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.
"You are rightly served, Dick Dosset," said this person, "for your
rudeness to a lady. I will have none of my band guilty of incivility,
and if this young man had not punished you, I would have done so myself.
Pass free, my pretty damsel," he added, bowing gallantly to Amabel; "you
shall not be further molested."
Meanwhile, Blaize exhibited the contents of his pockets to the other
highwayman, who having opened the box of rufuses and smelt at the phial
of plague-water, returned them to him with a look of disgust, and bade
him follow his companions. As Leonard was departing, the captain of the
band rode after him, and inquired whether he had heard at what hour the
king meant to leave Whitehall.
"The court is about to adjourn to Oxford," he added, "and the king and
some of his courtiers will cross the heath to-day, when I purpose to
levy the same tax from his majesty that I do from his subjects."
Leonard replied, that he was utterly ignorant of the king's movements;
and explaining whence he came, the captain left him. The intelligence he
had thus accidentally obtained was far from satisfactory to the
apprentice. For some distance, their road would be the same as that
about to be taken by the monarch and his attendants, amongst whom it was
not improbable Rochester might be numbered; and the possibility that the
earl might overtake them and discover Amabel filled him with uneasiness.
Concealing his alarm, however, he urged his steed to a quicker pace, and
proceeded briskly on his way, glad, at least, that he had not lost
Solomon Eagle's gift to Nizza. Amabel's weakly condition compelled them
to rest at frequent intervals, and it was not until evening was drawing
in that they descended the steep hill leading to the beautiful village
of Henley-upon-Thames, where they proposed to halt for the night.
Crossing the bridge, they found a considerable number of the inhabitants
assembled in the main street and in the market-place, in expectation of
the king's passing through the town on his way to Oxford, intimation of
his approach having been conveyed by avant-couriers. Leonard proceeded
to the principal inn, and was fortunate enough to procure accommodation.
Having conducted Amabel and Nizza to their room, he was repairing to the
stable with Blaize to see after their steeds, when a loud blowing of
horns was heard on the bridge, succeeded by the tramp of horses and the
rattling of wheels, and the next moment four valets in splendid livery
rode up, followed by a magnificent coach. The shouts of the assemblage
proclaimed that it was the king. The cavalcade stopped before the inn,
from the yard of which six fine horses were brought and attached to the
royal carriage, in place of others which were removed. Charles was
laughing heartily, and desired his attendants, who were neither numerous
nor well-armed, to take care they were not robbed again between this
place and Oxford; "Though," added the monarch, "it is now of little
consequence, since we have nothing to lose."
"Is it possible your majesty can have been robbed?" asked the landlord,
who stood cap in hand at the door of the carriage.
"I'faith, man, it _is_ possible," rejoined the king. "We were stopped on
Hounslow Heath by a band of highwaymen, who carried off two large
coffers filled with gold, and would have eased us of our swords and
snuff-boxes but for the interposition of their captain, who, as we live,
is one of the politest men breathing--is he not, Rochester?"
Leonard Holt, who was among the crowd of spectators, started at the
mention of this name, and he trembled as the earl leaned forward in
answer to the king's question. The eyes of the rivals met at this
moment, for both were within a few yards of each other, and Rochester,
whose cheek was flushed with anger, solicited the king's permission to
alight, but Charles, affirming it was getting late, would not permit
him, and as the horses were harnessed, and the drivers mounted, he
ordered them to proceed without delay.
Inexpressibly relieved by his rival's departure, Leonard returned to the
house, and acquainted Amabel with what had occurred. Quitting Henley
betimes on the following morning, they arrived in about three hours at
Wallingford, where they halted for some time, and, then pursuing their
journey, reached Wantage at four o'clock, where they tarried for an
hour. Up to this hour, Leonard had doubted the possibility of reaching
their destination that night; but Amabel assuring him she felt no
fatigue, he determined to push on. Accordingly, having refreshed their
steeds, they set forward, and soon began to mount the beautiful downs
lying on the west of this ancient town.
Crossing these heights, whence they obtained the most magnificent and
extensive views of the surrounding country, they reached in about
three-quarters of an hour the pretty little hamlet of Kingston Lisle.
Here they again paused at a small inn at the foot of a lofty hill,
denominated, from a curious relic kept there, the Blowing Stone. This
rocky fragment, which is still in existence, is perforated by a number
of holes, which emit, if blown into, a strange bellowing sound. Unaware
of this circumstance, Leonard entered the house with the others, and had
just seated, himself, when they were, astounded by a strange unearthly
roar. Rushing forth, Leonard found Blaize with his cheeks puffed out and
his mouth applied to the stone, into which he was blowing with all his
force, and producing the above-mentioned extraordinary noise.
Shortly after this, the party quitted the Blowing Stone, and having
toiled up the steep sides of the hill, they were amply repaid on
reaching its summit by one of the finest views they had ever beheld. In
fact, the hill on which they stood commanded the whole of the extensive
and beautiful vale of the White Horse, which was spread out before them
as far as the eye could reach, like a vast panorama, disclosing a
thousand fields covered with abundant, though as yet immature crops. It
was a goodly prospect, and seemed to promise plenty and prosperity to
the country. Almost beneath them stood the reverend church of Uffington
overtopping the ancient village clustering round it. Numerous other
towers and spires could be seen peeping out of groves of trees, which,
together with the scattered mansions and farmhouses surrounded by
granges and stacks of hay and beans, gave interest and diversity to the
prospect. The two most prominent objects in the view were the wooded
heights of Farringdon on the one hand, and those of Abingdon on the
other.
Proceeding along the old Roman road, still distinctly marked out, and
running along the ridge of this beautiful chain of hills, they arrived
at an immense Roman encampment, vulgarly called Uffingham Castle,
occupying the crown of a hill. A shepherd, who was tending a flock of
sheep which were browsing on the delicious herbage to be found within
the vast circular space enclosed by the inner vallum of the camp,
explained its purpose, and they could not but regard it with interest.
He informed them that they were in the neighbourhood of the famous White
Horse, a figure cut out of the turf on the hillside by the Saxons, and
visible for many miles. Conducting them to a point whence they could
survey this curious work, their guide next directed them to Ashdown
Lodge, which lay, he told them, at about four miles' distance. They had
wandered a little out of their course, but he accompanied them for a
mile, until they came in sight of a thick grove of trees clothing a
beautiful valley, above which could be seen the lofty cupola of the
mansion.
Cheered by the sight, and invigorated by the fresh breeze blowing in
this healthful region, they pressed forward, and soon drew near the
mansion, which they found was approached by four noble avenues. They had
not advanced far, when a stalwart personage, six feet two high, and
proportionately stoutly made, issued from the covert. He had a gun over
his shoulder and was attended by a couple of fine dogs. Telling them he
was called John Lutcombe, and was the Earl of Craven's gamekeeper, he
inquired their business, and, on being informed of it, changed his surly
manner to one of great cordiality, and informed them that Mrs.
Buscot--such was the name of Amabel's aunt--was at home, and would be
heartily glad to see them.
"I have often heard her speak of her brother, Mr. Bloundel," he said,
"and am well aware that he is an excellent man. Poor soul! she has been
very uneasy about him and his family during this awful dispensation,
though she had received a letter to say that he was about to close his
house, and hoped, under the blessing of Providence, to escape the
pestilence. His daughter will be welcome, and she cannot come to a
healthier spot than Ashdown, nor to a better nurse than Mrs. Buscot."
With this, he led the way to the court-yard, and, entering the dwelling,
presently returned with a middle-aged woman, who Amabel instantly knew,
from the likeness to her father, must be her aunt. Mrs. Buscot caught
her in her arms, and almost smothered her with kisses. As soon as the
first transports of surprise and joy had subsided, the good housekeeper
took her niece and Nizza Macascree into the house, and desired John
Lutcombe to attend to the others.
VIII. ASHDOWN LODGE.
Erected by Inigo Jones, and still continuing in precisely the same state
as at the period of this history, Ashdown Lodge is a large square
edifice, built in the formal French taste of the seventeenth century,
with immense casements, giving it the appearance of being all glass, a
high roof lighted by dormer windows, terminated at each angle by a tall
and not very ornamental chimney, and surmounted by a lofty and
lantern-like belvedere, crowned in its turn by a glass cupola. The
belvedere opens upon a square gallery defended by a broad balustrade,
and overlooking the umbrageous masses and lovely hills around it. The
house, as has been stated, is approached by four noble avenues, the
timber constituting which, is, of course, much finer now than at the
period under consideration, and possesses a delightful old-fashioned
garden, and stately terrace. The rooms are lofty but small, and there is
a magnificent staircase, occupying nearly half the interior of the
building. Among other portraits decorating the walls, is one of
Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of James the First, and Queen of Bohemia, for
whom the first Earl of Craven entertained so romantic an attachment, and
to whom he was supposed to be privately united. Nothing can be more
secluded than the situation of the mansion, lying as it does in the
midst of a gentle valley, surrounded by a thick wood, and without having
a single habitation in view. Its chief interest, however, must always be
derived from its connection with the memory of the chivalrous and
high-souled nobleman by whom it was erected, and who made it
occasionally his retreat after the death of his presumed royal consort,
which occurred about four years previous to the date of this history.
Amabel was delighted with her new abode, and she experienced the
kindness of a parent from her aunt, with whom, owing to circumstances,
she had not hitherto been personally acquainted, having only seen her
when too young to retain any recollection of the event. The widow of a
farmer, who had resided on Lord Craven's estate near Kingston Lisle,
Mrs. Buscot, after her husband's death, had been engaged as housekeeper
at Ashdown Lodge, and had filled the situation for many years to the
entire satisfaction of her employer. She was two or three years older
than her brother, Mr. Bloundel; but the perfect health she enjoyed, and
which she attributed to the salubrious air of the downs, combined with
her natural cheerfulness of disposition, made her look much the younger
of the two. Her features, besides their kindly and benevolent
expression, were extremely pleasing, and must, some years ago, have been
beautiful. Even now, what with her fresh complexion, her white teeth,
and plump figure, she made no slight pretensions to comeliness. She
possessed the same good sense and integrity of character as her brother,
together with his strong religious feeling, but entirely unaccompanied
by austerity.
Having no children, she was able to bestow her entire affections upon
Amabel, whose sad story, when she became acquainted with it, painfully
affected her; nor was she less concerned at her precarious state of
health. For the first day or two after their arrival, Amabel suffered
greatly from the effects of the journey; but after that time, she gained
strength so rapidly, that Mrs. Buscot, who at first had well-nigh
despaired of her recovery, began to indulge a hope. The gentle sufferer
would sit throughout the day with her aunt and Nizza Macascree in the
gallery near the belvedere, inhaling the pure breeze blowing from the
surrounding hills, and stirring the tree-tops beneath her.
"I never expected so much happiness," she observed, on one occasion, to
Mrs. Buscot, "and begin to experience the truth of Doctor Hodges'
assertion, that with returning health, the desire of life would return.
I now wish to live."
"I am heartily glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Buscot, "and hold
it a certain sign of your speedy restoration to health. Before you have
been a month with me, I expect to bring back the roses to those pale
cheeks."
"You are too sanguine, I fear, dear aunt," rejoined Amabel, "but the
change that has taken place in my feelings, may operate beneficially
upon my constitution."
"No doubt of it, my dear," replied Mrs. Buscot; "no doubt."