“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, “a
nd 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.
“You will take care of my poor son, Judith,” rejoined the old woman, shedding a flood of tears. “I would stay with him, if I thought I could do him any good; but if I really am infected, I might only be in the way. Don’t neglect him — as you hope for mercy hereafter, do not.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 232