"Having passed many years, as peacefully as one whose conscience was so heavily burdened as mine could hope to pass them, in Amsterdam, I last summer brought my daughter, around whom my affections were closely twined, to London, and took up my abode in the eastern environs of the city. There again I was happy—too happy!—until at last the plague came. But why should I relate the rest of my sad story?" he added, in a voice suffocated with emotion—"you know it as well as I do."

"You said you had a son," observed Leonard, after a pause—"Is he yet living?"

"He is," replied Thirlby, a shade passing over his countenance. "On my return to England I communicated to him through Judith Malmayns, who is my foster-sister, that I was still alive, telling him the name I had adopted, and adding, I should never disturb him in the possession of his title and estates."

"Title!" exclaimed Leonard.

"Ay, title!" echoed Thirlby. "The title I once bore was that of Lord Argentine."

"I am glad to hear it," said Leonard, "for I began to fear Sir Paul Parravicin was your son."

"Sir Paul Parravicin, or, rather, the Lord Argentine, for such is his rightful title, is my son," returned Thirlby; "and I lament to own I am his father. When among his worthless associates,—nay, even with the king—he drops the higher title, and assumes that by which you have known him; and it is well he does so, for his actions are sufficient to tarnish a far nobler name than that he bears. Owing to this disguise I knew not he was the person who carried off my daughter. But, thank Heaven, another and fouler crime has been spared us. All these things have been strangely explained to me to-night. And thus, you see, young man, the poor piper's daughter turns out to be the Lady Isabella Argentine." Before an answer could be returned, the door was opened by Hodges, and both starting to their feet, hurried towards him.

IV.

THE TRIALS OF AMABEL.

It will now be necessary to return to the period of Amabel's abduction from Kingston Lisle. The shawl thrown over her head prevented her cries from being heard; and, notwithstanding her struggles, she was placed on horseback before a powerful man, who galloped off with her along the Wantage-road. After proceeding at a rapid pace for about two miles, her conductor came to a halt, and she could distinguish the sound of other horsemen approaching. At first she hoped it might prove a rescue; but she was quickly undeceived. The shawl was removed, and she beheld the Earl of Rochester, accompanied by Pillichody, and some half-dozen mounted attendants. The earl would have transferred her to his own steed, but she offered such determined resistance to the arrangement, that he was compelled to content himself with riding by her aide. All his efforts to engage her in conversation were equally unsuccessful. She made no reply to his remarks, but averted her gaze from him; and, whenever he approached, shrank from him with abhorrence. The earl, however, was not easily repulsed, but continued his attentions and discourse, as if both had been favourably received.

In this way they proceeded for some miles, one of the earl's attendants, who was well acquainted with the country, being in fact a native of it, serving as their guide. They had quitted the Wantage-road, and leaving that ancient town, renowned as the birthplace of the great Alfred, on the right, had taken the direction of Abingdon and Oxford. It was a lovely evening, and their course led them through many charming places. But the dreariest waste would have been as agreeable as the richest prospect to Amabel. She noted neither the broad meadows, yet white from the scythe, nor the cornfields waving with their deep and abundant, though yet immature crops; nor did she cast even a passing glance at any one of those green spots which every lane offers, and upon which the eye of the traveller ordinarily delights to linger. She rode beneath a natural avenue of trees, whose branches met overhead like the arches of a cathedral, and was scarcely conscious of their pleasant shade. She heard neither the song of the wooing thrush, nor the cry of the startled blackbird, nor the evening hymn of the soaring lark. Alike to her was the gorse-covered common, along which they swiftly speeded, and the steep hill-side up which they more swiftly mounted. She breathed not the delicious fragrance of the new-mown hay, nor listened to the distant lowing herds, the bleating sheep, or the cawing rooks. She thought of nothing but her perilous situation,—heard nothing but the voice of Rochester,—felt nothing but the terror inspired by his presence.

As the earl did not desire to pass through any village, if he could help it, his guide led him along the most unfrequented roads; but in spite of his caution, an interruption occurred which had nearly resulted in Amabel's deliverance. While threading a narrow lane, they came suddenly upon a troop of haymakers, in a field on the right, who, up to that moment, had been hidden from view by the high hedges. On seeing them, Amabel screamed loudly for assistance, and was instantly answered by their shouts. Rochester ordered his men to gallop forward, but the road winding round the meadow, the haymakers were enabled to take a shorter cut and intercept them. Leaping the hedge, a stout fellow rushed towards Amabel's conductor, and seized the bridle of his steed. He was followed by two others, who would have instantly liberated the captive girl, if the earl had not, with great presence of mind, cried out, "Touch her not, as you value your lives! She is ill of the plague!"

At this formidable announcement, which operated like magic upon Amabel's defenders, and made them fall back more quickly than the weapons of the earl's attendants could have done, they retreated, and communicating their fears to their comrades, who were breaking through the hedge in all directions, and hurrying to their aid, the whole band took to their heels, and, regardless of Amabel's continued shrieks, never stopped till they supposed themselves out of the reach of infection. The earl was thus at liberty to pursue his way unmolested, and laughing heartily at the success of his stratagem, and at the consternation he had created among the haymakers, pressed forward.

Nothing further occurred till, in crossing the little river Ock, near Lyford, the horse ridden by Amabel's conductor missed its footing, and precipitated them both into the water. No ill consequences followed the accident. Throwing himself into the shallow stream, Rochester seized Amabel, and placed her beside him on his own steed. A deathly paleness overspread her countenance, and a convulsion shook her frame as she was thus brought into contact with the earl, who, fearing the immersion might prove dangerous in her present delicate state of health, quickened his pace to procure assistance. Before he had proceeded a hundred yards, Amabel fainted. Gazing at her with admiration, and pressing her inanimate frame to his breast, Rochester imprinted a passionate kiss on her cheek.

"By my soul!" he mentally ejaculated, "I never thought I could be so desperately enamoured. I would not part with her for the crown of these realms."

While considering whither he should take her, and much alarmed at her situation, the man who acted as guide came to his relief. Halting till the earl came up, he said, "If you want assistance for the young lady, my lord, I can take you to a good country inn, not far from this, where she will be well attended to, and where, as it is kept by my father, I can answer that no questions will be asked."

"Precisely what I wish, Sherborne," replied Rochester. "We will halt there for the night. Ride on as fast as you can."

Sherborne struck spurs into his steed, and passing Kingston Bagpuze, reached the high road between Abingdon and Faringdon, at the corner of which stood the inn in question,—a good-sized habitation, with large stables and a barn attached to it. Here he halted, and calling out in a loud and authoritative voice, the landlord instantly answered the summons; and, on being informed by his son of the rank of his guest, doffed his cap, and hastened to assist the earl to dismount. But Rochester declined his services, and bidding him summon his wife, she shortly afterwards made her appearance in the shape of a stout middle-aged dame. Committing Amabel to her care, the earl then alighted, and followed them into the house.

The Plough, for so the inn was denominated, was thrown into the utmost confusion by the arrival of the earl and his suite. All the ordinary frequenters of the inn were ejected, while the best parlour was instantly prepared for the accommodation of his lordship and Pillichody. But Rochester was far more anxious for Amabel than himself, and could not rest for a moment till assured by Dame Sherborne that she was restored to sensibility, and about to retire to rest. He then became easy, and sat down to supper with Pillichody. So elated was he by his success, that, yielding to his natural inclination for hard drinking, he continued to revel so freely and so long with his follower, that daybreak found them over their wine, the one toasting the grocer's daughter, and the other Patience, when they both staggered off to bed.

A couple of hours sufficed Rochester to sleep off the effects of his carouse. At six o'clock he arose, and ordered his attendants to prepare to set out without delay. When all was ready, he sent for Amabel, but she refused to come downstairs, and finding his repeated messages of no avail, he rushed into her room, and bore her, shrieking to his steed.

In an hour after this, they arrived at an old hall, belonging to the earl, in the neighbourhood of Oxford. Amabel was entrusted to the care of a female attendant, named Prudence, and towards evening, Rochester, who was burning with impatience for an interview, learnt, to his infinite disappointment, that she was so seriously unwell, that if he forced himself into her presence, her life might be placed in jeopardy. She continued in the same state for several days, at the end of which time, the chirurgeon who attended her, and who was a creature of the earl's, pronounced her out of danger. Rochester then sent her word by Prudence that he must see her in the course of that day, and a few hours after the delivery of the message, he sought her room. She was much enfeebled by illness, but received him with great self-possession.

"I cannot believe, my lord," she said, "that you desire to destroy me, and when I assure you—solemnly assure you, that if you continue to persecute me thus, my death, will be the consequence, I am persuaded you will desist, and suffer me to depart."

"Amabel," rejoined the earl, passionately, "is it possible you can be so changed towards me? Nothing now interferes to prevent our union."

"Except my own determination to the contrary, my lord," she replied. "I can never be yours."

"Wherefore not?" asked the earl, half angrily, half reproachfully.

"Because I know and feel that I should condemn myself to wretchedness," she replied. "Because—for since your lordship will force the truth from me, I must speak out—I have learnt to regard your character in its true light,—and because my heart is wedded to heaven."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed the earl, contemptuously; "you have been listening so long to your saintly father's discourses, that you fancy them applicable to yourself. But you are mistaken in me," he added, altering his tone; "I see where the main difficulty lies. You think I am about to delude you, as before, into a mock marriage. But I swear to you you are mistaken. I love you so well that I would risk my temporal and eternal happiness for you. It will rejoice me to raise you to my own rank—to place you among the radiant beauties of our sovereign's court, the brightest of whom you will outshine, and to devote my whole life to your happiness."

"It is too late," sighed Amabel.

"Why too late?" cried the earl, imploringly. "We have gone through severe trials, it is true. I have been constantly baffled in my pursuit of you, but disappointment has only made me love you more devotedly. Why too late? What is to prevent our nuptials from taking place to-day—to-morrow—when you will? The king himself shall be present at the ceremony, and shall give you away. Will this satisfy your scruples. I know I have offended you. I know I deserve your anger. But the love that prompted me to act thus, must also plead my pardon."

"Strengthen me!" she murmured, looking supplicatingly upwards. "Strengthen me, for my trial is very severe."

"Be not deceived, Amabel," continued Rochester, yet more ardently; "that you love me I am well assured, however strongly you may at this moment persuade yourself to the contrary. Be not governed by your father's strait-laced and puritanical opinions. Men, such as he is, cannot judge of fiery natures like mine. I myself have had to conquer a stubborn and rebellious spirit,—the demon pride. But I have conquered. Love has achieved the victory,—love for you. I offer you my heart, my hand, my title. A haughty noble makes this offer to a grocer's daughter. Can you—will you refuse me?"

"I can and do, my lord," she replied. "I have achieved a yet harder victory. With me, principle has conquered love. I no longer respect you, no longer love you—and, therefore, cannot wed you."

"Rash and obstinate girl," cried the earl, unable to conceal his mortification; "you will bitterly repent your inconsiderate conduct. I offer you devotion such as no other person could offer you, and rank such as no other is likely to offer you. You are now in my power, and you shall be mine,—in what way rests with yourself. You shall have a week to consider the matter. At the end of that time, I will again renew my proposal. If you accept it, well and good. If not, you know the alternative." And without waiting for a reply, he quitted the room.

He was as good as his word. During the whole of the week allowed Amabel for consideration, he never intruded upon her, nor was his name at any time mentioned by her attendants. If she had been, indeed, Countess of Rochester, she could not have been treated with greater respect than was shown her. The apartment allotted her opened upon a large garden, surrounded by high walls, and she walked within it daily. Her serenity of mind remained undisturbed; her health visibly improved; and, what was yet more surprising, she entirely recovered her beauty. The whole of her time not devoted to exercise, was spent in reading, or in prayer. On the appointed day, Rochester presented himself. She received him with the most perfect composure, and with a bland look, from which he augured favourably. He waved his hand to the attendants, and they were alone.

"I came for your answer, Amabel," he said; "but I scarcely require it, being convinced from your looks that I have nothing to fear. Oh! why did you not abridge this tedious interval? Why not inform me you had altered your mind? But I will not reproach you. I am too happy to complain of the delay?"

"I must undeceive you, my lord," returned Amabel, gravely. "No change has taken place in my feelings. I still adhere to the resolution I had come to when we last parted."

"How!" exclaimed the earl, his countenance darkening, and the evil look which Amabel had before noticed taking possession of it. "One moment lured on, and next rebuffed. But no—no!" he added, constraining himself, "you cannot mean it. It is not in woman's nature to act thus. You have loved me—you love me still. Make me happy—make yourself happy."

"My lord," she replied, "strange and unnatural as my conduct may appear, you will find it consistent. You have lost the sway you had once over me, and, for the reasons I have already given you, I can never be yours."

"Oh, recall your words, Amabel," he cried, in the most moving tones he could command; "if you have no regard for me—at least have compassion. I will quit the court if you desire it; will abandon title, rank, wealth; and live in the humblest station with you. You know not what I am capable of when under the dominion of passion. I am capable of the darkest crimes, or of the brightest virtues. The woman who has a man's heart in her power may mould it to her own purposes, be they good or ill. Reject me, and you drive me to despair, and plunge me into guilt. Accept me, and you may lead me into any course, you please."

"Were I assured of this—" cried Amabel.

"Rest assured of it," returned the earl, passionately. "Oh, yield to impulses of natural affection, and do not suffer a cold and calculating creed to chill your better feelings. How many a warm and loving heart has been so frozen! Do not let yours be one of them. Be mine! be mine!"

Amabel looked at him earnestly for a moment; while he, assured that he had gained his point, could not conceal a slightly triumphant smile.

"Now, your answer!" he cried. "My life hangs upon it."

"I am still unmoved," she replied, coldly, and firmly.

"Ah!" exclaimed the earl with a terrible imprecation, and starting to his feet. "You refuse me. Be it so. But think not that you shall escape me. No, you are in my power, and I will use it. You shall be mine and without the priest's interference. I will not degrade myself by an alliance with one so lowly born. The strongest love is nearest allied to hatred, and mine has become hatred—bitter hatred. You shall be mine, I tell you, and when I am indifferent to you, I will cast you off. Then, when you are neglected, despised, shunned, you will regret—deeply but unavailingly—your rejection of my proposals."

"No, my lord, I shall never regret it," replied Amabel, "and I cannot sufficiently rejoice that I did not yield to the momentary weakness that inclined me to accept them. I thank you for the insight you have afforded me into your character."

"You have formed an erroneous opinion of me, Amabel," cried the earl, seeing his error, and trying to correct it. "I am well nigh distracted by conflicting emotions. Oh, forgive my violence—forget it."

"Readily," she replied; "but think not I attach the least credit to your professions."

"Away, then, with further disguise," returned the earl, relapsing into his furious mood, "and recognise in me the person I am—or, rather the person you would have me be. You say you are immovable. So am I; nor will I further delay my purpose."

Amabel, who had watched him uneasily during this speech, retreated a step, and taking a small dagger from a handkerchief in which she kept it concealed, placed its point against her breast.

"I well know whom I have to deal with, my lord," she said, "and am, therefore, provided against the last extremity. Attempt to touch me, and I plunge this dagger into my heart."

"Your sense of religion will not allow you to commit so desperate a deed," replied the earl, derisively.

"My blood be upon your head, my lord," she rejoined; "for it is your hand that strikes the blow, and not my own. My honour is dearer to me than life, and I will unhesitatingly sacrifice the one to preserve the other. I have no fear but that the action, wrongful though it be, will be forgiven me."

"Hold!" exclaimed the earl, seeing from her determined look and manner that she would unquestionably execute her purpose. "I have no desire to drive you to destruction. Think over what I have said to you, and we will renew the subject tomorrow."

"Renew it when you please, my lord, my answer will still be the same," she replied. "I have but one refuge from you—the grave—and thither, if need be, I will fly." And as she spoke, she moved slowly towards the adjoining chamber, the door of which she fastened after her.

"I thought I had some experience of her sex," said Rochester to himself, "but I find I was mistaken. To-morrow's mood, however, may be unlike to-day's. At all events, I must take my measures differently."

* * * * *

V.

THE MARRIAGE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

Unwilling to believe he had become an object of aversion to Amabel, Rochester renewed his solicitations on the following day, and calling into play his utmost fascination of manner, endeavoured to remove any ill impression produced by his previous violence. She was proof, however, against his arts; and though he never lost his mastery over himself, he had some difficulty in concealing his chagrin at the result of the interview. He now began to adopt a different course, and entering into long discussions with Amabel, strove by every effort of wit and ridicule, to shake and subvert her moral and religious principles. But here again he failed; and once more shifting his ground, affected to be convinced by her arguments. He entirely altered his demeanour, and though Amabel could not put much faith in the change, it was a subject of real rejoicing to her. Though scarcely conscious of it herself, he sensibly won upon her regards, and she passed many hours of each day in his society without finding it irksome. Seeing the advantage he had gained, and well aware that he should lose it by the slightest indiscretion, Rochester acted with the greatest caution. The more at ease she felt with him, the more deferential did he become; and before she was conscious of her danger, the poor girl was once more on the brink of the precipice.

It was about this time that Leonard Holt, as has been previously intimated, discovered her retreat, and contrived, by clambering up a pear-tree which was nailed against the wall of the house, to reach her chamber-window. Having received her assurance that she had resisted all Rochester's importunities, the apprentice promised to return on the following night with means to affect her liberation, and departed. Fully persuaded that she could now repose confidence in the earl, Amabel acquainted him, the next morning, with Leonard's visit, adding that he would now have an opportunity of proving the sincerity of his professions by delivering her up to her friends.

"Since you desire it," replied the earl, who heard her with an unmoved countenance, though internally torn with passion, "I will convey you to your father myself. I had hoped," he added with a sigh, "that we should never part again."

"I fear I have been mistaken in you, my lord," rejoined Amabel, half-repenting her frankness.

"Not so," he replied. "I will do anything you require, except deliver you to this hateful apprentice. If it is your pleasure, I repeat, I will take you back to your father."

"Promise me this, my lord, and I shall be quite easy," cried Amabel, joyfully.

"I do promise it," he returned. "But oh! why not stay with me, and complete the good work you have begun?"

Amabel averted her head, and Rochester sighing deeply, quitted the room. An attendant shortly afterwards came to inform her that the earl intended to start for London without delay, and begged her to prepare for the journey. In an hour's time, a carriage drove to the door, and Rochester having placed her and Prudence in it, mounted his horse, and set forth. Late on the second day they arrived in London, and passing through the silent and deserted streets, the aspect of which struck terror into all the party, shaped their course towards the city. Presently they reached Ludgate, but instead of proceeding to Wood-street, the carriage turned off on the right, and traversing Thames-street, crossed London Bridge. Amabel could obtain no explanation of this change from Prudence; and her uneasiness was not diminished when the vehicle, which was driven down a narrow street on the left immediately after quitting the bridge, stopped at the entrance of a large court-yard. Rochester, who had already dismounted, assisted her to alight, and in answer to her hasty inquiries why he had brought her thither, told her he thought it better to defer taking her to her father till the morrow. Obliged to be content with this excuse, she was led into the house, severely reproaching herself for her indiscretion. Nothing, however, occurred to alarm her that night. The earl was even more deferential than before, and assuring her he would fulfil his promise in the morning, confided her to Prudence.

The house whither she had been brought was large and old-fashioned. The rooms had once been magnificently fitted up, but the hangings and furniture were much faded, and had a gloomy and neglected air. This was especially observable in the sleeping-chamber appointed for her reception. It was large and lofty, panelled with black and shining oak, with a highly-polished floor of the same material, and was filled with cumbrous chests and cabinets, and antique high-backed chairs. But the most noticeable object was a large state-bed, with a heavy square canopy, covered, with the richest damask, woven with gold, and hung with curtains of the same stuff, though now decayed and tarnished. A chill crept over Amabel as she gazed around.

"I cannot help thinking," she observed to Prudence, "that I shall breathe my last in this room, and in that bed."

"I hope not, madam," returned the attendant, unable to repress a shudder.

Nothing more was said, and Amabel retired to rest. But not being able to sleep, and having vainly tried to compose herself, she arose and opened the window. It was a serene and beautiful night, and she could see the smooth river sparkling in the starlight, and flowing at a hundred yards' distance at the foot of the garden. Beyond, she could indistinctly perceive the outline of the mighty city, while nearer, on the left, lay the bridge. Solemnly across the water came the sound of innumerable bells, tolling for those who had died of the plague, and were now being borne to their last home. While listening to these sad sounds, another, but more doleful and appalling noise, caught her ears. It was the rumbling of cart-wheels in the adjoining street, accompanied by the ringing of a hand-bell, while a hoarse-voice cried, "Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!" On hearing this cry, she closed the window and retired. Morning broke before sleep visited her weary eyelids, and then, overcome by fatigue, she dropped into a slumber, from which she did not awake until the day was far advanced. She found Prudence sitting by her bedside, and alarmed by the expression of her countenance, anxiously inquired what was the matter?

"Alas! madam," replied the attendant, "the earl has been taken suddenly ill. He set out for Wood-street the first thing this morning, and has seen your father, who refuses to receive you. On his return, he complained of a slight sickness, which has gradually increased in violence, and there can be little doubt it is the plague. Advice has been sent for. He prays you not to disturb yourself on his account, but to consider yourself sole mistress of this house, whatever may befall him."

Amabel passed a miserably anxious day. A fresh interest had been awakened in her heart in behalf of the earl, and the precarious state in which she conceived him placed did not tend to diminish it. She made many inquiries after him, and learned that he was worse, while the fearful nature of the attack could not be questioned. On the following day Prudence reported that the distemper had made such rapid and terrible progress, that his recovery was considered almost hopeless.

"He raves continually of you, madam," said the attendant, "and I have no doubt he will expire with your name on his lips."

Amabel was moved to tears by the information, and withdrawing into a corner of the room, prayed fervently for the supposed sufferer. Prudence gazed at her earnestly and compassionately, and muttering something to herself, quitted the room. The next day was the critical one (so it was said) for the earl, and Amabel awaited, in tearful anxiety, the moment that was to decide his fate. It came, and he was pronounced out of danger. When the news was brought the anxious girl, she fainted.

A week passed, and the earl, continued to improve, and all danger of infection—if any such existed—being at an end, he sent a message to Amabel, beseeching her to grant him an interview in his own room. She willingly assented, and, following the attendant, found him stretched upon a couch. In spite of his paleness and apparent debility, however, his good looks were but little impaired, and his attire, though negligent, was studiously arranged for effect. On Amabel's appearance he made an effort to rise, but she hastened to prevent him. After thanking her for her kind inquiries, he entered into a long conversation with her, in the course of which he displayed sentiments so exactly coinciding with her own, that the good opinion she had already begun to entertain for him was soon heightened into the liveliest interest. They parted, to meet again on the following day—and on the day following that. The bloom returned to the earl's countenance, and he looked handsomer than ever. A week thus passed, and at the end of it, he said—"To-morrow I shall be well enough to venture forth again, and my first business shall be to proceed to your father, and see whether he is now able to receive you."

"The plague has not yet abated, my lord," she observed, blushingly.

"True," he replied, looking passionately at her. "Oh, forgive me, Amabel," he added, taking her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw. "Forgive me, if I am wrong. But I now think your feelings are altered towards me, and that I may venture to hope you will be mine?"

Amabel's bosom heaved with emotion. She tried to speak, but could not. Her head declined upon his shoulder, and her tears flowed fast. "I am answered," he cried, scarcely able to contain his rapture, and straining her to his bosom.

"I know not whether I am doing rightly," she murmured, gazing at him through her tears, "but I believe you mean me truly. God forgive you if you do not."

"Have no more doubts," cried the earl. "You have wrought an entire change in me. Our union shall not be delayed an hour. It shall take place in Saint Saviour's to-night."

"Not to-night," cried Amabel, trembling at his eagerness—"to-morrow."

"To-night, to-night!" reiterated the earl, victoriously. And he rushed out of the room.

Amabel was no sooner left to herself than she repented what she had done. "I fear I have made a false step," she mused; "but it is now too late to retreat, and I will hope for the best. He cannot mean to deceive me."

Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Prudence, who came towards her with a face full of glee. "My lord has informed me of the good news," she said. "You are to be wedded to him to-day. I have expected it all along, but it is somewhat sudden at last. He is gone in search of the priest, and in the mean time has ordered me to attire you for the ceremony. I have several rich dresses for your ladyship—for so I must now call you—to choose from."

"The simplest will suit me best," replied Amabel, "and do not call me ladyship till I have a right to that title."

"That will be so soon that I am sure there can be no harm in using it now," returned Prudence. "But pray let me show you the dresses."

Amabel suffered herself to be led into another room, where she saw several sumptuous female habiliments, and selecting the least showy of them, was soon arrayed in it by the officious attendant. More than two hours elapsed before Rochester returned, when he entered Amabel's chamber, accompanied by Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. A feeling of misgiving crossed Amabel, as she beheld his companions.

"I have had some difficulty in finding a clergyman," said the earl, "for the rector of Saint Saviour's has fled from the plague. His curate, however, will officiate for him, and is now in the church."

Amabel fixed a searching look upon him. "Why are these gentlemen here?" she asked.

"I have brought them with me," rejoined Rochester, "because, as they were aware of the injury I once intended you, I wish them to be present at its reparation."

"I am satisfied," she replied.

Taking her hand, the earl then led her to a carriage, which conveyed them to Saint Saviour's. Just as they alighted, the dead-cart passed, and several bodies were brought towards it. Eager to withdraw her attention from the spectacle, Rochester hurried her into the old and beautiful church. In another moment they were joined by Etherege and Pillichody, and they proceeded to the altar, where the priest, a young man, was standing. The ceremony was then performed, and the earl led his bride back to the carriage. On their return they had to undergo another ill-omened interruption. The dead-cart was stationed near the gateway, and some delay occurred before it could be moved forward.

Amabel, however, suffered no further misgiving to take possession of her. Deeming herself wedded to the earl, she put no constraint on her affection for him, and her happiness, though short-lived, was deep and full. A month passed away like a dream of delight. Nothing occurred in the slightest degree to mar her felicity. Rochester seemed only to live for her—to think only of her. At the end of this time, some indifference began to manifest itself in his deportment to her, and he evinced a disposition to return to the court and to its pleasures.

"I thought you had for ever abandoned them, my dear lord," said Amabel, reproachfully.

"For awhile I have," he replied, carelessly.

"You must leave me, if you return to them," she rejoined.

"If I must, I must," said the earl.

"You cannot mean this, my lord," she cried, bursting into tears. "You cannot be so changed."

"I have never changed since you first knew me," replied Rochester.

"Impossible!" she cried, in a tone of anguish; "you have not the faults—the vices, you once had."

"I know not what you call faults and vices, madam," replied the earl sharply, "but I have the same qualities as heretofore.

"Am I to understand, then," cried Amabel, a fearful suspicion of the truth breaking upon her, "that you never sincerely repented your former actions?"

"You are to understand it," replied Rochester.

"And you deceived me when you affirmed the contrary?"

"I deceived you," he replied.

"I begin to suspect," she cried, with a look of horror and doubt, "that the attack of the plague was feigned."

"You are not far wide of the truth," was the reply.

"And our marriage?" she cried—"our marriage? Was that feigned likewise?"

"It was," replied Rochester, calmly.

Amabel looked at him fixedly for a few minutes, as if she could not credit his assertion, and then receiving no contradiction, uttered a wild scream, and rushed out of the room. Rochester followed, and saw her dart with lightning swiftness across the court-yard. On gaining the street, he perceived her flying figure already at some distance; and greatly alarmed, started in pursuit. The unfortunate girl was not allowed to proceed far. Two persons who were approaching, and who proved to be Etherege and Pillichody, caught hold of her, and detained her till Rochester came up. When the latter attempted to touch her, she uttered such fearful shrieks, that Etherege entreated him to desist. With some difficulty she was taken back to the house. But it was evident that the shock had unsettled her reason. She alternately uttered wild, piercing screams, or broke into hysterical laughter. The earl's presence so much increased her frenzy, that he gladly withdrew.

"This is a melancholy business, my lord," observed Etherege, as they quitted the room together, "and I am sorry for my share in it. We have both much to answer for."

"Do you think her life in danger?" rejoined Rochester.

"It would be well if it were so," returned the other; "but I fear she will live to be a perpetual memento to you of the crime you have committed."

Amabel's delirium produced a high fever, which continued for three days. Her screams were at times so dreadful, that her betrayer shut himself up in the furthest part of the house, that he might not hear them. When at last she sank into a sleep like that of death, produced by powerful opiates, he stole into the room, and gazed at her with feelings which those who watched his countenance did not envy. It was hoped by the chirurgeon in attendance, that when the violence of the fever abated, Amabel's reason would be restored. But it was not so. Her faculties were completely shaken, and the cause of her affliction being effaced from her memory, she now spoke of the Earl of Rochester with her former affection.

Her betrayer once ventured into her presence, but he did not repeat the visit. Her looks and her tenderness were more than even his firmness could bear, and he hurried away to hide his emotion from the attendants. Several days passed on, and as no improvement took place, the earl, who began to find the stings of conscience too sharp for further endurance, resolved to try to deaden the pangs by again plunging into the dissipation of the court. Prudence had been seized by the plague, and removed to the pest-house, and not knowing to whom to entrust Amabel, it at last occurred to him that Judith Malmayns would be a fitting person, and he accordingly sent for her from Saint Paul's, and communicated his wishes to her, offering her a considerable reward for the service. Judith readily undertook the office, and the earl delayed his departure for two days, to see how all went on; and finding the arrangements, to all appearances, answer perfectly, he departed with Etherege and Pillichody.

Ever since the communication of the fatal truth had been made to her by the earl, his unfortunate victim had occupied the large oak-panelled chamber, on entering which so sad a presentiment had seized her; and she had never quitted the bed where she thought she would breathe her last. On the night of Rochester's departure she made many inquiries concerning him from Judith Malmayns, who was seated in an old broad-cushioned, velvet-covered chair, beside her, and was told that the king required his attendance at Oxford, but that he would soon return. At this answer the tears gathered thickly in Amabel's dark eyelashes, and she remained silent. By-and-by she resumed the conversation.

"Do you know, nurse," she said, with a look of extreme anxiety, "I have forgotten my prayers. Repeat them to me, and I will say them after you."

"My memory is as bad as your ladyship's," replied Judith, contemptuously. "It is so long since I said mine, that I have quite forgotten them."

"That is wrong in you," returned Amabel, "very wrong. When I lived with my dear father, we had prayers morning and evening, and I was never so happy as then. I feel it would do me good if I could pray as I used to do."

"Well, well, all in good time," replied Judith. "As soon as you are better, you shall go back to your father, and then you can do as you please."

"No, no, I cannot go back to him," returned Amabel. "I am the Earl of Rochester's wife—his wedded wife. Am I not Countess of Rochester?"

"To be sure you are," replied Judith—"to be sure."

"I sometimes think otherwise," rejoined Amabel, mournfully.

"And so my dear lord is gone to Oxford?"

"He is," returned Judith, "but he will be back soon. And now," she added, with some impatience, "you have talked quite long enough. You must take your composing draught, and go to sleep."

With this she arose, and stepping to the table which stood by the side of the bed, filled a wine-glass with the contents of a silver flagon, and gave it to her. Amabel drank the mixture, and complaining of its nauseous taste, Judith handed her a plate of fruit from the table to remove it. Soon after this she dropped asleep, when the nurse arose, and taking a light from the table, cautiously possessed herself of a bunch of keys which were placed in a small pocket over Amabel's head, and proceeded to unlock a large chest that stood near the foot of the bed. She found it filled with valuables—with chains of gold, necklaces of precious stones, loops of pearl, diamond crosses, and other ornaments. Besides these, there were shawls and stuffs of the richest description. While contemplating these treasures, and considering how she should carry them off without alarming the household, she was startled by a profound sigh; and looking towards the bed, perceived to her great alarm, that Amabel had opened her eyes, and was watching her.

"What are you doing there, nurse?" she cried.

"Only looking at these pretty things, your ladyship," replied Judith, in an embarrassed tone.

"I hope you are not going to steal them?" said Amabel.

"Steal them?" echoed Judith, alarmed. "Oh, no! What should make your ladyship think so?"

"I don't know," said Amabel; "but put them by, and bring the keys to me."

Judith feigned compliance, but long before she had restored the things to the chest, Amabel had again fallen asleep. Apprised by her tranquil breathing of this circumstance, Judith arose; and shading the candle with her hand, crept noiselessly towards the bed. Dark thoughts crossed her as she gazed at the unfortunate sleeper; and moving with the utmost caution, she set the light on the table behind the curtains, and had just grasped the pillow, with the intention of plucking it from under Amabel's head, and of smothering her with it, when she felt herself restrained by a powerful grasp, and turning in utmost alarm, beheld the Earl of Rochester.

VI.

THE CERTIFICATE.

"Wretch!" cried the earl. "An instinctive dread that you would do your poor charge some injury brought me back, and I thank Heaven I have arrived in time to prevent your atrocious purpose."

"Your lordship would have acted more discreetly in staying away," replied Judith, recovering her resolution; "and I would recommend you not to meddle in the matter, but to leave it to me. No suspicion shall alight on you, nor shall it even be known that her end was hastened. Leave the house as secretly as you came, and proceed on your journey with a light heart. She will never trouble you further."

"What!" exclaimed Rochester, who was struck dumb for the moment by surprise and indignation, "do you imagine I would listen to such a proposal? Do you think I would sanction her murder?"

"I am sure you would, if you knew as much as I do," replied Judith, calmly. "Hear me, my lord," she continued, drawing him to a little distance from the bed, and speaking in a deep low tone. "You cannot marry Mistress Mallet while this girl lives."

Rochester looked sternly and inquiringly at her. "You think your marriage was feigned," pursued Judith; "that he was no priest who performed the ceremony; and that no other witnesses were present except Sir George Etherege and Pillichody. But you are mistaken. I and Chowles were present; and he who officiated was a priest. The marriage was a lawful one; and yon sleeping girl, who, but for your ill-timed interference, would, ere this, have breathed her last, is to all intents and purposes Countess of Rochester."

"A lie!" cried the earl, furiously.

"I will soon prove it to be truth," rejoined Judith. "Your retainer and unscrupulous agent, Major Pillichody, applied to Chowles to find some one to personate a clergyman in a mock marriage, which your lordship wished to have performed, and promised a handsome reward for the service. Chowles mentioned the subject to me, and we speedily contrived a plan to outwit your lordship, and turn the affair to our advantage."

The earl uttered an ejaculation of rage.

"Being acquainted with one of the minor canons of Saint Paul's, a worthy and pious young man, named Vincent," pursued Judith, utterly unmoved by Rochester's anger, "who resided hard by the cathedral, we hastened to him, and acquainted him with the design, representing ourselves as anxious to serve the poor girl, and defeat your lordship's wicked design—for such we termed it. With a little persuasion, Mr. Vincent consented to the scheme. Pillichody was easily duped by Chowles's statement, and the ceremony was fully performed."

"The whole story is a fabrication," cried the earl, with affected incredulity.

"I have a certificate of the marriage," replied Judith, "signed by Mr. Vincent, and attested by Chowles and myself. If ever woman was wedded to man, Amabel is wedded to your lordship."

"If this is the case, why seek to destroy her?" demanded the earl. "Her life must be of more consequence to you than her removal."

"I will deal frankly with you," replied Judith. "She discovered me in the act of emptying that chest, and an irresistible impulse prompted me to make away with her. But your lordship is in the right. Her life is valuable to me, and she shall live. But, I repeat, you cannot marry the rich heiress, Mistress Mallet."

"Temptress!" cried the earl, "you put frightful thoughts into my head."

"Go your ways," replied Judith, "and think no more about her. All shall be done that you require. I claim as my reward the contents of that chest."

"Your reward shall be the gallows," rejoined the earl, indignantly. "I reject your proposal at once. Begone, wretch! or I shall forget you are a woman, and sacrifice you to my fury. Begone!"

"As your lordship pleases," she replied; "but first, the Countess of Rochester shall be made acquainted with her rights." So saying, she broke from him, and rushed to the bed.

"What are you about to do?" he cried.

"Waken her," rejoined Judith, slightly shaking the sleeper.

"Ah!" exclaimed Amabel, opening her eyes, and gazing at her with a terrified and bewildered look.

"His lordship is returned," said Judith.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Amabel, raising herself in the bed. "Where is he?—Ah, I see him.—Come to me, my dear lord," she added, stretching out her arms to him, "Come to me."

But evil thoughts kept Rochester motionless. "Oh! come to me, my lord," cried Amabel, in a troubled tone, "or I shall begin to think what I have dreamed is true, and that I am not wedded to you."

"It was merely a dream, your ladyship," observed Judith. "I will bear witness you are wedded to his lordship, for I was present at the ceremony."

"I did not see you," remarked Amabel.

"I was there, nevertheless," replied Judith.

"I am sorry to hear it," replied Amabel.

"Your ladyship would rejoice if you knew all," returned Judith, significantly.

"Why so?" inquired the other, curiously.

"Because the clergyman who married you is dead of the plague," was the answer; "and it may chance in these terrible times that the two gentlemen who were present at the ceremony may die of the same distemper, and then there will be no one left but me and another person to prove that your marriage was lawful."

"But its lawfulness will never be questioned, my dear lord, will it?" asked Amabel, looking beseechingly at Rochester.

"Never," replied Judith, producing a small piece of parchment, "while I hold this certificate."

"Give me that document," said the earl, in an undertone, to her.

Judith directed her eyes towards the chest. "It is yours," said the earl, in the same tone as before.

"What are you whispering, my lord?" inquired Amabel, uneasily.

"I am merely telling her to remove that chest, sweetheart," he replied.

"Do not send it away," cried Amabel. "It contains all the ornaments and trinkets you have given me. Do you know," she added in a whisper, "I caught her looking into it just now, and I suspect she was about to steal something."

"Pshaw!" cried the earl, "she acted by my directions. Take the chest away," he added to Judith.

"Has your lordship no further orders?" she rejoined, significantly.

"None whatever," he replied, with a frown.

"Before you go, give me the certificate," cried Amabel. "I must have it."

Judith pretended not to hear her. "Give it her," whispered the earl, "I will remove it when she falls asleep."

Nodding acquiescence, Judith took the parchment from her bosom, and returned with it to the bed. While this was passing, the earl walked towards the chest, and cast his eye over such of its contents as were scattered upon the floor. Judith watched him carefully, and when his back was turned, drew a small lancet, and affecting to arrange her dress, slightly punctured Amabel's neck. The pain was trifling, but the poor girl uttered a cry.

"What is the matter?" cried the earl, turning suddenly round.

"Nothing—nothing," replied Judith; "a pin in my sleeve pricked her as I was fastening her cap, that was all. Her death is certain," she added to herself, "she is inoculated with the plague-venom."

She then went to the chest, and replacing everything within it, removed it, by the help of the Earl of Rochester, into the adjoining room. "I will send for it at midnight," she said.

"It shall be delivered to your messenger," rejoined the earl; "but you will answer for Chowles's secrecy?"

"I will," returned Judith, with a meaning smile. "But you may take my word for it you will not be troubled long with your wife. If I have any judgment respecting the plague, she is already infected."

"Indeed!" cried Rochester—"then—" but he checked himself, and added, "I do not believe it. Begone."

"He does believe it for all that," muttered Judith, as he slunk away.

Rochester returned to Amabel, and sat by her until she fell asleep, when he took the parchment from beneath the pillow where she had placed it. Examining it, he found it, as Judith had stated, a certificate of his marriage, signed by Mark Vincent, the clergyman who had officiated, and duly attested. Having carefully perused it, he held it towards the taper, with the intention of destroying it. As he was about to perpetrate this unworthy action, he looked towards the bed. The soft sweet smile that played upon the sleeper's features, turned him from his purpose. Placing the parchment in his doublet, he left the room, and summoning a female attendant, alleged some reason for his unexpected return, and ordered her to watch by the bedside of her mistress. Giving some further directions, he threw himself upon a couch and sought a few hours' repose. At daybreak, he repaired to Amabel's chamber, and finding her wrapped in a peaceful slumber, he commended her to the attendant, and departed.

On awaking, Amabel complained of an uneasy sensation on her neck, and the attendant examining the spot, found, to her great alarm, a small red pustule. Without making a single observation, she left the room, and despatched a messenger after the Earl of Rochester to acquaint him that the countess was attacked by the plague. Such was the terror inspired by this dread disorder, that the moment it was known that Amabel was attacked by it, the whole household, except an old woman, fled. This old woman, whose name was Batley, and who acted as the earl's housekeeper, took upon herself the office of nurse. Before evening, the poor sufferer, who had endured great agony during the whole of the day, became so much worse, that Mrs. Batley ran out in search of assistance. She met with a watchman, who told her that a famous apothecary, from Clerkenwell, named Sibbald, who was celebrated for the cures he had effected, had just entered a neighbouring house, and offered to await his coming forth, and send him to her. Thanking him, Mrs. Batley returned to the house, and presently afterwards, Sibbald made his appearance. His looks and person had become even more repulsive than formerly. He desired to be led to the patient, and on seeing her, shook his head. He examined the pustule, which had greatly increased in size, and turning away, muttered, "I can do nothing for her."

"At least make the attempt," implored Mrs. Batley. "She is the Countess of Rochester. You shall be well rewarded—and if you cure her, the earl will make your fortune."

"If his lordship would change stations with me, I could not cure her," replied Sibbald. "Let me look at her again," he added, examining the pustule. "There is a strange appearance about this tumour. Has Judith Malmayns attended her?"

"She was here yesterday," replied Mrs. Batley.

"I thought so," he muttered. "I repeat it is all over with her." And he turned to depart.

"Do not leave her thus, in pity do not!" cried the old woman, detaining him. "Make some effort to save her. My lord loves her to distraction, and will abundantly reward you."

"All I can do is to give her something to allay the pain," returned Sibbald. And drawing a small phial from his doublet, he poured its contents into a glass, and administered it to the patient.

"That will throw her into a slumber," he said, "and when she wakes, she will be without pain. But her end will be not far off."

Mrs. Batley took a purse from a drawer in one of the cabinets, and gave it to the apothecary, who bowed and retired. As he had foretold, Amabel fell into a heavy lethargy, which continued during the whole of the night. Mrs. Batley, who had never left her, noticed that an extraordinary and fearful change had taken place in her countenance, and she could not doubt that the apothecary's prediction would be realized. The tumour had increased in size, and was surrounded by a dusky brown circle, which she knew to be a bad sign. The sufferer's eyes, when she opened them, and gazed around, had a dim and glazed look. But she was perfectly calm and composed, and, as had been prognosticated, free from pain. She had, also, fully regained her faculties, and seemed quite aware of her dangerous situation.

But the return of reason brought with it no solace. On the contrary, the earl's treachery rushed upon her recollection, and gave her infinitely more anguish than the bodily pain she had recently endured. She bedewed the pillow with her tears, and fervently prayed for forgiveness for her involuntary fault. Mrs. Batley was deeply moved by her affliction, and offered her every consolation in her power.

"I would the plague had selected me for a victim instead of your ladyship," she said. "It is hard to leave the world at your age, possessed of beauty, honours, and wealth. At mine, it would not signify."

"You mistake the cause of my grief," returned Amabel; "I do not lament that my hour is at hand, but—" and her emotion so overpowered her that she could not proceed.

"Do not disturb yourself further, dear lady," rejoined the old woman. "Let the worst happen, I am sure you are well prepared to meet your Maker."

"I once was," replied Amabel in a voice of despair, "but now—Oh, Heaven forgive me!"

"Shall I fetch some holy minister to pray beside you, my lady?" said Mrs. Batley; "one to whom you can pour forth the sorrows of your heart?"

"Do so! oh, do!" cried Amabel, "and do not call me lady. I am not worthy to be placed in the same rank as yourself."

"Her wits are clean gone," muttered Mrs. Batley, looking at her compassionately.

"Heed me not," cried Amabel; "but if you have any pity for the unfortunate, do as you have promised."

"I will—I will," said Mrs. Batley, departing.

Half an hour, which scarcely seemed a moment to the poor sufferer, who was employed in fervent prayer, elapsed before Mrs. Batley returned. She was accompanied by a tall man, whom Amabel recognised as Solomon Eagle.

"I have not been able to find a clergyman," said the old woman, "but I have brought a devout man who is willing to pray with you."

"Ah!" exclaimed the enthusiast, starting as he beheld Amabel. "Can it be Mr. Bloundel's daughter?"

"It is," returned Amabel with a groan. "Leave us, my good woman," she added to Mrs. Batley, "I have something to impart to Solomon Eagle which is for his ear alone." The old woman instantly retired, and Amabel briefly related her hapless story to the enthusiast.

"May I hope for forgiveness?" she inquired, as she concluded.

"Assuredly," replied Solomon Eagle, "assuredly! You have not erred wilfully, but through ignorance, and therefore have committed no offence. You will be forgiven—but woe to your deceiver, here and hereafter."

"Oh' say not so," she cried. "May Heaven pardon him as I do. While I have strength left I will pray for him." And she poured forth her supplications for the earl in terms so earnest and pathetic, that the tears flowed down Solomon Eagle's rough cheek. At this juncture, hasty steps were heard in the adjoining passage, and the door opening, admitted the Earl of Rochester, who rushed towards the bed.

"Back!" cried Solomon Eagle, pushing him forcibly aside. "Back!"

"What do you here?" cried Rochester, fiercely.

"I am watching over the death-bed of your victim," returned Solomon Eagle. "Retire, my lord. You disturb her."

"Oh, no," returned Amabel, meekly. "Let him come near me." And as Solomon Eagle drew a little aside, and allowed the earl to approach, she added, "With my latest breath I forgive you, my lord, for the wrong you have done me, and bless you."

The earl tried to speak, but his voice was suffocated by emotion. As soon as he could find words, he said, "Your goodness completely overpowers me, dearest Amabel. Heaven is my witness, that even now I would make you all the reparation in my power were it needful. But it is not so. The wrong I intended you was never committed. I myself was deceived. I intended a feigned marriage, but it was rightfully performed. Time will not allow me to enter into further particulars of the unhappy transaction, but you may credit my assertion when I tell you you are indeed my wife, and Countess of Rochester."

"If I thought so, I should die happy," replied Amabel.

"Behold this proof!" said Rochester, producing the certificate.

"I cannot read it," replied Amabel. "But you could not have the heart to deceive me now."

"I will read it, and you well know I would not deceive you," cried Solomon Eagle, casting his eye over it—"His lordship has avouched the truth," he continued. "It is a certificate of your marriage with him, duly signed and attested."

"God be thanked," ejaculated Amabel, fervently. "God be thanked! You have been spared that guilt, and I shall die content."

"I trust your life will long be spared," rejoined the earl. Amabel shook her head.

"There is but one man in this city who could save her," whispered Solomon Eagle, and I doubt even his power to do so.'

"Who do you mean?" cried Rochester, eagerly.

"Doctor Hodges," replied the enthusiast.

"I know him well," cried the earl. "I will fly to him instantly. Remain with her till I return."

"My lord—my dear lord," interposed Amabel, faintly, "you trouble yourself needlessly. I am past all human aid."

"Do not despair," replied the earl. "Many years of happiness are, I trust, in store for us. Do not detain me. I go to save you. Farewell for a short time."

"Farewell, for ever, my lord," she said, gently pressing his hand. "We shall not meet again. Your name will be coupled with my latest breath."

"I shall be completely unmanned if I stay here a moment longer," cried the earl, breaking from her, and rushing out of the room.

As soon as he was gone, Amabel addressed herself once more to prayer with Solomon Eagle, and in this way an hour passed by. The earl not returning at the end of that time, Solomon Eagle became extremely uneasy, every moment being of the utmost consequence, and summoning Mrs. Batley, committed the patient to her care, and set off in search of Hodges. He hastened to the doctor's house—he was absent—to Saint Paul's—he was not there, but he learnt that a person answering to the earl's description had been making similar inquiries after him.

At last, one of the chirurgeon's assistants told him that he thought the doctor was gone towards Cornhill, and hoping, accidentally, to meet with him, the enthusiast set off in that direction. While passing near the Exchange, he encountered Leonard, as before related, but did not think fit to acquaint him with more than Amabel's dangerous situation; and he had reason to regret making the communication at all, on finding its effect upon the poor youth. There was, however, no help for it, and placing him in what appeared a situation of safety, he left him.

Rochester, meanwhile, had been equally unsuccessful in his search for Hodges. Hurrying first in one direction and then in another, at the suggestion of the chirurgeon's assistant, he at last repaired to the doctor's residence, determined to await his return. In half an hour he came, and received the earl, as the old porter stated to Thirlby and Leonard, with angry astonishment. As soon as they were alone, the earl told him all that had occurred, and besought him to accompany him to the poor sufferer.

"I will go to her," said Hodges, who had listened to the recital with mixed feelings of sorrow and indignation, "on one condition—and one only—namely, that your lordship does not see her again without my permission."

"Why do you impose this restriction upon, me sir?' demanded Rochester.

"I do not think it necessary to give my reasons, my lord," returned Hodges; "but I will only go upon such terms."

"Then I must perforce submit," replied the earl; "but I entreat you to set forth-without a moment's delay, or you will be too late."

"I will follow you instantly," rejoined Hodges. "Your lordship can wait for me at the Southwark side of the bridge." He then opened the door, reiterating the terms upon which alone he would attend, and the earl departed.

Shortly afterwards he set out, and making the best of his way, found Rochester at the appointed place. The latter conducted him to the entrance of the habitation, and indicating a spot where he would remain till his return, left him. Hodges soon found his way to the chamber of the sufferer, and at once perceived that all human aid was vain. She exhibited much pleasure at seeing him, and looked round, as if in search of the earl. Guessing her meaning, the physician, who now began to regret the interdiction he had placed upon him, told her that he was the cause of his absence.

"It is well," she murmured—"well." She then made some inquiries after her relatives, and receiving a satisfactory answer, said, "I am glad you are come. You will be able to tell my father how I died."

"It will be a great comfort to him to learn the tranquil frame in which I have found you," replied Hodges.

"How long have I to live?" asked Amabel, somewhat quickly. "Do not deceive me."

"You had better make your preparations without delay," returned Hodges.

"I understand," she replied; and joining her hands upon her breast, she began to murmur a prayer.

Hodges, who up to this moment had had some difficulty in repressing his emotion, withdrew to a short distance to hide his fast-falling tears. He was roused shortly after, by a sudden and startling cry from the old woman.

"Oh, sir, she is going! she is going!" ejaculated Mrs. Batley. He found the exclamation true. The eyes of the dying girl were closed. There was a slight quiver of the lips, as if she murmured some name—probably Rochester's—and then all was over.

Hodges gazed at her sorrowfully for some time. He then roused himself, and giving some necessary directions to the old woman respecting the body, quitted the house. Not finding the earl at the place he had appointed to meet him, after waiting for a short time, he proceeded, towards his own house. On the way he was net by Thirlby and Parravicin, as previously related, and conducted to the house in Nicholas-lane. It will not be necessary to recapitulate what subsequently occurred. We shall, therefore, proceed to the point of time when he quitted his new patient, and entered the room where Thirlby and Leonard were waiting for him. Both, as has been stated, rushed towards him, and the former eagerly asked his opinion respecting his daughter.

"My opinion is positive," replied Hodges. "With care, she will undoubtedly recover."

"Heaven be thanked!" cried Thirlby, dropping on his knees.

"And now, one word to me, sir," cried Leonard. "What of Amabel?"

"Alas!" exclaimed the doctor, "her troubles are ended."

"Dead!" shrieked Leonard.

"Ay, dead!" repeated the doctor. "She died of the plague to-night."

He then proceeded to detail briefly all that had occurred. Leonard listened like one stupefied, till he brought his recital to a close, and then asking where the house in which she had died was situated, rushed out of the room, and made his way, he knew not how, into the street. His brain seemed on fire, and he ran so quickly that his feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground. A few seconds brought him to London Bridge. He crossed it, and turning down the street on the left, had nearly reached the house to which he had been directed, when his career was suddenly checked. The gate of the court-yard was opened, and two men, evidently, from their apparel, buriers of the dead, issued from it. They carried a long narrow board between them, with a body wrapped in a white sheet placed upon it. A freezing horror rooted Leonard to the spot where he stood. He could neither move nor utter a cry.

The men proceeded with their burden towards the adjoining habitation, which was marked with a fatal red cross and inscription. Before it stood the dead-cart, partly filled with corpses. The foremost burier carried a lantern, but he held it so low that its light did not fall upon his burden. Leonard, however, did not require to see the body to know whose it was. The moon was at its full, and shed a ghastly light over the group, and a large bat wheeled in narrow circles round the dead-cart.

On reaching the door of the house, the burier set down the lantern near the body of a young man which had just been thrust forth. At the same moment, Chowles, with a lantern in his hand, stepped out upon the threshold. "Who have you got, Jonas?" he asked.

"I know not," replied the hindmost burier. "We entered yon large house, the door of which stood open, and in one of the rooms found, an old woman in a fainting state, and the body of this young girl, wrapped in a sheet, and ready for the cart. So we clapped it on the board, and brought it away with us."

"You did right," replied Chowles. "I wonder whose body it is."

As he spoke, he held up his lantern, and unfastening it, threw the light full upon the face. The features were pale as marble; calm in their expression, and like those of one wrapped in placid slumber. The long fair hair hung over the side of the board. It was a sad and touching sight.

"Why, as I am a living man, it is the grocer's daughter, Amabel,—somewhile Countess of Rochester!" exclaimed Chowles.

"It is, it is!" cried the earl, suddenly rushing from behind a building where he had hitherto remained concealed. "Whither are you about to take her? Set her down—set her down."

"Hinder them not, my lord," vociferated another person, also appearing on the scene with equal suddenness. "Place her in the cart," cried Solomon Eagle—for he it was—to the bearers. "This is a just punishment upon you, my lord," he added to Rochester, as his injunctions were obeyed—"oppose them not in their duty."

It was not in the earl's power to do so. Like Leonard, he was transfixed with horror. The other bodies were soon placed in the cart, and it was put in motion. At this juncture, the apprentice's suspended faculties were for an instant—and an instant only—restored to him. He uttered a piercing cry, and staggering forward, fell senseless on the ground.



BOOK THE FIFTH.

DECEMBER, 1665.

I.

THE DECLINE OF THE PLAGUE.

More than two months must be passed over in silence. During that time, the pestilence had so greatly abated as no longer to occasion alarm to those who had escaped its ravages. It has been mentioned that the distemper arrived at its height about the 10th of September, and though for the two following weeks the decline was scarcely perceptible, yet it had already commenced. On the last week in that fatal month, when all hope had been abandoned, the bills of mortality suddenly decreased in number to one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four. And this fortunate change could not be attributed to the want of materials to act upon, for the sick continued as numerous as before, while the deaths were less frequent. In the next week there was a further decrease of six hundred; in the next after that of six hundred; and so on till the end of October, when, the cold weather setting in, the amount was reduced to nearly one thousand.

At first, when the distemper began to lose somewhat of its malignancy, a few scared individuals appeared in the streets, but carefully shunned each other. In a few days, however, considerable numbers joined them, and for the first time for nearly three months there was something like life abroad. It is astonishing how soon hope and confidence are revived. Now that it could no longer be doubted that the plague was on the decline, it seemed as if a miracle had been performed in favour of the city. Houses were opened—shopkeepers resumed their business—and it was a marvel to every one that so many persons were left alive. Dejection and despair of the darkest kind were succeeded by frenzied delight, and no bound was put to the public satisfaction. Strangers stopped each other in the streets, and conversed together like old friends. The bells, that had grown hoarse with tolling funerals, were now cracked with joyous peals. The general joy extended even to the sick, and many, buoyed up by hope, recovered, when in the former season of despondency they would inevitably have perished. All fear of the plague seemed to vanish with the flying disorder. Those who were scarcely out of danger joined in the throng, and it was no uncommon sight to see men with bandages round their necks, or supported by staves and crutches, shaking hands with their friends, and even embracing them.

The consequence of this incautious conduct may be easily foreseen. The plague had received too severe a check to burst forth anew; but it spread further than it otherwise would have done, and attacked many persons, who but for their own imprudence would have escaped. Amongst others, a barber in Saint Martin's-le-Grand, who had fled into the country in August, returned to his shop in the middle of October, and, catching the disorder from one of his customers, perished with the whole of his family.

But these, and several other equally fatal instances, produced no effect on the multitude. Fully persuaded that the virulence of the disorder was exhausted—as, indeed, appeared to be the case—they gave free scope to their satisfaction, which was greater than was ever experienced by the inhabitants of a besieged city reduced by famine to the last strait of despair, and suddenly restored to freedom and plenty. The more pious part of the community thronged to the churches, from which they had been so long absent, and returned thanks for their unexpected deliverance. Others, who had been terrified into seriousness and devotion, speedily forgot their former terrors, and resumed their old habits. Profaneness and debauchery again prevailed, and the taverns were as well filled as the churches. Solomon Eagle continued his midnight courses through the streets; but he could no longer find an audience as before. Those who listened to him only laughed at his denunciations of a new judgment, and told him his preachings and prophesyings were now completely out of date.

By this time numbers of those who had quitted London having returned to it, the streets began to resume their wonted appearance. The utmost care was taken by the authorities to cleanse and purify the houses, in order to remove all chance of keeping alive the infection. Every room in every habitation where a person had died of the plague—and there were few that had escaped the visitation—was ordered to be whitewashed, and the strongest fumigations were employed to remove the pestilential effluvia. Brimstone, resin, and pitch were burnt in the houses of the poor; benjamin, myrrh, and other more expensive perfumes in those of the rich; while vast quantities of powder were consumed in creating blasts to carry off the foul air. Large and constant fires were kept in all the houses, and several were burnt down in consequence of the negligence of their owners.

All goods, clothes, and bedding, capable of harbouring infection, were condemned to be publicly burned, and vast bonfires were lighted in Finsbury Fields and elsewhere, into which many hundred cart-loads of such articles were thrown. The whole of Chowles's hoard, except the plate, which he managed, with Judith's aid, to carry off and conceal in certain hiding-places in the vaults of Saint Faith's, was taken from the house in Nicholas-lane, and cast into the fire.

The cathedral was one of the first places ordered to be purified. The pallets of the sick were removed and burned, and all the stains and impurities with which its floor and columns were polluted were cleansed. Nothing was left untried to free it from infection. It was washed throughout with vinegar, fumigated with the strongest scents, and several large barrels of pitch were set fire to in the aisles."

"It shall undergo another species of purification," said Solomon Eagle, who was present during these proceedings; "one that shall search every nook within it—shall embrace all those columns, and pierce every crack and crevice in those sculptured ornaments; and then, and not till then, will it be thoroughly cleansed."

During all this time the grocer had not opened his dwelling. The wisdom of this plan was now made fully apparent. The plague was declining fast, and not an inmate of his house had been attacked by it. Soon after the melancholy occurrence, he had been informed by Doctor Hodges of Amabel's death; but the humane physician concealed from him the painful circumstances under which it occurred. It required all Mr. Bloundel's fortitude to support him under the shock of this intelligence, and he did not communicate the afflicting tidings to his wife until he had prepared her for their reception. But she bore them better than he had anticipated; and though she mourned her daughter deeply and truly, she appeared completely resigned to the loss. Sorrow pervaded the whole household for some weeks; and the grocer, who never relaxed his system, shrouded his sufferings under the appearance of additional austerity of manner. It would have been a great consolation to him to see Leonard Holt; but the apprentice had disappeared; and even Doctor Hodges could give no account of him.

One night, in the middle of November, Mr. Bloundel signified to his wife his intention of going forth, early on the following morning, to satisfy himself that the plague was really abating. Accordingly, after he had finished his devotions, and broken his fast, he put his design into execution. His first act, after locking the door behind him, which he did as a measure of precaution, was to fall on his knees and offer up prayers to Heaven for his signal preservation. He then arose, and, stepping into the middle of the street, gazed at the habitation which had formed his prison and refuge for nearly six months. There it was, with its shutters closed and barred—a secure asylum, with all alive within it, while every other dwelling in the street was desolate.

The grocer's sensations were novel and extraordinary. His first impulse was to enjoy his newly-recovered freedom, and to put himself into active motion. But he checked the feeling as sinful, and proceeded along the street at a slow pace. He did not meet a single person, until he reached Cheapside, where he found matters completely changed. Several shops were already opened, and there were a few carts and other vehicles tracking their way through the broad and yet grass-grown street. It was a clear, frosty morning, and there was a healthful feel in the bracing atmosphere that produced an exhilarating effect on the spirits. The grocer pursued his course through the middle of the street, carefully avoiding all contact with such persons as he encountered, though he cordially returned their greetings, and wandered on, scarcely knowing whither he was going, but deeply interested in all he beheld.

The aspect of the city was indeed most curious. The houses were for the most part unoccupied—the streets overgrown with grass—while every object, animate and inanimate, bore some marks of the recent visitation. Still, all looked hopeful, and the grocer could not doubt that the worst was past. The different demeanour of the various individuals he met struck him. Now he passed a young man whistling cheerily, who saluted him, and said, "I have lost my sweetheart by the plague, but I shall soon get another." The next was a grave man, who muttered, "I have lost all," and walked pensively on. Then came others in different moods; but all concurred in thinking that the plague was at an end; and the grocer derived additional confirmation of the fact from meeting numerous carts and other vehicles bringing families back to their houses from the country.

After roaming about for several hours, and pondering on all he saw, he found himself before the great western entrance of Saint Paul's. It chanced to be the morning on which the pallets and bedding were brought forth, and he watched the proceeding at a distance. All had been removed, and he was about to depart, when he perceived a person seated on a block of stone, not far from him, whom he instantly recognised. "Leonard," he cried—"Leonard Holt, is it you?"

Thus addressed, and in these familiar tones, the apprentice looked up, and Mr. Bloundel started at the change that had taken place in him. Profound grief was written in every line of his thin and haggard countenance; his eyes were hollow, and had the most melancholy expression imaginable; and his flesh was wasted away from the bone. He looked the very image of hopeless affliction.

"I am sorry to find you in this state, Leonard," said the grocer, in a tone of deep commiseration; "but I am well aware of the cause. I myself have suffered severely; but I deem it my duty to control my affliction."

"I would control it, if it were possible, Mr. Bloundel," replied Leonard. "But hope is dead in my breast. I shall never be happy again."

"I trust otherwise," replied the grocer, kindly. "Your trials have been very great, and so were those of the poor creature we both of us deplore. But she is at peace, and therefore we need not lament her."

"Alas!" exclaimed Leonard, mournfully, "I am now only anxious to rejoin her."

"It is selfish, if not sinful, to grieve in this way," rejoined Mr. Bloundel, somewhat sternly. "You must bear your sorrows like a man. Come home with me. I will be a father to you. Nay, do not hesitate. I will have no refusal."

So saying, he took Leonard's arm, and led him in the direction of Wood-street. Nothing passed between them on the way, nor did Leonard evince any further emotion until he entered the door of the grocer's dwelling, when he uttered a deep groan. Mrs. Bloundel was greatly affected at seeing him, as were the rest of the family, and abundance of tears were shed by all, except Mr. Bloundel, who maintained his customary stoical demeanour throughout the meeting.

Satisfied that the pestilence had not declined sufficiently to warrant him in opening his house, the grocer determined to await the result of a few weeks. Indeed, that very night, he had reason to think he had defeated his plans by precipitancy. While sitting after prayers with his family, he was seized with a sudden shivering and sickness, which he could not doubt were the precursors of the plague. He was greatly alarmed, but did not lose his command over himself.

"I have been most imprudent," he said, "in thus exposing myself to infection. I have symptoms of the plague about me, and will instantly repair to one of the upper rooms which I have laid aside as an hospital, in case of any emergency like the present. None of you must attend me. Leonard will fetch Doctor Hodges and a nurse. I shall then do very well. Farewell, dear wife and children! God bless you all, and watch over you. Remember me in your prayers." So saying, he arose and walked towards the door. His wife and eldest son would have assisted him, but he motioned them away.

"Let me go with you, sir," cried Leonard, who had arisen with the others; "I will nurse you; my life is of little consequence, and I cannot be more satisfactorily employed."

The grocer reluctantly assented, and the apprentice assisted him upstairs, and helped to place him in bed. No plague-token could be found about his person, but as the same alarming symptoms still continued, Leonard administered such remedies as he thought needful, and then went in search of Doctor Hodges.

On reaching Watling-street, he found Doctor Hodges about to retire to rest. The worthy physician was greatly distressed by the apprentice's account of his master's illness; but was somewhat reassured when the symptoms were more minutely described to him. While preparing certain medicines, and arming himself with his surgical implements, he questioned Leonard as to the cause of his long disappearance. "Having seen nothing of you," he said, "since the fatal night when our poor Amabel's sorrows were ended, I began to feel very apprehensive on your account. Where have you been?"

"You shall hear," replied Leonard, "though the relation will be like opening my wounds afresh. On recovering from the terrible shock I had received, I found myself stretched upon a bed in a house whither I had been conveyed by Rainbird the watchman, who had discovered me lying in a state of insensibility in the street. For nearly a week I continued delirious, and should, probably, have lost my senses altogether but for the attentions of the watchman. As soon as I was able to move, I wandered to the lesser plague-pit, in Finsbury Fields, you will guess with what intent. My heart seemed breaking, and I thought I should pour forth my very soul in grief, as I gazed into that dreadful gulf, and thought she was there interred. Still my tears were a relief. Every evening, for a month, I went to that sad spot, and remained there till daybreak admonished me to return to Rainbird's dwelling. At last, he was seized by the distemper; but though I nursed him, voluntarily exposing myself to infection, and praying to be carried off, I remained untouched. Poor Rainbird died; and having seen his body thrown into the pit, I set off into Berkshire, and after three days' toilsome travel on foot, reached Ashdown Park. It was a melancholy pleasure to behold the abode where she I had loved passed her last few days of happiness, and where I had been near her. Her aunt, good Mrs. Buscot, though overwhelmed by affliction at the sad tidings I brought her, received me with the utmost kindness, and tried to console me. My sorrow, however, was too deeply seated to be removed. Wandering over the downs, I visited Mrs. Compton at Kingston Lisle, from whose house Amabel was carried off by the perfidious earl. She, also, received me with kindness, and strove, like Mrs. Buscot, to comfort me, and, like her, ineffectually. Finding my strength declining, and persuaded that my days were drawing to a close, I retraced my steps to London, hoping to find a final resting-place near her I had loved."

"You are, indeed, faithful to the grave, Leonard," said the physician, brushing away a tear; "and I never heard or read of affection stronger than yours. Sorrow is a great purifier, and you will come out all the better for your trial. You are yet young, and though you never can love as you have loved, a second time, your heart is not utterly seared."

"Utterly, sir," echoed Leonard, "utterly."

"You think so, now," rejoined the physician. "But you will find it otherwise hereafter. I can tell you of one person who has suffered almost as much from your absence as you have done for the loss of Amabel. The Lady Isabella Argentine has made constant inquiries after you; and though I should be the last person to try to rouse you from your present state of despondency, by awakening hopes of alliance with the sister of a proud noble, yet it may afford you consolation to know that she still cherishes the warmest regard for you."

"I am grateful to her," replied Leonard, sadly, but without exhibiting any other emotion. "She was dear to Amabel, and therefore will be ever dear to me. I would fain know," he added, his brow suddenly contracting, and his lip quivering, "what has become of the Earl of Rochester?"

"He has married a wealthy heiress, the fair Mistress Mallet," replied Hodges.

"Married, and so soon!" cried Leonard. "And he has quite forgotten his victim?"

"Apparently so," replied the doctor, with an expression of disgust.

"And it was for one who so lightly regarded her that she sacrificed herself," groaned Leonard, his head dropping upon his breast.

"Come," cried Hodges, taking his arm, and leading him out of the room; "we must go and look after your master."

With this, they made the best of their way to Wood-street. Arrived at the grocer's house, they went upstairs, and Hodges immediately pronounced Mr. Bloundel to be suffering from a slight feverish attack, which a sudorific powder would remove. Having administered the remedy, he descended to the lower room to allay the fears of the family. Mrs. Bloundel received the happy tidings with tears of joy, and the doctor remained a short time to condole with her on the loss she had sustained. The good dame wept bitterly on hearing the whole particulars, with which she had been hitherto unacquainted, attending her daughter's untimely death, but she soon regained her composure. They then spoke of Leonard, who had remained above with his master,—of his blighted hopes, and seemingly incurable affliction.

"His is true love, indeed, doctor," sighed Mrs. Bloundel. "Pity it is that it could not be requited."

"I know not how it is," rejoined Hodges, "and will not question the decrees of our All-Wise Ruler, but the strongest affection seldom, if ever, meets a return. Leonard himself was insensible to the devotion of one, of whom I may say, without disparagement to our poor Amabel, that she was, in my opinion, her superior in beauty."

"And does this person love him still?" inquired Mrs. Bloundel, eagerly. "I ask, because I regard him as a son, and earnestly desire to restore him to happiness."

"Alas!" exclaimed Hodges, "there are obstacles in the way that cannot be removed. We must endeavour to cure him of his grief in some other way."

The conversation then dropped, and Hodges took his leave, promising to return on the morrow, and assuring Mrs. Bloundel that she need be under no further apprehension about her husband. And so it proved. The powders removed all the grocer's feverish symptoms, and when Doctor Hodges made his appearance the next day, he found him dressed, and ready to go downstairs. Having received the physician's congratulations on his entire recovery, Mr. Bloundel inquired from him when he thought he might with entire safety open his shop. Hodges considered for a moment, and then replied, "I do not see any great risk in doing so now, but I would advise you to defer the step for a fortnight. I would, also, recommend you to take the whole of your family for a short time into the country. Pure air and change of scene are absolutely necessary after their long confinement."

"Farmer Wingfield, of Kensal-Green, who sheltered us on our way down to Ashdown Park, will, I am sure, receive you," observed Leonard.

"If so, you cannot go to a better place," rejoined the physician.

"I will think of it," returned Mr. Bloundel. And leading the way downstairs, he was welcomed by his wife and children with the warmest demonstrations of delight.

"My fears, you perceive, were groundless," he remarked to Mrs. Bloundel.

"Heaven be praised, they were so!" she rejoined. "But I entreat you not to go forth again till all danger is at an end."

"Rest assured I will not," he answered. Soon after this, Doctor Hodges took his leave, and had already reached the street-door, when he was arrested by Patience, who inquired with much anxiety whether he knew anything of Blaize.

"Make yourself easy about him, child," replied the doctor; "I am pretty sure he is safe and sound. He has had the plague, certainly; but he left the hospital at Saint Paul's cured.

"O then I shall see him again," cried Patience, joyfully. "Poor dear little fellow, it would break my heart to lose him."

"I will make inquiries about him," rejoined Hodges, "and if I can find him, will send him home." And without waiting to receive the kitchen-maid's thanks, he departed.

For some days the grocer continued to pursue pretty nearly the same line of conduct that he had adopted during the height of the pestilence. But he did not neglect to make preparations for resuming his business; and here Leonard was of material assistance to him. They often spoke of Amabel, and Mr. Bloundel strove, by every argument he was master of, to remove the weight of affliction under which his apprentice laboured. He so far succeeded that Leonard's health improved, though he still seemed a prey to secret sorrow. Things were in this state, when one day a knock was heard at the street-door, and the summons being answered by the grocer's eldest son, Stephen, he returned with the intelligence that a person was without who desired to see Patience. After some consideration, Mr. Bloundel summoned the kitchen-maid, and told her she might admit the stranger into the passage, and hear what he had to say. Patience hastened with a beating heart to the door, expecting to learn some tidings of Blaize, and opening it, admitted a man wrapped in a large cloak and having a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows. Stepping into the passage, he threw aside the cloak and raised the hat, discovering the figure and features of Pillichody.

"What brings you here, sir?" demanded Patience, in alarm, and glancing over her shoulder to see whether any one observed them. "What do you want?"

"I have brought you news of Blaize," returned the bully. "But how charmingly you look. By the coral lips of Venus! your long confinement has added to your attractions."

"Never mind my attractions, sir," rejoined Patience, impatiently. "Where is Blaize? Why did he not come with you?"

"Alas!" replied Pillichody, shaking his head in a melancholy manner, "he could not."

"Could not!" half screamed Patience. "Why not?"

"Do not question me," replied Pillichody, feigning to brush away a tear. "He was my friend, and I would rather banish him from my memory. The sight of your beauty transports me so, that, by the treasures of Croesus! I would rather have you without a crown than the wealthiest widow in the country."

"Don't talk nonsense to me in this way," sobbed Patience "I'm not in the humour for it."

"Nonsense!" echoed Pillichody. "I swear to you I am in earnest. By Cupid! I am ravished with your charms." And he would have seized her hand, but Patience hastily withdrew it; and, provoked at his impertinence, dealt him a sound box on the ear. As she did this, she thought she heard a suppressed laugh near her, and looked round, but could see no one. The sound certainly did not proceed from Pillichody, for he looked very red and very angry.

"Do not repeat this affront, mistress," he said to her. "I can bear anything but a blow from your sex."

"Then tell me what has become of Blaize," she cried.

"I will no longer spare your feelings," he rejoined. "He is defunct."

"Defunct!" echoed Patience, with a scream. "Oh, dear me!—I shall never survive it—I shall die."

"Not while I am left to supply his place," cried Pillichody, catching her in his arms.

"You!" cried Patience, contemptuously; "I would not have you for the world. Where is he buried?"

"In the plague-pit," replied Pillichody. "I attended him during his illness. It was his second attack of the disorder. He spoke of you."