“What, is the old miser gone at last?” exclaimed Chowles, with an atrocious laugh. “But how shall I get paid for a coffin?”
“You may pay yourself with what you can find in the house,” replied Mother Malmayns; “or you may carry him to the grave without one, if you prefer it.”
“No, no, that won’t do,” returned Chowles. “I’ve other customers to attend to who will pay; and, besides, I want to get home. I expect friends at supper. Good-night, Mother Malmayns. You know where to find me, if you want me. Move on, Jonas, or you will never reach Saint Sepulchre’s.”
The woman angrily expostulated with him, and some further parley ensued, — Leonard did not tarry to hear what, but rushing past them, gained Bartholomew-close.
He soon reached the proctor’s house, and found it marked with the fatal cross. Addressing a watchman at the door, he learnt, to his great dismay, that Doctor Hodges had been gone more than a quarter of an hour. “He was too late,” said the man. “Poor Mr. Fisher had breathed his last before he arrived, and after giving some directions to the family as to the precautions they ought to observe, the doctor departed.”
“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Leonard, “I have missed him a second time.
But I will run back to his house instantly.”
“You will not find him at home,” returned the watchman “He is gone to
Saint Paul’s, to attend a sick person.”
“To Saint Paul’s at this hour!” cried the apprentice. “Why, no one is there, except the vergers or the sexton.”
“He is gone to visit the sexton, who is ill of the plague,” replied the watchman. “I have told you all I know about him. You can do what you think best.”
Determined to make another effort before giving in, Leonard hurried back as fast as he could. While threading Duck-lane, he heard the doleful bell again, and perceived the dead-cart standing before a house, from which two small coffins were brought. Hurrying past the vehicle, he remarked that its load was fearfully increased, but that the coffin-maker and his companion had left it. Another minute had not elapsed before he reached Aldersgate, and passing through the postern, he beheld a light at the end of Saint Anne’s-lane, and heard the terrible voice of Solomon Eagle, calling to the sleepers to awake and repent.
Shutting his ears to the cry, Leonard did not halt till he reached the great western door of the cathedral, against which he knocked. His first summons remaining unanswered, he repeated it, and a wicket was then opened by a grey-headed verger, with a lantern in his hand, who at first was very angry at being disturbed; but on learning whom the applicant was in search of, and that the case was one of urgent necessity, he admitted that the doctor was in the cathedral at the time.
“Or rather, I should say,” he added, “he is in Saint Faith’s. I will conduct you to him, if you think proper. Doctor Hodges is a good man, — a charitable man,” he continued, “and attends the poor for nothing. He is now with Matthew Malmayns, the sexton, who was taken ill of the plague yesterday, and will get nothing but thanks — if he gets those — for his fee. But, follow me, young man, follow me.”
So saying, he shut the wicket, and led the way along the transept. The path was uneven, many of the flags having been removed, and the verger often paused to throw a light upon the ground, and warn his companion of a hole.
On arriving at the head of the nave, Leonard cast his eyes down it, and was surprised at the magical effect of the moonlight upon its magnificent avenue of pillars; the massive shafts on the left being completely illuminated by the silvery beams, while those on the right lay in deep shadow.
“Ay, it is a noble structure,” replied the old verger, noticing his look of wonder and admiration, “and, like many a proud human being, has known better days. It has seen sad changes in my time, for I recollect it when good Queen Bess ruled the land. But come along, young man, — you have something else to think of now.”
Bestowing a momentary glance upon the matchless choir, with its groined roof, its clerestory windows, its arched openings, its carved stalls, and its gorgeous rose-window, Leonard followed his conductor through a small doorway on the left of the southern transept, and descending a flight of stone steps, entered a dark and extensive vault, for such it seemed. The feeble light of the lantern fell upon ranks of short heavy pillars, supporting a ponderous arched roof.
“You are now in Saint Faith’s,” observed the verger, “and above you is the choir of Saint Paul’s.”
Leonard took no notice of the remark, but silently crossing the nave of this beautiful subterranean church (part of which still exists), traversed its northern aisle. At length the verger stopped before the entrance of a small chapel, once dedicated to Saint John the Baptist, but now devoted to a less sacred purpose. As they advanced, Leonard observed a pile of dried skulls and bones in one corner, a stone coffin, strips of woollen shrouds, fragments of coffins, mattocks, and spades. It was evidently half a charnel, half a receptacle for the sexton’s tools.
“If you choose to open that door,” said the verger, pointing to one at the lower end of the chamber, “you will find him you seek. I shall go no further.”
Summoning up all his resolution, Leonard pushed open the door. A frightful scene met his gaze. At one side of a deep, low-roofed vault, the architecture of which was of great antiquity, and showed that it had been a place of burial, was stretched a miserable pallet, and upon it, covered by a single blanket, lay a wretch, whose groans and struggles proclaimed the anguish he endured. A lamp was burning on the floor, and threw a sickly light upon the agonized countenance of the sufferer. He was a middle-aged man, with features naturally harsh, but which now, contracted by pain, had assumed a revolting expression. An old crone, who proved to be his mother, and a young man, who held him down in bed by main force, tended him. He was rambling in a frightful manner; and as his ravings turned upon the most loathly matters, it required some firmness to listen to them.
At a little distance from him, upon a bench, sat a stout, shrewd-looking, but benevolent little personage, somewhat between forty and fifty. This was Doctor Hodges. He had a lancet in his hand, with which he had just operated upon the sufferer, and he was in the act of wiping it on a cloth. As Leonard entered the vault, the doctor observed to the attendants of the sick man, “He will recover. The tumour has discharged its venom. Keep him as warm as you can, and do not let him leave his bed for two days. All depends upon that. I will send him proper medicines and some blankets shortly. If he takes cold, it will be fatal.”
The young man promised to attend to the doctor’s injunctions, and the old woman mumbled her thanks.
“Where is Judith Malmayns?” asked Doctor Hodges: “I am surprised not to see her. Is she afraid of the distemper?”
“Afraid of it! — not she,” replied the old woman. “Since the plague has raged so dreadfully, she has gone out as a nurse to the sick, and my poor son has seen nothing of her.”
Leonard then recollected that he had heard the woman, who called out of the miser’s house, addressed as Mother Malmayns by the coffin-maker, and had no doubt that she was the sexton’s wife. His entrance having been so noiseless that it passed unnoticed, he now stepped forward, and, addressing Doctor Hodges, acquainted him with his errand.
“What!” exclaimed the doctor, as soon as he concluded, “a son of Stephen Bloundel, the worthy grocer of Wood-street, attacked by the plague! I will go with you instantly, young man. I have a great regard for your master — a very great regard. There is not a better man living. The poor lad must be saved, if possible.” And hastily repeating his instructions to the attendants of the sick man, he left the vault with the apprentice.
They found the verger in the charnel, and before quitting it, the doctor drew a small flask of canary from his pocket, and applied it to his lips.
“This is my anti-pestilential drink,” he remarked with a smile, “and it has preserved me from contagion hitherto. You must let us out of the south door, friend,” he added to the verg
er, “for I shall be obliged to step home for a moment, and it will save time. Come with me, young man, and tell me what has been done for the grocer’s son.”
As they traversed the gloomy aisle of Saint Faith, and mounted to the upper structure, Leonard related all that had taken place since poor Stephen’s seizure. The doctor strongly expressed his approval of what had been done, and observed, “It could not be better. With Heaven’s help, I have no doubt we shall save him, and I am truly glad of it for his father’s sake.”
By this time they had reached the southern door, and the verger having unlocked it, they issued forth. It was still bright moonlight, and Leonard, whose mind was greatly relieved by the assurances of the physician, felt in some degree reconciled to the delay, and kept up his part in the conversation promoted by his companion. The doctor, who was an extremely kind-hearted man, and appeared to have a great regard for the grocer, made many inquiries as to his family, and spoke in terms of the highest admiration of the beauty of his eldest daughter. The mention of Amabel’s name, while it made Leonard’s cheek burn, rekindled all his jealousy of Wyvil, and he tried to make some excuse to get away, but his companion would not hear of it.
“I tell you there is no hurry,” said the doctor; “all is going on as well as possible. I will make your excuses to your master.”
“On reaching the doctor’s house they were ushered into a large room, surrounded with bookshelves and cases of anatomical preparations. Hodges seated himself at a table, on which a shaded lamp was placed, and writing out a prescription, desired his servant to get it made up at a neighbouring apothecary’s, and to take it, with a couple of blankets, to the sexton of Saint Paul’s. He then produced a bottle of medicated canary, and pouring out a large glass for the apprentice, drained another himself.
“I will answer for its virtue,” he said: “it is a sure preservative against the plague.”
Having furnished himself with several small packets of simples, a few pots of ointment, one or two phials, and a case of surgical instruments, he told Leonard he was ready to attend him.
“We will go round by Warwick-lane,” he added. “I must call upon Chowles, the coffin-maker. It will not detain us a moment; and I have an order to give him.”
The mention of this name brought to Leonard’s mind the hideous attendant on the dead-cart, and he had no doubt he was the person in question. It did not become him, however, to make a remark, and they set out.
Mounting Addle-hill, and threading Ave-Maria-lane, they entered Warwick-lane, and about half-way up the latter thoroughfare, the doctor stopped before a shop, bearing on its immense projecting sign the representation of a coffin lying in state, and covered with scutcheons, underneath which was written, “ANSELM CHOWLES, COFFIN-MAKER.”
“I do not think you will find Mr. Chowles at home,” observed Leonard: “for I saw him with the dead-cart not half an hour ago.”
“Very likely,” returned the doctor; “but I shall see one of his men. The coffin-maker’s business is now carried on in the night time,” he added, with a sigh; “and he drives a flourishing trade. These sad times will make his fortune.”
As he spoke, he rapped with his cane at the door, which, after a little delay, was opened by a young man in a carpenter’s dress, with a hammer in his hand. On seeing who it was, this person exhibited great confusion, and would have retired; but the doctor, pushing him aside, asked for his master.
“You cannot see him just now, sir,” replied the other, evidently considerably embarrassed. “He is just come home greatly fatigued, and is about to retire to rest.”
“No matter,” returned the doctor, entering a room, in which three or four other men were at work, hastily finishing coffins; “I must see him.”
No further opposition being offered, Hodges, followed by the apprentice, marched towards an inner room. Just as he reached the door, a burst of loud laughter, evidently proceeding from a numerous party, arose from within, and a harsh voice was heard chanting the following strains:
SONG OF THE PLAGUE.
To others the Plague a foe may be,
To me ’tis a friend — not an enemy;
My coffins and coffers alike it fills,
And the richer I grow the more it kills.
Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!
For months, for years, may it spend its rage
On lusty manhood and trembling age;
Though half mankind of the scourge should die,
My coffins will sell — so what care I?
Drink the Plague! Drink the Plague!
Loud acclamations followed the song, and the doctor, who was filled with disgust and astonishment, opened the door. He absolutely recoiled at the scene presented to his gaze. In the midst of a large room, the sides of which were crowded with coffins, piled to the very ceiling, sat about a dozen personages, with pipes in their mouths, and flasks and glasses before them. Their seats were coffins, and their table was a coffin set upon a bier. Perched on a pyramid of coffins, gradually diminishing in size as the pile approached its apex, Chowles was waving a glass in one hand, and a bottle in the other, when the doctor made his appearance.
A more hideous personage cannot be imagined than the coffin-maker. He was clothed in a suit of rusty black, which made his skeleton limbs look yet more lean and cadaverous. His head was perfectly bald, and its yellow skin, divested of any artificial covering, glistened like polished ivory. His throat was long and scraggy, and supported a head unrivalled for ugliness. His nose had been broken in his youth, and was almost compressed flat with his face. His few remaining teeth were yellow and discoloured with large gaps between them. His eyes were bright, and set in deep cavernous recesses, and, now that he was more than half-intoxicated, gleamed with unnatural lustre. The friends by whom he was surrounded were congenial spirits, — searchers, watchmen, buriers, apothecaries, and other wretches, who, like himself, rejoiced in the pestilence, because it was a source of profit to them.
At one corner of the room, with a part-emptied glass before her, and several articles in her lap, which she hastily pocketed on the entrance of the doctor, sat the plague-nurse, Mother Malmayns; and Leonard thought her, if possible, more villainous-looking than her companions. She was a rough, raw-boned woman, with sandy hair and light brows, a sallow, freckled complexion, a nose with wide nostrils, and a large, thick-lipped mouth. She had, moreover, a look of mingled cunning and ferocity inexpressibly revolting.
Sharply rebuking Chowles, who, in springing from his lofty seat, upset several of the topmost coffins, the doctor gave him some directions, and, turning to the nurse, informed her of her husband’s condition, and ordered her to go to him immediately Mother Malmayns arose, and glancing significantly at the coffin-maker, took her departure.
Repeating his injunctions to Chowles in a severe tone, the doctor followed; and seeing her take the way towards Saint Paul’s, proceeded at a brisk pace along Paternoster-row with the apprentice. In a few minutes they reached Wood-street, and knocking at the door, were admitted by Blaize.
“Heaven be praised, you are come at last!” exclaimed the porter. “Our master began to think something had happened to you.”
“It is all my fault,” returned Doctor Hodges; “but how is the young man?”
“Better, much better, as I understand,” replied Blaize; “but I have not seen him.”
“Come, that’s well,” rejoined Hodges. “Lead me to his room.”
“Leonard will show you the way,” returned the porter, holding back.
Glancing angrily at Blaize, the apprentice conducted the doctor to the inner room, where they found the grocer, with the Bible on his knee, watching by the bedside of his son. He was delighted with their appearance, but looked inquisitively at his apprentice for some explanation of his long absence. This Hodges immediately gave; and, having examined the sufferer, he relieved the anxious father by declaring, that, with due care, he had little doubt of his son’s recovery.
“God be praised!” ex
claimed Bloundel, falling on his knees.
Hodges then gave minute directions to the grocer as to how he was to proceed, and told him it would be necessary for some time to keep his family separate. To this Bloundel readily agreed. The doctor’s next inquiries were, whether notice had been given to the Examiner of Health, and the grocer referring to Leonard, the latter acknowledged that he had forgotten it, but undertook to repair his omission at once.
With this view, he quitted the room, and was hastening towards the shop, when he observed a figure on the back stairs. Quickly mounting them, he overtook on the landing Maurice Wyvil.
* * * * *
III.
THE GAMESTER AND THE BULLY.
Before proceeding further, it will be necessary to retrace our steps for a short time, and see what was done by Maurice Wyvil after the alarming announcement made to him by the apprentice. Of a selfish nature and ungovernable temper, and seeking only in the pursuit of the grocer’s daughter the gratification of his lawless desires, he was filled, in the first instance, with furious disappointment at being robbed of the prize, at the very moment he expected it to fall into his hands. But this feeling was quickly effaced by anxiety respecting his mistress, whose charms, now that there was every probability of losing her (for Leonard’s insinuation had led him to believe she was assailed by the pestilence), appeared doubly attractive to him; and scarcely under the governance of reason, he hurried towards Wood-street, resolved to force his way into the house, and see her again, at all hazards. His wild design, however, was fortunately prevented. As he passed the end of the court leading to the ancient inn (for it was ancient even at the time of this history), the Swan-with-two-Necks, in Lad-lane, a young man, as richly attired as himself, and about his own age, who had seen him approaching, suddenly darted from it, and grasping his cloak, detained him.
“I thought it must be you, Wyvil,” cried this person. “Where are you running so quickly? I see neither angry father, nor jealous apprentice, at your heels. What has become of the girl? Are you tired of her already?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 228