VIII.
HOW LEONARD RESCUED THE LADY ISABELLA.
The course of events having been somewhat anticipated in the last chapter, it will now be necessary to return to an earlier stage in the destruction of the cathedral, namely, soon after the furious bursting forth of the flames from the great eastern windows. While Leonard, in common with the rest of the assemblage, was gazing at this magnificent spectacle, he heard a loud cry of distress behind him, and turning at the sound, beheld Doctor Hodges rush forth from an adjoining house, the upper part of which was on fire, almost in a state of distraction. An elderly man and woman, and two or three female servants, all of whom were crying as loud as himself, followed him. But their screams fell on indifferent ears, for the crowd had become by this time too much accustomed to such appeals to pay any particular attention to them. Leonard, however, instantly rushed towards the doctor, and anxiously inquired what was the matter; the latter was so bewildered that he did not recognise the voice of the speaker, but gazing up at the house with an indescribable anguish, cried, “Merciful God! the flames have by this time reached her room — she will be burned — horror!”
“Who will be burned?” cried Leonard, seizing his arm, and gazing at him with a look of apprehension and anguish equal to his own— “Not the Lady Isabella?”
“Yes, Isabella,” replied Hodges, regarding the speaker, and for the first time perceiving by whom he was addressed. “Not a moment is to be lost if you would save her from a terrible death. She was left in a fainting state in one of the upper rooms by a female attendant, who deserted her mistress to save herself. The staircase is on fire, or I myself would have saved her.”
“A ladder! a ladder!” cried Leonard.
“Here is one,” cried Wingfield, pointing to one propped against an adjoining house. And in another moment, by the combined efforts of the crowd, the ladder was brought and placed against the burning building.
“Which is the window?” cried Leonard.
“That on the right, on the second floor,” replied Hodges. “Gracious
Heaven! the flames are bursting from it.”
But Leonard’s foot was now on the ladder, and rushing up with inconceivable swiftness, he plunged through the window regardless of the flame. All those who witnessed this daring deed, regarded his destruction as certain, and even Hodges gave him up for lost. But the next moment he appeared at the window, bearing the fainting female form in his arms, and with extraordinary dexterity obtaining a firm footing and hold of the ladder, descended in safety. The shout that burst from such part of the assemblage as had witnessed this achievement, and its successful termination, attracted the king’s attention, and he inquired the cause of the clamour.
“I will ascertain it for your majesty,” replied Rochester, and proceeding to the group, he learnt, to his great satisfaction, what had occurred. Having gained this intelligence, he flew back to the king, and briefly explained the situation of the parties. Doctor Hodges, it appeared, had just removed to the house in question, which belonged to one of his patients, as a temporary asylum, and the Lady Isabella had accompanied him. She was in the upper part of the house when the fire broke out, and was so much terrified that she swooned away, in which condition her attendant left her; nor was the latter so much to blame as might appear, for the stairs were burning at the time, and a moment’s delay would have endangered her own safety.
“Fate, indeed, seems to have brought these young persons together,” replied Charles, as he listened to Rochester’s recital, who took this opportunity of acquainting him with Lord Argentine’s dying injunctions, “and it would be a pity to separate them.”
“I am sure your majesty has no such intention,” said Rochester.
“You will see,” rejoined the monarch. And, as he spoke, he turned his horse’s head, and moved towards the spot where Leonard was kneeling beside Isabella, and supporting her. Some restoratives having been applied by Doctor Hodges, she had regained her sensibility, and was murmuring her thanks to her deliverer.
“She has not lost her beauty, I perceive,” cried Charles, gazing at her with admiration, and feeling something of his former passion revive within his breast.
“Your majesty, I trust, will not mar their happiness,” said Rochester, noticing the monarch’s libertine look with uneasiness. “Remember, you owe your life to that young man.”
“And I will pay the debt royally,” replied Charles; “I will give him permission to marry her.”
“Your majesty’s permission is scarcely needed,” muttered Rochester.
“There you are wrong, my lord,” replied the king. “She is now my ward, and I can dispose of her in marriage as I please; nor will I so dispose of her except to her equal in rank.”
“I discern your majesty’s gracious intentions,” replied Rochester, gratefully inclining his head.
“I almost forget my deliverer’s name,” whispered Charles, with a smile, “but it is of no consequence, since he will so speedily change it.”
“His name is Leonard Holt,” replied Rochester, in the same tone.
“Ah! — true,” returned the king. “What ho! good Master Leonard Holt,” he added, addressing the young man, “commit the Lady Isabella Argentine to the care of our worthy friend Doctor Hodges for a moment, and stand up before me.” His injunctions being complied with, he continued, “The Lady Isabella Argentine and I owe our lives to you, and we must both evince our gratitude — she by devoting that life, which, if I am not misinformed, she will be right willing to do, to you, and I by putting you in a position to unite yourself to her. The title of Argentine has been this day extinguished by most unhappy circumstances; I therefore confer the title on you, and here in this presence create you Baron Argentine, of Argentine, in Staffordshire. Your patent shall be made out with all convenient despatch, and with it you shall receive the hand of the sole representative of that ancient and noble house.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me,” replied Leonard, falling on his knee and pressing the king’s hand, which was kindly extended towards him, to his lips. “I can scarcely persuade myself I am not in a dream.”
“You will soon awaken to the sense of the joyful reality,” returned the king. “Have I not now discharged my debt?” he added to Rochester.
“Right royally, indeed, my liege,” replied the earl, in a tone of unaffected emotion. “My lord,” he added, grasping Leonard’s hand, “I sincerely congratulate you on your newly-acquired dignities, nor less in the happiness that awaits you there.”
“If I do not answer you fittingly, my lord,” replied the new-made peer, “it is not because I do not feel your kindness. But my brain reels. Pray Heaven my senses may not desert me.”
“You must not forget the document you obtained this morning, my lord,” replied Rochester, endeavouring to divert his thoughts into a new channel. “The proper moment for consulting it may have arrived.”
Lord Argentine, for we shall henceforth give him his title, thrust his hand into his doublet, and drew forth the parchment. He opened it, and endeavoured to read it, but a mist swam before his eyes.
“Let me look at it,” said Rochester, taking it from him. “It is a deed of gift,” he said, after glancing at it for a moment, “from the late Lord Argentine — I mean the elder baron — of a large estate in Yorkshire, which he possessed in right of his wife, to you, my lord, here described as Leonard Holt, provided you shall marry the Lady Isabella Argentine. Another piece of good fortune. Again and again, I congratulate you.”
“And now,” said Charles, “other and less pleasing matters claim our attention. Let the Lady Isabella be removed, under the charge of Doctor Hodges, to Whitehall, where apartments shall be provided for her at once, together with fitting attendants, and where she can remain till this terrible conflagration is over which, I trust, soon will be, when I will no longer delay her happiness, but give her away in person. Chiffinch,” he added to the chief page, “see all this is carried into effect.”
“I
will, my liege, and right willingly,” replied Chiffinch.
“I would send you with her, my lord,” pursued Charles to Argentine, “but I have other duties for you to fulfil. The plan you proposed of demolishing the houses with gunpowder shall be immediately put into operation, under your own superintendence.”
A chair was now brought, and the Lady Isabella, after a tender parting with her lover, being placed within it, she was thus transported, under the charge of Hodges and Chiffinch, to Whitehall, where she arrived in safety, though not without having sustained some hindrance and inconvenience.
She had not been gone many minutes, when the conflagration of the cathedral assumed its most terrific character; the whole of the mighty roof falling in, and the flames soaring upwards, as before related. Up to this time, Solomon Eagle had maintained his position at the eastern end of the roof, and still grasped the stone cross. His situation now attracted universal attention, for it was evident he must speedily perish.
“Poor wretch!” exclaimed the king, shuddering, “I fear there is no way of saving him.”
“None, whatever my liege,” replied Rochester, “nor do I believe he would consent to it if there were. But he is again menacing your majesty.”
As Rochester spoke, Solomon Eagle shook his arm menacingly at the royal party, raising it aloft, as if invoking the vengeance of Heaven. He then knelt down upon the sloping ridge of the roof, as if in prayer, and his figure, thus seen relieved against the mighty sheet of flame, might have been taken for an image of Saint John the Baptist carved in stone. Not an eye in the vast crowd below but was fixed on him. In a few moments he rose again, and tossing his arms aloft, and shrieking, in a voice distinctly heard above the awful roar around him, the single word “Resurgam!” flung himself headlong into the flaming abyss. A simultaneous cry of horror rose from the whole assemblage on beholding this desperate action.
“The last exclamation of the poor wretch may apply to the cathedral, as well as to himself,” remarked the monarch, to a middle-aged personage, with a pleasing and highly intellectual countenance, standing near him: “for the old building shall rise again, like a phoenix from its fires, with renewed beauty, and under your superintendence, Doctor Christopher Wren.”
The great architect bowed. “I cannot hope to erect such another structure,” he said, modestly; “but I will endeavour to design an edifice that shall not disgrace your majesty’s city.”
“You must build me another city at the same time, Doctor Wren,” sighed the king. “Ah!” he added, “is not that Mr. Lilly, the almanac-maker, whom I see among the crowd?”
“It is,” replied Rochester.
“Bid him come to me,” replied the king. And the order being obeyed, he said to the astrologer, “Well, Mr. Lilly, your second prediction has come to pass. We have had the Plague, and now we have the Fire. You may thank my clemency that I do not order you to be cast into the flames, like the poor wretch who has just perished before our eyes, as a wizard and professor of the black art. How did you obtain information of these fatal events?”
“By a careful study of the heavenly bodies, sire,” replied Lilly, “and by long and patient calculations, which, if your majesty or any of your attendants had had leisure or inclination to make, would have afforded you the same information. I make no pretence to the gift of prophecy, but this calamity was predicted in the last century.”
“Indeed! by whom?” asked the king.
“By Michael Nostradamus,” replied Lilly; “his prediction runs thus: —
‘La sang du juste à Londres fera faute,
Bruslez par feu, le vingt et trois, les Six;
La Dame antique cherra de place haute,
De même secte plusieurs seront occis.’
And thus I venture to explain it. The ‘blood of the just’ refers to the impious and execrable murder of your majesty’s royal father of blessed memory. ‘Three-and-twenty and six’ gives the exact year of the calamity; and it may likewise give us, as will be seen by computation hereafter, the amount of habitations to be destroyed. The ‘Ancient Dame’ undoubtedly refers to the venerable pile now burning before us, which, as it stands in the most eminent spot in the city, clearly ‘falls from its high place.’ The expression ‘of the same sect’ refers not to men, but churches, of which a large number, I grieve to say it, are already destroyed.”
[Footnote 1:
‘The blood of the just shall be wanting in London,
Burnt by fire of three-and-twenty, the Six;
The ancient Dame shall fall from her high place,
Of the same sect many shall be killed.’]
“The prophecy is a singular one,” remarked Charles, musingly “and you have given it a plausible interpretation.” And for some moments he appeared lost in reflection. Suddenly rousing himself, he took forth his tablets, and hastily tracing a few lines upon a leaf, tore it out, and delivered it with his signet-ring to Lord Argentine. “Take this, my lord,” he said, “to Lord Craven. You will find him at his post in Tower-street. A band of my attendants shall go with you. Embark at the nearest stairs you can — those at Blackfriars I should conceive the most accessible. Bid the men row for their lives. As soon as you join Lord Craven, commence operations. The Tower must be preserved at all hazards. Mark me! — at all hazards.”
“I understand your majesty,” replied Argentine— “your commands shall be implicitly obeyed. And if the conflagration has not gone too far, I will answer with my life that I preserve the fortress.” And he departed on his mission.
IX.
WHAT BEFEL CHOWLES AND JUDITH IN THE VAULTS OF SAINT FAITH’S.
Having now seen what occurred outside Saint Paul’s, we shall proceed to the vaults beneath it. Chowles and Judith, it has been mentioned, were descried by Leonard, just before the outbreak of the fire, stealing into Saint Faith’s, and carrying a heavy chest between them. This chest contained some of the altar-plate, which they had pillaged from the Convocation House. As they traversed the aisles of Saint Faith’s, which were now filled with books and paper, they could distinctly hear the raging of the fire without, and Judith, who was far less intimidated than her companion, observed, “Let it roar on. It cannot injure us.”
“I am not so sure of that,” replied Chowles, doubtfully, “I wish we had taken our hoards elsewhere.”
“There is no use in wishing that now,” rejoined Judith. “And it would have been wholly impossible to get them out of the city. But have no fear. The fire, I tell you, cannot reach us. It could as soon burn into the solid earth as into this place.”
“It comforts me to hear you say so,” replied Chowles. “And when I think of those mighty stone floors above us, I feel we are quite safe. No, no, it can never make its way through them.”
Thus discoursing, they reached the charnel at the further end of the church, where Chowles struck a light, and producing a flask of strong waters, took a copious draught himself and handed the flask to Judith, who imitated his example. Their courage being thus stimulated, they opened the chest, and Chowles was so enraptured with its glittering contents that he commenced capering round the vault. Recalled to quietude by a stern reproof from Judith, he opened a secret door in the wall, and pushed the chest into a narrow passage beyond it. Fearful of being discovered in their retreat, they took a basket of provisions and liquor with them, and then closed the door. For some time, they proceeded along the passage, pushing the chest before them, until they came to a descent of a few steps, which brought them to a large vault, half-filled with bags of gold, chests of plate, caskets, and other plunder. At the further end of this vault was a strong wooden door. Pushing the chest into the middle of the chamber, Chowles seated himself upon it, and opening the basket of provisions, took out the bottle of spirits, and again had recourse to it.
“How comfortable and secure we feel in this quiet place,” he said; “while all above us is burning. I declare I feel quite merry, ha! ha!” And he forced a harsh and discordant laugh.
“Give
me the bottle,” rejoined Judith, sternly, “and don’t grin like a death’s head. I don’t like to see the frightful face you make.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 284
