“Nothing can be better,” replied Hodges; “but who is to escort her thither?”
“Leonard Holt,” replied Mr. Bloundel. “He will gladly undertake the office.”
“No doubt,” rejoined Hodges; “but cannot you go yourself?”
“Impossible!” returned the grocer, a shade passing over his countenance.
“Neither do I wish it,” observed Amabel. “I am content to be under the safeguard of Leonard.”
“Amabel,” said her father, “you know not what I shall endure in thus parting with you. I would give all I possess to be able to accompany you, but a sense of duty restrains me. I have taken the resolution to remain here with my family during the continuance of the pestilence, and I must abide by it. I little thought how severely my constancy would be tried. But hard though it be, I must submit I shall commit you, therefore, to the care of an all-merciful Providence, who will not fail to watch over and protect you.”
“Have no fear for me, father,” replied Amabel; “and do not weep, dear mother,” she added to Mrs. Bloundel, who, unable to restrain her grief, was now drowned in tears; “I shall be well cared for. If we meet no more in this world, our reunion is certain in that to come. I have given you much pain and uneasiness, but it will be an additional grief to me if I think you feel further anxiety on my account.”
“We do not, my dear child,” replied Mr. Bloundel. “I am well assured all is for the best, and if it pleases Heaven to spare you, I shall rejoice beyond measure in your return. If not, I shall feel a firm reliance that you will continue in the same happy frame, as at present, to the last, and that we shall meet above, where there will be no further separation.”
“I cannot bear to part with her,” cried Mrs. Bloundel, clasping her arms round her daughter— “I cannot — I cannot!”
“Restrain yourself, Honora,” said her husband; “you will do her an injury.”
“She must not be over excited,” interposed Hodges, in a low tone, and gently drawing the afflicted mother away. “The sooner,” he added to Mr. Bloundel, “she now sets out the better.”
“I feel it,” replied the grocer. “She shall start to-morrow morning.”
“I will undertake to procure horses,” replied Hodges, “and Leonard will be ready at any moment.”
With this, he took his leave, and descending by the pulley, communicated to Leonard what had occurred.
In spite of his fears on her account, the prospect of again beholding Amabel so transported the apprentice that he could scarcely attend to what was said respecting her. When he grew calmer, it was arranged that all should be in readiness at an early hour on the following morning; that a couple of horses should be provided; and that Amabel should be let down fully equipped for the journey. This settled, Leonard, at the doctor’s request, accompanied him to his residence.
They were scarcely out of sight, when a man, who had been concealed behind the hutch, in such a position that not a word that had passed escaped him, issued from his hiding-place, and darting down the first alley on the right, made the best of his way to Whitehall.
Up to this time, Doctor Hodges had not judged it prudent to allow a meeting between Leonard and Nizza Macascree, but now, from reasons of his own, he resolved no longer to delay it. Accordingly, on reaching his dwelling, he took the apprentice to her chamber. She was standing in a pensive attitude, near a window which looked towards the river, and as she turned on his entrance, Leonard perceived that her eyes were filled with tears. Blushing deeply, she advanced towards him, and greeted him with all the warmth of her affectionate nature. She had quite recovered her good looks, and Leonard could not but admit that, had he seen her before his heart was plighted to another, it must have been given to her. Comparisons are ungracious, and tastes differ more perhaps as to beauty than on any other point; but if Amabel and the piper’s daughter had been placed together, it would not have been difficult to determine to which of the two the palm of superior loveliness should be assigned. There was a witchery in the magnificent black eyes of the latter — in her exquisitely-formed mouth and pearly teeth — in her clear nut-brown complexion — in her dusky and luxuriant tresses, and in her light elastic figure, with which more perfect but less piquant charms could not compete. Such seemed to be the opinion of Doctor Hodges, for as he gazed at her with unaffected admiration, he exclaimed, as if to himself— “I’faith, if I had to choose between the two, I know which it would be.”
This exclamation somewhat disconcerted the parties to whom it referred, and the doctor did not relieve their embarrassment by adding, “Well, I perceive I am in the way. You must have much to say to each other that can in nowise interest me. Excuse me a moment, while I see that the horses are ordered.”
So saying, and disregarding Leonard’s expostulating looks, he hurried out of the room, and shut the door after him.
Hitherto, the conversation had been unrestrained and agreeable on both sides, but now they were left alone together, neither appeared able to utter a word. Nizza cast her eyes timidly on the ground, while Leonard caressed little Bell, who had been vainly endeavouring by her gamesome tricks to win his attention.
“Doctor Hodges spoke of ordering horses,” said Nizza, at length breaking silence. “Are you going on a journey?”
“I am about to take Amabel to Ashdown Park, in Berkshire, to-morrow morning,” replied Leonard. “She is dangerously ill.”
“Of the plague?” asked Nizza, anxiously.
“Of a yet worse disorder,” replied Leonard, heaving a deep sigh— “of a broken heart.”
“Alas! I pity her from my soul!” replied Nizza, in a tone of the deepest commiseration. “Does her mother go with her?”
“No,” replied Leonard, “I alone shall attend her. She will be placed under the care of a near female relative at Ashdown.”
“Would it not be better, — would it not be safer, if she is in the precarious state you describe, that some one of her own sex should accompany her?” said Nizza.
“I should greatly prefer it,” rejoined Leonard, “and so I am sure would
Amabel. But where is such a person to be found?”
“I will go with you, if you desire it,” replied Nizza, “and will watch over her, and tend her as a sister.”
“Are you equal to the journey?” inquired Leonard, somewhat doubtfully.
“Fully,” replied Nizza. “I am entirely recovered, and able to undergo far more fatigues than an invalid like Amabel.”
“It will relieve me from a world of anxiety if this can be accomplished,” rejoined Leonard. “I will consult Doctor Hodges on the subject on his return.”
“What do you desire to consult me about?” cried the physician, who had entered the room unobserved at this juncture.
The apprentice stated Nizza’s proposal to him.
“I entirely approve of the plan,” observed the doctor; “it will obviate many difficulties. I have just received a message from Mr. Bloundel, by Dallison, the porter, to say he intends sending Blaize with you. I will therefore provide pillions for the horses, so that the whole party can be accommodated.”
He then sat down and wrote out minute instructions for Amabel’s treatment, and delivering the paper to Leonard, desired him to give it to the housekeeper at Ashdown Park.
“Heaven only knows what the result of all this may be!” he exclaimed.
“But nothing must be neglected.”
Leonard promised that his advice should be scrupulously attended to; and the discourse then turning to Nizza’s father, she expressed the utmost anxiety to see him before she set out.
Hodges readily assented. “Your father has been discharged as cured from the pest-house,” he said, “and is lodged at a cottage, kept by my old nurse, Dame Lucas, just without the walls, near Moorgate. I will send for him.”
“On no account,” replied Nizza. “I will go to him myself.”
“As you please,” returned Hodges. “Leonard shall accompany you. You will easily find the cotta
ge. It is about two hundred yards beyond the gate, on the right, near the old doghouses.”
“I know the spot perfectly,” rejoined Leonard.
“I would recommend you to put on a mask,” observed the doctor to Nizza; “it may protect you from molestation. I will find you one below.”
Leading the way to a lower room, he opened a drawer, and, producing a small loo mask, gave it her. The youthful pair then quitted the house, Nizza taking Bell under her arm, as she intended leaving her with her father. The necessity of the doctor’s caution was speedily manifested, for as they crossed Saint Paul’s churchyard they encountered Pillichody, who, glancing inquisitively at Nizza, seemed disposed to push his inquiries further by attempting to take off her mask; but the fierce look of the apprentice, who grasped his staff in a menacing manner, induced him to abandon his purpose. He, however, followed them along Cheapside, and would have continued the pursuit along the Old Jewry, if Leonard had not come to a halt, and awaited his approach. He then took to his heels, and did not again make his appearance.
As they reached the open fields and slackened their pace, Leonard deemed it prudent to prepare his companion for her interview with her father by mentioning the circumstance of the packet, and the important secret which he had stated he had to disclose to her.
“I cannot tell what the secret can relate to, unless it is to my mother,” rejoined Nizza. “She died, I believe, when I was an infant. At all events, I never remember seeing her, and I have remarked that my father is averse to talking about her. But I will now question him. I have reason to think this piece of gold,” and she produced the amulet, “is in some way or other connected with the mystery.”
And she then explained to Leonard all that had occurred in the vault when the coin had been shown to Judith Malmayns, describing the nurse’s singular look and her father’s subsequent anger.
By this time, they had entered a narrow footpath leading across the fields in the direction of a little nest of cottages, and pursuing it, they came to a garden-gate. Opening it, they beheld the piper seated beneath a little porch covered with eglantine and roses. He was playing a few notes on his pipe, but stopped on hearing their approach. Bell, who had been put to the ground by Nizza, ran barking gleefully towards him. Uttering a joyful exclamation, the piper stretched out his arms, and the next moment enfolded his daughter in a strict embrace. Leonard remained at the gate till the first transports of their meeting were over, and then advanced slowly towards them.
“Whose footsteps are those?” inquired the piper.
Nizza explained.
“Ah, is it Leonard Holt?” exclaimed the piper, extending his hand to the apprentice. “You are heartily welcome,” he added; “and I am glad to find you with Nizza. It is no secret to me that she likes you. She has been an excellent daughter, and will make an excellent wife. He who weds her will obtain a greater treasure than he expects.”
“Not than he expects,” said Leonard.
“Ay, than he expects,” reiterated the piper. “You will one day find out that I speak the truth.”
Leonard looked at Nizza, who was blushing deeply at her father’s remark.
She understood him.
“Father,” she said, “I understand you have a secret of importance to disclose to me. I am about to make a long journey to-morrow, and may not return for some time. At this uncertain season, when those who part know not that they shall meet again, nothing of this sort ought to be withheld.”
“You cannot know it while I live,” replied the piper, “but I will take such precautions that, if anything happens to me, it shall be certainly revealed to you.”
“I am satisfied,” she rejoined, “and will only ask you one farther question, and I beseech you to answer it. Does this amulet refer to the secret?”
“It does,” replied her father, sullenly; “and now let the subject be dropped.”
He then led the way into the cottage. The good old dame who kept it, on learning who they were, and that they were sent by Doctor Hodges, gave them a hearty welcome, and placed refreshments before them. Leonard commented upon the extreme neatness of the abode and its healthful situation, and expressed a hope that it might not be visited by the plague.
“I trust it will not,” rejoined the old woman, shaking her head; “but when I hear the doleful bell at night — when I catch a glimpse of the fatal cart — or look towards yon dreadful place,” and she pointed in the direction of the plague-pit, which lay only a few hundred yards to the west of her habitation— “I am reminded that the scourge is not far off, and that it must needs reach me ere long.”
“Have no fear, Dame Lucas,” said the piper; “you see it has pleased a merciful Providence to spare the lives of myself, my child, and this young man, and if you should be attacked, the same benificent Being may preserve you in like manner.”
“The Lord’s will be done!” rejoined Dame Lucas. “I know I shall be well attended to by Doctor Hodges. I nursed him when he was an infant, and he has been like a son to me. Bless his kind heart!” she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude, “there is not his like in London.”
“Always excepting my master,” observed Leonard, with a smile at her enthusiasm.
“I except no one,” rejoined Dame Lucas. “A worthier man never lived, than Doctor Hodges. If I die of the plague,” she continued, “he has promised not to let me be thrown into that horrible pit — ough! — but to bury me in my garden, beneath the old apple-tree.”
“And he will keep his word, dame, I am sure,” replied Leonard. “I would recommend you, however, as the best antidote against the plague, to keep yourself constantly employed, and to indulge as few gloomy notions as possible.”
“I am seldom melancholy, and still more seldom idle,” replied the good dame. “But despondency will steal on me sometimes, especially when the dead-cart passes and I think what it contains.”
While the conversation was going forward, Nizza and the piper withdrew into an inner room, where they remained closeted together for some time. On their re-appearance, Nizza said she was ready to depart, and taking an affectionate farewell of her father, and committing Bell to his charge, she quitted the cottage with the apprentice.
Evening was now advancing, and the sun was setting with the gorgeousness already described as peculiar to this fatal period. Filled with the pleasing melancholy inspired by the hour, they walked on in silence. They had not proceeded far, when they observed a man crossing the field with a bundle in his arms. Suddenly, he staggered and fell. Seeing he did not stir, and guessing what was the matter, Leonard ran towards him to offer him assistance. He found him lying in the grass with his left hand fixed against his heart. He groaned heavily, and his features were convulsed with pain. Near him lay the body of a beautiful little girl, with long fair hair, and finely-formed features, though now disfigured by purple blotches, proclaiming the disorder of which she had perished. She was apparently about ten years old, and was partially covered by a linen cloth. The man, whose features bore a marked resemblance to those of the child, was evidently from his attire above the middle rank. His frame was athletic, and as he was scarcely past the prime of life, the irresistible power of the disease, which could in one instant prostrate strength like his, was terribly attested.
“Alas!” he cried, addressing the apprentice, “I was about to convey the remains of my poor child to the plague-pit. But I have been unable to accomplish my purpose. I hoped she would have escaped the polluting touch of those loathly attendants on the dead-cart.”
“She shall escape it,” replied Leonard; “if you wish it, I will carry her to the pit myself.”
“The blessing of a dying man rest on your head,” cried the sufferer; “your charitable action will not pass unrequited.”
With this, despite the agony he endured, he dragged himself to his child, kissed her cold lips, smoothed her fair tresses, and covered the body carefully with the cloth. He then delivered it to Leonard, who received it tenderly, a
nd calling to Nizza Macascree, who had witnessed the scene at a little distance, and was deeply affected by it, to await his return, ran towards the plague-pit. Arrived there, he placed his little burden at the brink of the excavation, and, kneeling beside it, uttered a short prayer inspired by the occasion. He then tore his handkerchief into strips, and tying them together, lowered the body gently down. Throwing a little earth over it, he hastened to the sick man, and told him what he had done. A smile of satisfaction illumined the sufferer’s countenance, and holding out his hand, on which a valuable ring glistened, he said, “Take it — it is but a poor reward for the service you have rendered me; — nay, take it,” he added, seeing that the apprentice hesitated; “others will not be so scrupulous.”
Unable to gainsay the remark, Leonard took the ring from his finger and placed it on his own. At this moment, the sick man’s gaze fell upon Nizza, who stood at a little distance from him. He started, and made an effort to clear his vision.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” he cried, “or is a female standing there?”
“You are not deceived,” replied Leonard.
“Let her come near me, in Heaven’s name!” cried the sick man, staring at her as if his eyes would start from their sockets. “Who are you?” he continued, as Nizza approached.
“I am called Nizza Macascree, and am the daughter of a poor piper,” she replied.
“Ah!” exclaimed the sick man, with a look of deep disappointment. “The resemblance is wonderful! And yet it cannot be. My brain is bewildered.”
“Whom does she resemble?” asked Leonard, eagerly.
“One very dear to me,” replied the sick man, with an expression of remorse and anguish, “one I would not think of now.” And he buried his face in the grass.
“Is there aught more I can do for you?” inquired Leonard, after a pause.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 256
