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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Her father's apprentice," replied Wyvil. "And you believed him?" demanded Lydyard, with a derisive laugh. "Undoubtedly," replied Wyvil. "Why not?" "Because it is evidently a mere trick to frighten you from the house," rejoined Lydyard. "I am surprised so shallow a device should succeed with you." "I wish I could persuade myself it was a trick," returned Wyvil.
"Let me go, Lydyard," returned Wyvil, trying to extricate himself from his companion's hold, who was no other than the gallant that had accompanied him on his first visit to the grocer's shop, and had played his part so adroitly in the scheme devised between them to procure an interview with Amabel, "let me go, I say, I am in no mood for jesting."
"My feelings have undergone a total change. If I am capable of real love, it is for her." "Real love!" exclaimed Lydyard, in an incredulous tone. "If the subject were not too serious, I should laugh in your face.
I require no further assistance. What I have to do must be done alone. Lydyard will accompany me to the house, and then I must shift for myself." "Nay, we will all see you safe inside," returned Parravicin, "We shall pass by the grocer's shop. I know it well, having passed it a hundred times, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its lovely inmate."
Wyvil made no answer, but, walking to the other end of the room, threw himself into a chair, and, covering his face with his hands, appeared wrapped in thought. Lydyard took a seat beside him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation; but, finding his efforts fruitless, he desisted. "Something is wrong," observed Parravicin, to the major.
"And now for Mrs. Disbrowe!" cried Parravicin. "We shall find a coach or a chair in Cheapside. Can I take you westward, Lydyard?" But the other declined the offer, saying, "I will not desert Wyvil. I feel certain he will get into some scrape, and may need me to help him out of it. Take care of yourself, Parravicin. Beware of the plague, and of what is worse than the plague, an injured husband.
He had not proceeded far, when it occurred to him that, possibly, notwithstanding his interdiction, some of his companions might be waiting for him, and hurrying down the passage leading to the yard, he found Lydyard, to whom he recounted his ill-success. "I shall not, however, abandon my design," he said. "These failures are only incentives to further exertion."
"William Lilly, the almanack-maker, who predicted the plague, and, if old Rowley is to be believed, has great skill in the occult sciences, lives somewhere in Friday-street, not a stone's throw from this place. Let us go and find him out." "Agreed," replied Lydyard.
No doubt you would marry her, and abandon your design upon the rich heiress, pretty Mistress Mallet, whom old Rowley recommended to your attention, and whom the fair Stewart has more than half-won for you?" "I would," replied the other, energetically. "Nay, then, you are more insane than I thought you," rejoined Lydyard, relinquishing his hold; "and the sooner you take the plague the better.
"But the fellow's manner convinced me he was in earnest." "Well, I will not dispute the point, though I am sure I am right," returned Lydyard. "But be not too precipitate. Since the apprentice has seen you, some alteration may be necessary in your plans. Come with me into the house. A few minutes can make no difference."
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