The crowd continued to batter the door until they were checked by Lamplugh, who declared he heard some one approaching, and the next moment the voice of one of the vergers inquired in trembling tones, who they were, and what they wanted.
“No matter who we are,” replied Leonard, “we demand admittance to search for a young female who has been taken from her home by the Earl of Rochester, and is now concealed within the vaults of the cathedral.”
“If admittance is refused us, we will soon let ourselves in,” vociferated Lamplugh.
“Ay, that we will,” added the smith.
“You are mistaken, friends,” returned the verger, timorously. “The Earl of Rochester is not here.”
“We will not take your word for it,” rejoined the smith. “This will show you we are not to be trifled with.”
So saying, he raised his hammer, and struck such a tremendous blow against the door, that the bolts started in their sockets.
“Hold! hold!” cried the verger; “sooner than violence shall be committed, I will risk your admission.”
And he unfastened the door.
“Keep together,” shouted the smith, stretching out his arms to oppose the progress of the crowd. “Keep together, I say.”
“Ay, ay, keep together,” added Lamplugh, seconding his efforts.
“Conduct us to the Earl of Rochester, and no harm shall befall you,” cried Leonard, seizing the verger by the collar.
“I tell you I know nothing about him,” replied the man. “He is not here.”
“It is false! you are bribed to silence,” rejoined the apprentice. “We will search till we find him.”
“Search where you please,” rejoined the verger; “and if you do find him, do what you please with me.”
“Don’t be afraid of that, friend,” replied the smith; “we will hang you and the earl to the same pillar.”
By this time, the crowd had pushed aside the opposition offered by the smith and Lamplugh. Solomon Eagle darted along the nave with lightning swiftness, and, mounting the steps leading to the choir, disappeared from view. Some few persons followed him, while others took their course along the aisles. But the majority kept near the apprentice.
Snatching the lamp from the grasp of the verger, Leonard Holt ran on with his companions till they came to the beautiful chapel built by Thomas Kempe, bishop of London. The door was open, and the apprentice, holding the light forward, perceived there were persons inside. He was about to enter the chapel, when a small spaniel rushed forth, and, barking furiously, held him in check for a moment. Alarmed by the noise, an old man in a tattered garb, and a young female, who were slumbering on benches in the chapel, immediately started to their feet, and advanced towards them.
“We are mistaken,” said Lamplugh; “this is only Mike Macascree, the blind piper and his daughter Nizza. I know them well enough.”
Leonard was about to proceed with his search, but a slight circumstance detained him for a few minutes, during which time he had sufficient leisure to note the extraordinary personal attractions of Nizza Macascree.
In age she appeared about seventeen, and differed in the character of her beauty, as well as in the natural gracefulness of her carriage and demeanour, from all the persons he had seen in her humble sphere of life. Her features were small, and of the utmost delicacy. She had a charmingly-formed nose — slightly retroussé — a small mouth, garnished with pearl-like teeth, and lips as fresh and ruddy as the dew-steeped rose. Her skin was as dark as a gipsy’s, but clear and transparent, and far more attractive than the fairest complexion. Her eyes were luminous as the stars, and black as midnight; while her raven tresses, gathered beneath a spotted kerchief tied round her head, escaped in many a wanton curl down her shoulders. Her figure was slight, but exquisitely proportioned; and she had the smallest foot and ankle that ever fell to the lot of woman. Her attire was far from unbecoming, though of the coarsest material; and her fairy feet were set off by the daintiest shoes and hose. Such was the singular and captivating creature that attracted the apprentice’s attention.
Her father, Mike Macascree, was upwards of sixty, but still in the full vigour of life, with features which, though not ill-looking, bore no particular resemblance to those of his daughter. He had a good-humoured, jovial countenance, the mirthful expression of which even his sightless orbs could not destroy. Long white locks descended upon his shoulders, and a patriarchal beard adorned his chin. He was wrapped in a loose grey gown, patched with different coloured cloths, and supported himself with a staff. His pipe was suspended from his neck by a green worsted cord.
“Lie down, Bell,” he cried to his dog; “what are you barking at thus?
Lie down, I say.”
“Something is the matter, father,” replied Nizza. “The church is full of people.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the piper.
“We are sorry to disturb you,” said Leonard; “but we are in search of a nobleman who has run away with a citizen’s daughter, and conveyed her to the cathedral, and we thought they might have taken refuge in this chapel.”
“No one is here except myself and daughter,” replied the piper. “We are allowed this lodging by Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon.”
“All dogs are ordered to be destroyed by the Lord Mayor,” cried the smith, seizing Bell by the neck. “This noisy animal must be silenced.”
“Oh, no! do not hurt her!” cried Nizza. “My father loves poor Bell almost as well as he loves me. She is necessary to his existence. You must not — will not destroy her!”
“Won’t I?” replied the smith, gruffly; “we’ll see that.”
“But we are not afraid of contagion, are we, father?” cried Nizza, appealing to the piper.
“Not in the least,” replied Mike, “and we will take care the poor beast touches no one else. Do not harm her, sir — for pity’s sake, do not. I should miss her sadly.”
“The Lord Mayor’s commands must be obeyed,” rejoined the smith, brutally.
As if conscious of the fate awaiting her, poor Bell struggled hard to get free, and uttered a piteous yell.
“You are not going to kill the dog?” interposed Leonard.
“Have you anything to say to the contrary?” rejoined the smith, in a tone calculated, as he thought, to put an end to further interference.
“Only this,” replied Leonard, “that I will not allow it.”
“You won’t — eh?” returned the smith, derisively.
“I will not,” rejoined Leonard, “so put her down and come along.”
“Go your own way,” replied the smith, “and leave me to mine.”
Leonard answered by snatching Bell suddenly from his grasp. Thus liberated, the terrified animal instantly flew to her mistress.
“Is this the return I get for assisting you?” cried the smith, savagely. “You are bewitched by a pair of black eyes. But you will repent your folly.”
“I shall never forget your kindness,” replied Nizza, clasping Bell to her bosom, and looking gratefully at the apprentice. “You say you are in search of a citizen’s daughter and a nobleman. About half an hour ago, or scarcely so much, I was awakened by the opening of the door of the southern transept, and peeping out, I saw three persons — a young man in the dress of a watchman, but evidently disguised, and a very beautiful young woman, conducted by Judith Malmayns, bearing a lantern, — pass through the doorway leading to Saint Faith’s. Perhaps they are the very persons you are in search of.”
“They are,” returned Leonard; “and you have repaid me a hundredfold for the slight service I have rendered you by the information. We will instantly repair to the vaults. Come along.”
Accompanied by the whole of the assemblage, except the smith, who skulked off in the opposite direction, he passed through the low doorway on the right of the choir, and descended to Saint Faith’s. The subterranean church was buried in profound darkness, and apparently wholly untenanted. On reaching the charnel, they crossed it, and tried the door of
the vault formerly occupied by the sexton. It was fastened, but Leonard knocking violently against it, it was soon opened by Judith Malmayns, who appeared much surprised, and not a little alarmed, at the sight of so many persons. She was not alone, and her companion was Chowles. He was seated at a table, on which stood a flask of brandy and a couple of glasses, and seemed a good deal confused at being caught in such a situation, though he endeavoured to cover his embarrassment by an air of effrontery.
“Where is the Earl of Rochester? — where is Amabel?” demanded Leonard
Holt.
“I know nothing about either of them,” replied Judith. “Why do you put these questions to me?”
“Because you admitted them to the cathedral,” cried the apprentice, furiously, “and because you have concealed them. If you do not instantly guide me to their retreat, I will make you a terrible example to all such evil-doers in future.”
“If you think to frighten me by your violence, you are mistaken,” returned Judith, boldly. “Mr. Chowles has been here more than two hours — ask him whether he has seen any one.”
“Certainly not,” replied Chowles. “There is no Amabel — no Earl of
Rochester here. You must be dreaming, young man.”
“The piper’s daughter affirmed the contrary,” replied Leonard. “She said she saw this woman admit them.”
“She lies,” replied Judith, fiercely. But suddenly altering her tone, she continued, “If I had admitted them, you would find them here.”
Leonard looked round uneasily. He was but half convinced, and yet he scarcely knew what to think.
“If you doubt what I say to you,” continued Judith, “I will take you to every chamber in the cathedral. You will then be satisfied that I speak the truth. But I will not have this mob with me. Your companions must remain here.”
“Ay, stop with me and make yourselves comfortable,” cried Chowles. “You are not so much used to these places as I am, I prefer a snug crypt, like this, to the best room in a tavern — ha! ha!”
Attended by Judith, Leonard Holt searched every corner of the subterranean church, except the vestry, the door of which was locked, and the key removed; but without success. They then ascended to the upper structure, and visited the choir, the transepts, and the nave, but with no better result.
“If you still think they are here,” said Judith, “we will mount to the summit of the tower?”
“I will never quit the cathedral without them,” replied Leonard.
“Come on, then,” returned Judith.
So saying, she opened the door in the wall on the left of the choir, and, ascending a winding stone staircase to a considerable height, arrived at a small cell contrived within the thickness of the wall, and desired Leonard to search it. The apprentice unsuspectingly obeyed. But he had scarcely set foot inside when the door was locked behind him, and he was made aware of the treachery practised upon him by a peal of mocking laughter from his conductress.
VI.
OLD LONDON FROM OLD SAINT PAUL’S.
After repeated, but ineffectual efforts to burst open the door, Leonard gave up the attempt in despair, and endeavoured to make his situation known by loud outcries. But his shouts, if heard, were unheeded, and he was soon compelled from exhaustion to desist. Judith having carried away the lantern, he was left in total darkness; but on searching the cell, which was about four feet wide and six deep, he discovered a narrow grated loophole. By dint of great exertion, and with the help of his sword, which snapped in twain as he used it, he managed to force off one of the rusty bars, and to squeeze himself through the aperture. All his labour, however, was thrown away. The loophole opened on the south side of the tower, near one of the large buttresses, which projected several yards beyond it on the left, and was more than twenty feet above the roof; so that it would be certain destruction to drop from so great a height.
The night was overcast, and the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Still, there was light enough to enable him to discern the perilous position in which he stood. After gazing below for some time, Leonard was about to return to the cell, when, casting his eyes upwards, he thought he perceived the end of a rope about a foot above his head, dangling from the upper part of the structure. No sooner was this discovery made, than it occurred to him that he might possibly liberate himself by this unlooked for aid; and, regardless of the risk he ran, he sprang upwards and caught hold of the rope. It was firmly fastened above, and sustained his weight well.
Possessed of great bodily strength and activity, and nerved by desperation, Leonard Holt placed his feet against the buttress, and impelled himself towards one of the tall pointed windows lighting the interior of the tower; but though he reached the point at which he aimed, the sway of the rope dragged him back before he could obtain a secure grasp of the stone shaft; and, after another ineffectual effort, fearful of exhausting his strength, he abandoned the attempt, and began to climb up the rope with his hands and knees. Aided by the inequalities of the roughened walls, he soon gained a range of small Saxon arches ornamenting the tower immediately beneath the belfry, and succeeded in planting his right foot on the moulding of one of them; he instantly steadied himself, and with little further effort clambered through an open window.
His first act on reaching the belfry was to drop on his knees, and return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance. He then looked about for an outlet; but though a winding staircase existed in each of the four angles of the tower, all the doors, to his infinite disappointment, were fastened on the other side. He was still, therefore, a prisoner.
Determined, however, not to yield to despair, he continued his search, and finding a small door opening upon a staircase communicating with the summit of the tower, he unfastened it (for the bolt was on his own side), and hurried up the steps. Passing through another door bolted like the first within side, he issued upon the roof. He was now on the highest part of the cathedral, and farther from his hopes than ever; and so agonizing were his feelings, that he almost felt tempted to fling himself headlong downwards. Beneath him lay the body of the mighty fabric, its vast roof, its crocketed pinnacles, its buttresses and battlements scarcely discernible through the gloom, but looking like some monstrous engine devised to torture him.
Wearied with gazing at it, and convinced of the futility of any further attempt at descent, Leonard Holt returned to the belfry, and, throwing himself on the boarded floor, sought some repose. The fatigue he had undergone was so great, that, notwithstanding his anxiety, he soon dropped asleep, and did not awake for several hours. On opening his eyes, it was just getting light, and shaking himself, he again prepared for action. All the events of the night rushed upon his mind, and he thought with unutterable anguish of Amabel’s situation. Glancing round the room, it occurred to him that he might give the alarm by ringing the enormous bells near him; but though he set them slightly in motion, he could not agitate the immense clappers sufficiently to produce any sound.
Resolved, however, to free himself at any hazard, he once more repaired to the summit of the tower, and leaning over the balustrade, gazed below. It was a sublime spectacle, and, in spite of his distress, filled him with admiration and astonishment. He had stationed himself on the south side of the tower, and immediately beneath him lay the broad roof of the transept, stretching out to a distance of nearly two hundred feet. On the right, surrounded by a double row of cloisters, remarkable for the beauty of their architecture, stood the convocation, or chapter-house. The exquisite building was octagonal in form, and supported by large buttresses, ornamented on each gradation by crocketed pinnacles. Each side, moreover, had a tall pointed window, filled with stained glass, and was richly adorned with trefoils and cinquefoils. Further on, on the same side, was the small low church dedicated to Saint Gregory, overtopped by the south-western tower of the mightier parent fane.
It was not, however, the cathedral itself, but the magnificent view it commanded, that chiefly attracted the apprentice’s attention. From the eleva
ted point on which he stood, his eye ranged over a vast tract of country bounded by the Surrey hills, and at last settled upon the river, which in some parts was obscured by a light haze, and in others tinged with the ruddy beams of the newly-risen sun. Its surface was spotted, even at this early hour, with craft, while innumerable vessels of all shapes and sizes were moored, to its banks. On. the left, he noted the tall houses covering London Bridge; and on the right, traced the sweeping course of the stream as it flowed from Westminster. On this hand, on the opposite bank, lay the flat marshes of Lambeth; while nearer stood the old bull-baiting and bear-baiting establishments, the flags above which could be discerned above the tops of the surrounding habitations. A little to the left was the borough of Southwark, even then a large and populous district — the two most prominent features in the scene being Winchester House, and Saint Saviour’s old and beautiful church.
Filled with wonder at what he saw, Leonard looked towards the east, and here an extraordinary prospect met his gaze. The whole of the city of London was spread out like a map before him, and presented a dense mass of ancient houses, with twisted chimneys, gables, and picturesque roofs — here and there overtopped by a hall, a college, an hospital, or some other lofty structure. This vast collection of buildings was girded in by grey and mouldering walls, approached by seven gates, and intersected by innumerable narrow streets. The spires and towers of the churches shot up into the clear morning air — for, except in a few quarters, no smoke yet issued from the chimneys. On this side, the view of the city was terminated by the fortifications and keep of the Tower. Little did the apprentice think, when he looked at the magnificent scene before him, and marvelled at the countless buildings he beheld, that, ere fifteen months had elapsed, the whole mass, together with the mighty fabric on which he stood, would be swept away by a tremendous conflagration. Unable to foresee this direful event, and lamenting only that so fair a city should be a prey to an exterminating pestilence, he turned towards the north, and suffered his gaze to wander over Finsbury-fields, and the hilly ground beyond them — over Smithfield and Clerkenwell, and the beautiful open country adjoining Gray’s-inn-lane.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 241
