had received from Doctor Hodges. "Well, it's a disorder that few recover from, and I don't think he stands a better chance than his fellows. I've been troubled with him long enough. I've borne his ill-usage and savage temper for twenty years, vainly hoping something would take him off; but though he tried his constitution hard, it was too tough to yield. However, he's likely to go now. If I find him better than I expect, I can easily make all sure. That's one good thing about the plague. You may get rid of a patient without any one being the wiser. A wrong mixture—a pillow removed—a moment's chill during the fever—a glass of cold water—the slightest thing will do it. Matthew Malmayns, you will die of the plague, that's certain. But I must be careful how I proceed. That cursed doctor has his eye upon me. As luck would have it, I've got Sibbald's ointment in my pocket. That is sure to do its business—and safely."
Thus ruminating, she shaped her course towards the southwest corner of the cathedral, and passing under the shrouds and cloisters of the Convocation House, raised the latch of a small wooden shed fixed in the angle of a buttress. Evidently well acquainted with the place, she was not long in finding a lantern and materials to light it, and inserting her fingers in a crevice of the masonry, from which the mortar had been removed, she drew forth a key.
"It has not been stirred since I left it here a month ago," she muttered. "I must take care of this key, for if Matthew should die, I may not be able to enter the vaults of Saint Faith's without it; and as I know all their secret places and passages, which nobody else does, except my husband, I can make them a storehouse for the plunder I may obtain during the pestilence. If it rages for a year, or only half that time, and increases in violence (as God grant it may), I will fill every hole in those walls with gold."
With this, she took up the lantern, and crept along the side of the cathedral, until she came to a flight of stone steps. Descending them, she unlocked a small but strong door, cased with iron, and fastening it after her, proceeded along a narrow stone passage, which brought her to another door, opening upon the south aisle of Saint Faith's.
Pausing for a moment to listen whether any one was within the sacred structure—for such was the dead and awful silence of the place, that the slightest whisper or footfall, even at its farthest extremity, could be distinguished—she crossed to the other side, glancing fearfully around her as she threaded the ranks of pillars, whose heavy and embrowned shafts her lantern feebly illumined, and entering a recess, took a small stone out of the wall, and deposited the chief part of the contents of her pocket behind it, after which she carefully replaced the stone. This done, she hurried to the charnel, and softly opened the door of the crypt.
Greatly relieved by the operation he had undergone, the sexton had sunk into a slumber, and was, therefore, unconscious of the entrance of his wife, who, setting down the lantern, advanced towards the pallet. His mother and the young man were still in attendance, and the former, on seeing her daughter-in-law, exclaimed, in low but angry accents—"What brings you here, Judith? I suppose you expected to find my son dead. But he will disappoint you. Doctor Hodges said he would recover—did he not Kerrich?" she added, appealing to the young man, who nodded acquiescence. "He will recover, I tell you."
"Well, well," replied Judith, in the blandest tone she could assume; "I hope he will. And if the doctor says so, I have no doubt of it. I only heard of his illness a few minutes ago, and came instantly to nurse him."
"You nurse him?" cried the old woman; "if you show him any affection now, it will be for the first time since your wedding-day."
"How long has he been unwell?" demanded Judith, with difficulty repressing her anger.
"He was seized the night before last," replied the old woman; "but he didn't know what was the matter with him when it began. I saw him just before he went to rest, and he complained of a slight illness, but nothing to signify. He must have passed a frightful night, for the vergers found him in the morning running about Saint Faith's like a madman, and dashing his spades and mattocks against the walls and pillars. They secured him, and brought him here, and on examination, he proved to have the plague."
"You surprise me by what you say," replied Judith. "During the last month, I have nursed more than a dozen patients, and never knew any of them so violent. I must look at his sore."
"The doctor has just dressed it," observed the old woman.
"I don't mind that," rejoined Judith, turning down the blanket, and examining her husband's shoulder. "You are right," she added, "he is doing as well as possible."
"I suppose I shan't be wanted any more," observed Kerrich, "now you're come back to nurse your husband, Mrs. Malmayns? I shall be glad to get home to my own bed, for I don't feel well at all."
"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,
