Chapter 27

Overjoyed at his unexpected deliverance, Leonard, whose attention had been completely engrossed by what was passing, now ventured to look at Amabel, and became greatly alarmed at her appearance. She was as pale as death, except a small scarlet patch on either cheek, which contrasted powerfully with the death-like hue of the rest of her countenance. Her hands convulsively clasped the back of the pillion; her lips were slightly apart, and her eyes fixed upon the prostrate form of the Earl of Rochester. On finding they were pursued, and by whom, her first impulse had been to fling herself from the pillion, and to seek safety by flight; but controlling herself, she awaited the result with forced composure, and was now sinking from the exhaustion of the effort.

"Thank Heaven! we are safe," cried the apprentice; "but I fear the shock has been too much for you."

"It has," gasped Amabel, falling against his shoulder. "Let us fly--oh! let us fly."

Inexpressibly shocked and alarmed, Leonard twined his left arm round her waist so as to hold her on the steed, for she was utterly unable to support herself, and glancing anxiously at Nizza Macascree, struck off on the right into the road skirting the Park, and in the direction of Tyburn, where there was a small inn, at which he hoped to procure assistance. Before reaching this place, he was beyond description relieved to find that Amabel had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head.

"The deadly faintness is passed," she murmured; "I shall be better soon. But I fear I am too weak to pursue the journey at present."

Leonard spurred on his steed, and in another instant reached Tyburn, and drew up at the little inn. But no assistance could be obtained there. The house was closed; there was a red cross on the door; and a watchman, stationed in front of it, informed him that all the family had died of the plague except the landlord--"and he will be buried beside them in Paddington churchyard before to-morrow morning," added the man; "for his nurse tells me it is impossible he can survive many hours."

As he spoke an upper window was opened, and a woman, thrusting forth her head, cried, "Poor Master Sandys has just breathed his last. Come in, Philip, and help me to prepare the body for the dead-cart."

"I will be with you in a minute," rejoined the watchman. "You may possibly procure accommodation at the Wheatsheaf at Paddington," he added to Leonard; "it is but a short distance up the road."

Thanking him for the information, Leonard took the course indicated. He had not proceeded far, when he was alarmed by hearing a piteous cry of "Stop! stop!" proceeding from Blaize; and, halting, found that the porter had been so greatly terrified by the watchman's account of the frightful mortality in the poor innkeeper's family, that he had applied to his phial of plague-water, and in pulling it put had dropped his box of rufuses, and the jar of anti-pestilential confection. He had just ascertained his loss, and wished to go back, but this Nizza Macascree would not permit. Enraged at the delay, Leonard peremptorily ordered the porter to come on; and Blaize, casting a rueful glance at his treasures, which he perceived at a little distance in the middle of the road, was compelled to obey.

At Paddington, another disappointment awaited them. The Wheatsheaf was occupied by two large families, who were flying from the infected city, and no accommodation could be obtained. Leonard looked wistfully at Nizza Macascree, as if to ascertain what to do, and she was equally perplexed; but the difficulty was relieved by Amabel herself, who said she felt much better, and able to proceed a little further. "Do not return to London," she continued with great earnestness. "I would rather die on the road than go home again. Some cottage will receive us. If not, I can rest for a short time in the fields."

Thinking it best to comply, Leonard proceeded along the Harrow-road. Soon after crossing Paddington Green, he overtook a little train of fugitives driving a cart filled with children, and laden with luggage. Further on, as he surveyed the beautiful meadows, stretching out on either side of him, he perceived a line of small tents, resembling a gipsy encampment, pitched at a certain distance from each other, and evidently occupied by families who had fled from their homes from fear of infection. This gave a singular character to the prospect. But there were other and far more painful sights on the road, which could not fail to attract attention. For the first half-mile, almost at every hundred yards might be seen some sick man, who, unable to proceed further, had fallen against the hedge-side, and exhibited his sores to move the pity of the passers-by. But these supplications were wholly unheeded. Self-preservation was the first object with all, and the travellers holding handkerchiefs steeped in vinegar to their faces, and averting their heads, passed by on the other side of the way.

The pestilence, it may be remarked, had visited with extraordinary rigour the whole of the higher country at the west and north-west of the metropolis. The charmingly-situated, and, at other seasons, healthful villages of Hampstead and Highgate, suffered severely from the scourge; and it even extended its ravages as far as Harrow-on-the-Hill, which it half depopulated. This will account for the circumstance of a large pest-house being erected in the neighbourhood of Westbourne Green, which the party now approached. Two litters were seen crossing the fields in the direction of the hospital, and this circumstance called Leonard's attention to it. Shudderingly averting his gaze, he quickened his pace, and soon reached a small farmhouse on the summit of the hill rising from Kensal Green. Determined to seek a temporary asylum here for Amabel, he opened a gate, and, riding into the yard, fortunately met with owner of the house, a worthy farmer, named Wingfield, to whom he explained her situation. The man at first hesitated, but, on receiving Leonard's solemn assurance that she was free from the plague, consented to receive the whole party.

Assisting Amabel to dismount, Wingfield conveyed her in his arms into the house, and delivered her to his wife, bidding her take care of her. The injunction was scarcely needed. The good dame, who was a middle-aged woman, with pleasing features, which lost none of their interest from being stamped with profound melancholy, gazed at her for a moment fixedly, and then observed in an under-tone, but with much emotion, to her husband, "Ah! Robert, how much this sweet creature resembles our poor Sarah!"

"Hush! hush! dame," rejoined her husband, hastily brushing away the moisture that sprang to his eyes; "take her to your chamber, and see that she wants nothing. There is another young woman outside, whom I will send to you."

So saying, he returned to the yard. Meantime, the others had dismounted, and Wingfield, bidding Nizza Macascree go in, led the way to the barn, where the horses were tied up, and fodder placed before them. This done, he conducted his guests to the house, and placing cold meat, bread, and a jug of ale before them, desired them to fall to--an injunction which Blaize, notwithstanding his previous repast of roasted figs and pickled walnuts, very readily complied with. While they were thus employed, Dame Wingfield made her appearance. She said that the poor creature (meaning Amabel) was too ill to proceed on her journey that day, and begged her husband to allow her to stop till the next morning, when she hoped she would be able to undertake it.

"To-morrow morning, say you dame?" cried Wingfield; "she may stop till the day after, and the day after that, if you desire it, or she wishes it. Go tell her so."

And as his wife withdrew, well pleased at having obtained her request, Wingfield addressed himself to Leonard, and inquired the cause of Amabel's illness; and as the apprentice saw no necessity for secresy, and felt exceedingly grateful for the kind treatment he had experienced, he acquainted him with the chief particulars of her history. The farmer appeared greatly moved by the recital.

"She resembles my poor Sarah very strongly," he said. "My daughter was hurried into an early grave by a villain who won her affections and betrayed her. She now lies in Willesden churchyard, but her seducer is one of the chief favourites of our profligate monarch."

"Do you mean the Earl of Rochester?" cried Leonard.

"No, no," replied the farmer, whose good-natured countenance had assumed a stern expression. "The villain I mean is worse, if possible, than the earl. He is called Sir Paul Parravicin."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Leonard, in astonishment; "what a strange coincidence is this!"

And he then proceeded to relate to Wingfield the persecution which Nizza Macascree had endured from the profligate knight The farmer listened to his recital with breathless interest, and when it was ended arose, and, taking a hasty turn round the room, halted at the table and struck it forcibly with his clenched hand.

"I hope that man will never cross my path," he said, all the blood mounting to his face, and his eye kindling with fury. "As God shall judge me, I will kill him if I meet him."

"Then I hope you never will meet him," observed Leonard. "He has injured you enough already, without putting you out of the pale of Divine mercy."

"These rascals have done us all an injury," observed Blaize. "Patience has never been like herself since Major Pillichody entered my master's dwelling, and made love to her. I feel quite uneasy to think how the little hussy will go on during my absence. She can't get out of the house, that's one comfort."

"You have mentioned another wretch, who was constantly with Sir Paul," cried Wingfield. "Perdition seize them!"

"Ay, perdition seize them!" echoed Blaize, striking the table in his turn--"especially Major Pillichody."

"Did you ever suspect Sir Paul to be of higher rank than he pretends?" asked Leonard.

"No," rejoined Wingfield; "what motive have you for the question?"

Leonard then told him of the inquiries instituted by Doctor Hodges relative to Nizza's retreat, and how they had been baffled. "It is strange," he continued, "that Nizza herself never heard the real name of her persecutor; neither can she tell where the house to which she was conveyed, when in a fainting condition, and from which she was removed when attacked with the plague, is situated."

"It is strange indeed," observed the farmer, musingly.

Soon after this, Nizza Macascree made her appearance, and informed them that Amabel had fallen into a tranquil slumber, which, in all probability, would completely renovate her.

"I hope it will," said Wingfield. "But I shall not part with her to-day."

He then entered into conversation with Nizza, and after a little time, proposed to her and Leonard to walk across the fields with him to Willesden, to visit his daughter's grave.

"My wife will take charge of Amabel," he said; "you may safely trust her in her hands."

Leonard could raise no objection, except the possibility that the Earl of Rochester and his companions might discover their retreat, and carry off Amabel in his absence; but, after a little reflection, considering this altogether unlikely, he assented, and they set out. A pleasant walk across the fields brought them to the pretty little village of Willesden and its old and beautiful church. They proceeded to the grave of poor Sarah Wingfield, which lay at the east of the church, beneath one of the tall elms, and Nizza, as she stood by the rounded sod covering the remains of the unfortunate girl, could not restrain her tears.

"This might have been my own fate," she said. "What an escape I have had!"

"I did not bring you here to read you a lesson," said Wingfield, in a tone of deep emotion, "but because you, who know the temptation to which the poor creature who lies there was exposed, will pity her. Not alone did remorse for her conduct prey upon her spirits--not alone did she suffer from self-reproach,--but the scoffs and jeers of her sex, who never forgive an erring sister, broke her heart. She is now, however, beyond the reach of human malice, and, I trust, at peace."

As he said this, he walked away to hide his emotion, and presently afterwards rejoining them, they quitted the churchyard together.

As they recrossed the fields, Wingfield observed two men digging a hole in the ground, and, guessing their object, paused for a few minutes to watch them. Having thrown out the earth to the depth of a couple of feet, one of them took a long hooked pole, and attaching it to the body of a victim to the pestilence, who had wandered into the fields and died there, dragged it towards the pit. As soon as the corpse was pushed into its narrow receptacle, the clay was shovelled over it, and trodden down.

"This is a sad mode of burial for a Christian," observed Wingfield. "But it would not do to leave an infected body to rot in the fields, and spread the contagion."

"Such a grave is better than the plague-pit," rejoined Leonard, recalling the frightful scenes he had witnessed there.

On reaching Wingfield's dwelling, they found from the good dame, that Amabel had awakened from her slumber greatly refreshed; but she gave it as her opinion that she had better remain undisturbed. Accordingly, no one went into the room to her except Nizza Macascree. A substantial dinner was provided for his guests by the hospitable farmer; and Blaize, who had been for some time confined to salt provisions at his master's house, did ample justice to the fresh meat and vegetables.

The meal over, Leonard, who felt exceedingly curious to learn what had become of the mysterious stranger whose child he had carried to the plague-pit, and who had appeared so strangely interested in Nizza Macascree, determined to walk to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields and inquire after him. On communicating his intention to his host, Wingfield would have dissuaded him; but as Leonard affirmed he had no fear of infection, he desisted from the attempt. Just as the apprentice was starting, Blaize came up to him, and said,--"Leonard, I have a great curiosity to see a pest-house, and should like to go with you, if you will let me."

The apprentice stared at him in astonishment.

"You will never dare to enter it," he said.

"I will go wherever you go," replied the porter, with a confidence mainly inspired by the hospitable farmer's strong ale.

"We shall see," replied Leonard. "I shall keep you to your word."

In less than an hour they reached Marylebone Fields (now the Regent's Park), and, crossing them, entered a lane, running in pretty nearly the same direction as the present New-road. It Drought them to Clerkenwell, whence they proceeded to Finsbury Fields, and soon came in sight of the pest-house. When Blaize found himself so near this dreaded asylum, all his courage vanished.

"I would certainly enter the pest-house with you," he said to Leonard, "but I have used up all my vinegar, and you know I lost my box of rufuses and the pot of anti-pestilential confection this morning."

"That excuse shall not serve your turn," replied Leonard. "You can get plenty of vinegar and plague medicine in the pest-house."

"But I have no money to pay for them," rejoined Blaize.

"I will lend you some," said Leonard, placing a few pieces in his hand. "Now, come along."

Blaize would fain have run away, but, afraid of incurring the apprentice's anger, he walked tremblingly after him. They entered the garden-gate, and soon reached the principal door, which, as usual, stood open. Scarcely able to support himself, the porter tottered into the large room; but as he cast his eyes around, and beheld the miserable occupants of the pallets, and heard their cries and groans, he was so scared that he could not move another step, but stood like one transfixed with terror. Paying little attention to him, Leonard walked forward, and at the further extremity of the chamber found the young chirurgeon whom he had formerly seen, and describing the stranger, inquired where he was placed.

"The person you allude to has been removed," returned the chirurgeon. "Doctor Hodges visited him this morning, and had him conveyed to his own dwelling."

"Was he sensible at the time?" asked the apprentice.

"I think not," replied the chirurgeon; "but the doctor appeared to recognise in him an old friend, though I did not hear him mention his name; and it was on that account, I conclude, that he had him removed."

"Is he likely to recover?" asked Leonard, whose curiosity was aroused by what he heard.

"That is impossible to say," replied the young man. "But he cannot be in better hands than those of Doctor Hodges."

Leonard perfectly concurred with him, and, after a few minutes' further conversation, turned to depart. Not seeing Blaize, he concluded he had gone forth, and expected to find him in the garden, or, at all events, in the field adjoining. But he was nowhere to be seen. While wondering what had become of him, Leonard heard a loud cry, in the voice of the porter, issuing from the barn, which, as has already been stated, had been converted into a receptacle for the sick; and hurrying thither, he found Blaize in the hands of two stout assistants, who had stripped him of his clothes, and were tying him down to a pallet. On seeing Leonard, Blaize implored him to deliver him from the hands of his persecutors; and the apprentice assuring the assistants that the poor fellow was perfectly free from infection, they liberated him.

It appeared, on inquiry, that Blaize had fallen against one of the pallets in a state almost of insensibility, and the two assistants, chancing to pass at the time, and taking him for a plague patient, had conveyed him to the barn. On reaching it, he recovered, and besought them to set him free, but they paid no attention to his cries, and proceeded to strip him, and bind him to the bed, as before related.

Thus released, the porter lost no time in dressing himself; and Leonard, to allay his terrors, had a strong dose of anti-pestilential elixir administered to him. After which, having procured him a box of rufuses, and a phial of plague-water, Blaize shook off his apprehension, and they set out at a brisk pace for Kensal Green.

VII. THE JOURNEY.

Blaize was destined to experience a second fright. It has been mentioned 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."