doctor, and accept my thanks for your attention. To-morrow, at as early
an hour as you can make convenient, I shall hope to see you." And with a
friendly shake of the hand, and a reiteration of advice and good wishes,
Hodges departed.
Soon after this the apprentice returned, and by his master's directions,
placed a chafing-dish in the middle of the room, supplying it with the
drugs and herbs left by the doctor. About four o'clock, a loud knocking
was heard. Instantly answering the summons, Leonard found four men at
the shop-door, two of whom he knew, by red wands they carried, were
searchers; while their companions appeared to be undertakers, from their
sable habits and long black cloaks.
Marching unceremoniously into the shop, the searchers desired to see the
sick man; and the apprentice then perceived that one of the men in black
cloaks was the coffin-maker, Chowles. He could not, however, refuse him
admittance, and led the way to the grocer's chamber. As they entered it,
Bloundel arose, and placing his finger to his lips in token of silence,
raised the blankets, and exhibited the blotch, which had greatly
increased in size, under the arm of his slumbering son. The foremost of
the searchers, who kept a phial of vinegar to his nose all the time he
remained in the room, then demanded in a low tone whether there were any
other of the household infected? The grocer replied in the negative.
Upon this, Chowles, whose manner showed he was more than half
intoxicated, took off his hat, and bowing obsequiously to the grocer,
said, "Shall I prepare you a coffin, Mr. Bloundel?--you are sure to want
one, and had better give the order in time, for there is a great demand
for such articles just now. If you like, I will call with it tomorrow
night. I have a plague-cart of my own, and bury all my customers."
"God grant I may not require your services, sir!" replied the grocer,
shuddering. "But I will give you timely notice."
"If you are in want of a nurse, I can recommend an experienced one,"
added Chowles. "Her last employer is just dead."
"I may need assistance," replied the grocer, after a moment's
reflection. "Let her call to-morrow."
"She understands her business perfectly, and will save you a world of
trouble," replied Chowles; "besides securing me the sale of another
coffin," he added to himself.
He then quitted the room with the searchers, and Leonard felt
inexpressibly relieved by their departure.
As soon as the party gained the street, the fourth person, who was
provided with materials for the task, painted a red cross of the
prescribed size--namely, a foot in length--in the middle of the door;
tracing above it, in large characters, the melancholy formula--"LORD,
HAVE MERCY UPON US!"
VI. THE LIBERTINE PUNISHED.
Sir Paul Parravicin and Major Pillichody arrived without any particular
adventure at the top of the Haymarket, where the former dismissed the
coach he had hired in Cheapside, and they proceeded towards Piccadilly
on foot. Up to this time the major had been in very high spirits,
boasting what he would do, in case they encountered Disbrowe, and
offering to keep guard outside the door while the knight remained in the
house. But he now began to alter his tone, and to frame excuses to get
away. He had noticed with some uneasiness, that another coach stopped
lower down the Haymarket, at precisely the same time as their own; and
though he could not be quite certain of the fact, he fancied he
perceived a person greatly resembling Captain Disbrowe alight from it.
Mentioning the circumstance to his companion, he pointed out a tall
figure following them at some distance; but the other only laughed at
him, and said, "It may possibly be Disbrowe--but what if it is? He
cannot get into the house without the key; and if he is inclined to
measure swords with me a second time, he shall not escape so lightly as
he did the first."
"Right, Sir Paul, right," returned Pillichody, "exterminate him--spare
him not. By Bellerophon! that's my way. My only apprehension is lest he
should set upon us unawares. The bravest are not proof against the
dagger of an assassin."
"There you wrong Disbrowe, major, I am persuaded," returned Parravicin.
"He is too much a man of honour to stab a foe behind his back."
"It may be," replied Pillichody, "but jealousy will sometimes turn a
man's brain. By the snakes of Tisiphone! I have known an instance of it
myself. I once made love to a tailor's wife, and the rascal coming in
unawares, struck me to the ground with his goose, and well nigh murdered
me."
"After such a mischance, I am surprised you should venture to carry on
so many hazardous intrigues," laughed the knight. "But you proposed just
now to keep watch outside the house. If it is Disbrowe who is following
us, you had better do so."
"Why, Sir Paul--you see,"--stammered the major, "I have just bethought
me of an engagement."
"An engagement at this hour--impossible!" cried Parravicin.
"An assignation, I ought to say," returned Pillichody.
"Couches of Cytheraea!--an affair like your own. You would not have me
keep a lady waiting."
"It is strange you should not recollect it till this moment," replied
Parravicin. "But be your inamorata whom she may--even the rich widow of
Watling-street, of whom you prate so much--you must put her off
to-night."
"But, Sir Paul----"
"I will have no denial," replied the knight, peremptorily. "If you
refuse, you will find me worse to deal with than Disbrowe. You must
remain at the door till I come out. And now let us lose no more time. I
am impatient to behold the lady."
"Into what a cursed scrape have I got myself!" thought the major, as he
walked by the side of his companion, ever and anon casting wistful
glances over his shoulder. "I am fairly caught on the horns of a
dilemma. I instinctively feel that Disbrowe _is_ dogging us. What will
become of me? The moment this harebrained coxcomb enters the house, I
will see whether a light pair of heels cannot bear me out of harm's
way."
By this time, they had reached a passage known as Bear-alley (all traces
of which have been swept away by modern improvements), and threading it,
they entered a narrow thoroughfare, called Castle-street. Just as they
turned the corner, Pillichody again noticed the figure at the further
end of the alley, and, but for his fears of the knight, would have
instantly scampered off.
"Are we far from the house?" inquired Parravicin.
"No," replied the major, scarcely able to conceal his trepidation. "It
is close at hand--and so is the lady's husband."
"So much the better," replied the knight; "it will afford you some
amusement to beat him off. You may affect not to know him, and may tell
him the lady's husband is just come home--her _husband_!--do you take,
Pillichody?"
"I do--ha! ha! I do," replied the major, in a quavering tone.
"But you don't appear to relish the jest," rejoined Parravicin,
sneeringly.
"Oh, yes, I relish it exceedingly," replied Pillichody; "her
husband--ha!--ha!--and Disbrowe is the disappointed lover--capital! But
here we are--and I wish we were anywhere else," he added to himself.
"Are you sure you are right?" asked Parravicin, searching for the key.
"Quite sure," returned Pillichody. "Don't you see some one behind that
wall?"
"I see nothing," rejoined the knight. "You are afraid of shadows,
major."
"Afraid!" ejaculated Pillichody. "Thousand thunders! I am afraid of
nothing."
"In that case, I shall expect to find you have slain Disbrowe, on my
return," rejoined Parravicin, unlocking the door.
"The night is chilly," observed the major, "and ever since my campaigns
in the Low Countries, I have been troubled with rheumatism. I should
prefer keeping guard inside."
"No, no, you must remain where you are," replied the knight, shutting
the door.
Pillichody was about to take to his heels, when he felt himself arrested
by a powerful arm. He would have roared for aid, but a voice, which he
instantly recognised, commanded him to keep silence, if he valued his
life.
"Is your companion in the house?" demanded Disbrowe, in a hollow tone.
"I am sorry to say he is, Captain Disbrowe," replied the bully. "I did
my best to prevent him, but remonstrance was in vain."
"Liar," cried Disbrowe, striking him with his clenched hand. "Do you
think to impose upon me by such a pitiful fabrication? It was you who
introduced me to this heartless libertine--you who encouraged me to play
with him, telling me I should easily strip him of all he possessed--you
who excited his passion for my wife, by praising her beauty--and it was
you who put it into his head to propose that fatal stake to me."
"There you are wrong, Captain Disbrowe," returned Pillichody, in a
supplicatory tone. "On my soul, you are! I certainly praised your wife
(as who would not?), but I never advised Parravicin to play for her.
That was his own idea entirely."
"The excuse shall not avail you," cried Disbrowe, fiercely. "To you I
owe all my misery. Draw and defend yourself."
"Be not so hasty, captain," cried Pillichody, abjectedly. "I have
injured you sufficiently already. I would not have your blood on my
head. On the honour of a soldier, I am sorry for the wrong I have done
you, and will strive to repair it."
"Repair it!" shrieked Disbrowe. "It is too late." And seizing the
major's arm, he dragged him by main force into the alley.
"Help! help!" roared Pillichody. "Would you murder me?"
"I will assuredly cut your throat, if you keep up this clamour,"
rejoined Disbrowe, snatching the other's long rapier from his side.
"Coward!" he added, striking him with the flat side of the weapon, "this
will teach you to mix yourself up in such infamous affairs for the
future."
And heedless of the major's entreaties and vociferations, he continued
to belabour him, until compelled by fatigue to desist; when the other,
contriving to extricate himself, ran off as fast as his legs could carry
him. Disbrowe looked after him for a moment, as if uncertain whether to
follow, and then hurrying to the house, stationed himself beneath the
porch.
"I will stab him as he comes forth," he muttered, drawing his sword, and
hiding it beneath his mantle.
Parravicin, meanwhile, having let himself into the house, marched boldly
forward, though the passage was buried in darkness, and he was utterly
unacquainted with it. Feeling against the wall, he presently discovered
a door, and opening it, entered a room lighted by a small silver lamp
placed on a marble slab. The room was empty, but its furniture and
arrangements proclaimed it the favourite retreat of the fair mistress of
the abode. Parravicin gazed curiously round, as if anxious to gather
from what he saw some idea of the person he so soon expected to
encounter. Everything betokened a refined and luxurious taste. A few
French romances, the last plays of Etherege, Dryden, and Shadwell, a
volume of Cowley, and some amorous songs, lay on the table; and not far
from them were a loomask, pulvil purse, a pair of scented gloves, a
richly-laced mouchoir, a manteau girdle, palatine tags, and a golden
bodkin for the hair.
Examining all these things, and drawing his own conclusions as to the
character of their owner, Parravicin turned to a couch on which a
cittern was thrown, while beside it, on a cushion, were a pair of tiny
embroidered velvet slippers. A pocket-mirror, or sprunking-glass, as it
was then termed, lay on a side-table, and near it stood an embossed
silver chocolate-pot, and a small porcelain cup with a golden spoon
inside it, showing what the lady's last repast had been. On another
small table, covered with an exquisitely white napkin, stood a flask of
wine, a tall-stemmed glass, and a few cakes on a China dish, evidently
placed there for Disbrowe's return.
As Parravicin drew near this table, a slip of paper, on which a few
lines were traced, attracted his attention, and taking it up, he read as
follows:
"It is now midnight, and you promised to return early. I have felt your
absence severely, and have been suffering from a violent headache, which
has almost distracted me. I have also been troubled with strange and
unaccountable misgivings respecting you. I am a little easier now, but
still far from well, and about to retire to rest. At what hour will this
meet your eye?"
"MARGARET."
"Charming creature!" exclaimed Parravicin, as the paper dropped from his
hand; "she little dreamed, when she wrote it, who would read her billet.
Disbrowe does not deserve such a treasure. I am sorry she is unwell. I
hope she has not taken the plague. Pshaw, what could put such an idea
into my head? Lydyard's warning, I suppose. That fellow, who is the
veriest rake among us, is always preaching. Confound him! I wish he had
not mentioned it. A glass of wine may exhilarate me." And pouring out a
bumper, he swallowed it at a draught. "And so the fond fool is pining
for her husband, and has some misgivings about him. Egad! it is well for
her she does not know what has really taken place. She'll learn that
soon enough. What's this?" he added, glancing at a picture on the wall.
"Her miniature! It must be; for it answers exactly to Pillichody's
description. A sparkling brunette, with raven hair, and eyes of night. I
am on fire to behold her: but I must proceed with prudence, or I may
ruin all. Is there nothing of Disbrowe's that I could put on for the
nonce? 'Fore Heaven! the very thing I want!"
The exclamation was occasioned by his observing a loose silken robe
lying across a chair. Wrapping it round him, and throwing down his hat,
he took the lamp and went up stairs.
Daring as he was, Parravicin felt his courage desert him, as having
found the door of Mrs. Disbrowe's chamber, he cautiously opened it. A
single glance showed him that the room was more exquisitely, more
luxuriously furnished than that he had just quitted. Articles of
feminine attire, of the richest kind, were hung against the walls, or
disposed on the chairs. On one side stood the toilette-table, with its
small mirror then in vogue, and all its equipage of silver flasks,
filligree cassets, japan patch-boxes, scent-bottles, and pomatum-pots.
As he entered the room, a faint voice issuing from behind the rich
damask curtains of the bed, demanded, "Is it you, Disbrowe?"
"It is, Margaret," replied Parravicin, setting down the lamp, and
speaking with a handkerchief at his mouth, to disguise his voice and
conceal his features.
"You are late--very late," she rejoined, "and I have been ill. I fancied
myself dying."
"What has been the matter with you sweet, Meg?" asked Parravicin,
approaching the bed, and seating himself behind the curtains.
"I know not," she replied. "I was seized with a dreadful headache about
an hour ago. It has left me; but I have a strange oppression at my
chest, and breathe with difficulty."
"You alarm me, my love," rejoined Parravicin. "Were you ever attacked
thus before?"
"Never," she replied. "Oh! Disbrowe! if you knew how I have longed for
your return, you would blame yourself for your absence. You have grown
sadly neglectful of late. I suspect you love some one else. If I thought
so------"
"What if you thought so, Margaret?" demanded Parravicin.
"What!" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, raising herself in the bed. "I would
requite your perfidy--terribly requite it!"
"Then learn that Captain Disbrowe _is_ faithless," cried Parravicin,
throwing back the curtains, and disclosing himself. "Learn that he loves
another, and is with her now. Learn that he cares so little for you,
that he has surrendered you to me."
"What do I hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Disbrowe. "Who are you, and what brings
you here?"
"You may guess my errand from my presence," replied the knight. "I am
called Sir Paul Parravicin, and am the most devoted of your admirers."
"My husband surrender me to a stranger! It cannot be!" cried the lady,
distractedly.
"You see me here, and may judge of the truth of my statement," rejoined
the knight. "Your husband gave me this key, with which I introduced
myself to the house."
"What motive could he have for such unheard-of baseness--such
barbarity?" cried Mrs. Disbrowe, bursting into tears.
"Shall I tell you, madam?" replied Parravicin. "He is tired of you, and
has taken this means of ridding himself of you."
Mrs. Disbrowe uttered a loud scream, and fell back in the bed.
Parravicin waited for a moment; but not hearing her move, brought the
lamp to see what was the matter. She had fainted, and was lying across
the pillow, with her night-dress partly open, so as to expose her neck
and shoulders.
The knight was at first ravished with her beauty; but his countenance
suddenly fell, and an expression of horror and alarm took possession of
it. He appeared rooted to the spot, and instead of attempting to render
her any assistance, remained with his gaze fixed upon her neck.
Rousing himself at length, he rushed out of the room, hurried down
stairs, and without pausing for a moment, threw open the street-door. As
he issued from it, his throat was forcibly griped, and the point of a
sword was placed at his breast.
"You are now in my power, villain," cried Disbrowe, "and shall not
escape my vengeance."
"You are already avenged," replied Parravicin, shaking off his
assailant. "Your wife has the plague."
VII. THE PLAGUE NURSE.
"And so my husband has got the plague," muttered Mother Malmayns, as she
hastened towards Saint Paul's, after the reproof she had received from
Doctor Hodges. "Well, it's a disorder that few recover from, and I don't
think he stands a better chance than his fellows. I've been troubled
with him long enough. I've borne his ill-usage and savage temper for
twenty years, vainly hoping something would take him off; but though he
tried his constitution hard, it was too tough to yield. However, he's
likely to go now. If I find him better than I expect, I can easily make
all sure. That's one good thing about the plague. You may get rid of a
patient without any one being the wiser. A wrong mixture--a pillow
removed--a moment's chill during the fever--a glass of cold water--the
slightest thing will do it. Matthew Malmayns, you will die of the
plague, that's certain. But I must be careful how I proceed. That cursed
doctor has his eye upon me. As luck would have it, I've got Sibbald's
ointment in my pocket. That is sure to do its business--and safely."
Thus ruminating, she shaped her course towards the southwest corner of
the cathedral, and passing under the shrouds and cloisters of the
Convocation House, raised the latch of a small wooden shed fixed in the
angle of a buttress. Evidently well acquainted with the place, she was
not long in finding a lantern and materials to light it, and inserting
her fingers in a crevice of the masonry, from which the mortar had been
removed, she drew forth a key.
"It has not been stirred since I left it here a month ago," she
muttered. "I must take care of this key, for if Matthew _should_ die, I
may not be able to enter the vaults of Saint Faith's without it; and as
I know all their secret places and passages, which nobody else does,
except my husband, I can make them a storehouse for the plunder I may
obtain during the pestilence. If it rages for a year, or only half that
time, and increases in violence (as God grant it may), I will fill every
hole in those walls with gold."
With this, she took up the lantern, and crept along the side of the
cathedral, until she came to a flight of stone steps. Descending them,
she unlocked a small but strong door, cased with iron, and fastening it
after her, proceeded along a narrow stone passage, which brought her to
another door, opening upon the south aisle of Saint Faith's.
Pausing for a moment to listen whether any one was within the sacred
structure--for such was the dead and awful silence of the place, that
the slightest whisper or footfall, even at its farthest extremity, could
be distinguished--she crossed to the other side, glancing fearfully
around her as she threaded the ranks of pillars, whose heavy and
embrowned shafts her lantern feebly illumined, and entering a recess,
took a small stone out of the wall, and deposited the chief part of the
contents of her pocket behind it, after which she carefully replaced the
stone. This done, she hurried to the charnel, and softly opened the door
of the crypt.
Greatly relieved by the operation he had undergone, the sexton had sunk
into a slumber, and was, therefore, unconscious of the entrance of his
wife, who, setting down the lantern, advanced towards the pallet. His
mother and the young man were still in attendance, and the former, on
seeing her daughter-in-law, exclaimed, in low but angry accents--"What
brings you here, Judith? I suppose you expected to find my son dead. But
he will disappoint you. Doctor Hodges said he would recover--did he not
Kerrich?" she added, appealing to the young man, who nodded
acquiescence. "He will recover, I tell you."
"Well, well," replied Judith, in the blandest tone she could assume; "I
hope he will. And if the doctor says so, I have no doubt of it. I only
heard of his illness a few minutes ago, and came instantly to nurse
him."
"_You_ nurse him?" cried the old woman; "if you show him any affection
now, it will be for the first time since your wedding-day."
"How long has he been unwell?" demanded Judith, with difficulty
repressing her anger.
"He was seized the night before last," replied the old woman; "but he
didn't know what was the matter with him when it began. I saw him just
before he went to rest, and he complained of a slight illness, but
nothing to signify. He must have passed a frightful night, for the
vergers found him in the morning running about Saint Faith's like a
madman, and dashing his spades and mattocks against the walls and
pillars. They secured him, and brought him here, and on examination, he
proved to have the plague."
"You surprise me by what you say," replied Judith. "During the last
month, I have nursed more than a dozen patients, and never knew any of
them so violent. I must look at his sore."
"The doctor has just dressed it," observed the old woman.
"I don't mind that," rejoined Judith, turning down the blanket, and
examining her husband's shoulder. "You are right," she added, "he is
doing as well as possible."
"I suppose I shan't be wanted any more," observed Kerrich, "now you're
come back to nurse your husband, Mrs. Malmayns? I shall be glad to get
home to my own bed, for I don't feel well at all."
"Don't alarm yourself," replied Judith. "There's a bottle of plague
vinegar for you. Dip a piece of linen in it, and smell at it, and I'll
insure you against the pestilence."
Kerrich took the phial, and departed. But the remedy was of little
avail. Before daybreak, he was seized with the distemper, and died two
days afterwards.
"I hope poor Kerrich hasn't got the plague?" said the old woman, in a
tremulous tone.
"I am afraid he has," replied the daughter-in-law, "but I didn't like to
alarm him."
"Mercy on us!" cried the other, getting up. "What a dreadful scourge it
is."
"You would say so, if you had seen whole families swept off by it, as I
have," replied Judith. "But it mostly attacks old persons and children."
"Lord help us!" cried the crone, "I hope it will spare me. I thought my
age secured me."
"Quite the reverse," replied Judith, desirous of exciting her
mother-in-law's terrors; "quite the reverse. You must take care of
yourself."
"But you don't think I'm ill, do you?" asked the other, anxiously.
"Sit down, and let me look at you," returned Judith.
And the old woman tremblingly obeyed.
"Well, what do you think of me--what's the matter?" she asked, as her
daughter-in-law eyed her for some minutes in silence. "What's the
matter, I say?"
But Judith remained silent.
"I insist upon knowing," continued the old woman.
"Are you able to bear the truth?" returned her daughter-in-law.
"You need say no more," groaned the old woman. "I know what the truth
must be, and will try to bear it. I will get home as fast as I can, and
put my few affairs in order, so that if I am carried off, I may not go
unprepared."
"You had better do so," replied her daughter-in-law.