"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. PROGRESS OF THE PESTILENCE.
Towards the middle of May, the bills of mortality began to swell greatly in amount, and though but few were put down to the plague, and a large number to the spotted fever (another frightful disorder raging at the period), it is well known that the bulk had died of the former disease. The rigorous measures adopted by the authorities (whether salutary or not has been questioned), in shutting up houses and confining the sick and sound within them for forty days, were found so intolerable, that most persons were disposed to run any risk rather than be subjected to such a grievance, and every artifice was resorted to for concealing a case when it occurred. Hence, it seldom happened, unless by accident, that a discovery was made. Quack doctors were secretly consulted, instead of the regular practitioners; the searchers were bribed to silence; and large fees were given to the undertakers and buriers to lay the deaths to the account of some other disorder. All this, however, did not blind the eyes of the officers to the real state of things. Redoubling their vigilance, they entered houses on mere suspicion; inflicted punishments where they found their orders disobeyed or neglected; sent the sound to prison—the sick to the pest-house; and replaced the faithless searchers by others upon whom they could place reliance. Many cases were thus detected; but in spite of every precaution, the majority escaped; and the vent was no sooner stopped in one quarter than it broke out with additional violence in another.
By this time the alarm had become general. All whose business or pursuits permitted it, prepared to leave London, which they regarded as a devoted city, without delay. As many houses were, therefore, closed from the absence of the inhabitants as from the presence of the plague, and this added to the forlorn appearance of the streets, which in some quarters were almost deserted. For a while, nothing was seen at the great outlets of the city but carts, carriages, and other vehicles, filled with goods and movables, on their way to the country; and, as may be supposed, the departure of their friends did not tend to abate the dejection of those whose affairs compelled them to remain behind.
One circumstance must not be passed unnoticed, namely, the continued fineness and beauty of the weather. No rain had fallen for upwards of three weeks. The sky was bright and cloudless; the atmosphere, apparently, pure and innoxious; while the heat was as great as is generally experienced in the middle of summer. But instead of producing its usual enlivening effect on the spirits, the fine weather added to the general gloom and apprehension, inasmuch as it led to the belief (afterwards fully confirmed), that if the present warmth was so pernicious, the more sultry seasons which were near at hand would aggravate the fury of the pestilence. Sometimes, indeed, when the deaths were less numerous, a hope began to be entertained that the distemper was abating, and confidence was for a moment restored; but these anticipations were speedily checked by the reappearance of the scourge, which seemed to baffle and deride all human skill and foresight.
London now presented a lamentable spectacle. Not a street but had a house in it marked with a red cross—some streets had many such. The bells were continually tolling for burials, and the dead-carts went their melancholy rounds at night and were constantly loaded. Fresh directions were issued by the authorities; and as domestic animals were considered to be a medium of conveying the infection, an order, which was immediately carried into effect, was given to destroy all dogs and cats. But this plan proved prejudicial rather than the reverse, as the bodies of the poor animals, most of which were drowned in the Thames, being washed ashore, produced a horrible and noxious effluvium, supposed to contribute materially to the propagation of the distemper.
No precautionary measure was neglected; but it may be doubted whether any human interference could have averted the severity of the scourge,