“You have mentioned another wretch, who was constantly with Sir Paul,” cried Wingfield. “Perdition seize them!”
“Ay, perdition seize them!” echoed Blaize, striking the table in his turn— “especially Major Pillichody.”
“Did you ever suspect Sir Paul to be of higher rank than he pretends?” asked Leonard.
“No,” rejoined Wingfield; “what motive have you for the question?”
Leonard then told him of the inquiries instituted by Doctor Hodges relative to Nizza’s retreat, and how they had been baffled. “It is strange,” he continued, “that Nizza herself never heard the real name of her persecutor; neither can she tell where the house to which she was conveyed, when in a fainting condition, and from which she was removed when attacked with the plague, is situated.”
“It is strange indeed,” observed the farmer, musingly.
Soon after this, Nizza Macascree made her appearance, and informed them that Amabel had fallen into a tranquil slumber, which, in all probability, would completely renovate her.
“I hope it will,” said Wingfield. “But I shall not part with her to-day.”
He then entered into conversation with Nizza, and after a little time, proposed to her and Leonard to walk across the fields with him to Willesden, to visit his daughter’s grave.
“My wife will take charge of Amabel,” he said; “you may safely trust her in her hands.”
Leonard could raise no objection, except the possibility that the Earl of Rochester and his companions might discover their retreat, and carry off Amabel in his absence; but, after a little reflection, considering this altogether unlikely, he assented, and they set out. A pleasant walk across the fields brought them to the pretty little village of Willesden and its old and beautiful church. They proceeded to the grave of poor Sarah Wingfield, which lay at the east of the church, beneath one of the tall elms, and Nizza, as she stood by the rounded sod covering the remains of the unfortunate girl, could not restrain her tears.
“This might have been my own fate,” she said. “What an escape I have had!”
“I did not bring you here to read you a lesson,” said Wingfield, in a tone of deep emotion, “but because you, who know the temptation to which the poor creature who lies there was exposed, will pity her. Not alone did remorse for her conduct prey upon her spirits — not alone did she suffer from self-reproach, — but the scoffs and jeers of her sex, who never forgive an erring sister, broke her heart. She is now, however, beyond the reach of human malice, and, I trust, at peace.”
As he said this, he walked away to hide his emotion, and presently afterwards rejoining them, they quitted the churchyard together.
As they recrossed the fields, Wingfield observed two men digging a hole in the ground, and, guessing their object, paused for a few minutes to watch them. Having thrown out the earth to the depth of a couple of feet, one of them took a long hooked pole, and attaching it to the body of a victim to the pestilence, who had wandered into the fields and died there, dragged it towards the pit. As soon as the corpse was pushed into its narrow receptacle, the clay was shovelled over it, and trodden down.
“This is a sad mode of burial for a Christian,” observed Wingfield. “But it would not do to leave an infected body to rot in the fields, and spread the contagion.”
“Such a grave is better than the plague-pit,” rejoined Leonard, recalling the frightful scenes he had witnessed there.
On reaching Wingfield’s dwelling, they found from the good dame, that Amabel had awakened from her slumber greatly refreshed; but she gave it as her opinion that she had better remain undisturbed. Accordingly, no one went into the room to her except Nizza Macascree. A substantial dinner was provided for his guests by the hospitable farmer; and Blaize, who had been for some time confined to salt provisions at his master’s house, did ample justice to the fresh meat and vegetables.
The meal over, Leonard, who felt exceedingly curious to learn what had become of the mysterious stranger whose child he had carried to the plague-pit, and who had appeared so strangely interested in Nizza Macascree, determined to walk to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields and inquire after him. On communicating his intention to his host, Wingfield would have dissuaded him; but as Leonard affirmed he had no fear of infection, he desisted from the attempt. Just as the apprentice was starting, Blaize came up to him, and said,— “Leonard, I have a great curiosity to see a pest-house, and should like to go with you, if you will let me.”
The apprentice stared at him in astonishment.
“You will never dare to enter it,” he said.
“I will go wherever you go,” replied the porter, with a confidence mainly inspired by the hospitable farmer’s strong ale.
“We shall see,” replied Leonard. “I shall keep you to your word.”
In less than an hour they reached Marylebone Fields (now the Regent’s Park), and, crossing them, entered a lane, running in pretty nearly the same direction as the present New-road. It Drought them to Clerkenwell, whence they proceeded to Finsbury Fields, and soon came in sight of the pest-house. When Blaize found himself so near this dreaded asylum, all his courage vanished.
“I would certainly enter the pest-house with you,” he said to Leonard, “but I have used up all my vinegar, and you know I lost my box of rufuses and the pot of anti-pestilential confection this morning.”
“That excuse shall not serve your turn,” replied Leonard. “You can get plenty of vinegar and plague medicine in the pest-house.”
“But I have no money to pay for them,” rejoined Blaize.
“I will lend you some,” said Leonard, placing a few pieces in his hand.
“Now, come along.”
Blaize would fain have run away, but, afraid of incurring the apprentice’s anger, he walked tremblingly after him. They entered the garden-gate, and soon reached the principal door, which, as usual, stood open. Scarcely able to support himself, the porter tottered into the large room; but as he cast his eyes around, and beheld the miserable occupants of the pallets, and heard their cries and groans, he was so scared that he could not move another step, but stood like one transfixed with terror. Paying little attention to him, Leonard walked forward, and at the further extremity of the chamber found the young chirurgeon whom he had formerly seen, and describing the stranger, inquired where he was placed.
“The person you allude to has been removed,” returned the chirurgeon. “Doctor Hodges visited him this morning, and had him conveyed to his own dwelling.”
“Was he sensible at the time?” asked the apprentice.
“I think not,” replied the chirurgeon; “but the doctor appeared to recognise in him an old friend, though I did not hear him mention his name; and it was on that account, I conclude, that he had him removed.”
“Is he likely to recover?” asked Leonard, whose curiosity was aroused by what he heard.
“That is impossible to say,” replied the young man. “But he cannot be in better hands than those of Doctor Hodges.”
Leonard perfectly concurred with him, and, after a few minutes’ further conversation, turned to depart. Not seeing Blaize, he concluded he had gone forth, and expected to find him in the garden, or, at all events, in the field adjoining. But he was nowhere to be seen. While wondering what had become of him, Leonard heard a loud cry, in the voice of the porter, issuing from the barn, which, as has already been stated, had been converted into a receptacle for the sick; and hurrying thither, he found Blaize in the hands of two stout assistants, who had stripped him of his clothes, and were tying him down to a pallet. On seeing Leonard, Blaize implored him to deliver him from the hands of his persecutors; and the apprentice assuring the assistants that the poor fellow was perfectly free from infection, they liberated him.
It appeared, on inquiry, that Blaize had fallen against one of the pallets in a state almost of insensibility, and the two assistants, chancing to pass at the time, and taking him for a plague patient, had conveyed him to the barn. On reach
ing it, he recovered, and besought them to set him free, but they paid no attention to his cries, and proceeded to strip him, and bind him to the bed, as before related.
Thus released, the porter lost no time in dressing himself; and Leonard, to allay his terrors, had a strong dose of anti-pestilential elixir administered to him. After which, having procured him a box of rufuses, and a phial of plague-water, Blaize shook off his apprehension, and they set out at a brisk pace for Kensal Green.
VII.
THE JOURNEY.
Blaize was destined to experience a second fright. It has been mentioned that the infected were sometimes seized with a rabid desire of communicating the disorder to such as had not been attacked by it; and as the pair were making the best of their way along the Harrow-road, a poor lazar who was lying against the hedge-side, and had vainly implored their assistance, suddenly started up, and with furious cries and gestures made towards the porter. Guessing his intention, Blaize took to his heels, and, folding himself closely pressed, broke through the hedge on the right, and speeded across the field. In spite of the alarming nature of the occurrence, the apprentice could not help laughing at the unwonted agility displayed by the fat little porter, who ran so swiftly that it appeared probable he would distance his pursuer. To prevent mischief, however, Leonard set off after him, and was fast gaining upon the lazar, whose strength was evidently failing, when the poor wretch uttered a loud cry, and fell to the ground. On coming up, Leonard found him lying with his face in the grass, and convulsed by the agonies of death, and perceiving that all was over, hurried after the porter, whom he found seated on a gate, at the further end of the field, solacing himself with a draught of plague-water.
“Oh, Leonard!” groaned the latter, “how little do we know what is for our good! I was delighted to quit my master’s house this morning, but I now wish with, all my heart I was back again. I am afraid I shall die of the plague after all. Pray what are the first symptoms?”
“Pooh! pooh! don’t think about it, and you will take no harm,” rejoined
Leonard. “Put by your phial, and let us make the best of our way to
Farmer Wingfield’s dwelling.”
Being now in sight of the farm, which, from its elevated situation, could be distinguished at a distance of two miles in this direction, they easily shaped their course towards it across the fields. When about halfway up the hill, Leonard paused to look behind him. The view was exquisite, and it was precisely the hour (just before sunset) at which it could be seen to the greatest advantage. On the right, his gaze wandered to the beautiful and well-wooded heights of Richmond and Wimbledon, beyond which he could trace the long line of the Surrey hills, while nearer he perceived Notting Hill, now covered with habitations, but then a verdant knoll, crowned by a few trees, but without so much as a cottage upon it. On the left stood Hampstead; at that time a collection of pretty cottages, but wanting its present chief ornament, the church. At the foot of the hill rich meadows, bordered with fine hedges, interspersed with well-grown timber, spread out as far as the eye could reach. Nothing destroyed the rural character of the prospect; nor was there any indication of the neighbourhood of a great city, except the lofty tower and massive body of Saint Paul’s, which appeared above the tops of the intervening trees in the distance.
As on former occasions, when contemplating the surrounding country from the summit of the cathedral, Leonard could not help contrasting the beauty of the scene before him with the horrible scourge by which it was ravaged. Never had the country looked so beautiful — never, therefore, was the contrast so forcible; and it appeared to him like a lovely mask hiding the hideous and ghastly features of death. Tinged by the sombre hue of his thoughts, the whole scene changed its complexion. The smiling landscape seemed to darken, and the cool air of evening to become hot and noisome, as if laden with the deadly exhalations of the pestilence. Nor did the workings of his imagination stop here. He fancied even at this distance — nearly seven miles — that he could discern Solomon Eagle on the summit of Saint Paul’s. At first the figure looked like a small black speck; but it gradually dilated, until it became twice the size of the cathedral, upon the central tower of which its feet rested, while its arms were spread abroad over the city. In its right hand the gigantic figure held a blazing torch, and in the left a phial, from the mouth of which a stream of dark liquid descended. So vividly did this phantasm present itself to Leonard, that, almost convinced of its reality, he placed his hands before his eyes for a few moments, and, on withdrawing them, was glad to find that the delusion was occasioned by a black cloud over the cathedral, which his distempered fancy had converted into the colossal figure of the enthusiast.
Blaize, who had taken the opportunity of his companion’s abstraction to sip a little more plague-water, now approached, and told him that Wingfield was descending the hill to meet them. Rousing himself, Leonard ran towards the farmer, who appeared delighted to see them back again, and conducted them to his dwelling. Owing to the tender and truly maternal attention of Dame Wingfield, Amabel was so much better that she was able to join the party at supper, though she took no share in the meal. Wingfield listened to the soft tones of her voice as she conversed with his wife, and at last, unable to control his emotion, laid down his knife and fork, and quitted the table.
“What is the matter with your husband?” inquired Amabel of her hostess.
“I hope he is not unwell.”
“Oh! no,” replied the good dame; “your voice reminds him of our daughter, whose history I have related to you — that is all.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Amabel, with a sympathizing look, “I will be silent, if it pains him to hear me speak.”
“On no account,” rejoined Dame Wingfield. “The tears he has shed will relieve him. He could not weep when poor Sarah died, and I feared his heart would break. Talk to him as you have talked to me, and you will do him a world of good.”
Shortly afterwards, the farmer returned to the table, and the meal proceeded to its close without further interruption. As soon as the board was cleared, Wingfield took a chair by Amabel, who, in compliance with his wife’s request, spoke to him about his daughter, and in terms calculated to afford him consolation. Leonard was enraptured by her discourse, and put so little constraint upon his admiration, that Nizza Macascree could not repress a pang of jealousy. As to Blaize, who had eaten as much as he could cram, and emptied a large jug of the farmer’s stout ale, he took his chair to a corner, and speedily fell asleep; his hoarse but tranquil breathing proving that the alarms he had undergone during the day did not haunt his slumbers. Before separating for the night, Amabel entreated that prayers might be said, and her request being readily granted, she was about to retire with Nizza, when Wingfield detained them.
“I have been thinking that I might offer you a safe asylum here,” he said. “If you like it, you shall remain with us till your health is fully reinstated.”
“I thank you most kindly for the offer,” returned Amabel, gratefully; “and if I do not accept it, it is neither because I should not esteem myself safe here, nor because I am unwilling to be indebted to your hospitality, but that I have been specially advised, as my last chance of recovery, to try the air of Berkshire. I have little hope myself, but I owe it to those who love me to make the experiment.”
“If such is the case,” returned the farmer, “I will not attempt to persuade you further. But if at any future time you should need change of air, my house shall be entirely at your service.”
Dame Wingfield warmly seconded her husband’s wish, and, with renewed thanks, Amabel and her companion withdrew. As there was not sufficient room for their accommodation within the house, Leonard and the porter took up their quarters in the barn, and, throwing themselves upon a heap of straw, slept soundly till three o’clock, when they arose and began to prepare for their journey. Wingfield was likewise astir, and, after assisting them to feed and dress their horses, took them into the house, where a plentiful breakfast awaited
them. At the close of the meal, Amabel and Nizza, who had breakfasted in their own room, made their appearance. All being in readiness for their departure, Dame Wingfield took leave of her guests with tears in her eyes, and the honest farmer was little less affected. Both gazed after them as long as they continued in sight.
Having ascertained from Wingfield the route they ought to pursue, Leonard proceeded about a quarter of a mile along the Harrow-road, and then turned off on the left into a common, which brought them to Acton, from whence they threaded a devious lane to Brentford. Here they encountered several fugitives from the great city, and, as they approached Hounslow, learned from other wayfarers that a band of highwaymen, by whom the heath was infested, had become more than usually daring since the outbreak of the pestilence, and claimed a heavy tax from all travellers. This was bad news to Leonard, who became apprehensive for the safety of the bag of gold given to Nizza by the enthusiast, and he would have taken another road if it had been practicable; but as there was no alternative except to proceed, he put all the money he had about him into a leathern purse, trusting that the highwaymen, if they attacked them, would be content with this booty.
When about halfway across the vast heath, which spread around them, in a wild but not unpicturesque expanse, for many miles on either side, Leonard perceived a band of horsemen, amounting perhaps to a dozen, galloping towards them, and, not doubting they were the robbers in question, communicated his suspicions to his companions. Neither Amabel nor Nizza Macascree appeared much alarmed, but Blaize was so terrified that he could scarcely keep his seat, and was with difficulty prevented from turning his horse’s head and riding off in the opposite direction.
By this time the highwaymen had come up. With loud oaths, two of their number held pistols to the heads of Leonard and Blaize, and demanded their money. The apprentice replied by drawing forth his purse, and besought the fellow to whom he gave it not to maltreat his companion. The man rejoined with a savage imprecation that he “would maltreat them both if they did not instantly dismount and let him search the saddle-bags;” and he was proceeding to drag Amabel from the saddle, when Leonard struck him a violent blow with his heavy riding-whip, which brought him to the ground. He was up again, however, in an instant, and would have fired his pistol at the apprentice, if a masked individual, who was evidently, from the richness of his attire, and the deference paid him by the others, the captain of the band, had not interfered.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 259
