The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Father!” she cried, rushing towards him and throwing herself at his feet, “do not cast me off for ever. I am not now to blame. It is owing to my determination to disclose all to you that the earl has thus revealed himself. I might have deceived you further — might have fled with him.”

  “Forgive her! oh, forgive her!” cried Mrs. Bloundel— “or, if any ill happens to her, you will be answerable for it.”

  “Is this the truth, my lord?” asked the grocer.

  Rochester bowed stiffly in acquiescence.

  “Then you are again my child,” said Bloundel, raising her, and pressing her to his bosom. “What are your intentions towards her?” he continued, addressing the earl.

  “They may be readily surmised,” replied Rochester, with a scornful laugh.

  “Will you wed her, if I agree to the union,” asked Bloundel, trembling with concentrated rage.

  Amabel looked at her lover as if her life hung on his answer.

  Rochester affected not to hear the question, but, as it was repeated still more peremptorily, he repeated carelessly,— “I will consider of it.”

  “Deceived! deceived!” cried Amabel, falling on her mother’s neck, and bursting into tears.

  “This outrage shall not pass unpunished,” cried Bloundel. And before the earl could draw his sword or offer any resistance, he threw himself upon him, and hurling him to the ground, set his foot upon his bosom.

  “Do not kill him,” shrieked Amabel, terrified by the stern expression of her father’s countenance.

  “What are you about to do?” gasped Rochester, struggling ineffectually to get free.

  “Bid Stephen bring a cord,” cried the grocer.

  “You are not going to hang him?” inquired Mrs. Bloundel.

  “Do as I bid you,” rejoined her husband, “and lose no time.”

  As she was about to leave the room, the door opened, and Doctor Hodges entered, followed by Leonard and Stephen.

  “Mercy on us! what’s the matter?” cried the former, in astonishment.

  “You are just arrived in time to prevent mischief,” replied Mrs.

  Bloundel. “Pray interfere between them. My husband will attend to you.”

  “Arise, my lord,” said Mr. Bloundel, removing his foot from the prostrate nobleman; “you are sufficiently punished by being found in this disgraceful condition. Remember that your life has been at my disposal.”

  Thus liberated, Rochester sprang to his feet, and regarding the group with a menacing and disdainful look, walked up to Amabel, and saying to her, “You shall yet be mine,” strode out of the room. He then marched along the passage, and called to Pillichody, who instantly answered the summons. Accompanied by Hodges, the grocer followed them to the shop, where the bully not departing so quickly as he desired, and refusing to be more expeditious, he kicked him into the street. This done, and the door fastened, he tarried only till he had received all needful explanations from the friendly physician, and then returning to the inner room, warmly greeted Leonard, and congratulated him on his extraordinary recovery from the plague.

  Happiness was thus once more restored to every member of the grocer’s family, except Amabel, who still continued downcast and dejected, and entreated permission to retire to her own room. A cheerful evening was then passed by the others, and the doctor did not offer to take his departure till the clock struck eleven.

  “It is the last night I shall spend here for some months,” he said; “perhaps the last I shall ever spend here, and I have stayed longer than I intended, but I did not like to abridge my enjoyment.” After shaking hands cordially with the whole party, he added in an under tone, as he took leave of Leonard, “Do not forget Nizza Macascree.”

  On the following day the grocer nailed up the shutters, and locked and barred the doors of his house.

  BOOK THE THIRD. JUNE, 1665.

  I.

  THE IMPRISONED FAMILY.

  The first few days of their confinement were passed by the grocer’s family in a very uncomfortable manner. No one, except Mr. Bloundel, appeared reconciled to the plan, and even he found it more difficult of accomplishment that he had anticipated. The darkness of the rooms, and the want of ventilation caused by the closed windows and barred doors, gave the house the air of a prison, and occasioned a sense of oppression almost intolerable. Blaize declared it was “worse than being in Newgate, and that he must take an additional rufus to set right his digestion;” while Patience affirmed “that it was like being buried alive, and that she would not stand it.” Mr. Bloundel paid no attention to their complaints, but addressed himself seriously to the remedy. Insisting upon the utmost attention being paid to cleanliness, he had an abundant supply of water drawn, with which the floors of every room and passage were washed down daily. By such means the house was kept cool and wholesome; and its inmates, becoming habituated to the gloom, in a great degree recovered their cheerfulness.

  The daily routine of the establishment was as follows. The grocer arose at dawn, and proceeded to call up the whole of his family. They then assembled in a large room on the second story, where he offered up thanks that they had been spared during the night, and prayed for their preservation during the day. He next assigned a task to each, and took care to see it afterwards duly fulfilled; well knowing that constant employment was the best way to check repining and promote contentment. Heretofore the servants had always taken their meals in the kitchen, but now they always sat down to table with him. “I will make no distinction at this season,” he said; “all shall fare as I fare, and enjoy the same comforts as myself. And I trust that my dwelling may be as sure a refuge amid this pestilential storm as the ark of the patriarch proved when Heaven’s vengeance was called forth in the mighty flood.”

  Their devotions ended, the whole party repaired to one of the lower rooms, where a plentiful breakfast was provided, and of which they all partook. The business of the day then began, and, as has just been observed, no one was suffered to remain idle. The younger children were allowed to play and exercise themselves as much as they chose in the garret, and Blaize and Patience were occasionally invited to join them. A certain portion of the evening was also devoted to harmless recreation and amusements. The result may be anticipated. No one suffered in health, while all improved in spirits. Prayers, as usual, concluded the day, and the family retired to rest at an early hour.

  This system of things may appear sufficiently monotonous, but it was precisely adapted to the exigencies of the case, and produced a most salutary effect. Regular duties and regular employments being imposed upon each, and their constant recurrence, so far from being irksome, soon became agreeable. After a while the whole family seemed to grow indifferent to the external world — to live only for each other, and to think only of each other — and to Leonard Holt, indeed, that house was all the world. Those walls contained everything dear to him, and he would have been quite content never to leave them if Amabel had been always near. He made no attempt to renew his suit — seldom or never exchanging a word with her, and might have been supposed to have become wholly indifferent to her. But it was not so. His heart was consumed by the same flame as before. No longer, however, a prey to jealousy — no longer apprehensive of the earl — he felt so happy, in comparison with what he had been, that he almost prayed that the term of their imprisonment might be prolonged. Sometimes the image of Nizza Macascree would intrude upon him, and he thought, with a feeling akin to remorse, of what she might suffer — for he was too well acquainted with the pangs of unrequited love not to sympathise deeply with her. As to Amabel, she addressed herself assiduously to the tasks enjoined by her father, and allowed her mind to dwell as little as possible on the past, but employed all her spare time in devotional exercises.

  It will be remembered that the grocer had reserved a communication with the street, by means of a shutter opening from a small room in the upper story. Hither he would now frequently repair, and though he did not as yet think it necessary to have recourse
to all the precautionary measures he intended eventually to adopt — such as flashing a pistol when he looked forth — yet he never opened the shutter without holding a phial of vinegar, or a handkerchief wetted with the same liquid, to his face.

  Before closing his house he had hired a porter, who occupied the hutch at his door, and held himself in readiness to execute any commission, or perform any service that might be required. Fresh vegetables, poultry, eggs, butter, and milk, were brought by a higgler from the country, and raised by means of a basket or a can attached to the pulley. Butcher’s meat was fetched him from Newgate-market by the porter. This man, whose name was Ralph Dallison, had been formerly in the employ of the grocer, who, knowing his character, could place entire reliance on him. Dallison reported the progress of the pestilence daily, and acquainted him with the increasing amount of the bills of mortality. Several houses, he said, were infected in Cheapside, and two in Wood-street, one of which was but a short distance from the grocer’s habitation. A watchman was stationed at the door, and the red cross marked upon it, and on the following night the grocer heard the sound of the doleful bell announcing the approach of the pest-cart.

  The weather still continued as serene and beautiful as ever, but no refreshing showers fell — no soft and healthful breezes blew — and it was now found to be true, what had been prognosticated — viz, that with the heats of summer the plague would fearfully increase. The grocer was not incommoded in the same degree as his neighbours. By excluding the light he excluded the heat, and the care which he took to have his house washed down kept it cool. The middle of June had arrived, and such dismal accounts were now brought him of the havoc occasioned by the scourge, that he would no longer take in fresh provisions, but began to open his stores. Dallison told him that the alarm was worse than ever — that vast numbers were endeavouring to leave the city, but no one could now do so without a certificate, which was never granted if the slightest suspicion was attached to the party.

  “If things go on in this way,” said the porter, “London will soon be deserted. No business is conducted, as it used to be, and everybody is viewed with distrust. The preachers, who ought to be the last to quit, have left their churches, and the Lord’s day is no longer observed. Many medical men even have departed, declaring their services are no longer of any avail. All public amusements are suspended, and the taverns are only open to the profane and dissolute, who deride God’s judgments, and declare they have no fear. Robberies, murders, and other crimes, have greatly increased, and the most dreadful deeds are now committed with impunity. You have done wisely, sir, in protecting yourself against them.”

  “I have reason to be thankful that I have done so,” replied Bloundel.

  And he closed his shutter to meditate on what he had just heard.

  And there was abundant food for reflection. Around him lay a great and populous city, hemmed in, as by a fire, by an exterminating plague, that spared neither age, condition, nor sex. No man could tell what the end of all this would be — neither at what point the wrath of the offended Deity would stop — nor whether He would relent, till He had utterly destroyed a people who so contemned his word. Scarcely daring to hope for leniency, and filled with a dreadful foreboding of what would ensue, the grocer addressed a long and fervent supplication to Heaven, imploring a mitigation of its wrath.

  On joining his family, his grave manner and silence showed how powerfully he had been affected. No one questioned him as to what had occurred, but all understood he had received some distressing intelligence.

  Amid his anxiety one circumstance gave him unalloyed satisfaction. This was the change wrought in Amabel’s character. It has been stated that she had become extremely devout, and passed the whole of the time not appointed for other occupations, in the study of the Scriptures, or in prayer. Her manner was extremely sedate, and her conversation assumed a tone that gave her parents, and especially her father, inexpressible pleasure. Mrs. Bloundel would have been equally delighted with the change, if it had tended to forward her own favourite scheme of a union with Leonard; but as this was not the case, though she rejoiced in the improvement, she still was not entirely satisfied. She could not help noting also, that her daughter had become pale and thin, and though she uttered no complaint, Mrs. Bloundel began to fear her health was declining. Leonard Holt looked on in wonder and admiration, and if possible his love increased, though his hopes diminished; for though Amabel was kinder to him than before, her kindness seemed the result rather of a sense of duty than regard.

  Upon one occasion they were left alone together, and instead of quitting the room, as she had been accustomed, Amabel called to Leonard, who was about to depart, and requested him to stay. The apprentice instantly obeyed; the colour forsook his cheek, and his heart beat violently.

  “You desire to speak with me, Amabel,” he said:— “Ha! you have relented? — Is there any hope for me?”

  “Alas! no,” she replied; “and it is on that very point I have now detained you. You will, I am sure, rejoice to learn that I have at length fully regained my peace of mind, and have become sensible of the weakness of which I have been guilty — of the folly, worse than folly, I have committed. My feelings are now under proper restraint, and viewing myself with other eyes, I see how culpable I have been. Oh! Leonard, if you knew the effort it has been to conquer the fatal passion that consumed me, if I were to tell you of the pangs it has cost me, of the tears I have shed, of the heart-quakes endured, you would pity me.”

  “I do, indeed, pity you,” replied Leonard, “for my own sufferings have been equally severe. But I have not been as successful as you in subduing them.”

  “Because you have not pursued the right means, Leonard,” she rejoined. “Fix your thoughts on high; build your hopes of happiness on Heaven; strengthen your faith; and you will soon find the victory easy. A short time ago I thought only of worldly pleasures, and was ensnared by vanity and admiration, enchained to one whom I knew to be worthless, and who pursued me only to destroy me. Religion has preserved me from the snare, and religion will restore you to happiness. But you must devote yourself to Heaven, not lightly, but with your whole soul. You must forget me — forget yourself — forget all but the grand object. And this is a season of all others, when it is most needful to lead a life of piety, to look upon yourself as dead to this world, and to be ever prepared for that to come. I shudder to think what might have been my portion had I perished in my sin.”

  “Yours is a most happy frame of mind,” returned Leonard, “and I would I had a chance of attaining the same tranquillity. But if you have conquered your love for the earl, — if your heart is disengaged, why deny me a hope?”

  “My heart is not disengaged, Leonard,” she replied; “it is engrossed by Heaven. While the plague is raging around us thus — while thousands are daily carried off by that devouring scourge — and while every hour, every moment, may be our last, our thoughts ought always to be fixed above. I have ceased to love the earl, but I can never love another, and therefore it would be unjust to you, to whom I owe so much, to hold out hopes that never can be realized.”

  “Alas! alas!” cried Leonard, unable to control his emotion.

  “Compose yourself, dear Leonard,” she cried, greatly moved. “I would I could comply with your wishes. But, alas! I cannot. I could only give you,” she added, in a tone so thrilling, that it froze the blood in his veins— “a breaking, perhaps a broken heart!”

  “Gracious heaven!” exclaimed Leonard, becoming as pale as death; “is it come to this?”

  “Again, I beg you to compose yourself,” she rejoined, calmly— “and I entreat you not to let what I have told you pass your lips. I would not alarm my father, or my dear and anxious mother, on my account. And there may be no reason for alarm. Promise me, therefore, you will be silent.”

  Leonard reluctantly gave the required pledge.

  “I have unwittingly been the cause of much affliction to you,” pursued Amabel— “and would gladly
see you happy, and there is one person, I think, who would make you so — I mean Nizza Macascree. From what she said to me when we were alone together in the vaults of Saint Faith’s, I am sure she is sincerely attached to you. Could you not requite her love?”

  “No,” replied Leonard. “There is no change in affection like mine.”

  “Pursue the course I have advised,” replied Amabel, “and you will find all your troubles vanish. Farewell! I depend upon your silence!”

  And she quitted the room, leaving Leonard in a state of indescribable anxiety.

  Faithful, however, to his promise, he made no mention of his uneasiness to the grocer or his wife, but indulged his grief in secret. Ignorant of what was passing, Mr. Bloundel, who was still not without apprehension of some further attempt on the part of the earl, sent Dallison to make inquiries after him, and learnt that he was at Whitehall, but that the court had fixed to remove to Hampton Court at the end of June. The porter also informed him that the city was emptying fast — that the Lord Mayor’s residence was literally besieged with applications for bills of health — that officers were stationed at the gates — and that, besides these, barriers and turnpikes were erected on all the main roads, at which the certificates were required to be exhibited — and that such persons as escaped without them were driven back by the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages, who refused to supply them with necessaries; and as they could not return home, many had perished of want, or perhaps of the pestilence, in the open fields. Horses and coaches, he added, were not to be procured, except at exorbitant prices; and thousands had departed on foot, locking up their houses, and leaving their effects behind them.

  “In consequence of this,” added Dallison, “several houses have been broken open; and though the watch had been trebled, still they cannot be in all places at once; and strong as the force is, it is not adequate to the present emergency. Bands of robbers stalk the streets at night, taking vehicles with them, built to resemble pest-carts, and beating off the watch, they break open the houses, and carry off any goods they please.”