“There was a time, sir,” rejoined Leonard, in a tone of deep emotion, “when I hoped it might be so, but that time is past.”
“No such thing,” replied the doctor. “Now is the time to make an impression. Her heart is on the rebound. She is satisfied of her lover’s treachery. Her mother is on your side. Do not neglect the present opportunity, for another may not arrive.” With this he pushed Leonard into the room, and, shutting the door upon him, hurried downstairs.
“You have arrived at a seasonable juncture, Leonard,” observed Mrs.
Bloundel, noticing the apprentice’s perplexity, and anxious to relieve
it. “We have just discovered that the person calling himself Maurice
Wyvil is no other than the Earl of Rochester.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Leonard.
“Yes, indeed,” returned Mrs. Bloundel. “But this is not all. Amabel has promised to forget him, and I have urged her to think of you.”
“Amabel,” said Leonard, advancing towards her, and taking her hand, “I can scarcely credit what I hear. Will you confirm your mother’s words?”
“Leonard,” returned Amabel, “I am not insensible to your good qualities, and no one can more truly esteem you than I do. Nay, till I unfortunately saw the Earl of Rochester, whom I knew not as such, I might have loved you. But now I cannot call my heart my own. I have not the affection you deserve to bestow upon you. If I can obliterate this treacherous man’s image from my memory — and Heaven, I trust, will give me strength to do so — I will strive to replace it with your own.”
“That is all I ask,” cried Leonard, dropping on his knee before her, and pressing his lips to her hand.
“Nothing would make me happier than to see you united, my children,” said Mrs. Bloundel, bending affectionately over them.
“And I would do anything to make you happy, dear mother,” replied
Amabel, gently withdrawing her hand, from that of the apprentice.
“Before I leave you,” said Leonard, rising, “I must give you this note. I found it lying before your chamber door as I passed this morning. How it came there I know not, but I can give a shrewd guess as to the writer. I ought to tell you, that but for what has just occurred, I should not have delivered it to you.”
“It is from Wyvil — I mean Rochester,” said Amabel, taking the note with a trembling hand.
“Let me see it, child,” cried Mrs. Bloundel, snatching it from her, and breaking the seal. “Insolent!” she exclaimed, as she cast her eyes over it. “I can scarcely contain my indignation. But let him cross my path again, and he shall find whether I cannot resent such shameful usage.”
“What does he say, dear mother ?” asked Amabel.
“You shall hear,” replied Mrs. Bloundel, “though I blush to repeat his words: ‘Amabel, you are mine. No one shall keep you from me. Love like mine will triumph over all obstacles!’ — Love like his, forsooth!” she remarked; “let him keep such stuff as that for Mistress Mallet, or his other mistresses. But I will go on: ‘I may be foiled ninety-nine times, but the hundredth will succeed. We shall soon meet again. ‘MAURICE WYVIL.’”
“Never!” cried Amabel. “We will never meet again. If he holds me thus cheaply, I will let him see that he is mistaken. Leonard Holt, I have told you the exact state of my feelings. I do not love you now, but I regard you as a true friend, and love may come hereafter. If in a month’s time you claim my hand; if my father consents to our union, for you are aware that my mother will not oppose it — I am yours.”
Leonard attempted to speak, but his voice was choked with emotion, and the tears started to his eyes.
“Farewell,” said Amabel. “Do not let us meet till the appointed time.
Rest assured, I will think of you as you deserve.”
“We could not meet till that time, even if you desired it,” said Leonard, “for your father has forbidden any of the household, except old Josyna, to approach you till all fear of contagion is at an end, and I am now transgressing his commands. But your mother, I am sure, will acquit me of intentional disobedience.”
“I do,” replied Mrs. Bloundel; “it was the doctor who forced you into the room. But I am heartily glad he did so.”
“Farewell, Amabel,” said Leonard. “Though I shall not see you, I will watch carefully over you.” And gazing at her with unutterable affection, he quitted the chamber.
“You must now choose between the heartless and depraved nobleman, who would desert you as soon as won,” observed Mrs. Bloundel, “and the honest apprentice, whose life would be devoted to your happiness.”
“I have chosen,” replied her daughter.
Doctor Hodges found the grocer writing at a small table, close to the bedside of his son.
“I am happy to tell you, Mr. Bloundel,” he said, in a low tone, as he entered the room, “that all your family are still free from infection, and with due care will, I hope, continue so. But I entirely approve of your resolution of keeping apart from them till the month has expired. If your son goes on as he is doing now, he will be as strong as ever in less than a fortnight. Still, as we cannot foresee what may occur, it is better to err on the cautious side.”
“Pray be seated for a moment,” rejoined the grocer, motioning the other to the chair. “I mentioned to you last night that in case my son recovered, I had a plan which I trusted (under Providence!) would preserve my family from the further assaults of the pestilence.”
“I remember your alluding to it,” replied Hodges, “and should be glad to know what it is.”
“I must tell it you in confidence,” rejoined Bloundel, “because I think secresy essential to its entire accomplishment. My plan is a very simple one, and only requires firmness in its execution — and that quality, I think, I possess. It is your opinion, I know, as it is my own, that the plague will increase in violence and endure for months — probably, till next winter. My intention is to store my house with provisions, as a ship is victualled for a long voyage, and then to shut it up entirely till the scourge ceases.”
“If your project is practicable,” said Hodges, after a moment’s reflection, “I have no doubt it will be attended, with every good result you can desire. This house, which is large and roomy, is well adapted for your purpose. But you must consider well whether your family will submit to be imprisoned during the long period you propose.”
“They shall remain close prisoners, even if the pestilence lasts for a twelvemonth,” replied the grocer. “Whoever quits the house, when it is once closed, and on whatever plea, be it wife, son, or daughter, returns not. That is my fixed resolve.”
“And you are right,” rejoined Hodges, “for on that determination the success of your scheme entirely depends.”
While they were thus conversing, Leonard entered the chamber, and informed his master that Chowles, the coffin-maker, and Mrs. Malmayns, the plague-nurse, desired to see him.
“Mrs. Malmayns!” exclaimed Hodges, in surprise. “I heard that something very extraordinary occurred last night in Saint Faith’s. With your permission, Mr. Bloundel, she shall be admitted; I want to ask her a few questions. You had better hesitate about engaging her,” he observed to the grocer, as Leonard departed, “for she is a woman of very indifferent character, though she may (for aught I know) be a good and fearless nurse.”
“If there is any doubt about her, I cannot hesitate,” returned
Bloundel.
As he said this, the door was opened by Leonard, and Chowles and Judith entered the room. The latter, on seeing the doctor, looked greatly embarrassed.
“I have brought you the nurse I spoke of, Mr. Bloundel,” said Chowles, bowing, “and am come to inquire whether you want a coffin to-night.”
“Mr. Bloundel is not likely to require a coffin at present, Chowles,” returned the doctor, severely; “neither does his son stand in need of a nurse. How is your husband, Mrs. Malmayns?”
“He is dead, sir,” replied Judith.
“Dead!”
echoed the doctor. “When I left him at one o’clock this morning, he was doing well. Your attendance seems to have accelerated his end.”
“His death was occasioned by an accident, sir,” replied Judith. “He became delirious about three o’clock, and, in spite of all my efforts to detain him, started out of bed, rushed into Saint Faith’s, and threw himself into a pit, which Mr. Lilly and some other persons had digged in search of treasure.”
“This is a highly improbable story, Mrs. Malmayns,” returned Hodges, “and I must have the matter thoroughly investigated before I lose sight of you.”
“I will vouch for the truth of Mrs. Malmayn’s statement,” interposed
Chowles.
“You!” cried Hodges, contemptuously.
“Yes, I,” replied the coffin-maker. “It seems that the sexton had found a chest of treasure buried in Saint Faith’s, and being haunted by the idea that some one was carrying it off, he suddenly sprang out of bed, and rushed to the church, where, sure enough, Mr. Lilly, Mr. Quatremain, the Earl of Rochester, and Sir George Etherege, having, by the help of mosaical rods, discovered this very chest, were digging it up. Poor Matthew instantly plunged into the grave, and died of a sudden chill.”
“That is not impossible,” observed Hodges, after a pause. “But what has become of the treasure?”
“It is in the possession of Mr. Quatremain, who has given notice of it to the proper authorities,” replied Chowles. “It consists, as I understand, of gold pieces struck in the reign of Philip and Mary, images of the same metal, crosses, pyxes, chalices, and other Popish and superstitious vessels, buried, probably, when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, and the religion changed.”
“Not unlikely,” replied Hodges. “Where is your husband’s body, Mrs.
Malmayns?”
“It has been removed to the vault which he usually occupied,” replied
Judith. “Mr. Chowles has undertaken to bury it to-night.”
“I must see it first,” replied Hodges, “and be sure that he has not met with foul play.”
“And I will accompany you,” said Chowles. “So you do not want a coffin,
Mr. Bloundel?”
The grocer shook his head.
“Good day, Mr. Bloundel,” said Hodges. “I shall visit you to-morrow, and hope to find your son as well as I leave him. Chowles, you will be answerable for the safe custody of Mrs. Malmayns.”
“I have no desire to escape, sir,” replied the nurse. “You will find everything as I have represented.”
“We shall see,” replied the doctor. “If not, you will have to tend the sick in Newgate.”
The trio then proceeded to Saint Paul’s, and descended to the vaults. Hodges carefully examined the body of the unfortunate sexton, but though he entertained strong suspicions, he could not pronounce positively that he had been improperly treated; and as the statement of Mrs. Malmayns was fully borne out by the vergers and others, he did not think it necessary to pursue the investigation further. As soon as he was gone, Judith accompanied the coffin-maker to his residence, where she remained, till the evening, when she was suddenly summoned, in a case of urgency, by a messenger from Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell.
X.
THE DUEL.
After Parravicin’s terrible announcement, Disbrowe offered him no further violence, but, flinging down his sword, burst open the door, and rushed upstairs. His wife was still insensible, but the fatal mark that had betrayed the presence of the plague to the knight manifested itself also to him, and he stood like one entranced, until Mrs. Disbrowe, recovering from her swoon, opened her eyes, and, gazing at him, cried— “You here! — Oh Disbrowe, I dreamed you had deserted me — had sold me to another.”
“Would it were a dream!” replied her husband.
“And was it not so?” she rejoined, pressing her hand to her temples. “It is true! oh! yes, I feel it is. Every circumstance rushes upon me plainly and distinctly. I see the daring libertine before me. He stood where you stand, and told me what you had done.”
“What did he tell you, Margaret?” asked Disbrowe in a hollow voice.
“He told me you were false — that you loved another, and had abandoned me.”
“He lied!” exclaimed Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. “It is true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you — yes, you, Margaret — against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to you — never.”
“Faithless or not,” replied his wife, bitterly, “it is plain you value me less than play, or you would not have acted thus.”
“Reproach me not, Margaret,” replied Disbrowe; “I would give worlds to undo what I have done.”
“Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?” said Mrs.
Disbrowe, coldly. “But you have not yet informed me how I was saved.”
Disbrowe averted his head.
“What mean you?” she cried, seizing his arm. “What has happened? Do not keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?”
“Your preserver was the plague,” rejoined Disbrowe, in a sombre tone.
The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken only by exclamations of anguish from both.
“Disbrowe!” cried Margaret, at length, raising herself in bed, “you have deeply — irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing.”
“I swear to do whatever you may desire,” he replied.
“I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the deed,” she continued. “But I would have you kill this man.”
“I will do it,” replied Disbrowe.
“Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me,” she rejoined. “Challenge him to a duel — a mortal duel. If he survives, by my soul, I will give myself to him.”
“Margaret!” exclaimed Disbrowe.
“I swear it,” she rejoined. “And you know my passionate nature too well to doubt I will keep my word.”
“But you have the plague!”
“What does that matter? I may recover.”
“Not so,” muttered Disbrowe. “If I fall, I will take care you do not recover. I will fight him to-morrow,” he added aloud.
He then summoned his servants, but when they found their mistress was attacked by the plague, they framed some excuse to leave the room, and instantly fled the house. Driven almost to his wits’ end, Disbrowe went in search of other assistance, and was for a while unsuccessful, until a coachman, to whom he applied, offered, for a suitable reward, to drive to Clerkenwell — to the shop of an apothecary named Sibbald (with whose name the reader is already familiar), who was noted for his treatment of plague patients, and to bring him to the other’s residence. Disbrowe immediately closed with the man, and in less than two hours Sibbald made his appearance. He was a singular and repulsive personage, with an immense hooked nose, dark, savage-looking eyes, a skin like parchment, and high round shoulders, which procured him the nickname of Aesop among his neighbours. He was under the middle size, and of a spare figure, and in age might be about sixty-five.
On seeing Mrs. Disbrowe, he at once boldly asserted that he could cure her, and proceeded to apply his remedies. Finding the servants fled, he offered to procure a nurse for Disbrowe, and the latter, thanking him, eagerly embraced the offer. Soon after this he departed. In the evening the nurse, who (as may be surmised) was no other than Judith Malmayns, arrived, and immediately commenced her functions.
Disbrowe had no rest that night. His wife slept occasionally for a few minutes, but, apparently engrossed by one idea, never failed when she awoke to urge him to slay Parravicin; repeating her oath to give herself to the knight if he came off victorious. Worn out at length, Disbrowe gave her a terrible look, and rushed out of the room.
He had not been alone many minutes when he was surprised by the entrance of Judi
th. He eagerly inquired whether his wife was worse, but was informed she had dropped into a slumber.
“Hearing what has passed between you,” said the nurse, “and noticing your look when you left the room, I came to tell you, that if you fall in this duel, your last moments need not be embittered by any thoughts of your wife. I will take care she does not recover.”
A horrible smile lighted up Disbrowe’s features.
“You are the very person I want,” he said. “When I would do evil, the fiend rises to my bidding. If I am slain, you know what to do. How shall I requite the service?”
“Do not concern yourself about that, captain,” rejoined Judith. “I will take care of myself.”
About noon, on the following day, Disbrowe, without venturing to see his wife, left the house, and proceeded to the Smyrna, where, as he expected, he found Parravicin and his companions.
The knight instantly advanced towards him, and, laying aside for the moment his reckless air, inquired, with a look of commiseration, after his wife.
“She is better,” replied Disbrowe, fiercely. “I am come to settle accounts with you.”
“I thought they were settled long ago,” returned Parravicin, instantly resuming his wonted manner. “But I am glad to find you consider the debt unpaid.”
Disbrowe lifted the cane he held in his hand, and struck the knight with it forcibly on the shoulder. “Be that my answer,” he said.
“I will have your life first, and your wife afterwards,” replied
Parravicin, furiously.
“You shall have her if you slay me, but not otherwise,” retorted
Disbrowe. “It must be a mortal duel.”
“It must,” replied Parravicin. “I will not spare you this time.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 235
