Old Saint Paul's: A Tale of the Plague and the Fire

"He lied!" exclaimed Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. "It is true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you—yes, you, Margaret—against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to you—never."

"Faithless or not," replied his wife, bitterly, "it is plain you value me less than play, or you would not have acted thus."

"Reproach me not, Margaret," replied Disbrowe; "I would give worlds to undo what I have done."

"Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?" said Mrs. Disbrowe, coldly. "But you have not yet informed me how I was saved."

Disbrowe averted his head.

"What mean you?" she cried, seizing his arm. "What has happened? Do not keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?"

"Your preserver was the plague," rejoined Disbrowe, in a sombre tone.

The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken only by exclamations of anguish from both.

"Disbrowe!" cried Margaret, at length, raising herself in bed, "you have deeply—irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing."

"I swear to do whatever you may desire," he replied.

"I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the deed," she continued. "But I would have you kill this man."

"I will do it," replied Disbrowe.

"Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me," she rejoined. "Challenge him to a duel—a mortal duel. If he survives, by my soul, I will give myself to him."

"Margaret!" exclaimed Disbrowe.

"I swear it," she rejoined. "And you know my passionate nature too well to doubt I will keep my word."

"But you have the plague!"

"What does that matter? I may recover."

"Not so," muttered Disbrowe. "If I fall, I will take care you do not recover. I will fight him to-morrow," he added aloud.

He then summoned his servants, but when they found their mistress was attacked by the plague, they framed some excuse to leave the room, and instantly fled the house. Driven almost to his wits' end, Disbrowe went in search of other assistance, and was for a while unsuccessful, until a coachman, to whom he applied, offered, for a suitable reward, to drive to Clerkenwell—to the shop of an apothecary named Sibbald (with whose name the reader is already familiar), who was noted for his treatment of plague patients, and to bring him to the other's residence. Disbrowe immediately closed with the man, and in less than two hours Sibbald made his appearance. He was a singular and repulsive personage, with an immense hooked nose, dark, savage-looking eyes, a skin like parchment, and high round shoulders, which procured him the nickname of Aesop among his neighbours. He was under the middle size, and of a spare figure, and in age might be about sixty-five.

On seeing Mrs. Disbrowe, he at once boldly asserted that he could cure her, and proceeded to apply his remedies. Finding the servants fled, he offered to procure a nurse for Disbrowe, and the latter, thanking him, eagerly embraced the offer. Soon after this he departed. In the evening the nurse, who (as may be surmised) was no other than Judith Malmayns, arrived, and immediately commenced her functions.

Disbrowe had no rest that night. His wife slept occasionally for a few minutes, but, apparently engrossed by one idea, never failed when she awoke to urge him to slay Parravicin; repeating her oath to give herself to the knight if he came off victorious. Worn out at length, Disbrowe gave her a terrible look, and rushed out of the room.

He had not been alone many minutes when he was surprised by the entrance of Judith. He eagerly inquired whether his wife was worse, but was informed she had dropped into a slumber.

"Hearing what has passed between you," said the nurse, "and noticing your look when you left the room, I came to tell you, that if you fall in this duel, your last moments need not be embittered by any thoughts of your wife. I will take care she does not recover."

A horrible smile lighted up Disbrowe's features.

"You are the very person I want," he said. "When I would do evil, the fiend rises to my bidding. If I am slain, you know what to do. How shall I requite the service?"

"Do not concern yourself about that, captain," rejoined Judith. "I will take care of myself."

About noon, on the following day, Disbrowe, without venturing to see his wife, left the house, and proceeded to the Smyrna, where, as he expected, he found Parravicin and his companions.

The knight instantly advanced towards him, and, laying aside for the moment his reckless air, inquired, with a look of commiseration, after his wife.

"She is better," replied Disbrowe, fiercely. "I am come to settle accounts with you."

"I thought they were settled long ago," returned Parravicin, instantly resuming his wonted manner. "But I am glad to find you consider the debt unpaid."

Disbrowe lifted the cane he held in his hand, and struck the knight with it forcibly on the shoulder. "Be that my answer," he said.

"I will have your life first, and your wife afterwards," replied Parravicin, furiously.

"You shall have her if you slay me, but not otherwise," retorted Disbrowe. "It must be a mortal duel."

"It must," replied Parravicin. "I will not spare you this time."

"Spare him!" cried Pillichody. "Shield of Agamemnon! I should hope not.

Spit him as you would a wild boar."

"Peace, fool!" cried Parravicin. "Captain Disbrowe, I shall instantly proceed to the west side of Hyde Park, beneath the trees. I shall expect you there. On my return I shall call on your wife."

"I pray you do so, sir," replied Disbrowe, disdainfully.

Both then quitted the coffee-house, Parravicin attended by Rochester and Pillichody, and Disbrowe accompanied by a military friend, whom he accidentally encountered. Each party taking a coach, they soon reached the ground,—a retired spot, completely screened from observation by trees. The preliminaries were soon arranged, for neither would admit of delay. The conflict then commenced with great fury on both sides; but Parravicin, in spite of his passion, observed far more caution than his antagonist; and, taking advantage of an unguarded movement, occasioned by the other's impetuosity, passed his sword through his body.

Disbrowe fell.

"You are again successful," he groaned, "but save my wife—save her."

"What mean you?" cried Parravicin, leaning over him, as he wiped his sword.

But Disbrowe could make no answer. His utterance was choked by a sudden effusion of blood on the lungs, and he instantly expired. Leaving the body in care of the second, Parravicin and his friends returned to the coach, where the major rejoiced greatly at the issue of the duel; but the knight looked grave, and pondered upon the words of the dying man. After a time, however, he recovered his spirits, and dined with his friends at the Smyrna; but they observed that he drank more deeply than usual. His excesses did not, however, prevent him from playing with his usual skill, and he won a large sum from Rochester at hazard.

Flushed with success, and heated with wine, he walked up to Disbrowe's residence about an hour after midnight. As he approached the house, he observed a strangely-shaped cart at the door, and, halting for a moment, saw a body, wrapped in a shroud, brought out. Could it be Mrs. Disbrowe? Rushing forward, to one of the assistants in black cloaks—and who was no other than Chowles—he asked whom he was about to inter.

"It is a Mrs. Disbrowe," replied the coffin-maker. "She died of grief, because her husband was killed this morning in a duel; but as she had the plague, it must be put down to that. We are not particular in such matters, and shall bury her and her husband together; and as there is no money left to pay for coffins, they must go to the grave without them. What, ho! Mother Malmayns, let Jonas have the captain as soon as you have stripped him. I must be starting."

And as the body of his victim was brought forth, Parravicin fell against the wall in a state almost of stupefaction.

At this moment Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, suddenly turned the corner of the street, and stationing himself before the dead-cart, cried in a voice of thunder, "Woe to the libertine! woe to the homicide! for he shall perish in everlasting fire! Woe! woe!"

BOOK THE SECOND.

MAY, 1665

I.