The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “What brings you here, sir?” demanded Patience, in alarm, and glancing over her shoulder to see whether any one observed them. “What do you want?”

  “I have brought you news of Blaize,” returned the bully. “But how charmingly you look. By the coral lips of Venus! your long confinement has added to your attractions.”

  “Never mind my attractions, sir,” rejoined Patience, impatiently. “Where is Blaize? Why did he not come with you?”

  “Alas!” replied Pillichody, shaking his head in a melancholy manner, “he could not.”

  “Could not!” half screamed Patience. “Why not?”

  “Do not question me,” replied Pillichody, feigning to brush away a tear. “He was my friend, and I would rather banish him from my memory. The sight of your beauty transports me so, that, by the treasures of Croesus! I would rather have you without a crown than the wealthiest widow in the country.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense to me in this way,” sobbed Patience “I’m not in the humour for it.”

  “Nonsense!” echoed Pillichody. “I swear to you I am in earnest. By Cupid! I am ravished with your charms.” And he would have seized her hand, but Patience hastily withdrew it; and, provoked at his impertinence, dealt him a sound box on the ear. As she did this, she thought she heard a suppressed laugh near her, and looked round, but could see no one. The sound certainly did not proceed from Pillichody, for he looked very red and very angry.

  “Do not repeat this affront, mistress,” he said to her. “I can bear anything but a blow from your sex.”

  “Then tell me what has become of Blaize,” she cried.

  “I will no longer spare your feelings,” he rejoined. “He is defunct.”

  “Defunct!” echoed Patience, with a scream. “Oh, dear me! — I shall never survive it — I shall die.”

  “Not while I am left to supply his place,” cried Pillichody, catching her in his arms.

  “You!” cried Patience, contemptuously; “I would not have you for the world. Where is he buried?”

  “In the plague-pit,” replied Pillichody. “I attended him during his illness. It was his second attack of the disorder. He spoke of you.”

  “Did he? — dear little fellow!” she exclaimed. “Oh, what did he say?”

  “‘Tell her,’ he cried,” rejoined Pillichody, “‘that my last thoughts were of her.’”

  “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Patience, hysterically.

  “‘Tell her also,’ he added,” pursued Pillichody, “‘that I trust she will fulfil my last injunction.’”

  “That I will,” replied Patience. “Name it.”

  “He conjured you to marry me,” replied Pillichody. “I am sure you will not hesitate to comply with the request.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this,” cried Patience. “Blaize was a great deal too jealous to bequeath me to another.”

  “Right, sweetheart, right,” cried the individual in question, pushing open the door. “This has all been done to try your fidelity. I am now fully satisfied with your attachment; and am ready to marry you whenever you please.”

  “So this was all a trick,” cried Patience, pettishly; “I wish I had known it, I would have retaliated upon you nicely. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Major Pillichody, to lend a helping-hand in such a ridiculous affair.”

  “I did it to oblige my friend Blaize,” replied Pillichody. “It was agreed between us that if you showed any inconstancy, you were to be mine.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Patience. “I would not advise you to repeat the experiment, Mr. Blaize.”

  “I never intend to do so, my angel,” replied the porter. “I esteem myself the happiest and most fortunate of men.”

  “You have great reason to do so,” observed Pillichody. “I do not despair of supplanting him yet,” he muttered to himself. “And now, farewell!” he added aloud; “I am only in the way, and besides, I have no particular desire to encounter Mr. Bloundel or his apprentice;” and winking his solitary orb significantly at Patience, he strutted away. It was well he took that opportunity of departing, for the lovers’ raptures were instantly afterwards interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Bloundel, who was greatly delighted to see the porter, and gave him a hearty welcome.

  “Ah, sir, I have had a narrow escape,” cried Blaize, “and never more expected to see you, or my mother, or Patience. I have had the plague, sir, and a terrible disorder it is.”

  “I heard or your seizure from Leonard Holt,” replied Mr. Bloundel. “But where have you been since you left the hospital at Saint Paul’s?”

  “In the country, sir,” rejoined Blaize; “sometimes at one farm-house, and sometimes at another. I only returned to London yesterday, and met an old friend, whom I begged to go before me, and see that all was right before I ventured, in.”

  “We have all been providentially spared,” observed Mr. Bloundel, “and you will find your mother as well as when you last quitted her. You had better go to her.”

  Blaize obeyed, and was received by old Josyna with a scream of delight. Having embraced him, and sobbed over him, she ran for a bottle of sack, and poured its contents down his throat so hastily as nearly to choke him. She then spread abundance of eatables before him, and after he had eaten and drank his full, offered him as a treat a little of the plague medicine which she had in reserve.

  “No, thank you, mother,” replied Blaize. “I have had enough of that. But if there should be a box of rufuses amongst the store, you can bring it, as I think a couple might do me good.”

  Three days after this event, the apprentice was sent forth to ascertain the precise state of the city, as, if all proved favourable, the grocer proposed to open his house on the following day. Leonard set out betimes, and was speedily convinced that all danger was at an end. A severe frost had set in, and had completely purified the air. For the last few days there had been no deaths of the plague, and but little mortality of any kind. Leonard traversed several of the main streets, and some narrow thoroughfares, and found evidences of restored health and confidence everywhere. It is true there were many houses, in which whole families had been swept off, still left untenanted. But these were only memorials of the past calamity, and could not be referred to any existing danger. Before returning to Wood-street, an irresistible impulse led him to Finsbury Fields. He passed through the postern east of Cripplegate, and shaped his way towards the lesser plague-pit. The sun, which had been bright all the morning, was now partially obscured; the air had grown thick, and a little snow fell. The ground was blackened and bound by the hard frost, and the stiffened grass felt crisp beneath his feet. Insensible to all external circumstances, he hurried forward, taking the most direct course, and leaping every impediment in his path. Having crossed several fields, he at length stood before a swollen heap of clay, round which a wooden railing was placed. Springing over the enclosure, and uttering a wild cry that evinced the uncontrollable anguish of his breast, he flung himself upon the mound. He remained for some time in the deepest affliction, and was at last roused by. a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, raising himself, beheld Thirlby.

  “I thought it must be you,” said the new comer, in accents of the deepest commiseration. “I have been visiting yonder plague-pit for the same melancholy purpose as yourself, — to mourn over my lost child. I have been in search of you, and have much to say to you. Will you meet me in this place at midnight tomorrow?” Leonard signified his assent.

  “I am in danger,” pursued Thirlby, “for, by some means, the secret of my existence has been made known, and the officers of justice are in pursuit of me. I suspect that Judith Malmayns is my betrayer. You will not fail me?”

  “I will not,” returned Leonard. Upon this, Thirlby hurried away, and leaping a hedge, disappeared from view.

  Leonard slowly and sorrowfully returned to Wood-street. On arriving there, he assured his master that he might with entire safety open his house, as he proposed, on the morrow; and Doctor Hodges, who visited the grocer t
he same evening, confirmed the opinion. Early, therefore, the next morning, Mr. Bloundel summoned his family to prayers; and after pouring forth his supplications with peculiar fervour and solemnity, he went, accompanied by them all, and threw open the street-door. Again, kneeling down at the threshold, he prayed fervently, as before. He then proceeded to remove the bars and shutters from the windows. The transition from gloom and darkness to bright daylight was almost overpowering. For the first time for six months, the imprisoned family looked forth on the external world, and were dazzled and bewildered by the sight. The grocer himself, despite his sober judgment, could scarcely believe he had not been in a trance during the whole period. The shop was scarcely opened before it was filled with customers, and Leonard and Stephen were instantly employed. But the grocer would sell nothing. To those who asked for any article he possessed, he presented them with it, but would receive no payment.

  He next dispatched Blaize to bring together all the poor he could find, and distributed among them the remainder of his store — his casks of flour, his salted meat, his cheeses, his biscuits, his wine — in short, all that was left.

  “This I give,” he said, “as a thanksgiving to the Lord, and as a humble testimony of gratitude for my signal deliverance.”

  II.

  THE MIDNIGHT MEETING.

  The first day of his deliverance being spent by the grocer in the praiseworthy manner before related, he laid his head upon his pillow with a feeling of satisfaction such as he had not for months experienced. A very remarkable dream occurred to him that night, and its recollection afterwards afforded him the greatest consolation. While thinking of Amabel, and of the delight her presence would have afforded him, slumber stole upon him, and his dreams were naturally influenced by his previous meditations. It appeared to him that he was alone within his house, and while visiting one of the upper rooms, which had formerly been appropriated to his lost daughter, he noticed a small door in the wall that had never before attracted his attention. He immediately pushed against it, and yielding to the touch, it admitted him to an apartment with which he seemed acquainted, though he could not recall the time when he had seen it. It was large and gloomy, panelled with dark and lustrous oak, and filled with rich but decayed furniture. At the further end stood a large antique bed, hung round with tarnished brocade curtains. The grocer shuddered at the sight, for he remembered to have heard Doctor Hodges assert, that in such a bed, and in such a room as this, his daughter had breathed her last. Some one appeared to be within the bed, and rushing forward with a throbbing heart, and a foreboding of what was to follow, he beheld the form of Amabel. Yes, there she was, with features like those she wore on earth, but clothed with such celestial beauty, and bearing the impress of such serene happiness, that the grocer felt awe-struck as he gazed at her!

  “Approach, my father,” said the visionary form, in a voice so musical that it thrilled through his frame— “approach, and let what you now hear be for ever graven upon your heart. Do not lament me more, but rather rejoice that I am removed from trouble, and in the enjoyment of supreme felicity. Such a state you will yourself attain. You have run the good race, and will assuredly reap your reward. Comfort my dear mother, my brothers, my little sister, with the assurance of what I tell you, and bid them dry their tears. I can now read the secrets of all hearts, and know how true was Leonard Holt’s love for me, and how deep and sincere is his present sorrow. But I am not permitted to appear to him as I now appear to you. Often have I heard him invoke me in accents of the wildest despair, and have floated past him on the midnight breeze, but could neither impart consolation to him nor make him sensible of my presence, because his grief was sinful. Bid him be comforted. Bid him put a due control upon his feelings. Bid him open his heart anew, and he shall yet be happy, yet love again, and have his love requited. Farewell, dear father!”

  And with these words the curtains of the bed closed. The grocer stretched out his arm to draw them aside, and in the effort awoke. He slept no more that night, but dwelt with unutterable delight on the words he had heard. On rising, his first object was to seek out Leonard, and to relate his vision to him. The apprentice listened in speechless wonder, and remained for some time lost in reflection.

  “From any other person than yourself, sir,” he said, at length, “I might have doubted this singular story, but coming from you, I attach implicit credence to it. I will obey your sainted daughter’s injunctions; I will struggle against the grief that overwhelms me, and will try to hope that her words may be fulfilled.”

  “You will do wisely,” rejoined Mr. Bloundel. “After breakfast we will walk together to the farmhouse you spoke of at Kensal Green, and if its owner should prove willing to receive my family for a few weeks, I will remove them thither at once.”

  Leonard applauded his master’s resolution, expressing his firm conviction that Farmer Wingfield would readily accede to the proposal, and the rest of the family having by this time assembled, they sat down to breakfast. As soon as the meal was over, Mr. Bloundel intrusted the care of the shop to Stephen and Blaize, and accompanied by Leonard, set forth. On the way to the west end of the town, the grocer met one or two of his old friends, and they welcomed each other like men risen from the grave. Their course took them through Saint Giles’s, where the plague had raged with the greatest severity, and where many houses were still without tenants.

  “If all had acted as I have done,” sighed the grocer, as he gazed at these desolate habitations, “how many lives, under God’s providence, would have been saved!”

  “In my opinion, sir,” replied Leonard, “you owe your preservation as much to your piety as to your prudence.”

  “I have placed my trust on high,” rejoined the grocer, “and have not been forsaken. And yet many evil doers have escaped; amongst others—”

  “I know whom you mean, sir,” interrupted Leonard, with some fierceness, “but a day of retribution will arrive for him.”

  “No more of this,” rejoined the grocer, severely. “Remember the solemn injunction you have received.”

  At this moment they observed a horseman, richly attired, and followed by a couple of attendants, riding rapidly towards them. Both instantly recognised him. The apprentice’s cheek and brow flushed with anger, and Mr. Bloundel had much ado to control his emotion. It was the Earl of Rochester, and on seeing them he instantly dismounted, and flinging his bridle to one of the attendants, advanced towards them. Noticing the fury that gleamed in Leonard’s eyes, and apprehending some violence on his part, the grocer laid his hand, upon his arm, and sternly enjoined him to calm himself.

  By this time, the earl had reached them. “Mr. Bloundel,” he said, in a tone of much emotion, and with a look that seemed to bespeak contrition. “I heard that you had opened your house yesterday, and was about to call upon you. I have a few words to say to you on a subject painful to both of us, but doubly painful to me — your daughter.”

  “I must decline to hear them, my lord,” replied the grocer, coldly; “nor shall you ever cross my threshold again with my consent. My poor child is now at peace. You can do her no further injury, and must settle your own account with your Maker.”

  “Do not refuse me your forgiveness,” implored the earl. “I will make every reparation in my power.”

  “You can make none,” replied the grocer, repelling him; “and as to my forgiveness, I neither refuse it nor accord it. I pray your lordship to let me pass. The sole favour I ask of you is to come near me no more.”

  “I obey you,” replied the earl. “Stay,” he added to Leonard, who stood by, regarding him with a look of deadly animosity. “I would give you a piece of caution. Your life is in danger.”

  “I can easily guess from whom,” replied the apprentice, scornfully.

  “You mistake,” rejoined Rochester; “you have nothing to apprehend from me. You have promised to meet some one to-night,” he added, in so low a tone as to be inaudible to the grocer. “Do not go.”

  “Your
lordship’s warning will not deter me,” rejoined the apprentice.

  “As you will,” rejoined Rochester, turning away. And springing upon his horse, and striking his spurs into his side, he dashed off, while Leonard and the grocer took the opposite direction. In less than half an hour they reached the little village of Paddington, then consisting of a few houses, but now one of the most populous and important parishes of the metropolis, and speedily gained the open country. Even at this dreary season the country had charms, which Mr. Bloundel, after his long confinement, could fully appreciate. His eye roamed over the wide prospect; and the leafless trees, the bare hedges, and the frost-bound fields seemed pleasant in his sight.

  He quickened his pace, and being wholly indifferent to the cold, greatly enjoyed the exercise. Leonard pointed out to him the spots where the fugitives from the plague had pitched their tents, and also the pest-house near Westbourne Green, where he himself had been received during his second attack of the distemper, and which was now altogether abandoned.

  Soon after this, they mounted the hill beyond Kensal Green, and approached the farmhouse. Leonard descried Wingfield near one of the barns, and hailing him, he immediately came forward. On being informed of Mr. Bloundel’s desire, he at once assented, and taking them into the house, mentioned the matter to his dame, who was quite of the same opinion as himself.

  “The only difference between us,” he said to Mr. Bloundel, “is as to the payment you propose. Now I will take none — not a farthing. Come when you please, bring whom you please, and stay as long as you please. But don’t offer me anything if you would not offend me. Recollect,” he added, the moisture forcing itself into his eyes, and his strong clear voice becoming husky with emotion, “that I loved your daughter for her resemblance to my poor child. She, too, is gone. I do this for her sake.”