"Don't alarm yourself," replied Judith. "There's a bottle of plague vinegar for you. Dip a piece of linen in it, and smell at it, and I'll insure you against the pestilence."
Kerrich took the phial, and departed. But the remedy was of little avail. Before daybreak, he was seized with the distemper, and died two days afterwards.
"I hope poor Kerrich hasn't got the plague?" said the old woman, in a tremulous tone.
"I am afraid he has," replied the daughter-in-law, "but I didn't like to alarm him."
"Mercy on us!" cried the other, getting up. "What a dreadful scourge it is."
"You would say so, if you had seen whole families swept off by it, as I have," replied Judith. "But it mostly attacks old persons and children."
"Lord help us!" cried the crone, "I hope it will spare me. I thought my age secured me."
"Quite the reverse," replied Judith, desirous of exciting her mother-in-law's terrors; "quite the reverse. You must take care of yourself."
"But you don't think I'm ill, do you?" asked the other, anxiously.
"Sit down, and let me look at you," returned Judith.
And the old woman tremblingly obeyed.
"Well, what do you think of me—what's the matter?" she asked, as her daughter-in-law eyed her for some minutes in silence. "What's the matter, I say?"
But Judith remained silent.
"I insist upon knowing," continued the old woman.
"Are you able to bear the truth?" returned her daughter-in-law.
"You need say no more," groaned the old woman. "I know what the truth must be, and will try to bear it. I will get home as fast as I can, and put my few affairs in order, so that if I am carried off, I may not go unprepared."
"You had better do so," replied her daughter-in-law.
"You will take care of my poor son, Judith," rejoined the old woman, shedding a flood of tears. "I would stay with him, if I thought I could do him any good; but if I really am infected, I might only be in the way. Don't neglect him—as you hope for mercy hereafter, do not."
"Make yourself easy, mother," replied Judith. "I will take every care of him."
"Have you no fears of the disorder yourself?" inquired the old woman.
"None whatever," replied Judith. "I am a safe woman."
"I do not understand you," replied her mother-in-law, in surprise.
"I have had the plague," replied Judith; "and those who have had it once, never take it a second time."
This opinion, entertained at the commencement of the pestilence, it may be incidentally remarked, was afterwards found to be entirely erroneous; some persons being known to have the distemper three or four times.
"You never let us know you were ill," said the old woman.
"I could not do so," replied Judith, "and I don't know that I should have done if I could. I was nursing two sisters at a small house in Clerkenwell Close, and they both died in the night-time, within a few hours of each other. The next day, as I was preparing to leave the house, I was seized myself, and had scarcely strength to creep up-stairs to bed. An old apothecary, named Sibbald, who had brought drugs to the house, attended me, and saved my life. In less than a week, I was well again, and able to move about, and should have returned home, but the apothecary told me, as I had had the distemper once, I might resume my occupation with safety. I did so, and have found plenty of employment."
"No doubt," rejoined the old woman; "and you will find plenty more—plenty more."
"I hope so," replied the other.
"Oh! do not give utterance to such a dreadful wish, Judith," rejoined her mother-in-law. "Do not let cupidity steel your heart to every better feeling."
A slight derisive smile passed over the harsh features of the plague-nurse.
"You heed me not," pursued the old woman. "But a time will come when you will recollect my words."
"I am content to wait till then," rejoined Judith.
"Heaven grant you a better frame of mind!" exclaimed the old woman. "I must take one last look of my son, for it is not likely I shall see him again."
"Not in this world," thought Judith.
"I conjure you, by all that is sacred, not to neglect him," said the old woman.
"I have already promised to do so," replied Judith, impatiently. "Good-night, mother."
"It will be a long good-night to me, I fear," returned the dame. "Doctor Hodges promised to send some blankets and medicine for poor Matthew. The doctor is a charitable man to the poor, and if he learns I am sick, he may, perhaps, call and give me advice."
"I am sure he will," replied Judith. "Should the man bring the blankets, I will tell him to acquaint his master with your condition. And now take this lantern, mother, and get home as fast as you can."
So saying, she almost pushed her out of the vault, and closed the door after her.
"At last I am rid of her," she muttered. "She would have been a spy over me. I hope I have frightened her into the plague. But if she dies of fear, it will answer my purpose as well. And now for my husband."
Taking up the lamp, and shading it with her hand, she gazed at his ghastly countenance.
"He slumbers tranquilly," she muttered, after contemplating him for some time, adding with a chuckling laugh, "it would be a pity to waken him."
And seating herself on a stool near the pallet, she turned over in her mind in what way she could best execute her diabolical purpose.
While she was thus occupied, the messenger from Doctor Hodges arrived with a bundle of blankets and several phials and pots of ointment. The man offered to place the blankets on the pallet, but Judith would not let him.
"I can do it better myself, and without disturbing the poor sufferer," she said. "Give my dutiful thanks to your master. Tell him my husband's mother, old widow Malmayns, fancies herself attacked by the plague, and if he will be kind enough to visit her, she lodges in the upper attic of a baker's house, at the sign of the Wheatsheaf, in Little Distaff-lane, hard by."
"I will not fail to deliver your message to the doctor," replied the man, as he took his departure.
Left alone with her husband a second time, Judith waited till she thought the man had got out of the cathedral, and then rising and taking the lamp, she repaired to the charnel, to make sure it was untenanted. Not content with this, she stole out into Saint Faith's, and gazing round as far as the feeble light of her lamp would permit, called out in a tone that even startled herself, "Is any one lurking there?" but receiving no other answer than was afforded by the deep echoes of the place, she returned to the vault. Just as she reached the door, a loud cry burst upon her ear, and rushing forward, she found that her husband had wakened.
"Ah!" roared Malmayns, raising himself in bed, as he perceived her, "are you come back again, you she-devil? Where is my mother? Where is Kerrich? What have you done with them?"
"They have both got the plague," replied his wife. "They caught it from you. But never mind them. I will watch over you as long as you live."
"And that will be for years, you accursed jade," replied the sexton; "Dr. Hodges says I shall recover."
"You have got worse since he left you," replied Judith. "Lie down, and let me throw these blankets over you."
"Off!" cried the sick man, furiously. "You shall not approach me. You want to smother me."