The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “On that condition only, I will confide it to you,” replied the piper; “but not now — not now — to-morrow morning, if I am alive.”

  “It may be out of your power then,” returned Leonard, “For your daughter’s sake, I urge you not to delay.”

  “It is for her sake I am silent,” rejoined the piper. “Come along — come along” he added, hurrying forward. “Are we far from the pest-house? My strength is failing me.”

  On arriving at their destination, they were readily admitted to the asylum; but a slight difficulty arose, which, however, was speedily obviated. All the couches were filled, but on examining them it was found that one of the sick persons had just been released from his sufferings, and the body being removed, the piper was allowed to take its place. Leonard remained by him for a short time, but, overpowered by the pestilential effluvia, and the sight of so many miserable objects, he was compelled to seek the open air. Returning, however, shortly afterwards, he found the piper in a very perturbed state. On hearing Leonard’s voice he appeared greatly relieved, and, taking his gown from beneath his pillow, gave it to him, and desired him to unrip a part of the garment, in which it was evident something was sewn. The apprentice complied, and a small packet dropped forth.

  “Take it,” said the piper; “and if I die, — and Nizza should happily be preserved from her ravisher, give it her. But not otherwise — not otherwise. Implore her to forgive me — to pity me.”

  “Forgive you — her father?” cried Leonard, in astonishment.

  “That packet will explain all,” replied the piper in a troubled tone. “You promised to take charge of poor Bell,” he added, drawing forth the little animal, who had crept to the foot of the bed, “here she is. Farewell! my faithful friend,” he added, pressing his rough lips to her forehead, while she whined piteously, as if beseeching him to allow her to remain; “farewell for ever.”

  “Not for ever, I trust,” replied Leonard, taking her gently from him.

  “And now you had better go,” said the piper. “Return, if you can, to-morrow.”

  “I will, — I will,” replied Leonard; and he hurried out of the room.

  He was followed to the door by the young chirurgeon — the same who had accompanied Mr. Bloundel during his inspection of the pest-house, — and he inquired of him if he thought the piper’s case utterly hopeless.

  “Not utterly so,” replied the young man. “I shall be able to speak more positively in a few hours. At present, I think, with care and attention, there is a chance of his recovery.”

  Much comforted by this assurance, Leonard departed, and afraid to put Bell to the ground lest she should run back to her master, he continued to carry her, and endeavoured to attach her to him by caresses and endearments. The little animal showed her sense of his kindness by licking his hands, but she still remained inconsolable, and ever and anon struggled to get free. Making the best of his way to Wood-street, he entered the hutch, and placing a little straw in one corner for Bell, threw himself on a bench and dropped asleep. At six o’clock he was awakened by the barking of the dog, and opening the door beheld Dallison. The grocer was at the window above, and about to let down a basket of provisions to them. To Leonard’s eager inquiries after Amabel, Mr. Bloundel replied by a melancholy shake of the head, and soon afterwards withdrew. With a sad heart, the apprentice then broke his fast, — not forgetting at the same time the wants of his little companion, — and finding he was not required by his master, he proceeded to Doctor Hodges’ residence. He was fortunate enough to find the friendly physician at home, and, after relating to him what had occurred, committed the packet to his custody.

  “It will be safer in your keeping than mine,” he said; “and if anything should happen to me, you will, I am sure, observe the wishes of the poor piper.”

  “Rely upon it, I will,” replied Hodges. “I am sorry to tell you I have been misled as to the clue I fancied I had obtained to Nizza’s retreat. We are as far from the mark as ever.”

  “Might not the real name of the villain who has assumed the name of Sir

  Paul Parravicin be ascertained from the Earl of Rochester?” rejoined

  Leonard.

  “So I thought,” replied Hodges; “and I made the attempt yesterday, but it failed. I was at Whitehall, and finding the earl in the king’s presence, suddenly asked him where I could find his friend Sir Paul Parravicin. He looked surprised at the question, glanced significantly at the monarch, and then carelessly answered that he knew no such person.”

  “A strange idea crosses me,” cried Leonard. “Can it be the king who has assumed this disguise?”

  “At one time I suspected as much,” rejoined Hodges; “but setting aside your description of the person, which does not tally with that of Charles, I am satisfied from other circumstances it is not so. After all, I should not wonder if poor Bell,” smoothing her long silky ears as she lay in the apprentice’s arms, “should help us to discover her mistress. And now,” he added, “I shall go to Wood-street to inquire after Amabel, and will then accompany you to the pest-house. From what you tell me the young chirurgeon said of the piper, I do not despair of his recovery.”

  “Poor as his chance may appear, it is better, I fear, than Amabel’s,” sighed the apprentice.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Hodges, in a sorrowful tone, “hers is slight indeed.”

  And perceiving that the apprentice was greatly moved, he waited for a moment till he had recovered himself, and then, motioning him to follow him, they quitted the house together.

  On reaching Mr. Bloundel’s habitation, Leonard pulled the cord in the hutch, and the grocer appeared at the window.

  “My daughter has not left her bed this morning,” he said, in answer to the doctor’s inquiries, “and I fear she is much worse. My wife is with her. It would be a great satisfaction to me if you would see her again.”

  After some little hesitation, Hodges assented, and was drawn up as before. He returned in about half an hour, and his grave countenance convinced Leonard that his worst anticipations were correct. He therefore forbore to question him, and they walked towards Cripplegate in silence.

  On emerging into the fields, Hodges observed to his companion, “It is strange that I who daily witness such dreadful suffering should be pained by the gradual and easy decline of Amabel. But so it is. Her case touches me more than the worst I have seen of the plague.”

  “I can easily account for the feeling,” groaned Leonard.

  “I am happy to say I have prevailed on her, if she does not improve in a short time, — and there is not the slightest chance of it, — to try the effect of a removal to the country. Her father also consents to the plan.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” replied Leonard. “But whither will she go, and who will watch over her?”

  “That is not yet settled,” rejoined Hodges.

  “Oh! that I might be permitted to undertake the office!” cried Leonard, passionately.

  “Restrain yourself,” said Hodges, in a tone of slight rebuke. “Fitting attendance will be found, if needed.”

  The conversation then dropped, and they walked briskly forward. They were now within a short distance of the pest-house, and Leonard, hearing footsteps behind him, turned and beheld a closed litter, borne by two stout porters, and evidently containing a plague-patient. He stepped aside to let it pass, when Bell, suddenly pricking her ears, uttered a singular cry, and bursting from him, flew after the litter, leaping against it and barking joyfully. The porters, who were proceeding at a quick pace, tried to drive her away, but without effect, and she continued her cries until they reached the gates of the pest-house. In vain Leonard whistled to her, and called her back. She paid no attention whatever to him.

  “I almost begin to fear,” said Hodges, unable to repress a shudder, “that the poor animal will, indeed, be the means of discovering for us the object of our search.”

  “I understand what you mean,” rejoined Leonard, “and am of the same opinion a
s yourself. Heaven grant we may be mistaken!”

  And as he spoke, he ran forward, and, followed by Hodges, reached the pest-house just as the litter was taken into it.

  “Silence that accursed dog,” cried one of the porters, “and bid a nurse attend us. We have a patient for the women’s ward.”

  “Let me see her,” cried Hodges. “I am a physician.”

  “Readily, sir,” replied the porter. “It is almost over with her, poor soul! It would have saved time and trouble to take her to the plague-pit at once. She cannot last many hours. Curse the dog! Will it never cease howling?”

  Leonard here seized Bell, fearing she might do some mischief, and with a sad foreboding beheld the man draw back the curtains of the litter. His fears proved well founded. There, stretched upon the couch, with her dark hair unbound, and flowing in wild disorder over her neck, lay Nizza Macascree. The ghastly paleness of her face could not, however, entirely rob it of its beauty, and her dark eyes were glazed and lustreless. At the sight of her mistress, poor Bell uttered so piteous a cry, that Leonard, moved by compassion, placed her on the pillow beside her, and the sagacious animal did not attempt to approach nearer, but merely licked her cheek. Roused by the touch, Nizza turned to see what was near her, and recognising the animal, made a movement to strain her to her bosom, but the pain she endured was so intense that she sank back with a deep groan.

  “From whom did you receive this young woman?” demanded Hodges, of one of the porters.

  “She was brought to us by two richly-attired lacqueys,” replied the man, “in this very litter. They paid us to carry her here without loss of time.”

  “You have an idea whose servants they were?” pursued Hodges.

  “Not the least,” replied the fellow; “but I should judge, from the richness of their dress, that they belonged to some nobleman.”

  “Did they belong to the royal household?” inquired Leonard.

  “No, no,” rejoined the man. “I am certain as to that.”

  “The poor girl shall not remain here,” observed Hodges, to the apprentice. “You must convey her to my residence in Great Knightrider-street,” he added, to the porters.

  “We will convey her wherever you please,” replied the men, “if we are paid for our trouble.”

  And they were about to close the curtains, when Nizza, having caught sight of the apprentice, slightly raised herself, and cried, in a voice of the utmost anxiety, “Is that you, Leonard?”

  “It is,” he replied, approaching her.

  “Then I shall die happy, since I have seen you once more,” she said.

  “Oh, do not stay near me. You may catch the infection.”

  “Nizza,” said Leonard, disregarding the caution, and breathing the words in her ear; “allay my fears by a word. You have not fallen a victim to the villain who carried you away?”

  “I have not, Leonard,” she replied, solemnly, “I resisted his importunities, his threats, his violence, and would have slain myself rather than have yielded to him. The plague, at length, came to my rescue, and I have reason to be grateful to it; for it has not only delivered me from him, but has brought me to you.”

  “I must now impose silence upon you,” interposed Hodges, laying his finger on his lips; “further conversation will be hurtful.”

  “One question more, and I have done,” replied Nizza. “How came Bell with you — and where is my father? Nothing has happened to him?” she continued, observing Leonard’s countenance change. “Speak! do not keep me in suspense. Your silence fills me with apprehension. Speak, I implore you. He is dead?”

  “No,” replied Leonard, “he is not dead — but he is an inmate of this place.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Nizza, falling back senseless upon the pillow.

  And in this state she was conveyed with the greatest expedition to the doctor’s residence.

  Leonard only tarried to visit the piper, whom he found slightly delirious, and unable to hold any conversation with him, and promising to return in the evening, he set out after the litter. Nizza was placed in the best apartment of the doctor’s house, and attended by an experienced and trustworthy nurse. But Hodges positively refused to let Leonard see her again, affirming that the excitement was too much for her, and might militate against the chance of her recovery.

  “I am not without hopes of bringing her through,” he said, “and though it will be a severe struggle, yet, as she has youth and a good constitution on her side, I do not despair. If she herself would second me, I should be yet more confident.”

  “How mean you?” inquired Leonard.

  “I think if she thought life worth a struggle — if, in short, she believed you would return her attachment, she would rally,” answered Hodges.

  “I cannot consent to deceive her thus,” rejoined Leonard, sadly. “My heart is fixed elsewhere.”

  “Your heart is fixed upon one who will soon be in her grave,” replied the doctor.

  “And with her my affections will be buried,” rejoined Leonard, turning away to hide his tears.

  So well was the doctor’s solicitude rewarded, that three days after Nizza had come under his care, he pronounced her out of danger. But the violence of the attack left her so weak and exhausted, that he still would not allow an interview to take place between her and Leonard. During all this time Bell never left her side, and her presence was an inexpressible comfort to her. The piper, too, was slowly recovering, and Leonard, who daily visited him, was glad to learn from the young chirurgeon that he would be able to leave the pest-house shortly. Having ascertained from Leonard that his daughter was under the care of Doctor Hodges, and likely to do well, the piper begged so earnestly that the packet might not be delivered to her, that, after some consultation with Hodges, Leonard restored it to him. He was delighted to get it back, felt it carefully over to ascertain that the seals were unbroken, and satisfied that all was safe, had it again sewn up in his gown, which he placed under his pillow.

  “I would rather disclose the secret to her by word of mouth than in any other way,” he said.

  Leonard felt doubtful whether the secret would now be disclosed at all, but he made no remark.

  Night was drawing on as he quitted the pest-house, and he determined to take this opportunity of visiting the great plague-pit, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant, in a line with the church of All-Hallows-in-the-Wall, and he accordingly proceeded in that direction. The pit which he was about to visit was about forty feet long, twenty wide, and the like number deep. Into this tremendous chasm the dead were promiscuously thrown, without regard to sex or condition, generally stripped of their clothing, and covered with a slight layer of earth and quick lime.

  The sun was setting as Leonard walked towards this dismal place, and he thought he had never witnessed so magnificent a sight. Indeed, it was remarked that at this fatal season the sunsets were unusually splendid. The glorious orb sank slowly behind Saint Paul’s, which formed a prominent object in the view from the fields, and threw out its central tower, its massive roof, and the two lesser towers flanking the portico, into strong relief. Leonard gazed at the mighty fabric, which seemed dilated to twice its size by this light, and wondered whether it was possible that it could ever be destroyed, as predicted by Solomon Eagle.

  Long after the sun had set, the sky was stained with crimson, and the grey walls of the city were tinged with rosy radiance. The heat was intense, and Leonard, to cool himself, sat down in the thick grass — for, though the crops were ready for the scythe, no mowers could be found — and, gazing upwards, strove to mount in spirit from the tainted earth towards heaven. After a while he arose, and proceeded towards the plague-pit. The grass was trampled down near it, and there were marks of frequent cart-wheels upon the sod. Great heaps of soil, thrown out of the excavation, lay on either side. Holding a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to his face, Leonard ventured to the brink of the pit. But even this precaution could not counteract the horrible effluvia arising from it. It was
more than half filled with dead bodies; and through the putrid and heaving mass many disjointed limbs and ghastly faces could be discerned, the long hair of women and the tiny arms of children appearing on the surface. It was a horrible sight — so horrible, that it possessed a fascination peculiar to itself, and, in spite of his loathing, Leonard lingered to gaze at it. Strange and fantastic thoughts possessed him. He fancied that the legs and arms moved — that the eyes of some of the corpses opened and glared at him — and that the whole rotting mass was endowed with animation. So appalled was he by this idea that he turned away, and at that moment beheld a vehicle approaching. It was the dead-cart, charged with a heavy load to increase the already redundant heap.

  The same inexplicable and irresistible feelings of curiosity that induced Leonard to continue gazing upon the loathly objects in the pit, now prompted him to stay and see what would ensue. Two persons were with the cart, and one of them, to Leonard’s infinite surprise and disgust, proved to be Chowles. He had no time, however, for the expression of any sentiment, for the cart halted at a little distance from him, when its conductors, turning it round, backed it towards the edge of the pit. The horse was then taken out, and Chowles calling to Leonard, the latter involuntarily knelt down to guide its descent, while the other assistant, who had proceeded to the further side of the chasm, threw the light of a lantern full upon the grisly load, which was thus shot into the gulf below.

  Shovelling a sufficient quantity of earth and lime into the pit to cover the bodies, Chowles and his companion departed, leaving Leonard alone. He continued there a few moments longer, and was about to follow them, when a prolonged and piercing cry smote his ear; and, looking in the direction of the sound, he perceived a figure running with great swiftness towards the pit. As no pursuers appeared, Leonard could scarcely doubt that this was one of the distracted persons he had heard of, who, in the frenzy produced by the intolerable anguish of their sores, would often rush to the plague-pit and bury themselves, and he therefore resolved, if possible, to prevent the fatal attempt. Accordingly, he placed himself in the way of the runner, and endeavoured, with outstretched arms, to stop him. But the latter dashed him aside with great violence, and hurrying to the brink of the pit, uttered a fearful cry, and exclaiming, “She is here! she is here! — I shall find her amongst them!” — flung himself into the abyss.