The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “No,” replied the sick man; “I have done with the world. With that child, the last tie that bound me to it was snapped. I now only wish to die.”

  “Do not give way thus,” replied Leonard; “a short time ago my condition was as apparently hopeless as your own, and you see I am now perfectly recovered.”

  “You had something to live for — something to love,” groaned the sick man. “All I lived for, all I loved, are gone.”

  “Be comforted, sir,” said Nizza, in a commiserating tone. “Much happiness may yet be in store for you.”

  “That voice!” exclaimed the sick man, with a look denoting the approach of delirium. “It must be my Isabella. Oh! forgive me! sweet injured saint; forgive me!”

  “Your presence evidently distresses him,” said Leonard. “Let us hasten for assistance. Your name, sir?” he added, to the sick man.

  “Why should you seek to know it?” replied the other. “No tombstone will be placed over the plague-pit.”

  “Not a moment must be lost if you would save him,” cried Nizza.

  “You are right,” replied Leonard. “Let us fly to the nearest apothecary’s.”

  Accordingly, they set off at a quick pace towards Moorgate. Just as they reached it, they heard the bell ring, and saw the dead-cart approaching. Shrinking back while it passed, they ran on till they came to an apothecary’s shop, where Leonard, describing the state of the sick man, by his entreaties induced the master of the establishment and one of his assistants to accompany him. Leaving Nizza in the shop, he then retraced his steps with his companions. The sick man was lying where he had left him, but perfectly insensible. On searching his pockets, a purse of money was found, but neither letter nor tablet to tell who he was. Leonard offered the purse to the apothecary, but the latter declined it, and desired his assistant, who had brought a barrow with him, to place the sick man within it, and convey him to the pest-house.

  “He will be better cared for there than if I were to take charge of him,” he observed. “As to the money, you can return it if he recovers. If not, it of right belongs to you.”

  Seeing that remonstrance would be useless, Leonard did not attempt it, and while the assistant wheeled away the sick man, he returned with the apothecary to his dwelling. Thanking him for his kindness, he then hastened with Nizza Macascree to Great Knightrider-street. He related to the doctor all that had occurred, and showed him the ring. Hodges listened to the recital with great attention, and at its close said, “This is a very singular affair, and excites my curiosity greatly. I will go to the pest-house and see the sick man to-morrow. And now we will proceed to supper; and then you had better retire to rest, for you will have to be astir before daybreak. All is in readiness for the journey.”

  The last night (for such she considered it) spent by Amabel in her father’s dwelling, was passed in the kindliest interchanges of affection. Mr. Bloundel had much ado to maintain his firmness, and ever and anon, in spite of his efforts, his labouring bosom and faltering tones proclaimed the struggle within. He sat beside his daughter, with her thin fingers clasped in his, and spoke to her on every consolatory topic that suggested itself. This discourse, however, insensibly took a serious turn, and the grocer became fully convinced that his daughter was not merely reconciled to the early death that to all appearance awaited her, but wishful for it. He found, too, to his inexpressible grief, that the sense of the Earl of Rochester’s treachery, combined with her own indiscretion, and the consequences that might have attended it, had sunk deep in her heart, and produced the present sad result.

  Mrs. Bloundel, it will scarcely be supposed, could support herself so well as her husband, but when any paroxysm of grief approached she rushed out of the room, and gave vent to her affliction alone. All the rest of the family were present, and were equally distressed. But what most strongly affected Amabel was a simple, natural remark of little Christiana, who, fixing her tearful gaze on her, entreated her “to come back soon.”

  Weak as she was, Amabel took the child upon her knee, and said to her, “I am going a long journey, Christiana, and, perhaps may never come back. But if you attend to what your father says to you, if you never omit, morning and evening, to implore the blessing of Heaven, we shall meet again.”

  “I understand what you mean, sister,” said Christiana. “The place you are going to is the grave.”

  “You have guessed rightly, Christiana,” rejoined Amabel, solemnly. “Do not forget my last words to you, and when you are grown into a woman, think upon the poor sister who loved you tenderly.”

  “I shall always think of you,” said Christiana, clasping her arms round her sister’s neck. “Oh! I wish I could go to the grave instead of you!”

  Amabel pressed her to her bosom, and in a broken voice murmured a blessing over her.

  Mr. Bloundel here thought it necessary to interfere, and, taking the weeping child in his arms, carried her into the adjoining apartment.

  Soon after this, the household were summoned to prayers, and as the grocer poured forth an address to Heaven for the preservation of his daughter, all earnestly joined in the supplication. Their devotions ended, Amabel took leave of her brothers, and the parting might have been painfully prolonged but for the interposition of her father. The last and severest trial was at hand. She had now to part from her mother, from whom, except on the occasion of her flight with the Earl of Rochester, she had never yet been separated. She had now to part with her, in all probability, for ever. It was a heart-breaking reflection to both. Knowing it would only renew their affliction, and perhaps unfit Amabel for the journey, Mr. Bloundel had prevailed upon his wife not to see her in the morning. The moment had, therefore, arrived when they were to bid each other farewell. The anguish displayed in his wife’s countenance was too much for the grocer, and he covered his face with his hands. He heard her approach Amabel — he listened to their mutual sobs — to their last embrace. It was succeeded by a stifled cry, and uncovering his face at the sound, he sprang to his feet just in time to receive his swooning wife in his arms.

  VI.

  THE DEPARTURE.

  It struck four by Saint Paul’s as Doctor Hodges, accompanied by Leonard and Nizza Macascree, issued from his dwelling, and proceeded towards Wood-street. The party was followed by a man leading a couple of horses, equipped with pillions, and furnished with saddle-bags, partly filled with the scanty luggage which the apprentice and the piper’s daughter took with them. A slight haze, indicative of the intense heat about to follow, hung round the lower part of the cathedral, but its topmost pinnacles glittered in the beams of the newly-risen sun. As Leonard gazed at the central tower, he descried Solomon Eagle on its summit, and pointed him out to Hodges. Motioning the apprentice, in a manner that could not be misunderstood, to halt, the enthusiast vanished, and in another moment appeared upon the roof, and descended to the battlements, overlooking the spot where the little party stood. This was at the northwest corner of the cathedral, at a short distance from the portico. The enthusiast had a small sack in his hand, and calling to Nizza Macascree to take it, flung it to the ground. The ringing sound which it made on its fall proved that it contained gold or silver, while its size showed that the amount must be considerable. Nizza looked at it in astonishment, but did not offer to touch it.

  “Take it!” thundered Solomon Eagle; “it is your dowry.” And perceiving she hesitated to comply with the injunction, he shouted to Leonard. “Give it her. I have no use for gold. May it make you and her happy!”

  “I know not where he can have obtained this money,” observed Hodges; “but I am sure in no unlawful manner, and I therefore counsel Nizza to accept the boon. It may be of the greatest use to her at some future time.”

  His scruples being thus overcome, Leonard took the sack, and placed it in one of the saddle-bags.

  “You can examine it at your leisure,” remarked Hodges to Nizza. “We have no more time to lose.”

  Solomon Eagle, meanwhile, expressed his satisfactio
n at the apprentice’s compliance by his gestures, and, waving his staff round his head, pointed towards the west of the city, as if inquiring whether that was the route they meant to take. Leonard nodded an affirmative; and, the enthusiast spreading out his arms and pronouncing an audible benediction over them, they resumed their course. The streets were silent and deserted, except by the watchmen stationed at the infected dwellings, and a few sick persons stretched on the steps of some of the better habitations. In order to avoid coming in contact with these miserable creatures, the party, with the exception of Doctor Hodges, kept in the middle of the road. Attracted by the piteous exclamations of the sufferers, Doctor Hodges, ever and anon, humanely paused to speak to them; and he promised one poor woman, who was suckling an infant, to visit her on his return.

  “I have no hopes of saving her,” he observed to Leonard, “but I may preserve her child. There is an establishment in Aldgate for infants whose mothers have died of the plague, where more than a hundred little creatures are suckled by she-goats, and it is wonderful how well they thrive under their nurses. If I can induce this poor woman to part with her child, I will send it thither.”

  Just then, their attention was arrested by the sudden opening of a casement, and a middle-aged woman, wringing her hands, cried, with a look of unutterable anguish and despair— “Pray for us, good people! pray for us!”

  “We do pray for you, my poor soul!” rejoined Hodges, “as well as for all who are similarly afflicted. What sick have you within?”

  “There were ten yesterday,” replied the woman. “Two have died in the night — my husband and my eldest son — and there are eight others whose recovery is hopeless. Pray for us! As you hope to be spared yourselves, pray for us!” And, with a lamentable cry, she closed the casement.

  Familiarized as all who heard her were with spectacles of horror and tales of woe, they could not listen to this sad recital, nor look upon her distracted countenance, without the deepest commiseration. Other sights had previously affected them, but not in the same degree. Around the little conduit standing in front of the Old Change, at the western extremity of Cheapside, were three lazars laving their sores in the water; while, in the short space between this spot and Wood-street, Leonard counted upwards of twenty doors marked with the fatal red cross, and bearing upon them the sad inscription, “Lord have mercy upon us!”

  A few minutes’ walking brought them to the grocer’s habitation, and on reaching it, they found that Blaize had already descended. He was capering about the street with joy at his restoration to freedom.

  “Mistress Amabel will make her appearance in a few minutes,” he said to Leonard. “Our master is with her, and is getting all ready for her departure. I have not come unprovided with medicine,” he added to Doctor Hodges. “I have got a bottle of plague-water in one pocket, and a phial of vinegar in the other. Besides these, I have a small pot of Mayerne’s electuary in my bag, another of the grand antipestilential confection, and a fourth of the infallible antidote which I bought of the celebrated Greek physician, Doctor Constantine Rhodocanaceis, at his shop near the Three-Kings Inn, in Southampton-buildings. I dare say you have heard of him?”

  “I have heard of the quack,” replied Hodges. “His end was a just retribution for the tricks he practised on his dupes. In spite of his infallible antidote, he was carried off by the scourge. But what else have you got?”

  “Only a few trifles,” replied Blaize, with a chap-fallen look. “Patience has made me a pomander-ball composed of angelica, rue, zedoary, camphor, wax, and laudanum, which I have hung round my neck with a string. Then I have got a good-sized box of rufuses, and have swallowed three of them preparatory to the journey.”

  “A proper precaution,” observed Hodges, with a smile.

  “This is not all,” replied Blaize. “By my mother’s advice, I have eaten twenty leaves of rue, two roasted figs, and two pickled walnuts for breakfast, washing them down with an ale posset, with pimpernel seethed in it.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Hodges. “You must be in a pretty condition for a journey. But how could you bear to part with your mother and Patience?”

  “The parting from Patience was heart-breaking,” replied Blaize, taking out his handkerchief, and applying it to his eyes. “We sat up half the night together, and I felt so much overcome that I began to waver in my resolution of departing. I am glad I did not give way now,” he added, in a more sprightly tone. “Fresh air and bright sunshine are very different things from the close rooms in that dark house.”

  “You must not forget that you were there free from the contagion,” rejoined Hodges; “while you are here exposed to its assaults.”

  “True,” replied Blaize; “that makes a vast difference. I almost wish I was back again.”

  “It is too late to think of returning,” said Hodges. “Mount your horse, and I will assist Nizza into the pillion.”

  By the time that Blaize, who was but an indifferent horseman, had got into the saddle, and Nizza had taken her place behind him, the window opened, and Mr. Bloundel appeared at it.

  Amabel had only retired to rest for a few hours during the night. When left to herself in her chamber, she continued to pray till exhaustion compelled her to seek some repose. Arising about two o’clock, she employed herself for more than an hour in further devotion, and then took a last survey of every object in the room. She had occupied it from her childhood; and as she opened drawer after drawer, and cupboard after cupboard, and examined their contents, each article recalled some circumstance connected with the past, and brought back a train of long-forgotten emotions. While she was thus engaged, Patience tapped at the door, and was instantly admitted. The tenderhearted kitchenmaid assisted her to dress, and to put together some few articles omitted to be packed by her mother. During this employment she shed abundance of tears, and Amabel’s efforts to console her only made matters worse. Poor Patience was forced at last to sit down, and indulge a hearty fit of crying, after which she felt considerably relieved. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak, she observed to Amabel, “Pardon what I am about to say to you, my dear young mistress, but I cannot help thinking that the real seat of your disease is in the heart.”

  A slight blush overspread Amabel’s pale features, but she made no answer.

  “I see I am right,” continued Patience, “and indeed I have long suspected it. Let me entreat you, therefore, dear young lady, not to sacrifice yourself. Only say the word, and I will find means of making your retreat known to the Earl of Rochester. Blaize is devoted to you, and will do anything you bid him. I cannot wonder you fret after so handsome, so captivating a man as the earl, especially when you are worried to death to marry a common apprentice like Leonard Holt, who is not fit to hold a candle to your noble admirer. Ah! we women can never blind ourselves to the advantages of rank and appearance. We are too good judges for that. I hope you will soon be restored to your lover, and that the happiness you will enjoy will make amends for all the misery you have endured.”

  “Patience,” said Amabel, whose cheek, as the other spoke, had returned to its original paleness— “Patience,” she said, gravely, but kindly, “I have suffered you to proceed too far without interruption, and must correct the very serious error into which you have fallen. I am so far from pining for an interview with the Earl of Rochester, that nothing in the world should induce me to see him again. I have loved him deeply,” she continued in a tremulous tone; “nay, I will not attempt to disguise that I feel strongly towards him still, while I will also freely confess that his conduct towards me has so preyed upon my spirits, that it has impaired, perhaps destroyed, my health. In spite of this, I cannot sufficiently rejoice that I have escaped the earl’s snares — I cannot be sufficiently thankful to the merciful Being who, while he has thought fit to chastise me, has preserved me from utter ruin.”

  “Since you are of this mind,” returned Patience, in a tone of incredulity, “you are more to be rejoiced with than pitied. But
we are not overheard,” she added, almost in a whisper, and glancing towards the door. “You may entirely confide in me. The time is arrived when you can escape to your lover.”

  “No more of this,” rejoined Amabel, severely, “or I shall command you to leave the room.”

  “This is nothing more than pique,” thought Patience. “We women are all hypocrites, even to ourselves. I will serve her whether she will or not. She shall see the earl. I hope there is no harm in wishing you may be happy with Leonard Holt,” she added aloud. “He will make you a capital husband.”

  “That subject is equally disagreeable — equally painful to me,” said

  Amabel.

  “I had better hold my tongue altogether,” rejoined Patience, somewhat pertly. “Whatever I say seems to be wrong. It won’t prevent me from doing as I would be done by,” she added to herself.

  Amabel’s preparations finished, she dismissed Patience, to whom she gave some few slight remembrances, and was soon afterwards joined by her father. They passed half an hour together, as on the former night, in serious and devout conversation, after which Mr. Bloundel left her for a few minutes to let down Blaize. On his return he tenderly embraced her, and led her into the passage. They had not advanced many steps when Mrs. Bloundel rushed forth to meet them. She was in her night-dress, and seemed overwhelmed with affliction.

  “How is this, Honora?” cried her husband, in a severe tone. “You promised me you would see Amabel no more. You will only distress her.”

  “I could not let her go thus,” cried Mrs. Bloundel. “I was listening at my chamber door to hear her depart, and when I caught the sound of her footsteps, I could no longer control myself.” So saying, she rushed to her daughter, and clasped her in her arms.

  Affectionately returning her mother’s embrace, Amabel gave her hand to her father, who conducted her to the little room overlooking the street. Nothing more, except a deep and passionate look, was exchanged between them. Both repressed their emotion, and though the heart of each was bursting, neither shed a tear. At that moment, and for the first time, they greatly resembled each other; and this was not surprising, for intense emotion, whether of grief or joy, will bring out lines in the features that lie hidden at other times. Without a word, Mr. Bloundel busied himself in arranging the pulley; and calling to those below to prepare for Amabel’s descent, again embraced her, kissed her pale brow, and, placing her carefully in the basket, lowered her slowly to the ground. She was received in safety by Leonard, who carried her in his arms, and placed her on the pillion. The pulley was then drawn up, and her luggage lowered by Mr. Bloundel, and placed in the saddle-bags by the apprentice. Every one saw the necessity of terminating this painful scene. A kindly farewell was taken of Hodges. Amabel waved her hand to her father, when at this moment Patience appeared at the window, and, calling to Blaize, threw a little package tied in a handkerchief to him. Doctor Hodges took up the parcel, and gave it to the porter, who, untying the handkerchief, glanced at a note it enclosed, and, striking his horse with his stick, dashed off towards Cheapside.