“Let me go, Lydyard,” returned Wyvil, trying to extricate himself from his companion’s hold, who was no other than the gallant that had accompanied him on his first visit to the grocer’s shop, and had played his part so adroitly in the scheme devised between them to procure an interview with Amabel,— “let me go, I say, I am in no mood for jesting.”
“Why, what the plague is the matter?” rejoined Lydyard. “Has your mistress played you false? Have you lost your wager?”
“The plague is the matter,” replied Wyvil, sternly. “Amabel is attacked by it. I must see her instantly.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Lydyard. “Here is a pretty termination to the affair. But if this is really the case, you must not see her. It is one thing to be run through the arm, — which you must own I managed as dexterously as the best master of fence could have done, — and lose a few drops of blood for a mistress, but it is another to brave the plague on her account.”
“I care for nothing,” replied Wyvil; “I will see her.”
“This is madness!” remonstrated Lydyard, still maintaining his grasp. “What satisfaction will it afford you to witness her sufferings — to see the frightful ravages made upon her charms by this remorseless disease, — to throw her whole family into consternation, and destroy the little chance she may have of recovery, by your presence? What good will this do? No, — you must pay your wager to Sedley, and forget her.”
“I cannot forget her,” replied Wyvil. “My feelings have undergone a total change. If I am capable of real love, it is for her.”
“Real love!” exclaimed Lydyard, in an incredulous tone. “If the subject were not too serious, I should laugh in your face. No doubt you would marry her, and abandon your design upon the rich heiress, pretty Mistress Mallet, whom old Rowley recommended to your attention, and whom the fair Stewart has more than half-won for you?”
“I would,” replied the other, energetically.
“Nay, then, you are more insane than I thought you,” rejoined Lydyard, relinquishing his hold; “and the sooner you take the plague the better. It may cure your present brain fever. I shall go back to Parravicin, and the others. You will not require my assistance further.”
“I know not,” replied Wyvil, distractedly; “I have not yet given up my intention of carrying off the girl.”
“If you carry her oft in this state,” rejoined the other, “it must be to the pest-house. But who told you she was attacked by the plague?”
“Her father’s apprentice,” replied Wyvil.
“And you believed him?” demanded Lydyard, with a derisive laugh.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Wyvil. “Why not?”
“Because it is evidently a mere trick to frighten you from the house,” rejoined Lydyard. “I am surprised so shallow a device should succeed with you.”
“I wish I could persuade myself it was a trick,” returned Wyvil. “But the fellow’s manner convinced me he was in earnest.”
“Well, I will not dispute the point, though I am sure I am right,” returned Lydyard. “But be not too precipitate. Since the apprentice has seen you, some alteration may be necessary in your plans. Come with me into the house. A few minutes can make no difference.”
Wyvil suffered himself to be led up the court, and passing through a door on the left, they entered a spacious room, across which ran a long table, furnished at one end with wine and refreshments, and at the other with cards and dice.
Three persons were seated at the table, the most noticeable of whom was a dissipated-looking young man, dressed in the extremity of the prevailing mode, with ruffles of the finest colbertine, three inches in depth, at his wrists; a richly-laced cravat round his throat; white silk hose, adorned with gold clocks; velvet shoes of the same colour as the hose, fastened with immense roses; a silver-hilted sword, supported by a broad embroidered silk band; and a cloak and doublet of carnation-coloured velvet, woven with gold, and decorated with innumerable glittering points and ribands. He had a flowing wig of flaxen hair, and a broad-leaved hat, looped with a diamond buckle, and placed negligently on the left side of his head. His figure was slight, but extremely well formed; and his features might have been termed handsome, but for their reckless and licentious expression. He was addressed by his companions as Sir Paul Parravicin.
The person opposite to him, whose name was Disbrowe, and who was likewise a very handsome young man, though his features were flushed and disturbed, partly by the wine he had drunk, and partly by his losses at play, was equipped in the splendid accoutrements of a captain in the king’s body-guard. His left hand convulsively clutched an empty purse, and his eyes were fixed upon a large sum of money, which he had just handed over to the knight, and which the latter was carelessly transferring to his pocket.
The last of the three, whose looks betrayed his character — that of a sharper and a bully — called himself Major Pillichody, his pretensions to military rank being grounded upon his service (so ran his own statement, though it was never clearly substantiated) in the king’s army during the civil wars. Major Pillichody was a man of remarkably fierce exterior. Seamed with many scars, and destitute of the left eye, the orifice of which was covered, with a huge black patch; his face was of a deep mulberry colour, clearly attesting his devotion to the bottle; while his nose, which was none of the smallest, was covered with “bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames of fire.” He was of the middle size, stoutly built, and given to corpulency, though not so much so as to impair his activity. His attire consisted of a cloak and doublet of scarlet cloth, very much stained and tarnished, and edged with gold lace, likewise the worse for wear; jack-boots, with huge funnel tops; spurs, with enormous rowels, and a rapier of preposterous length. He wore his own hair, which was swart and woolly, like that of a negro; and had beard and moustaches to match. His hat was fiercely cocked; his gestures swaggering and insolent; and he was perpetually racking his brain to invent new and extra-ordinary oaths.
“So soon returned!” cried Parravicin, as Wyvil appeared. “Accept my congratulations?”
“And mine!” cried Pillichody. “We wild fellows have but to be seen to conquer. Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice!” he added, smacking his lips, as he filled a glass from a long-necked bottle on the table; “May the grocer’s daughter prove sweeter than her father’s plums, and more melting than his butter! Is she without? Are we to see her?”
Wyvil made no answer, but, walking to the other end of the room, threw himself into a chair, and, covering his face with his hands, appeared wrapped in thought. Lydyard took a seat beside him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation; but, finding his efforts fruitless, he desisted.
“Something is wrong,” observed Parravicin, to the major. “He has been foiled in his attempt to carry off the girl. Sedley has won his wager, and it is a heavy sum. Shall we resume our play?” he added, to Disbrowe.
“I have nothing more to lose,” observed the young man, filling a large goblet to the brim, and emptying it at a draught. “You are master of every farthing I possess.”
“Hum!” exclaimed Parravicin, taking up a pack of cards, and snapping them between his finger and thumb. “You are married, Captain Disbrowe?”
“What if I am?” cried the young man, becoming suddenly pale; “what if I am?” he repeated.
“I am told your wife is beautiful,” replied Parravicin.
“Beautiful!” ejaculated Pillichody; “by the well-filled coffers of the widow of Watling-street! she is an angel. Beautiful is not the word: Mrs. Disbrowe is divine!”
“You have never seen her,” said the young man, sternly.
“Ha! — fire and fury! my word doubted,” cried the major, fiercely. “I have seen her at the play-houses, at the Mulberry-garden, at court, and at church. Not seen her! By the one eye of a Cyclops, but I have! You shall hear my description of her, and judge of its correctness. Imprimis, she has a tall and majestic figure, and might be a queen for her dignity.”
“Go on,” sa
id Disbrowe, by no means displeased with the commencement.
“Secondly,” pursued Pillichody, “she has a clear olive complexion, bright black eyes, hair and brows to match, a small foot, a pretty turn-up nose, a dimpling cheek, a mole upon her throat, the rosiest lips imaginable, an alluring look—”
“No more,” interrupted Disbrowe. “It is plain you have never seen her.”
“Unbelieving pagan!” exclaimed the major, clapping his hand furiously upon his sword. “I have done more — I have spoken with her.”
“A lie!” replied Disbrowe, hurling a dice-box at his head.
“Ha!” roared Pillichody, in a voice of thunder, and pushing back his chair till it was stopped by the wall. “Death and fiends! I will make mincemeat of your heart, and send it as a love-offering to your wife.”
And, whipping out his long rapier, he would have assaulted Disbrowe, if Sir Paul had not interposed, and commanded him authoritatively to put up his blade.
“You shall have your revenge in a safer way,” he whispered.
“Well, Sir Paul,” rejoined the bully, with affected reluctance, “as you desire it, I will spare the young man’s life. I must wash away the insult in burgundy, since I cannot do so in blood.”
With this, he emptied the flask next him, and called to a drawer, who was in attendance, in an imperious tone, to bring two more bottles.
Parravicin, meanwhile, picked up the dice-box, and, seating himself, spread a large heap of gold on the table.
“I mentioned your wife, Captain Disbrowe,” he said, addressing the young officer, who anxiously watched his movements, “not with any intention of giving you offence, but to show you that, although you have lost your money, you have still a valuable stake left.”
“I do not understand you, Sir Paul,” returned Disbrowe, with a look of indignant surprise.
“To be plain, then,” replied Parravicin, “I have won from you two hundred pounds — all you possess. You are a ruined man, and, as such, will run any hazard to retrieve your losses. I give you a last chance. I will stake all my winnings, nay, double the amount, against your wife. You have a key of the house you inhabit, by which you admit yourself at all hours; so at least the major informs me. If I win, that key shall be mine. I will take my chance for the rest. Do you understand me now?”
“I do,” replied the young man, with concentrated fury. “I understand that you are a villain. You have robbed me of my money, and would rob me of my honour.”
“These are harsh words, sir,” replied the knight, calmly; “but let them pass. We will play first, and fight afterwards. But you refuse my challenge ?”
“It is false!” replied Disbrowe, fiercely, “I accept it.” And producing a key, he threw it on the table. “My life is, in truth, set on the die,” he added, with a desperate look— “for if I lose, I will not survive my shame.”
“You will not forget our terms,” observed Parravicin. “I am to be your representative to-night. You can return home to-morrow.”
“Throw, sir — throw,” cried the young man, fiercely.
“Pardon, me,” replied the knight; “the first cast is with you. A single main decides it.”
“Be it so,” returned Disbrowe, seizing the box. And as he shook the dice with a frenzied air, the major and Lydyard drew near the table, and even Wyvil roused himself to watch the result.
“Twelve!” cried Disbrowe, as he removed the box. “My honour is saved! My fortune retrieved — Huzza!”
“Not so fast,” returned Parravicin, shaking the box in his turn. “You were a little too hasty,” he added, uncovering the dice. “I am twelve, too. We must throw again.”
“This to decide,” cried the young officer, again rattling the dice.
“Six!”
Parravicin smiled, took the box, and threw ten.
“Perdition!” ejaculated Disbrowe, striking his brow with his clenched hand. “What devil tempted me to my undoing? — My wife trusted to this profligate! Horror! — it must not be!”
“It is too late to retract,” replied Parravicin, taking up the key, and turning with a triumphant look to his friends.
Disbrowe noticed the smile, and stung beyond endurance, drew his sword, and called to the knight to defend himself.
In an instant, passes were exchanged. But the conflict was brief. Fortune, as before, declared herself in favour of Parravicin. He disarmed his assailant, who rushed out of the room, uttering the wildest ejaculations of rage and despair.
“I told you you should have your revenge,” observed the knight to Pillichody, as soon as Disbrowe was gone. “Is his wife really as beautiful as you represent her?”
“Words are too feeble to paint her charms,” replied the major. “Shafts of Cupid! she must be seen to be appreciated.”
“Enough!” returned Parravicin. “I have not made a bad night’s work of it, so far. I’faith, Wyvil, I pity you. To lose a heavy wager is provoking enough — but to lose a pretty mistress is the devil.”
“I have lost neither yet,” replied Wyvil, who had completely recovered his spirits, and joined in the general merriment occasioned by the foregoing occurrence. “I have been baffled, not defeated. What say you to an exchange of mistresses? I am so diverted with your adventure, that I am half inclined to give you the grocer’s daughter for Disbrowe’s wife. She is a superb creature — languid as a Circassian, and passionate as an Andalusian.”
“I can’t agree to the exchange, especially after your rapturous description,” returned Parravicin, “but I’ll stake Mrs. Disbrowe against Amabel. The winner shall have both. A single cast shall decide, as before.”
“No,” replied Wyvil, “I could not resign Amabel, if I lost. And the luck is all on your side to-night.”
“As you please,” rejoined the knight, sweeping the glittering pile into his pocket. “Drawer, another bottle of burgundy. A health to our mistresses!” he added, quaffing a brimmer.
“A health to the grocer’s daughter!” cried Wyvil, with difficulty repressing a shudder, as he uttered the pledge.
“A health to the rich widow of Watling-street,” cried Pillichody, draining a bumper, “and may I soon call her mine!”
“I have no mistress to toast,” said Lydyard; “and I have drunk wine enough. Do not forget, gentlemen, that the plague is abroad.”
“You are the death’s-head at the feast, Lydyard,” rejoined Parravicin, setting down his glass. “I hate the idea of the plague. It poisons all our pleasures. We must meet at noon to-morrow, at the Smyrna, to compare notes as to our successes. Before we separate, can I be of any further service to you, Wyvil? I came here to enjoy your triumph; but, egad, I have found so admirable a bubble in that hot-headed Disbrowe, whom I met at the Smyrna, and brought here to while away the time, that I must demand your congratulations upon mine.”
“You have certainly achieved an easy victory over the husband,” returned Wyvil; “and I trust your success with the wife will be commensurate. I require no further assistance. What I have to do must be done alone. Lydyard will accompany me to the house, and then I must shift for myself.”
“Nay, we will all see you safe inside,” returned Parravicin, “We shall pass by the grocer’s shop. I know it well, having passed it a hundred times, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its lovely inmate.”
“I am glad it was a vain hope,” replied Wyvil. “But I must scale a wall to surprise the garrison.”
“In that case you will need the rope-ladder,” replied Lydyard; “it is in readiness.”
“I will carry it,” said Pillichody, picking up the ladder which was lying in a corner of the room, and throwing it over his shoulders. “Bombs and batteries! I like to be an escalader when the forts of love are stormed.”
The party then set out. As they proceeded, Parravicin ascertained from the major that Disbrowe’s house was situated in a small street leading out of Piccadilly, but as he could not be quite sure that he understood his informant aright, he engaged him to accompany him
and point it out.
By this time they had reached Wood-street, and keeping in the shade, reconnoitred the house. But though Wyvil clapped his hands, blew a shrill whistle, and made other signals, no answer was returned, nor was a light seen at any of the upper windows. On the contrary, all was still and silent as death.
The grocer’s was a large, old-fashioned house, built about the middle of the preceding century, or perhaps earlier, and had four stories, each projecting over the other, till the pile seemed completely to overhang the street. The entire front, except the upper story, which was protected by oaken planks, was covered with panels of the same timber, and the projections were supported by heavy beams, embellished with grotesque carvings. Three deeply-embayed windows, having stout wooden bars, filled with minute diamond panes, set in leaden frames, were allotted to each floor; while the like number of gables, ornamented with curiously-carved coignes, and long-moulded leaden spouts, shooting far into the street, finished the roof. A huge sign, with the device of Noah’s Ark, and the owner’s name upon it, hung before the door.
After carefully examining the house, peeping through the chinks in the lower shutters, and discovering the grocer seated by the bedside of his son, though he could not make out the object of his solicitude, Wyvil decided upon attempting an entrance by the backyard. To reach it, a court and a narrow alley, leading to an open space surrounded by high walls, had to be traversed. Arrived at this spot, Wyvil threw one end of the rope ladder over the wall, which was about twelve feet high, and speedily succeeding in securing it, mounted, and drawing it up after him, waved his hand to his companions, and disappeared on the other side. After waiting for a moment to listen, and hearing a window open, they concluded he had gained admittance, and turned to depart.
“And now for Mrs. Disbrowe!” cried Parravicin. “We shall find a coach or a chair in Cheapside. Can I take you westward, Lydyard?”
But the other declined the offer, saying, “I will not desert Wyvil. I feel certain he will get into some scrape, and may need me to help him out of it. Take care of yourself, Parravicin. Beware of the plague, and of what is worse than the plague, an injured husband. Good-night, major.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 229
