocer, who was anxiously looking out for them; and after a brief delay, during which the saddlebags were again examined and secured, they departed. Mr. Bloundel looked wistfully after his daughter, and she returned his gaze as long as her blinding eyes would permit her. So unwonted was the sound of horses' feet at this period, that many a melancholy face appeared at the window to gaze at them as they rode by, and Nizza Macascree shuddered as she witnessed the envious glances cast after them by these poor captives. As to Blaize, when they got into Cheapside, he was so terrified by the dismal evidences of the pestilence that met him at every turn, that he could scarcely keep his seat, and it was not until he had drenched himself and his companion with vinegar, and stuffed his mouth with myrrh and zedoary, that he felt anything like composure.
On approaching Newgate Market, they found it entirely deserted. Most of the stalls were removed, the shops closed, and the window-shutters nailed up. It was never, in fact, used at all, except by a few countrymen and higglers, who ventured thither on certain days of the week to sell fresh eggs, butter, poultry, and such commodities. The manner of sale was this. The article disposed of was placed on a flag on one side of the market, near which stood a pump and a trough of water. The vendor then retired, while the purchaser approached, took the article, and put its price into the water, whence it was removed when supposed to be sufficiently purified.
As the party passed Grey Friars, the tramp of their horses was mistaken for the dead-cart, and a door was suddenly opened and a corpse brought forth. Leonard would have avoided the spectacle had it been possible, but they were now too close to Newgate, where they were detained for a few minutes at the gate, while their bills of health were examined and countersigned by the officer stationed there. During this pause Leonard glanced at the grated windows of the prison, the debtors' side of which fronted the street. But not a single face was to be seen. In fact, as has already been stated, the prison was shut up.
The gate was now opened to them, and descending Snow Hill they entered a region completely devastated by the pestilence. So saddening was the sight, that Leonard involuntarily quickened his horse's pace, resolved to get out of this forlorn district as speedily as possible. He was, however, stopped by an unexpected and fearful impediment. When within a short distance of Holborn Bridge, he observed on the further side of it a large black vehicle, and, unable to make out what it was, though a fearful suspicion crossed him, slackened his pace. A nearer approach showed him that it was the pest-cart, filled with its charnel load. The horse was in the shafts, and was standing quite still. Rising in his stirrups to obtain a better view, Leonard perceived that the driver was lying on the ground at a little distance from the cart, in an attitude that proclaimed he had been suddenly seized by the pestilence, and had probably just expired.
Not choosing to incur the risk of passing this contagious load, Leonard retraced his course as far as Holborn Conduit, then turning into Seacole-lane, and making the best of his way to Fleet Bridge, crossed it, and entered the great thoroughfare with which it communicated. He had not proceeded far when he encountered a small party of the watch, to whom he showed his certificate, and recounted the fate of the driver of the dead-cart. At Temple Bar he was again obliged to exhibit his passports; and while there detained, he observed three other horsemen riding towards them from the further end of Fleet-street.
Though much alarmed by the sight, Leonard did not communicate his apprehensions to his companions, but as soon as the guard allowed him to pass, called out to Blaize to follow him, and urging his horse to a quick pace, dashed up Drury-lane. A few minutes' hard riding, during which nothing occurred to give the apprentice further uneasiness, brought them to a road skirting the open fields, in which a pest-house had just been built by the chivalrous nobleman whose habitation in Berkshire they were about to visit. With a courage and devotion that redound more to his honour than the brilliant qualities that won him so high a reputation in the court and in the field, Lord Craven not merely provided the present receptacle for the sick, but remained in London during the whole continuance of the dreadful visitation; "braving," says Pennant, "the fury of the pestilence with the same coolness that he fought the battles of his beloved mistress, Elizabeth, titular Queen of Bohemia, or mounted the tremendous breach of Creutznach." The spot where this asylum was built, and which is the present site of Golden-square, retained nearly half a century afterwards, the name of the Pest-house Fields. Leonard had already been made acquainted by Doctor Hodges with the earl's generous devotion to the public welfare, and warmly commenting upon it, he pointed out the structure to Amabel. But the speed at which she was borne along did not allow her time to bestow more than a hasty glance at it. On gaining Hyde-park Corner, the apprentice cast a look backwards, and his apprehensions were revived by perceiving the three horsemen again in view, and evidently using their utmost exertions to come up with them.
While Leonard was hesitating whether he should make known their danger to Amabel, he perceived Solomon Eagle dart from behind a wall on the left of the road, and plant himself in the direct course of their pursuers, and he involuntarily drew in the rein to see what would ensue. In another moment, the horsemen, who were advancing at full gallop, and whom Leonard now recognised as the Earl of Rochester, Pillichody, and Sir Paul Parravicin, had approached within a few yards of the enthusiast, and threatened to ride over him if he did not get of the way. Seeing, however, that he did not offer to move, they opened on either side of him, and were passing swiftly by, when, with infinite dexterity, he caught hold of the bridle of Rochester's steed, and checking him, seized the earl by the leg, and threw him to the ground.
Sir Paul Parravicin pulled up as soon as he could, and, drawing his sword, rode back to assist his friend, and punish the aggressor; but the enthusiast, nothing daunted, met him in full career, and suddenly lifting up his arms, uttered a loud cry, which so startled the knight's high-spirited horse, that it reared and flung him. All this was the work of a few seconds. Pillichody had been borne forward by the impetuosity of his steed to within a short distance of the apprentice, and seeing the fate of his companions, and not liking Leonard's menacing gestures, he chipped spurs into his horse, and rode up Park-lane.
Overjoyed at his unexpected deliverance, Leonard, whose attention had been completely engrossed by what was passing, now ventured to look at Amabel, and became greatly alarmed at her appearance. She was as pale as death, except a small scarlet patch on either cheek, which contrasted powerfully with the death-like hue of the rest of her countenance. Her hands convulsively clasped the back of the pillion; her lips were slightly apart, and her eyes fixed upon the prostrate form of the Earl of Rochester. On finding they were pursued, and by whom, her first impulse had been to fling herself from the pillion, and to seek safety by flight; but controlling herself, she awaited the result with forced composure, and was now sinking from the exhaustion of the effort.
"Thank Heaven! we are safe," cried the apprentice; "but I fear the shock has been too much for you."
"It has," gasped Amabel, falling against his shoulder. "Let us fly—oh! let us fly."
Inexpressibly shocked and alarmed, Leonard twined his left arm round her waist so as to hold her on the steed, for she was utterly unable to support herself, and glancing anxiously at Nizza Macascree, struck off on the right into the road skirting the Park, and in the direction of Tyburn, where there was a small inn, at which he hoped to procure assistance. Before reaching this place, he was beyond description relieved to find that Amabel had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head.
"The deadly faintness is passed," she murmured; "I shall be better soon. But I fear I am too weak to pursue the journey at present."
Leonard spurred on his steed, and in another instant reached Tyburn, and drew up at the little inn. But no assistance could be obtained there. The house was closed; there was a red cross on the door; and a watchman, stationed in front of it, informed him that all the family had died of the plague except the landlord—"and he will be buried beside them in Paddington churchyard before to-morrow morning," added the man; "for his nurse tells me it is impossible he can survive many hours."
As he spoke an upper window was opened, and a woman, thrusting forth her head, cried, "Poor Master Sandys has just breathed his last. Come in, Philip, and help me to prepare the body for the dead-cart."
"I will be with you in a minute," rejoined the watchman. "You may possibly procure accommodation at the Wheatsheaf at Paddington," he added to Leonard; "it is but a short distance up the road."
Thanking him for the information, Leonard took the course indicated. He had not proceeded far, when he was alarmed by hearing a piteous cry of "Stop! stop!" proceeding from Blaize; and, halting, found that the porter had been so greatly terrified by the watchman's account of the frightful mortality in the poor innkeeper's family, that he had applied to his phial of plague-water, and in pulling it put had dropped his box of rufuses, and the jar of anti-pestilential confection. He had just ascertained his loss, and wished to go back, but this Nizza Macascree would not permit. Enraged at the delay, Leonard peremptorily ordered the porter to come on; and Blaize, casting a rueful glance at his treasures, which he perceived at a little distance in the middle of the road, was compelled to obey.
At Paddington, another disappointment awaited them. The Wheatsheaf was occupied by two large families, who were flying from the infected city, and no accommodation could be obtained. Leonard looked wistfully at Nizza Macascree, as if to ascertain what to do, and she was equally perplexed; but the difficulty was relieved by Amabel herself, who said she felt much better, and able to proceed a little further. "Do not return to London," she continued with great earnestness. "I would rather die on the road than go home again. Some cottage will receive us. If not, I can rest for a short time in the fields."
Thinking it best to comply, Leonard proceeded along the Harrow-road. Soon after crossing Paddington Green, he overtook a little train of fugitives driving a cart filled with children, and laden with luggage. Further on, as he surveyed the beautiful meadows, stretching out on either side of him, he perceived a line of small tents, resembling a gipsy encampment, pitched at a certain distance from each other, and evidently occupied by families who had fled from their homes from fear of infection. This gave a singular character to the prospect. But there were other and far more painful sights on the road, which could not fail to attract attention. For the first half-mile, almost at every hundred yards might be seen some sick man, who, unable to proceed further, had fallen against the hedge-side, and exhibited his sores to move the pity of the passers-by. But these supplications were wholly unheeded. Self-preservation was the first object with all, and the travellers holding handkerchiefs steeped in vinegar to their faces, and averting their heads, passed by on the other side of the way.
The pestilence, it may be remarked, had visited with extraordinary rigour the whole of the higher country at the west and north-west of the metropolis. The charmingly-situated, and, at other seasons, healthful villages of Hampstead and Highgate, suffered severely from the scourge; and it even extended its ravages as far as Harrow-on-the-Hill, which it half depopulated. This will account for the circumstance of a large pest-house being erected in the neighbourhood of Westbourne Green, which the party now approached. Two litters were seen crossing the fields in the direction of the hospital, and this circumstance called Leonard's attention to it. Shudderingly averting his gaze, he quickened his pace, and soon reached a small farmhouse on the summit of the hill rising from Kensal Green. Determined to seek a temporary asylum here for Amabel, he opened a gate, and, riding into the yard, fortunately met with owner of the house, a worthy farmer, named Wingfield, to whom he explained her situation. The man at first hesitated, but, on receiving Leonard's solemn assurance that she was free from the plague, consented to receive the whole party.
Assisting Amabel to dismount, Wingfield conveyed her in his arms into the house, and delivered her to his wife, bidding her take care of her. The injunction was scarcely needed. The good dame, who was a middle-aged woman, with pleasing features, which lost none of their interest from being stamped with profound melancholy, gazed at her for a moment fixedly, and then observed in an under-tone, but with much emotion, to her husband, "Ah! Robert, how much this sweet creature resembles our poor Sarah!"
"Hush! hush! dame," rejoined her husband, hastily brushing away the moisture that sprang to his eyes; "take her to your chamber, and see that she wants nothing. There is another young woman outside, whom I will send to you."
So saying, he returned to the yard. Meantime, the others had dismounted, and Wingfield, bidding Nizza Macascree go in, led the way to the barn, where the horses were tied up, and fodder placed before them. This done, he conducted his guests to the house, and placing cold meat, bread, and a jug of ale before them, desired them to fall to—an injunction which Blaize, notwithstanding his previous repast of roasted figs and pickled walnuts, very readily complied with. While they were thus employed, Dame Wingfield made her appearance. She said that the poor creature (meaning Amabel) was too ill to proceed on her journey that day, and begged her husband to allow her to stop till the next morning, when she hoped she would be able to undertake it.
"To-morrow morning, say you dame?" cried Wingfield; "she may stop till the day after, and the day after that, if you desire it, or she wishes it. Go tell her so."
And as his wife withdrew, well pleased at having obtained her request, Wingfield addressed himself to Leonard, and inquired the cause of Amabel's illness; and as the apprentice saw no necessity for secresy, and felt exceedingly grateful for the kind treatment he had experienced, he acquainted him with the chief particulars of her history. The farmer appeared greatly moved by the recital.
"She resembles my poor Sarah very strongly," he said. "My daughter was hurried into an early grave by a villain who won her affections and betrayed her. She now lies in Willesden churchyard, but her seducer is one of the chief favourites of our profligate monarch."
"Do you mean the Earl of Rochester?" cried Leonard.
"No, no," replied the farmer, whose good-natured countenance had assumed a stern expression. "The villain I mean is worse, if possible, than the earl. He is called Sir Paul Parravicin."
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Leonard, in astonishment; "what a strange coincidence is this!"
And he then proceeded to relate to Wingfield the persecution which Nizza Macascree had endured from the profligate knight The farmer listened to his recital with breathless interest, and when it was ended arose, and, taking a hasty turn round the room, halted at the table and struck it forcibly with his clenched hand.
"I hope that man will never cross my path," he said, all the blood mounting to his face, and his eye kindling with fury. "As God shall judge me, I will kill him if I meet him."
"Then I hope you never will meet him," observed Leonard. "He has injured you enough already, without putting you out of the pale of Divine mercy."
"These rascals have done us all an injury," observed Blaize. "Patience has never been like herself since Major Pillichody entered my master's dwelling, and made love to her. I feel quite uneasy to think how the little hussy will go on during my absence. She can't get out of the house, that's one comfort."
"You have mentioned another wretch, who was constantly with Sir Paul," cried Wingfield. "Perdition seize them!"
"Ay, perdition seize them!" echoed Blaize, striking the table in his turn—"especially Major Pillichody."
"Did you ever suspect Sir Paul to be of higher rank than he pretends?" asked Leonard.
"No," rejoined Wingfield; "what motive have you for the question?"
Leonard then told him of the inquiries instituted by Doctor Hodges relative to Nizza's retreat, and how they had been baffled. "It is strange," he continued, "that Nizza herself never heard the real name of her persecutor; neither can she tell where the house to which she was conveyed, when in a fainting condition, and from which she was removed when attacked with the plague, is situated."
"It is strange indeed," observed the farmer, musingly.
Soon after this, Nizza Macascree made her appearance, and informed them that Amabel had fallen into a tranquil slumber, which, in all probability, would completely renovate her.
"I hope it will," said Wingfield. "But I shall not part with her to-day."
He then entered into conversation with Nizza, and after a little time, proposed to her and Leonard to walk across the fields with him to Willesden, to visit his daughter's grave.
"My wife will take charge of Amabel," he said; "you may safely trust her in her hands."
Leonard could raise no objection, except the possibility that the Earl of Rochester and his companions might discover their retreat, and carry off Amabel in his absence; but, after a little reflection, considering this altogether unlikely, he assented, and they set out. A pleasant walk across the fields brought them to the pretty little village of Willesden and its old and beautiful church. They proceeded to the grave of poor Sarah Wingfield, which lay at the east of the church, beneath one of the tall elms, and Nizza, as she stood by the rounded sod covering the remains of the unfortunate girl, could not restrain her tears.
"This might have been my own fate," she said. "What an escape I have had!"
"I did not bring you here to read you a lesson," said Wingfield, in a tone of deep emotion, "but because you, who know the temptation to which the poor creature who lies there was exposed, will pity her. Not alone did remorse for her conduct prey upon her spirits—not alone did she suffer from self-reproach,—but the scoffs and jeers of her sex, who never forgive an erring sister, broke her heart. She is now, however, beyond the reach of human malice, and, I trust, at peace."
As he said this, he walked away to hide his emotion, and presently afterwards rejoining them, they quitted the churchyard together.
As they recrossed the fields, Wingfield observed two men digging a hole in the ground, and, guessing their object, paused for a few minutes to watch them. Having thrown out the earth to the depth of a couple of feet, one of them took a long hooked pole, and attaching it to the body of a victim to the pestilence, who had wandered into the fields and died there, dragged it towards the pit. As soon as the corpse was pushed into its narrow receptacle, the clay was shovelled over it, and trodden down.
"This is a sad mode of burial for a Christian," observed Wingfield. "But it would not do to leave an infected body to rot in the fields, and spread the contagion."
"Such a grave is better than the plague-pit," rejoined Leonard, recalling the frightful scenes he had witnessed there.
On reaching Wingfield's dwelling, they found from the good dame, that Amabel had awakened from her slumber greatly refreshed; but she gave it as her opinion that she had better remain undisturbed. Accordingly, no one went into the room to her except Nizza Macascree. A substantial dinner was provided for his guests by the hospitable farmer; and Blaize, who had been for some time confined to salt provisions at his master's house, did ample justice to the fresh meat and vegetables.
The meal over, Leonard, who felt exceedingly curious to learn what had become of the mysterious stranger whose child he had carried to the plague-pit, and who had appeared so strangely interested in Nizza Macascree, determined to walk to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields and inquire after him. On communicating his intention to his host, Wingfield would have dissuaded him; but as Leonard affirmed he had no fear of infection, he desisted from the attempt. Just as the apprentice was starting, Blaize came up to him, and said,—"Leonard, I have a great curiosity to see a pest-house, and should like to go with you, if you will let me."
The apprentice stared at him in astonishment.
"You will never dare to enter it," he said.
"I will go wherever you go," replied the porter, with a confidence mainly inspired by the hospitable farmer's strong ale.
"We shall see," replied Leonard. "I shall keep you to your word."
In less than an hour they reached Marylebone Fields (now the Regent's Park), and, crossing them, entered a lane, running in pretty nearly the same direction as the present New-road. It Drought them to Clerkenwell, whence they proceeded to Finsbury Fields, and soon came in sight of the pest-house. When Blaize found himself so near this dreaded asylum, all his courage vanished.
"I would certainly enter the pest-house with you," he said to Leonard, "but I have used up all my vinegar, and you know I lost my box of rufuses and the pot of anti-pestilential confection this morning."
"That excuse shall not serve your turn," replied Leonard. "You can get plenty of vinegar and plague medicine in the pest-house."
"But I have no money to pay for them," rejoined Blaize.
"I will lend you some," said Leonard, placing a few pieces in his hand. "Now, come along."
Blaize would fain have run away, but, afraid of incurring the apprentice's anger, he walked tremblingly after him. They entered the garden-gate, and soon reached the principal door, which, as usual, stood open. Scarcely able to support himself, the porter tottered into the large room; but as he cast his eyes around, and beheld the miserable occupants of the pallets, and heard their cries and groans, he was so scared that he could not move another step, but stood like one transfixed with terror. Paying little attention to him, Leonard walked forward, and at the further extremity of the chamber found the young chirurgeon whom he had formerly seen, and describing the stranger, inquired where he was placed.
"The person you allude to has been removed," returned the chirurgeon. "Doctor Hodges visited him this morning, and had him conveyed to his own dwelling."
"Was he sensible at the time?" asked the apprentice.
"I think not," replied the chirurgeon; "but the doctor appeared to recognise in him an old friend, though I did not hear him mention his name; and it was on that account, I conclude, that he had him removed."
"Is he likely to recover?" asked Leonard, whose curiosity was aroused by what he heard.
"That is impossible to say," replied the young man. "But he cannot be in better hands than those of Doctor Hodges."
Leonard perfectly concurred with him, and, after a few minutes' further conversation, turned to depart. Not seeing Blaize, he concluded he had gone forth, and expected to find him in the garden, or, at all events, in the field adjoining. But he was nowhere to be seen. While wondering what had become of him, Leonard heard a loud cry, in the voice of the porter, issuing from the barn, which, as has already been stated, had been converted into a receptacle for the sick; and hurrying thither, he found Blaize in the hands of two stout assistants, who had stripped him of his clothes, and were tying him down to a pallet. On seeing Leonard, Blaize implored him to deliver him from the hands of his persecutors; and the apprentice assuring the assistants that the poor fellow was perfectly free from infection, they liberated him.
It appeared, on inquiry, that Blaize had fallen against one of the pallets in a state almost of insensibility, and the two assistants, chancing to pass at the time, and taking him for a plague patient, had conveyed him to the barn. On reaching it, he recovered, and besought them to set him free, but they paid no attention to his cries, and proceeded to strip him, and bind him to the bed, as before related.
Thus released, the porter lost no time in dressing himself; and Leonard, to allay his terrors, had a strong dose of anti-pestilential elixir administered to him. After which, having procured him a box of rufuses, and a phial of plague-water, Blaize shook off his apprehension, and they set out at a brisk pace for Kensal Green.
Blaize was destined to experience a second fright. It has been mentioned that the infected were sometimes seized with a rabid desire of communicating the disorder to such as had not been attacked by it; and as the pair were making the best of their way along the Harrow-road, a poor lazar who was lying against the hedge-side, and had vainly implored their assistance, suddenly started up, and with furious cries and gestures made towards the porter. Guessing his intention, Blaize took to his heels, and, folding himself closely pressed, broke through the hedge on the right, and speeded across the field. In spite of the alarming nature of the occurrence, the apprentice could not help laughing at the unwonted agility displayed by the fat little porter, who ran so swiftly that it appeared probable he would distance his pursuer. To prevent mischief, however, Leonard set off after him, and was fast gaining upon the lazar, whose strength was evidently failing, when the poor wretch uttered a loud cry, and fell to the ground. On coming up, Leonard found him lying with his face in the grass, and convulsed by the agonies of death, and perceiving that all was over, hurried after the porter, whom he found seated on a gate, at the further end of the field, solacing himself with a draught of plague-water.
"Oh, Leonard!" groaned the latter, "how little do we know what is for our good! I was delighted to quit my master's house this morning, but I now wish with, all my heart I was back again. I am afraid I shall die of the plague after all. Pray what are the first symptoms?"
"Pooh! pooh! don't think about it, and you will take no harm," rejoined Leonard. "Put by your phial, and let us make the best of our way to Farmer Wingfield's dwelling."
Being now in sight of the farm, which, from its elevated situation, could be distinguished at a distance of two miles in this direction, they easily shaped their course towards it across the fields. When about halfway up the hill, Leonard paused to look behind him. The view was exquisite, and it was precisely the hour (just before sunset) at which it could be seen to the greatest advantage. On the right, his gaze wandered to the beautiful and well-wooded heights of Richmond and Wimbledon, beyond which he could trace the long line of the Surrey hills, while nearer he perceived Notting Hill, now covered with habitations, but then a verdant knoll, crowned by a few trees, but without so much as a cottage upon it. On the left stood Hampstead; at that time a collection of pretty cottages, but wanting its present chief ornament, the church. At the foot of the hill rich meadows, bordered with fine hedges, interspersed with well-grown timber, spread out as far as the eye could reach. Nothing destroyed the rural character of the prospect; nor was there any indication of the neighbourhood of a great city, except the lofty tower and massive body of Saint Paul's, which appeared above the tops of the intervening trees in the distance.
As on former occasions, when contemplating the surrounding country from the summit of the cathedral, Leonard could not help contrasting the beauty of the scene before him with the horrible scourge by which it was ravaged. Never had the country looked so beautiful—never, therefore, was the contrast so forcible; and it appeared to him like a lovely mask hiding the hideous and ghastly features of death. Tinged by the sombre hue of his thoughts, the whole scene changed its complexion. The smiling landscape seemed to darken, and the cool air of evening to become hot and noisome, as if laden with the deadly exhalations of the pestilence. Nor did the workings of his imagination stop here. He fancied even at this distance—nearly seven miles—that he could discern Solomon Eagle on the summit of Saint Paul's. At first the figure looked like a small black speck; but it gradually dilated, until it became twice the size of the cathedral, upon the central tower of which its feet rested, while its arms were spread abroad over the city. In its right hand the gigantic figure held a blazing torch, and in the left a phial, from the mouth of which a stream of dark liquid descended. So vividly did this phantasm present itself to Leonard, that, almost convinced of its reality, he placed his hands before his eyes for a few moments, and, on withdrawing them, was glad to find that the delusion was occasioned by a black cloud over the cathedral, which his distempered fancy had converted into the colossal figure of the enthusiast.
Blaize, who had taken the opportunity of his companion's abstraction to sip a little more plague-water, now approached, and told him that Wingfield was descending the hill to meet them. Rousing himself, Leonard ran towards the farmer, who appeared delighted to see them back again, and conducted them to his dwelling. Owing to the tender and truly maternal attention of Dame Wingfield, Amabel was so much better that she was able to join the party at supper, though she took no share in the meal. Wingfield listened to the soft tones of her voice as she conversed with his wife, and at last, unable to control his emotion, laid down his knife and fork, and quitted the table.
"What is the matter with your husband?" inquired Amabel of her hostess. "I hope he is not unwell."
"Oh! no," replied the good dame; "your voice reminds him of our daughter, whose history I have related to you—that is all."
"Alas!" exclaimed Amabel, with a sympathizing look, "I will be silent, if it pains him to hear me speak."
"On no account," rejoined Dame Wingfield. "The tears he has shed will relieve him. He could not weep when poor Sarah died, and I feared his heart would break. Talk to him as you have talked to me, and you will do him a world of good."
Shortly afterwards, the farmer returned to the table, and the meal proceeded to its close without further interruption. As soon as the board was cleared, Wingfield took a chair by Amabel, who, in compliance with his wife's request, spoke to him about his daughter, and in terms calculated to afford him consolation. Leonard was enraptured by her discourse, and put so little constraint upon his admiration, that Nizza Macascree could not repress a pang of jealousy. As to Blaize, who had eaten as much as he could cram, and emptied a large jug of the farmer's stout ale, he took his chair to a corner, and speedily fell asleep; his hoarse but tranquil breathing proving that the alarms he had undergone during the day did not haunt his slumbers. Before separating for the night, Amabel entreated that prayers might be said, and her request being readily granted, she was about to retire with Nizza, when Wingfield detained them.
"I have been thinking that I might offer you a safe asylum here," he said. "If you like it, you shall remain with us till your health is fully reinstated."
"I thank you most kindly for the offer," returned Amabel, gratefully; "and if I do not accept it, it is neither because I should not esteem myself safe here, nor because I am unwilling to be indebted to your hospitality, but that I have been specially advised, as my last chance of recovery, to try the air of Berkshire. I have little hope myself, but I owe it to those who love me to make the experiment."
"If such is the case," returned the farmer, "I will not attempt to persuade you further. But if at any future time you should need change of air, my house shall be entirely at your service."
Dame Wingfield warmly seconded her husband's wish, and, with renewed thanks, Amabel and her companion withdrew. As there was not sufficient room for their accommodation within the house, Leonard and the porter took up their quarters in the barn, and, throwing themselves upon a heap of straw, slept soundly till three o'clock, when they arose and began to prepare for their journey. Wingfield was likewise astir, and, after assisting them to feed and dress their horses, took them into the house, where a plentiful breakfast awaited them. At the close of the meal, Amabel and Nizza, who had breakfasted in their own room, made their appearance. All being in readiness for their departure, Dame Wingfield took leave of her guests with tears in her eyes, and the honest farmer was little less affected. Both gazed after them as long as they continued in sight.
Having ascertained from Wingfield the route they ought to pursue, Leonard proceeded about a quarter of a mile along the Harrow-road, and then turned off on the left into a common, which brought them to Acton, from whence they threaded a devious lane to Brentford. Here they encountered several fugitives from the great city, and, as they approached Hounslow, learned from other wayfarers that a band of highwaymen, by whom the heath was infested, had become more than usually daring since the outbreak of the pestilence, and claimed a heavy tax from all travellers. This was bad news to Leonard, who became apprehensive for the safety of the bag of gold given to Nizza by the enthusiast, and he would have taken another road if it had been practicable; but as there was no alternative except to proceed, he put all the money he had about him into a leathern purse, trusting that the highwaymen, if they attacked them, would be content with this booty.
When about halfway across the vast heath, which spread around them, in a wild but not unpicturesque expanse, for many miles on either side, Leonard perceived a band of horsemen, amounting perhaps to a dozen, galloping towards them, and, not doubting they were the robbers in question, communicated his suspicions to his companions. Neither Amabel nor Nizza Macascree appeared much alarmed, but Blaize was so terrified that he could scarcely keep his seat, and was with difficulty prevented from turning his horse's head and riding off in the opposite direction.
By this time the highwaymen had come up. With loud oaths, two of their number held pistols to the heads of Leonard and Blaize, and demanded their money. The apprentice replied by drawing forth his purse, and besought the fellow to whom he gave it not to maltreat his companion. The man rejoined with a savage imprecation that he "would maltreat them both if they did not instantly dismount and let him search the saddle-bags;" and he was proceeding to drag Amabel from the saddle, when Leonard struck him a violent blow with his heavy riding-whip, which brought him to the ground. He was up again, however, in an instant, and would have fired his pistol at the apprentice, if a masked individual, who was evidently, from the richness of his attire, and the deference paid him by the others, the captain of the band, had not interfered.
"You are rightly served, Dick Dosset," said this person, "for your rudeness to a lady. I will have none of my band guilty of incivility, and if this young man had not punished you, I would have done so myself. Pass free, my pretty damsel," he added, bowing gallantly to Amabel; "you shall not be further molested."
Meanwhile, Blaize exhibited the contents of his pockets to the other highwayman, who having opened the box of rufuses and smelt at the phial of plague-water, returned them to him with a look of disgust, and bade him follow his companions. As Leonard was departing, the captain of the band rode after him, and inquired whether he had heard at what hour the king meant to leave Whitehall.
"The court is about to adjourn to Oxford," he added, "and the king and some of his courtiers will cross the heath to-day, when I purpose to levy the same tax from his majesty that I do from his subjects."
Leonard replied, that he was utterly ignorant of the king's movements; and explaining whence he came, the captain left him. The intelligence he had thus accidentally obtained was far from satisfactory to the apprentice. For some distance, their road would be the same as that about to be taken by the monarch and his attendants, amongst whom it was not improbable Rochester might be numbered; and the possibility that the earl might overtake them and discover Amabel filled him with uneasiness. Concealing his alarm, however, he urged his steed to a quicker pace, and proceeded briskly on his way, glad, at least, that he had not lost Solomon Eagle's gift to Nizza. Amabel's weakly condition compelled them to rest at frequent intervals, and it was not until evening was drawing in that they descended the steep hill leading to the beautiful village of Henley-upon-Thames, where they proposed to halt for the night.
Crossing the bridge, they found a considerable number of the inhabitants assembled in the main street and in the market-place, in expectation of the king's passing through the town on his way to Oxford, intimation of his approach having been conveyed by avant-couriers. Leonard proceeded to the principal inn, and was fortunate enough to procure accommodation. Having conducted Amabel and Nizza to their room, he was repairing to the stable with Blaize to see after their steeds, when a loud blowing of horns was heard on the bridge, succeeded by the tramp of horses and the rattling of wheels, and the next moment four valets in splendid livery rode up, followed by a magnificent coach. The shouts of the assemblage proclaimed that it was the king. The cavalcade stopped before the inn, from the yard of which six fine horses were brought and attached to the royal carriage, in place of others which were removed. Charles was laughing heartily, and desired his attendants, who were neither numerous nor well-armed, to take care they were not robbed again between this place and Oxford; "Though," added the monarch, "it is now of little consequence, since we have nothing to lose."
"Is it possible your majesty can have been robbed?" asked the landlord, who stood cap in hand at the door of the carriage.
"I'faith, man, itispossible," rejoined the king. "We were stopped on Hounslow Heath by a band of highwaymen, who carried off two large coffers filled with gold, and would have eased us of our swords and snuff-boxes but for the interposition of their captain, who, as we live, is one of the politest men breathing—is he not, Rochester?"
Leonard Holt, who was among the crowd of spectators, started at the mention of this name, and he trembled as the earl leaned forward in answer to the king's question. The eyes of the rivals met at this moment, for both were within a few yards of each other, and Rochester, whose cheek was flushed with anger, solicited the king's permission to alight, but Charles, affirming it was getting late, would not permit him, and as the horses were harnessed, and the drivers mounted, he ordered them to proceed without delay.
Inexpressibly relieved by his rival's departure, Leonard returned to the house, and acquainted Amabel with what had occurred. Quitting Henley betimes on the following morning, they arrived in about three hours at Wallingford, where they halted for some time, and, then pursuing their journey, reached Wantage at four o'clock, where they tarried for an hour. Up to this hour, Leonard had doubted the possibility of reaching their destination that night; but Amabel assuring him she felt no fatigue, he determined to push on. Accordingly, having refreshed their steeds, they set forward, and soon began to mount the beautiful downs lying on the west of this ancient town.
Crossing these heights, whence they obtained the most magnificent and extensive views of the surrounding country, they reached in about three-quarters of an hour the pretty little hamlet of Kingston Lisle. Here they again paused at a small inn at the foot of a lofty hill, denominated, from a curious relic kept there, the Blowing Stone. This rocky fragment, which is still in existence, is perforated by a number of holes, which emit, if blown into, a strange bellowing sound. Unaware of this circumstance, Leonard entered the house with the others, and had just seated, himself, when they were, astounded by a strange unearthly roar. Rushing forth, Leonard found Blaize with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth applied to the stone, into which he was blowing with all his force, and producing the above-mentioned extraordinary noise.
Shortly after this, the party quitted the Blowing Stone, and having toiled up the steep sides of the hill, they were amply repaid on reaching its summit by one of the finest views they had ever beheld. In fact, the hill on which they stood commanded the whole of the extensive and beautiful vale of the White Horse, which was spread out before them as far as the eye could reach, like a vast panorama, disclosing a thousand fields covered with abundant, though as yet immature crops. It was a goodly prospect, and seemed to promise plenty and prosperity to the country. Almost beneath them stood the reverend church of Uffington overtopping the ancient village clustering round it. Numerous other towers and spires could be seen peeping out of groves of trees, which, together with the scattered mansions and farmhouses surrounded by granges and stacks of hay and beans, gave interest and diversity to the prospect. The two most prominent objects in the view were the wooded heights of Farringdon on the one hand, and those of Abingdon on the other.
Proceeding along the old Roman road, still distinctly marked out, and running along the ridge of this beautiful chain of hills, they arrived at an immense Roman encampment, vulgarly called Uffingham Castle, occupying the crown of a hill. A shepherd, who was tending a flock of sheep which were browsing on the delicious herbage to be found within the vast circular space enclosed by the inner vallum of the camp, explained its purpose, and they could not but regard it with interest. He informed them that they were in the neighbourhood of the famous White Horse, a figure cut out of the turf on the hillside by the Saxons, and visible for many miles. Conducting them to a point whence they could survey this curious work, their guide next directed them to Ashdown Lodge, which lay, he told them, at about four miles' distance. They had wandered a little out of their course, but he accompanied them for a mile, until they came in sight of a thick grove of trees clothing a beautiful valley, above which could be seen the lofty cupola of the mansion.
Cheered by the sight, and invigorated by the fresh breeze blowing in this healthful region, they pressed forward, and soon drew near the mansion, which they found was approached by four noble avenues. They had not advanced far, when a stalwart personage, six feet two high, and proportionately stoutly made, issued from the covert. He had a gun over his shoulder and was attended by a couple of fine dogs. Telling them he was called John Lutcombe, and was the Earl of Craven's gamekeeper, he inquired their business, and, on being informed of it, changed his surly manner to one of great cordiality, and informed them that Mrs. Buscot—such was the name of Amabel's aunt—was at home, and would be heartily glad to see them.
"I have often heard her speak of her brother, Mr. Bloundel," he said, "and am well aware that he is an excellent man. Poor soul! she has been very uneasy about him and his family during this awful dispensation, though she had received a letter to say that he was about to close his house, and hoped, under the blessing of Providence, to escape the pestilence. His daughter will be welcome, and she cannot come to a healthier spot than Ashdown, nor to a better nurse than Mrs. Buscot."
With this, he led the way to the court-yard, and, entering the dwelling, presently returned with a middle-aged woman, who Amabel instantly knew, from the likeness to her father, must be her aunt. Mrs. Buscot caught her in her arms, and almost smothered her with kisses. As soon as the first transports of surprise and joy had subsided, the good housekeeper took her niece and Nizza Macascree into the house, and desired John Lutcombe to attend to the others.