Old Saint Paul's, William Harrison Ainsworth [ebooks online reader .txt] 📗

formerly been appropriated to his lost daughter, he noticed a small door in the wall that had never before attracted his attention. He immediately pushed against it, and yielding to the touch, it admitted him to an apartment with which he seemed acquainted, though he could not recall the time when he had seen it. It was large and gloomy, panelled with dark and lustrous oak, and filled with rich but decayed furniture. At the further end stood a large antique bed, hung round with tarnished brocade curtains. The grocer shuddered at the sight, for he remembered to have heard Doctor Hodges assert, that in such a bed, and in such a room as this, his daughter had breathed her last. Some one appeared to be within the bed, and rushing forward with a throbbing heart, and a foreboding of what was to follow, he beheld the form of Amabel. Yes, there she was, with features like those she wore on earth, but clothed with such celestial beauty, and bearing the impress of such serene happiness, that the grocer felt awe-struck as he gazed at her!

"Approach, my father," said the visionary form, in a voice so musical that it thrilled through his frame--"approach, and let what you now hear be for ever graven upon your heart. Do not lament me more, but rather rejoice that I am removed from trouble, and in the enjoyment of supreme felicity. Such a state you will yourself attain. You have run the good race, and will assuredly reap your reward. Comfort my dear mother, my brothers, my little sister, with the assurance of what I tell you, and bid them dry their tears. I can now read the secrets of all hearts, and know how true was Leonard Holt's love for me, and how deep and sincere is his present sorrow. But I am not permitted to appear to him as I now appear to you. Often have I heard him invoke me in accents of the wildest despair, and have floated past him on the midnight breeze, but could neither impart consolation to him nor make him sensible of my presence, because his grief was sinful. Bid him be comforted. Bid him put a due control upon his feelings. Bid him open his heart anew, and he shall yet be happy, yet love again, and have his love requited. Farewell, dear father!"

And with these words the curtains of the bed closed. The grocer stretched out his arm to draw them aside, and in the effort awoke. He slept no more that night, but dwelt with unutterable delight on the words he had heard. On rising, his first object was to seek out Leonard, and to relate his vision to him. The apprentice listened in speechless wonder, and remained for some time lost in reflection.

"From any other person than yourself, sir," he said, at length, "I might have doubted this singular story, but coming from you, I attach implicit credence to it. I _will_ obey your sainted daughter's injunctions; I _will_ struggle against the grief that overwhelms me, and will try to hope that her words may be fulfilled."

"You will do wisely," rejoined Mr. Bloundel. "After breakfast we will walk together to the farmhouse you spoke of at Kensal Green, and if its owner should prove willing to receive my family for a few weeks, I will remove them thither at once."

Leonard applauded his master's resolution, expressing his firm conviction that Farmer Wingfield would readily accede to the proposal, and the rest of the family having by this time assembled, they sat down to breakfast. As soon as the meal was over, Mr. Bloundel intrusted the care of the shop to Stephen and Blaize, and accompanied by Leonard, set forth. On the way to the west end of the town, the grocer met one or two of his old friends, and they welcomed each other like men risen from the grave. Their course took them through Saint Giles's, where the plague had raged with the greatest severity, and where many houses were still without tenants.

"If all had acted as I have done," sighed the grocer, as he gazed at these desolate habitations, "how many lives, under God's providence, would have been saved!"

"In my opinion, sir," replied Leonard, "you owe your preservation as much to your piety as to your prudence."

"I have placed my trust on high," rejoined the grocer, "and have not been forsaken. And yet many evil doers have escaped; amongst others--"

"I know whom you mean, sir," interrupted Leonard, with some fierceness, "but a day of retribution will arrive for him."

"No more of this," rejoined the grocer, severely. "Remember the solemn injunction you have received."

At this moment they observed a horseman, richly attired, and followed by a couple of attendants, riding rapidly towards them. Both instantly recognised him. The apprentice's cheek and brow flushed with anger, and Mr. Bloundel had much ado to control his emotion. It was the Earl of Rochester, and on seeing them he instantly dismounted, and flinging his bridle to one of the attendants, advanced towards them. Noticing the fury that gleamed in Leonard's eyes, and apprehending some violence on his part, the grocer laid his hand, upon his arm, and sternly enjoined him to calm himself.

By this time, the earl had reached them. "Mr. Bloundel," he said, in a tone of much emotion, and with a look that seemed to bespeak contrition. "I heard that you had opened your house yesterday, and was about to call upon you. I have a few words to say to you on a subject painful to both of us, but doubly painful to me--your daughter."

"I must decline to hear them, my lord," replied the grocer, coldly; "nor shall you ever cross my threshold again with my consent. My poor child is now at peace. You can do her no further injury, and must settle your own account with your Maker."

"Do not refuse me your forgiveness," implored the earl. "I will make every reparation in my power."

"You _can_ make none," replied the grocer, repelling him; "and as to my forgiveness, I neither refuse it nor accord it. I pray your lordship to let me pass. The sole favour I ask of you is to come near me no more."

"I obey you," replied the earl. "Stay," he added to Leonard, who stood by, regarding him with a look of deadly animosity. "I would give you a piece of caution. Your life is in danger."

"I can easily guess from whom," replied the apprentice, scornfully.

"You mistake," rejoined Rochester; "you have nothing to apprehend from me. You have promised to meet some one to-night," he added, in so low a tone as to be inaudible to the grocer. "Do not go."

"Your lordship's warning will not deter me," rejoined the apprentice.

"As you will," rejoined Rochester, turning away. And springing upon his horse, and striking his spurs into his side, he dashed off, while Leonard and the grocer took the opposite direction. In less than half an hour they reached the little village of Paddington, then consisting of a few houses, but now one of the most populous and important parishes of the metropolis, and speedily gained the open country. Even at this dreary season the country had charms, which Mr. Bloundel, after his long confinement, could fully appreciate. His eye roamed over the wide prospect; and the leafless trees, the bare hedges, and the frost-bound fields seemed pleasant in his sight.

He quickened his pace, and being wholly indifferent to the cold, greatly enjoyed the exercise. Leonard pointed out to him the spots where the fugitives from the plague had pitched their tents, and also the pest-house near Westbourne Green, where he himself had been received during his second attack of the distemper, and which was now altogether abandoned.

Soon after this, they mounted the hill beyond Kensal Green, and approached the farmhouse. Leonard descried Wingfield near one of the barns, and hailing him, he immediately came forward. On being informed of Mr. Bloundel's desire, he at once assented, and taking them into the house, mentioned the matter to his dame, who was quite of the same opinion as himself.

"The only difference between us," he said to Mr. Bloundel, "is as to the payment you propose. Now I will take none--not a farthing. Come when you please, bring whom you please, and stay as long as you please. But don't offer me anything if you would not offend me. Recollect," he added, the moisture forcing itself into his eyes, and his strong clear voice becoming husky with emotion, "that I loved your daughter for her resemblance to my poor child. She, too, is gone. I do this for her sake."

Mr. Bloundel shook the worthy man warmly by the hand, but he made no further objection, resolved in his own mind to find some other means of requiting his hospitality. It was then agreed that the grocer should bring his family on the following day, and remain there for a month; and every other arrangement being made, and a hearty meal partaken of, he cordially thanked his host, and returned with Leonard to Wood-street.

In spite of his efforts to resist the impression produced by the earl's warning, Leonard could not banish it from his mind; and though he did not for a moment think of abandoning his purpose, he resolved to attend the meeting armed. He told Mr. Bloundel he should go out that night, but did not state his object, and the grocer did not inquire it. Blaize sat up with him, and displayed much anxiety to know whither he was going, but, as may be supposed, his curiosity was not gratified. As the clock struck eleven, Leonard thrust a sword into his girdle, and arming himself furthermore with his staff, proceeded towards the door, and bade Blaize lock it after him.

"I shall probably be back in a couple of hours," he said, as he went forth. "You must sit up for me."

"I wonder where he is going!" thought Blaize, "From his gloomy looks, and the weapon he has taken with him, I should judge he is about to murder some one--perhaps the Earl of Rochester. It must be prevented."

With this view, though perhaps rather more influenced by curiosity than any better feeling, the porter waited a few seconds to allow the apprentice to get out of sight, and then locking the door outside, put the key in his pocket, and followed him. The night was profoundly dark, but he had noticed the direction taken by Leonard, and running noiselessly along the street, soon perceived him a little in advance. Regulating his pace by that of the apprentice, and keeping about fifty yards behind him, he tracked his course along several streets, until he saw him pass through the second postern in the city wall, near Moorgate.

Here he debated with himself whether to proceed further or turn back; but at length, curiosity got the best of his fears, and he went on. A few steps brought him into the open fields, and fancying he saw Leonard at a little distance before him, he hurried on in that direction. But he soon found he had been deceived by the stump of a tree, and began to fear he must have taken the wrong course. He looked around in vain for some object to guide him. The darkness was so profound that he could see nothing, and he set off again at random, and not without much self-reproach and misgiving. At last, he reached a hedge, and continued to skirt it, until he perceived through the bushes the light of a lantern in the