 | CHAPTER VII. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Adjacent to the house occupied by Baxter
was an antique brick tenement. It was one
of the first erections made by the followers of
the temporary residence of that venerable person.
Its moss-grown penthouse, crumbling walls,
and ruinous porch, made it an interesting and picturesque
object. Notwithstanding its age, it was
still tenable.
This house was occupied, during the preceding
months, by a Frenchman. His dress and demeanour
were respectable. His mode of life was
frugal almost to penuriousness, and his only companion
was a daughter. The lady seemed not
much less than thirty years of age, but was of a
small and delicate frame. It was she that performed
every household office. She brought water
from the pump and provisions from the market.
Their house had no visitants, and was almost always
closed. Duly, as the morning returned, a
venerable figure was seen issuing from his door,
dressed in the same style of tarnished splendour
and old-fashioned preciseness. At the dinner
hour he as regularly returned. For the rest of
the day he was invisible.
The habitations in this quarter are few and
scattered. The pestilence soon shewed itself here,
and the flight of most of the inhabitants, augmented
its desolateness and dreariness. For some
time, Monrose, that was his name, made his usual
appearance in the morning. At length the neighbours
remarked that he no longer came forth as
usual. Baxter had a notion that Frenchmen were
exempt from this disease. He was, besides,
deeply and rancorously prejudiced against that
nation. There will be no difficulty in accounting
for this, when it is known that he had been an
English grenadier at Dettingen and Minden. It
must likewise be added, that he was considerably
timid, and had sickness in his own family.
Hence it was that the disappearance of Monrose
He did not even mention this circumstance to
others.
The lady was occasionally seen as usual in the
street. There were always remarkable peculiarities
in her behaviour. In the midst of grave
and disconsolate looks, she never laid aside an
air of solemn dignity. She seemed to shrink from
the observation of others, and her eyes were always
fixed upon the ground. One evening Baxter
was passing the pump while she was drawing
water. The sadness which her looks betokened,
and a suspicion that her father might be sick, had
a momentary effect upon his feelings. He stopped
and asked how her father was. She paid a
polite attention to his question, and said something
in French. This and the embarrassment of
her air, convinced him that his words were not
understood. He said no more (what indeed could
he say?) but passed on.
Two or three days after this, on returning in
the evening to his family, his wife expressed her
surprise in not having seen Miss Monrose in the
street that day. She had not been at the pump,
nor had gone, as usual, to market. This information
gave him some disquiet; yet he could
form no resolution. As to entering the house and
offering his aid, if aid were needed, he had too
much regard for his own safety, and too little for
that of a frog-eating Frenchman, to think serieusly
of that expedient. His attention was speedily
diverted by other objects, and Monrose was,
for the present, forgotten.
Baxter's profession was that of a porter. He
was thrown out of employment by the present
state of things. The solicitude of the guardians
of the city was exerted on this occasion, not only
in opposing the progress of disease, and furnishing
of property. For this end the number of
nightly watchmen was increased. Baxter entered
himself in this service. From nine till twelve
o'clock at night it was his province to occupy a
certain post.
On this night he attended his post as usual.
Twelve o'clock arrived, and he bent his steps
homeward. It was necessary to pass by Monrose's
door. On approaching this house, the circumstance
mentioned by his wife recurred to him.
Something like compassion was conjured up in
his heart by the figure of the lady, as he recollected
to have lately seen it. It was obvious to
conclude that sickness was the cause of her seclusion.
The same, it might be, had confined her
father. If this were true, how deplorable might
be their present condition! Without food, without
physician or friends, ignorant of the language
of the country, and thence unable to communicate
their wants or solicit succour; fugitives from
their native land, neglected, solitary, and poor.
His heart was softened by these images. He
stopped involuntarily when opposite their door.
He looked up at the house. The shutters were
closed, so that light, if it were within, was invisible.
He stepped into the porch, and put his eye
to the key-hole. All was darksome and waste.
He listened and imagined that he heard the aspirations
of grief. The sound was scarcely articulate,
but had an electrical effect upon his feelings.
He retired to his home full of mournful reflections.
He was willing to do something for the relief
of the sufferers, but nothing could be done that
night. Yet succour, if delayed till the morning,
might be ineffectual. But how, when the morning
came, should he proceed to effectuate his
welfare, at this crisis, were distributed into those
who counselled and those who executed. A set
of men, self-appointed to the generous office, employed
themselves in seeking out the destitute or
sick, and imparting relief. With this arrangement,
Baxter was acquainted. He was resolved
to carry tidings of what he had heard and seen to
one of those persons early the next day.
Baxter, after taking some refreshment, retired
to rest. In no long time, however, he was awakened
by his wife, who desired him to notice a
certain glimmering on the ceiling. It seemed
the feeble and flitting ray of a distant and moving
light, coming through the window. It did not
proceed from the street, for the chamber was
lighted from the side, and not from the front of
the house. A lamp borne by a passenger, or the
attendants of an hearse, could not be discovered
in this situation. Besides, in the latter case, it
would be accompanied by the sound of the vehicle,
and probably, by weeping and exclamations
of despair. His employment, as the guardian of
property, naturally suggested to him the idea of
robbery. He started from his bed, and went to
the window.
His house stood at the distance of about fifty
paces from that of Monrose. There was annexed
to the latter, a small garden or yard, bounded
by an high wooden fence. Baxter's window
overlooked this space. Before he reached the
window, the relative situation of the two habitations
occurred to him. A conjecture was instantly
formed that the glimmering proceeded from
this quarter. His eye, therefore, was immediately
fixed upon Monrose's back door. It caught
a glimpse of an human figure, passing into the
house, through this door. The person had a candle
which streamed after him, and which was perceived,
though faintly, through a small window
of the dwelling, after the back door was closed.
The person disappeared too quickly to allow
him to say whether it was male or female. This
scrutiny confirmed, rather than weakened the
apprehensions that first occurred. He reflected
on the desolate and helpless condition of this family.
The father might be sick; and what opposition
could be made by the daughter to the
stratagems or violence of midnight plunderers.
This was an evil which it was his duty, in an extraordinary
sense, to obviate. It is true, the
hour of watching was passed, and this was not
the district assigned to him; but Baxter was, on
the whole, of a generous and intrepid spirit: In
the present case, therefore, he did not hesitate
long in forming his resolution. He seized an
hanger that hung at his bed-side, and which had
hewn many an Hungarian and French hussar to
pieces. With this he descended to the street.
He cautiously approached Monrose's house. He
listened at the door, but heard nothing. The
Iower apartment, as he discovered through the
key-hole, was deserted and dark. These appearances
could not be accounted for. He was,
as yet, unwilling to call or to knock. He was
solicitous to obtain some information by silent
means, and without alarming the persons within,
who, if they were robbers, might thus be put upon
their guard, and enabled to escape. If none
but the family were there, they would not understand
his signals, and might impute the disturbance
to the cause which he was desirous to obviate.
What could he do? Must he patiently
wait till some incident should happen to regulate
his motions?
In this uncertainly, he bethought himself of
going round to the back part of the dwelling, and
watching the door which had heen closed. An
open space, filled with rubbish and weeds, adjoined
the house and garden on one side. Hither
he repaired, and raising his head above the
fence, at a point directly opposite the door, waited
with considerable impatience for some token
or signal, by which he might be directed in his
choice of measures.
Human life abounds with mysterious appearances.
A man, perched on a fence, at midnight,
mute and motionless, and gazing at a dark and
dreary dwelling, was an object calculated to
rouse curiosity. When the muscular form, and
rugged visage, scarred and furrowed into something
like ferocity, were added; when the nature
of the calamity, by which the city was dispeopled,
was considered, the motives to plunder,
and the insecurity of property, arising from the
pressure of new wants on the poor, and the flight
or disease of the rich, were attended to, an observer
would be apt to admit fearful conjectures.
I know not how long Baxter continued at this
post. He remained here, because he could not,
as he conceived, change it for a better. Before
his patience was exhausted, his attention was
called by a noise within the house. It proceeded
from the lower room. The sound was that of
steps, but this was accompanied with other inexplicable
tokens. The kitchen door at length
opened. The figure of Miss Monrose, pale,
emaciated, and haggard, presented itself. Within
the door stood a candle. It was placed on a
chair within sight, and its rays streamed directly
against the face of Baxter, as it was reared above
it was, bestowed a certain air of wildness on features
which nature, and the sanguinary habits of
a soldier, had previously rendered, in an eminent
degrce, harsh and stern. He was not aware
of the danger of discovery, in consequence of
this position of the candle. His attention was,
for a few seconds, engrossed by the object before
him. At length he chanced to notice another
object.
At a few yards distance from the fence, and
within it, some one appeared to have been digging.
An opening was made in the ground, but
it was shallow and irregular. The implement
which seemed to have been used, was nothing
more than a fire shovel, for one of these he observed
lying near the spot. The lady had withdrawn
from the door, though without closing it.
He had leisure, therefore, to attend to this new
circumstance, and to reflect upon the purpose for
which this opening might have been designed.
Death is familiar to the apprehensions of a soldier.
Baxter had assisted at the hasty interment
of thousands, the victims of the sword or of pestilence.
Whether it was because this theatre of
human calamity was new to him, and death, in
order to be viewed with his ancient unconcern,
must be accompanied in the ancient manner, with
halberts and tents, certain it is, that Baxter was
irresolute and timid in every thing that respected
the yellow fever. The circumstances of the time
suggested that this was a grave, to which some
victim of this disease was to be consigned. His
teeth chattered when he reflected how near he
might now be to the source of infection: yet his
curiosity retained him at his post.
He fixed his eyes once more upon the door.
In a short time the lady again appeared at it.
be dragging something along the floor. His
blood ran cold at this spectacle. His fear instantly
figured to itself a corpse, livid and contagious.
Still he had no power to move. The lady's
strength, enfeebled as it was by grief, and
perhaps by the absence of nourishment, seemed
scarcely adequate to the task which she had assigned
herself.
Her burthen, whatever it was, was closely
wrapt in a sheet. She drew it forward a few paces,
then desistsd, and seated herself on the ground
apparently to recruit her strength, and give vent
to the agony of her thoughts in sighs. Her tears
were either exhausted or refused to flow, for
none were shed by her. Presently she resumed
her undertaking. Baxter's horror increased in
proportion as she drew nearer to the spot where
he stood, and yet it seemed as if some fascination
had forbidden him to recede.
At length the burthen was drawn to the side of
the opening in the earth. Here it seemed as if
the mournful task was finished. She threw herself
once more upon the earth. Her senses seemed
for a time to have forsaken her. She sat buried
in reverie, her eyes scarcely open and fixed
upon the ground, and every feature set to the genuine
expression of sorrow. Some disorder, occasioned
by the circumstance of dragging, now
took place in the vestment of what he had rightly
predicted to be a dead body. The veil by accident
was drawn aside, and exhibited, to the startled
eye of Baxter, the pale and ghastly visage of
the unhappy Monrose.
This incident determined him. Every joint in
his frame trembled, and he hastily withdrew from
the fence. His first motion in doing this produced
a noise by which the lady was alarmed: she
full view of Baxter's extraordinary countenance,
just before it disappeared. She manifested her
terror by a piercing shriek. Baxter did not stay
to mark her subsequent conduct, to confirm or to
dissipate her fears, but retired, in confusion, to
his own house.
Hitherto his caution had availed him. He had
carefully avoided all employments and places from
which he imagined imminent danger was to be
dreaded. Now, through his own inadvertency,
he had rushed, as he believed, into the jaws of
the pest. His senses had not been assailed by
any noisome effluvia This was no unplausible
ground for imagining that this death had some
other cause than the yellow fever. This circumstance
did not occur to Baxter. He had been
told that Frenchmen were not susceptible of this
contagion. He had hitherto believed this assertion,
but now regarded it as having been fully
confuted. He forgot that Frenchmen were undoubtedly
mortal, and that there was no impossibility
in Monrose's dying, even at this time, of
a malady different from that which prevailed.
Before morning he began to feel very unpleasant
symptoms. He related his late adventure to
his wife. She endeavoured, by what arguments
her slender ingenuity suggested, to quiet his apprehensions,
but in vain. He hourly grew worse,
and as soon as it was light, dispatched his wife
for a physician. On interrogating this messenger,
the physician obtained information of last
night's occurrences, and this being communicated
to one of the dispensers of the public charity,
they proceeded, early in the morning, to Monrose's
house. It was closed as usual. They
knocked and called, but no one answered. They
examined every avenue to the dwelling, but none
garden, and observed, on the spot marked out by
Baxter a heap of earth. A very slight exertion
was sufficient to remove it and discover the body
of the unfortunate exile beneath.
After unsuccessfully trying various expedients
for entering the house, they deemed themselves
authorised to break the door. They entered, ascended
the staircase, and searched every apartment
in the house, but no human being was discoverable.
The furniture was wretched and
scanty, but there was no proof that Monrose had
fallen a victim to the reigning disease. It was
certain that the lady had disappeared. It was
inconceivable whither she had gone.
Baxter suffered a long period of sickness.—
The prevailing malady appeared upon him in its
severest form. His strength of constitution, and
the careful attendance of his wife, were insufficient
to rescue him from the grave. His case
may be quoted as an example of the force of imagination.
He had probably already received,
through the medium of the air, or by contact of
which he was not conscious, the seeds of this disease.
They might perhaps have lain dormant,
had not this panic occurred to endow them with
activity.
| CHAPTER VII. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |