As soon as he could shake off the horror inspired by this dreadful action, Leonard ran to the pit, and, gazing into it, beheld him by the imperfect light struggling in the horrible mass in which he was partially immersed. The frenzied man had now, however, begun to repent his rashness, and cried out for aid. But this Leonard found it impossible to afford him; and, seeing he must speedily perish if left to himself, he ran after the dead-cart, and overtaking it just as it reached Moor-gate, informed Chowles what had happened, and begged him to return.
“There will be no use in helping him out,” rejoined Chowles, in a tone of indifference. “We shall have to take him back in a couple of hours. No, no — let him remain where he is. There is scarcely a night that some crazy being does not destroy himself in the same way. We never concern ourselves about such persons except to strip them of their apparel.”
“Unfeeling wretch!” cried Leonard, unable to restrain his indignation.
“Give me your fork, and I will pull him out myself.”
Instead of surrendering the implement, Chowles flourished it over his head with the intention of striking the apprentice, but the latter nimbly avoided the blow, and snatching it from his grasp, ran back to the plague-pit. He was followed by Chowles and the burier, who threatened him with loud oaths. Regardless of their menaces, Leonard fixed the hook in the dress of the struggling man, and exerting all his strength, drew him out of the abyss. He had just lodged him in safety on the brink when Chowles and his companion came up.
“Keep off!” cried Leonard, brandishing his fork as he spoke; “you shall neither commit robbery nor murder here. If you will assist this unfortunate gentleman, I have no doubt you will be well rewarded. If not, get hence, or advance at your peril.”
“Well,” returned Chowles, who began to fancy something might be made of the matter, “if you think we should be rewarded, we would convey the gentleman back to his own home provided we can ascertain where it is. But I am afraid he may die on the way.”
“In that case you can apply to his friends,” rejoined Leonard. “He must not be abandoned thus.”
“First, let us know who he is,” returned Chowles. “Is he able to speak?”
“I know not,” answered Leonard. “Bring the lantern this way, and let us examine his countenance.”
Chowles complied, and held the light over the unfortunate person. His attire was rich, but in great disorder, and sullied by the loathsome mass in which he had been plunged. He was in the flower of youth, and his features must have been remarkable for their grace and beauty, but they were now of a livid hue, and swollen and distorted by pain. Still Leonard recognised them.
“Gracious Heaven!” he exclaimed. “It is Sir Paul Parravicin.”
“Sir Paul Parravicin!” echoed Chowles. “By all that’s wonderful, so it is! Here is a lucky chance! Bring the dead-cart hither, Jonas — quick, quick! I shall put him under the care of Judith Malmayns.”
And the burier hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Had I known who it was,” exclaimed Leonard, gazing with abhorrence at the miserable object before him, “I would have left him to die the death he so richly merits!”
A deep groan broke from the sufferer.
“Have no fear, Sir Paul,” said Chowles. “You are in good hands. Every care shall be taken of you, and you shall be cured by Judith Malmayns.”
“She shall not come near me,” rejoined Parravicin, faintly. “You will take care of me?” he added in an imploring tone, to Leonard.
“You appeal in vain to me,” rejoined the apprentice, sternly. “You are justly punished for your treatment of Nizza Macascree.”
“I am — I am,” groaned Parravicin, “but she will be speedily avenged. I shall soon join her in that pit.”
“She is not there,” replied Leonard, bitterly, “She is fast recovering from the plague.”
“Is she not dead?” demanded Parravicin, with frightful eagerness. “I was told she was thrown into that horrible chasm.”
“You were deceived,” replied Leonard. “She was taken to the pest-house by your orders, and would have perished if she had not found a friend to aid her. She is now out of danger.”
“Then I no longer desire to die,” cried Parravicin, desperately. “I will live — live.”
“Do not delude yourself,” replied Leonard, coldly; “you have little chance of recovery, and should employ the short time left you in praying to Heaven for forgiveness of your sins.”
“Tush!” exclaimed Parravicin, fiercely, “I shall not weary Heaven with ineffectual supplications. I well know I am past all forgiveness. No,” he added, with a fearful imprecation, “since Nizza is alive, I will not die.”
“Right, Sir Paul, right,” rejoined Chowles; “put a bold face on it, and
I will answer for it you will get over the attack. Have no fear of
Judith Malmayns,” he added, in a significant tone. “However she may
treat others, she will cure you.”
“I will make it worth her while to do so,” rejoined Parravicin.
“Here is the cart,” cried Chowles, seeing the vehicle approach. “I will take you in the first place to Saint Paul’s. Judith must see you as soon as possible.”
“Take me where you please,” rejoined Parravicin, faintly; “and remember what I have said. If I die, the nurse will get nothing — if I am cured, she shall be proportionately rewarded.”
“I will not forget it,” replied Chowles. And with the help of Jonas he placed the knight carefully in the cart. “You need not trouble yourself further about him,” he added to Leonard.
“Before be quits this place I must know who he is,” rejoined the latter, placing himself at the horse’s head.
“You know his name as well as I do,” replied Chowles.
“Parravicin is not his real name,” rejoined Leonard.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Chowles, “this is news to me. But no matter who he is, he is rich enough to pay well. So stand aside, and let us go. We have no time to waste in further parleying.”
“I will not move till my question is answered,” replied Leonard.
“We will see to that,” said Jonas, approaching him behind, and dealing him so severe a blow on the head that he stretched him senseless on the ground? “Shall we throw him into the pit?” he added to Chowles.
The latter hesitated for a moment, and then said, “No, no, it is not worth while. It may bring us into trouble. We have no time to lose.” And they then put the cart in motion, and took the way to Saint Paul’s.
On coming to himself, Leonard had some difficulty in recalling what had happened; and when the whole train of circumstances rushed upon his mind, he congratulated himself that he had escaped further injury. “When I think of the hands I have been placed in,” he murmured, “I cannot but be grateful that they did not throw me into the pit, where no discovery could have been made as to how I came to an end. But I will not rest till I have ascertained the name and rank of Nizza’s persecutor. I have no doubt they have taken him to Saint Paul’s, and will proceed thither at once.”
With this view, he hastened towards the nearest city gate, and passing towards it, shaped his course towards the cathedral. It was a fine starlight night, and though there was no moon, the myriad lustres glowing in the deep and cloudless vault rendered every object plainly distinguishable. At this hour, little restraint was placed upon the sick, and they wandered about the streets uttering dismal cries. Some would fling themselves upon bulks or steps, where they were not unfrequently found the next morning bereft of life. Most of those not attacked by the distemper kept close house; but there were some few reckless beings who passed the night in the wildest revelry, braving the fate awaiting them. As Leonard passed Saint Michael’s church, in Basinghall-street, he perceived, to his great surprise, that it was lighted up, and at first supposed some service was going on within it, but on approaching he heard strains of lively and most irreverent music issuing from within. Pushi
ng open the door, he entered the sacred edifice, and found it occupied by a party of twenty young men, accompanied by a like number of females, some of whom were playing at dice and cards, some drinking, others singing Bacchanalian melodies, others dancing along the aisles to the notes of a theorbo and spinet. Leonard was so inexpressibly shocked by what he beheld, that unable to contain himself he mounted the steps of the pulpit, and called to them in a loud voice to desist from their scandalous conduct, and no longer profane the house of God. But they treated his remonstrances with laughter and derision, and some of the party forming themselves into a group round the pulpit, entreated him to preach to them.
“We want a little variety,” said one of the group, a good-looking young man, upon whom the wine had evidently made some impression— “we are tired of drinking and play, and may as well listen to a sermon, especially an original one. Hold forth to us, I say.”
“I would, hold forth till daybreak, if I thought it would produce any impression,” returned Leonard. “But I perceive you are too hardened to be aroused to repentance.”
“Repentance!” cried another of the assemblage. “Do you know whom you address? These gentlemen are the Brotherhood of Saint Michael, and I am the principal. We are determined to enjoy the few days or hours we may have left — that is all. We are not afraid of the future, and are resolved to make the most of the present.”
“Ay, ay,” cried the others, with a great shout of laughter, which, however, was interrupted by a cry of anguish from one of the party.
“There is another person seized,” said the principal; “take him away, brothers. This is owing to listening to a sermon. Let us return to our wine.”
“Will you not accept this awful warning?” cried Leonard. “You will all share your companion’s fate.”
“We anticipate nothing else,” returned the principal; “and are therefore resolved to banish reflection. A week ago, the Brotherhood of Saint Michael consisted of forty persons. We are already diminished to half the number, but are not the less merry on that account. On the contrary, we are more jovial than ever. We have agreed that whoever shall be seized with the distemper, shall be instantly conveyed to the pest-house, so that the hilarity of the others shall not be interrupted. The poor fellow who has just been attacked has left behind him a beautiful mistress. She is yours if you choose to join us.”
“Ay, stop with us,” cried a young and very pretty woman, taking his hand and drawing him towards the company who were dancing beneath the aisles.
But Leonard disengaged himself, and hurried away amid the laughter and hootings of the assemblage. The streets, despite their desolate appearance, were preferable to the spot he had just quitted, and he seemed to breathe more freely when he got to a little distance from the polluted fane. He had now entered Wood-street, but all was as still as death, and he paused to gaze up at his master’s window, but there was no one at it. Many a lover, unable to behold the object of his affections, has in some measure satisfied the yearning of his heart by gazing at her dwelling, and feeling he was near her. Many a sad heart has been cheered by beholding a light at a window, or a shadow on its closed curtains, and such would have been Leonard’s feelings if he had not been depressed by the thought of Amabel’s precarious state of health.
While thus wrapt in mournful thought, he observed three figures slowly approaching from the further end of the street, and he instinctively withdrew into a doorway. He had reason to congratulate himself upon the precaution, as, when the party drew nearer, he recognised, with a pang that shot to his heart, the voice of Rochester. A moment’s observation from his place of concealment showed him that the earl was accompanied by Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. They paused within a short distance of him, and he could distinctly hear their conversation.
“You have not yet told us why you brought us here my lord,” said Etherege to Rochester, after the latter had gazed for a few moments in silence at the house. “Are you resolved to make another attempt to carry off the girl — and failing in it, to give her up for ever!”
“You have guessed my purpose precisely,” returned Rochester. “Doctor Hodges has informed a friend of mine that the pretty Amabel has fallen into a decline. The poor soul is, doubtless, pining for me; and it would be the height of inhumanity to let her perish.”
Leonard ground his teeth-with suppressed rage.
“Then you mean to make her Countess of Rochester, after all,” laughed
Etherege. “I thought you had determined to carry off Mistress Mallett.”
“Old Bowley declares he will send me to the Tower if I do,” replied Rochester; “and though his threats would scarcely deter me from acting as I think proper, I have no inclination for marriage at present. What a pity, Etherege, that one cannot in these affairs have the money oneself, and give the wife to one’s friend.”
“That is easily accomplished,” replied Etherege, laughingly; “especially where you have a friend so devoted as myself. But do you mean to carry off Amabel to-night?”
“Ay, now we come to business,” interposed Pillichody. “Bolts and barricadoes! your lordship has only to say the word, and I will break into the house, and bear her off for you.”
“Your former conduct is a good guarantee for your present success, truly,” returned Rochester, with a sneer. “No, no; I shall postpone my design for the present. I have ascertained, from the source whence I obtained information of Amabel’s illness, that she is to be removed into the country. This will exactly suit my purpose, and put her completely in my power.”
“Then nothing is to be done to-night?” said Pillichody, secretly congratulating himself on his escape. “By my sword! I feel equal to the most desperate attempt.”
“Your courage and dexterity must be reserved for some more favourable occasion,” replied Rochester.
“If not to carry off the girl, I must again inquire why your lordship has come hither?” demanded Etherege.
“To be frank with you, my sole motive was to gaze at the house that contains her,” replied Rochester, in a voice that bespoke his sincerity. “I have before told you that she has a strong hold upon my heart. I have not seen her for some weeks, and during that time have endeavoured to obliterate her image by making love to a dozen others. But it will not do. She still continues absolute mistress of my affections. I sometimes think, if I can obtain her in no other way, I shall be rash enough to marry her.”
“Pshaw! this must never be,” said Etherege.
“Were I to lose her altogether, I should be inconsolable,” cried
Rochester.
“As inconsolable as I am for the rich widow of Watling-street, who died a fortnight ago of the plague, and left her wealth to her footman,” replied Pillichody, drawing forth his handkerchief and applying it to his eyes— “oh! oh!”
“Silence, fool!” cried Rochester: “I am in no mood for buffoonery. If you shed tears for any one, it should be for your master.”
“Truly, I am grieved for him,” replied Pillichody; “but I object to the term ‘master.’ Sir Paul Parravicin, as he chooses to be called, is my patron, not my master. He permits me a very close familiarity, not to say friendship.”
“Well, then, your patron,” rejoined Rochester, scornfully. “How is he going on to-night?”
“I feared to tell your lordship,” replied Pillichody, “lest it should spoil your mirth; but he broke out of his chamber a few hours ago, and has not been discovered since. Most likely, he will be found in the plague-pit or the Thames in the morning, for he was in such an infuriated state, that it is the opinion of his attendants he would certainly destroy himself. You know he was attacked two days after Nizza Macascree was seized by the pestilence, and his brain has been running upon the poor girl ever since.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Rochester, “it is a sad end. I am wearied of this infected city, and shall be heartily glad to quit it. A few months in the country with Amabel will be enchanting.”
“Apropos of melancholy subject
s,” said Etherege, “your masque of the Dance of Death has caused great consternation at court. Mistress Stewart declares she cannot get that strange fellow who performed such fantastic tricks in the skeleton-dance out of her head.”
“You mean Chowles,” replied the earl. “He is a singular being, certainly — once a coffin-maker, and now, I believe, a burier of the dead. He takes up his abode in a crypt of Saint Faith’s and leads an incomprehensible life. As we return we shall pass the cathedral, and can see whether he is astir.”
“Readily,” replied Etherege. “Do you desire to tarry here longer, or shall we proceed before you, while you indulge your tender meditations undisturbed?”
“Leave me,” replied Rochester; “I shall be glad to be alone for a few moments.”
Etherege and Pillichody then proceeded slowly towards Cheapside, while the earl remained with his arms folded upon his breast, and his gaze fixed upon the house. Leonard watched him with intense curiosity, and had great difficulty in controlling himself. Though the earl was armed, while he had only his staff, he could have easily mastered him by assailing him unawares. But Leonard’s generous nature revolted at the unworthy suggestion, and he resolved, if he attacked him at all, to give him time to stand upon his guard. A moment’s reflection, however, satisfied him that his wisest course would be to remain concealed. He was now in possession of the earl’s plan, and, with the help of Doctor Hodges, could easily defeat it; whereas if he appeared, it would be evident that he had overheard what had passed, and some other scheme, to which he could not be privy, would be necessarily adopted. Influenced by this consideration, he suffered the earl to depart unmolested, and when he had got to some distance followed him. Rochester’s companions were waiting for him in Cheapside, and, joining them, they all three proceeded towards the cathedral. They entered the great northern door; and Leonard, who was now well acquainted with all the approaches, passed through the door at the north side of the choir, to which he had been directed on a former occasion by Solomon Eagle. He found the party guided by the old verger — the only one of its former keepers who still lingered about the place — and preparing to descend to Saint Faith’s. Leonard followed as near as he could without exposing himself, and, on gaining the subterranean church, easily contrived to screen himself behind the ponderous ranks of pillars.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 254
