with great kindness, and conducted them to a comfortable apartment,
surrounded with book-shelves and old family portraits, where
refreshments were spread out for them. The good old lady seemed
particularly interested in Amabel, and pressed her, but in vain, to
partake of the refreshments. With extreme delicacy, she refrained from
inquiring into the cause of their visit, and seeing that they appeared,
much fatigued, rang for a female attendant, and conducted them to a
sleeping-chamber, where she took leave of them for the night. Amabel was
delighted with her kind hostess, and, contrary to her expectations and
to those of Nizza Macascree, enjoyed undisturbed repose. She awoke in
the morning greatly refreshed, and, after attiring herself, gazed
through her chamber window. It looked upon a trim and beautiful garden,
with a green and mossy plot carved out into quaintly-fashioned beds,
filled with the choicest flowers, and surrounded by fine timber, amid
which a tall fir-tree appeared proudly conspicuous. Mrs. Compton, who,
it appeared, always arose with the sun, was busied in tending her
flowers, and as Amabel watched her interesting pursuits, she could
scarcely help envying her.
"What a delightful life your mistress must lead," she observed to a
female attendant who was present; "I cannot imagine greater happiness
than hers."
"My mistress ought to be happy," said the attendant; "for there is no
one living who does more good. Not a cottage nor a farm-house in the
neighbourhood but she visits to inquire whether she can be of any
service to its inmates; and wherever her services _are_ required, they
are always rendered. Mrs. Compton's name will never be forgotten in
Kingston Lisle."
At this moment, Amabel caught sight of the benevolent countenance of the
good old lady looking up at the window, and a kindly greeting passed
between them. Ringwood, who was a privileged intruder, was careering
round the garden, and though his mistress watched his gambols round her
favourite flower-beds with some anxiety, she did not check him. Amabel
and Nizza now went down stairs, and Mrs. Compton returning from the
garden, all the household, including Leonard and Blaize, assembled in
the breakfast-room for morning prayers.
Breakfast over, Mrs. Compton entered into conversation with Amabel, and
ascertained all the particulars of her history. She was greatly
interested in it, but did not affect to conceal the anxiety it gave her.
"Yours is really a very dangerous position," she said, "and I should be
acting unfairly towards you if I told you otherwise. However, I will
give you all the protection in my power, and I trust your retreat may
not be discovered."
Mrs. Compton's remark did not tend to dispel Amabel's uneasiness, and
both she and Nizza Macascree passed a day of great disquietude.
In the mean time, Leonard and Blaize were treated with great hospitality
by the old butler in the servants' hall; and though the former was not
without apprehension that their retreat might be discovered, he trusted,
if it were so, to some fortunate chance to effect their escape. He did
not dare to confide his apprehensions to the butler, nor did the other
make any inquiries; but it being understood that their visit was to be
secret, every precaution was taken to keep it so. John Lutcombe had
tarried no longer than enabled him to discuss a jug of ale, and then set
out for Ashdown, promising to return on the following day; but he had
not yet made his appearance. Evening arrived, and nothing alarming
having occurred, all became comparatively easy; and Mrs. Compton
herself, who had looked unusually grave throughout the day, now
recovered her wonted cheerfulness.
Their satisfaction, however, was not long afterwards disturbed by the
arrival of a large train of horsemen at the gate, and a stately
personage alighted, and walked at the head of a gallant train, towards
the house. At the sight of the new-comers, whom they instantly knew were
the king and his suite, Amabel and Nizza Macascree flew upstairs, and
shutting themselves in their chamber, awaited the result in the utmost
trepidation. They were not kept long in suspense. Shortly after the
king's arrival, Mrs. Compton herself knocked at the door, and in a tone
of deep commiseration, informed Amabel that his majesty desired to see
her.
Knowing that refusal was impossible, Amabel complied, and descended to a
room looking upon the garden, in which she found the king. He was
attended only by Chiffinch, and received her with a somewhat severe
aspect, and demanded why she had left Ashdown contrary to his express
injunctions?
Amabel stated her motives.
"What you tell me is by no means satisfactory," rejoined the king; "but
since you have chosen to trust to yourself, you can no longer look for
protection from me."
"I beseech your majesty to consider the strait into which I was driven,"
returned Amabel, imploringly.
"Summon the Earl of Rochester to the presence," said the king, turning
from her to Chiffinch.
"In pity, sire," cried Amabel, throwing herself at his feet.
"Let the injunction be obeyed," rejoined Charles, peremptorily.
And the chief page departed.
Amabel instantly arose, and drew herself proudly up. Soon afterwards,
Rochester made his appearance, and on seeing Amabel, a flush of
triumphant joy overspread his features.
"I withdraw my interdiction, my lord," said the king to him. "You are at
liberty to renew your suit to this girl."
"Hear me, Lord Rochester," said Amabel, addressing the earl; "I have
conquered the passion I once felt for you, and regard you only as one
who has sought my ruin, and from whom I have fortunately escaped. When
you learn from my own lips that my heart is dead to you, that I never
can love you more, and that I only desire to be freed from your
addresses, I cannot doubt but you will discontinue them."
"Your declaration only inflames me the more, lovely Amabel," replied the
earl, passionately. "You must, and shall be mine."
"Then my death will rest at your door," she rejoined.
"I will take my chance of that," rejoined the earl, carelessly.
Amabel then quitted the king's presence, and returned to her own
chamber, where she found Nizza Macascree in a state of indescribable
agitation.
"All has happened that I anticipated," said she to Nizza Macascree. "The
king will no longer protect me, and I am exposed to the persecutions of
the Earl of Rochester, who is here."
As she spoke, an usher entered, and informed Nizza Macascree that the
king commanded her presence. The piper's daughter looked at Amabel with
a glance of unutterable anguish.
"I fear you must go," said Amabel, "but Heaven will protect you!"
They then tenderly embraced each other, and Nizza Macascree departed
with the usher.
Some time having elapsed, and Nizza not returning, Amabel became
seriously uneasy. Hearing a noise below, she looked forth from the
window, and perceived the king and all his train departing. A terrible
foreboding shot through her heart. She gazed anxiously after them, but
could not perceive Nizza Macascree. Overcome at last by her anxiety, she
rushed down stairs, and had just reached the last step, when she was
seized by two persons. A shawl was passed over her head, and she was
forced out of the house.
* * * * *
BOOK THE FOURTH.
SEPTEMBER, 1665.
I. THE PLAGUE AT ITS HEIGHT.
Amabel's departure for Berkshire caused no change in her father's mode
of life. Everything proceeded as before within his quiet dwelling; and,
except that the family were diminished in number, all appeared the same.
It is true they wanted the interest, and indeed the occupation, afforded
them by the gentle invalid, but in other respects, no difference was
observable. Devotional exercises, meals, the various duties of the
house, and cheerful discourse, filled up the day, which never proved
wearisome. The result proved the correctness of Mr. Bloundel's judgment.
While the scourge continued weekly to extend its ravages throughout the
city, it never crossed his threshold; and, except suffering in a slight
degree from scorbutic affections, occasioned by the salt meats to which
they were now confined, and for which the lemon and lime-juice, provided
against such a contingency, proved an efficacious remedy, all the family
enjoyed perfect health. For some weeks after her separation from her
daughter, Mrs. Bloundel continued in a desponding state, but after that
time she became more reconciled to the deprivation, and partially
recovered her spirits. Mr. Bloundel did not dare to indulge a hope that
Amabel would ever return; but though he suffered much in secret, he
never allowed his grief to manifest itself. The circumstance that he had
not received any intelligence of her did not weigh much with him,
because the difficulty of communication became greater and greater, as
each week the scourge increased in violence, and he was inclined to take
no news as good news. It was not so in the present case, but of this he
was happily ignorant.
In this way, a month passed on. And now every other consideration was
merged in the alarm occasioned by the daily increasing fury of the
pestilence. Throughout July the excessive heat of the weather underwent
no abatement, but in place of the clear atmosphere that had prevailed
during the preceding month, unwholesome blights filled the air, and,
confining the pestilential effluvia, spread the contagion far and wide
with extraordinary rapidity. Not only was the city suffocated with heat,
but filled with noisome smells, arising from the carcasses with which
the close alleys and other out-of-the-way places were crowded, and which
were so far decomposed as not to be capable of removal. The aspect of
the river was as much changed as that of the city. Numbers of bodies
were thrown into it, and, floating up with the tide, were left to taint
the air on its banks, while strange, ill-omened fowl, attracted thither
by their instinct, preyed upon them. Below the bridge, all captains of
ships moored in the Pool, or off Wapping, held as little communication
as possible with those on shore, and only received fresh provisions with
the greatest precaution. As the plague increased, most of these removed
lower down the river, and many of them put out entirely to sea. Above
the bridge, most of the wherries and other smaller craft had
disappeared, their owners having taken them up the river, and moored
them against its banks at different spots, where they lived in them
under tilts. Many hundreds of persons remained upon the river in this
way during the whole continuance of the visitation.
August had now arrived, but the distemper knew no cessation. On the
contrary, it manifestly increased in violence and malignity. The deaths
rose a thousand in each week, and in the last week in this fatal month
amounted to upwards of sixty thousand!
But, terrible as this was, the pestilence had not yet reached its
height. Hopes were entertained that when the weather became cooler, its
fury would abate; but these anticipations were fearfully disappointed.
The bills of mortality rose the first week in September to seven
thousand, and though they slightly decreased during the second
week--awakening a momentary hope--on the third they advanced to twelve
thousand! In less than ten days, upwards of two thousand persons
perished in the parish of Aldgate alone; while Whitechapel suffered
equally severely. Out of the hundred parishes in and about the city, one
only, that of Saint John the Evangelist in Watling-street, remained
uninfected, and this merely because there was scarcely a soul left
within it, the greater part of the inhabitants having quitted their
houses, and fled into the country.
The deepest despair now seized upon all the survivors. Scarcely a family
but had lost half of its number--many, more than half--while those who
were left felt assured that their turn would speedily arrive. Even the
reckless were appalled, and abandoned their evil courses. Not only were
the dead lying in the passages and alleys, but even in the main
thoroughfares, and none would remove them. The awful prediction of
Solomon Eagle that "grass would grow in the streets, and that the living
should not be able to bury the dead," had come to pass. London had
become one vast lazar-house, and seemed in a fair way of becoming a
mighty sepulchre.
During all this time, Saint Paul's continued to be used as a pest-house,
but it was not so crowded as heretofore, because, as not one in fifty of
the infected recovered when placed under medical care, it was not
thought worth while to remove them from their own abodes. The number of
attendants, too, had diminished. Some had died, but the greater part had
abandoned their offices from a fear of sharing the fate of their
patients. In consequence of these changes, Judith Malmayns had been
advanced to the post of chief nurse at the cathedral. Both she and
Chowles had been attacked by the plague, and both had recovered. Judith
attended the coffin-maker, and it was mainly owing to her that he got
through the attack. She never left him for a moment, and would never
suffer any one to approach him--a necessary precaution, as he was so
much alarmed by his situation that he would infallibly have made some
awkward revelations. When Judith, in her turn, was seized, Chowles
exhibited no such consideration for her, and scarcely affected to
conceal his disappointment at her recovery. This want of feeling on his
part greatly incensed her against him, and though he contrived in some
degree to appease her, it was long before she entirely forgave him. Far
from being amended by her sufferings, she seemed to have grown more
obdurate, and instantly commenced a fresh career of crime. It was not,
however, necessary now to hasten the end of the sick. The distemper had
acquired such force and malignity that it did its work quickly
enough--often too quickly--and all she sought was to obtain possession
of the poor patients' attire, or any valuables they might possess worth
appropriating. To turn to the brighter side of the picture, it must not
be omitted that when the pestilence was at its height, and no offers
could induce the timorous to venture forth, or render assistance to the
sufferers, Sir John Lawrence the Lord Mayor, the Duke of Albermarle, the
Earl of Craven, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, devoted themselves to
the care of the infected, and supplied them with every necessary they
required. Among the physicians, no one deserves more honourable mention
than Doctor Hodges, who was unremitting in his attentions to the
sufferers.
To return to the grocer. While the plague was thus raging around him,
and while every house in Wood-street except one or two, from which the
inmates had fled, was attacked by the pestilence, he and his family had
remained untouched. About the middle of August, he experienced a great
alarm. His second son, Hubert, fell sick, and he removed him to one of
the upper rooms which he had set aside as an hospital, and attended upon
him himself. In a few days, however, his fears were removed and he
found, to his great satisfaction, that the youth had not been attacked
by the plague, but was only suffering from a slight fever, which quickly
yielded to the remedies applied. About the same time, too, he lost his
porter, Dallison. The poor fellow did not make his appearance as usual
for two days, and intelligence of his fate was brought on the following
day by his wife, who came to state that her husband was dead, and had
been thrown into the plague-pit at Aldgate. The same night, however, she
brought another man, named Allestry, who took the place of the late
porter, and acquainted his employer with the deplorable state of the
city.
Two days afterwards, Allestry himself died, and Mr. Bloundel had no one
to replace him. He thus lost all means of ascertaining what was going
forward; but the deathlike stillness around him, broken only by the
hoarse tolling of a bell, by a wild shriek or other appalling cry,
proclaimed too surely the terrible state of things. Sometimes, too, a
passenger would go by, and would tell him the dreadful height to which
the bills of mortality had risen, assuring him that ere another month
had expired, not a soul would be left alive in London.
One night, as Solomon Eagle, who had likewise been miraculously
preserved, pursued his course through the streets, he paused before Mr.
Roundel's house, and looking up at the window, at which the latter had
chanced to be stationed, cried in a loud voice, "Be of good cheer. You
have served God faithfully, and there shall no evil befall you, neither
shall the plague come nigh your dwelling." And raising his arms, as if
invoking a blessing upon the habitation, he departed.
It was now the second week in September, and as yet Mr. Bloundel had
received no tidings of his daughter. At any other season he would have
been seriously uneasy, but now, as has been already stated, all private
grief was swallowed up in the horror of the general calamity. Satisfied
that she was in a healthful situation, and that her chance of
preservation from the pestilence was better than that of any other
member of his family, he turned his thoughts entirely to them.
Redoubling his precautions, he tried by every means to keep up the
failing spirits of his household, and but rarely ventured to open his
shutter, and look forth on the external world.
On the tenth of September, which was afterwards accounted the most fatal
day of this fatal month, a young man of a very dejected appearance, and
wearing the traces of severe suffering in his countenance, entered the
west end of London, and took his way slowly towards the city. He had
passed Saint Giles's without seeing a single living creature, or the
sign of one in any of the houses. The broad thoroughfare was completely
grown over with grass, and the habitations had the most melancholy and
deserted air imaginable. Some doors and windows were wide open,
discovering rooms with goods and furniture scattered about, having been
left in this state by their inmates; but most part of them were closely
fastened up.
As he proceeded along Holborn, the ravages of the scourge were yet more
apparent. Every house, on either side of the way, had a red cross, with
the fatal inscription above it, upon the door. Here and there, a
watchman might be seen, looking more like a phantom than a living thing.
Formerly, the dead were conveyed away at night, but now the carts went
about in the daytime. On reaching Saint Andrew's, Holborn, several
persons were seen wheeling hand-barrows filled with corpses, scarcely
covered with clothing, and revealing the blue and white stripes of the
pestilence, towards a cart which was standing near the church gates. The
driver of the vehicle, a tall, cadaverous-looking man, was ringing his
bell, and jesting with another person, whom the young man recognised,
with a shudder, as Chowles. The coffin-maker also recognised him at the
same moment, and called to him, but the other paid no attention to the
summons and passed on.
Crossing Holborn Bridge, he toiled faintly up the opposite hill, for he
was evidently suffering from extreme debility, and on gaining the summit
was obliged to support himself against a wall for a few minutes, before
he could proceed. The same frightful evidences of the ravages of the
pestilence were observable here, as elsewhere. The houses were all
marked with the fatal cross, and shut up. Another dead-cart was heard
rumbling along, accompanied by the harsh cries of the driver, and the
doleful ringing of the bell. The next moment the loathly vehicle was
seen coming along the Old Bailey. It paused before a house, from which
four bodies were brought, and then passed on towards Smithfield.
Watching its progress with fearful curiosity, the young man noted how
often it paused to increase its load. His thoughts, coloured by the
scene, were of the saddest and dreariest complexion. All around wore the
aspect of death. The few figures in sight seemed staggering towards the
grave, and the houses appeared to be plague-stricken like the
inhabitants. The heat was intolerably oppressive, and the air tainted
with noisome exhalations. Ever and anon, a window would be opened, and a
ghastly face thrust from it, while a piercing shriek, or lamentable cry,
was uttered. No business seemed going on--there were no passengers--no
vehicles in the streets. The mighty city was completely laid prostrate.
After a short rest, the young man shaped his course towards Saint
Paul's, and on reaching its western precincts, gazed for some time at
the reverend structure, as if its contemplation called up many and
painful recollections. Tears started to his eyes, and he was about to
turn away, when he perceived the figure of Solomon Eagle stationed near
the cross at the western extremity of the roof. The enthusiast caught
sight of him at the same moment, and motioned him to come nearer. "What
has happened?" he demanded, as the other approached the steps of the
portico.
The young man shook his head mournfully. "It is a sad tale," he said,
"and cannot be told now."
"I can conjecture what it is," replied Solomon Eagle. "But come to the
small door near the northern entrance of the cathedral at midnight. I
will meet you there."
"I will not fail," replied the young man.
"One of the terrible judgments which I predicted would befall this
devoted city has come to pass," cried Solomon Eagle. "Another yet
remains--the judgment by fire--and if its surviving inhabitants repent
not, of which there is as yet no sign, it will assuredly follow."
"Heaven avert it!" groaned the other, turning away.
Proceeding along Cheapside, he entered Wood-street, and took his way
towards the grocer's dwelling. When at a little distance from it, he
paused, and some minutes elapsed before he could muster strength to go
forward. Here, as elsewhere, there were abundant indications of the
havoc occasioned by the fell disease. Not far from the grocer's shop,
and in the middle of the street, lay the body of a man, with the face
turned upwards, while crouching in an angle of the wall sat a young
woman watching it. As the young man drew nearer, he recognised in the
dead man the principal of the Brotherhood of Saint Michael, and in the
poor mourner one of his profligate female associates. "What has become
of your unhappy companions?" he demanded of the woman.
"The last of them lies there," she rejoined mournfully. "All the rest
died long ago. My lover was true to his vow; and instead of deploring
their fate, lived with me and three other women in mirth and revelry
till yesterday, when the three women died, and he fell sick. He did not,
however, give in, but continued carousing until an hour before his
death."
Too much shocked to make any reply, the young man proceeded towards the
hutch. Beneath a doorway, at a little distance from it, sat a watchman
with a halberd on his shoulder, guarding the house; but it was evident
he would be of little further use. His face was covered with his hands,
and his groans proclaimed that he himself was attacked by the
pestilence. Entering the hutch, the young man pulled the cord of the
bell, and the summons was soon after answered by the grocer, who
appeared at the window. "What, Leonard Holt!" he exclaimed, in surprise,
on seeing the young man--"is it you?--what ails you?--you look
frightfully ill."
"I have been attacked a second time by the plague," replied the
apprentice, "and am only just recovered from it."
"What of my child?" cried the grocer eagerly--"what of her?"
"Alas! alas!" exclaimed the apprentice.
"Do not keep me in suspense," rejoined the grocer. "Is she dead?"
"No, not dead," replied the apprentice, "but--"
"But what?" ejaculated the grocer. "In Heaven's name, speak!"
"These letters will tell you all," replied the apprentice, producing a
packet. "I had prepared them to send to you in case of my death. I am
not equal to further explanation now."