This section is from the book "Old Saint Paul's. A Tale Of The Plague And The Fire", by William Harrison Ainsworth. Also available from Amazon: Old Saint Paul's.
Not a word passed between the grocer and his daughter, as he took her home from Saint Paul's. Amabel, in fact, was so overpowered by conflicting emotions that she could not speak; while her father, who could not help reproaching himself for the harshness he had displayed towards Leonard Holt, felt no disposition to break silence. They found Mrs. Bloundel at the shop-door, drowned in tears, and almost in a state of distraction. On seeing them, she rushed towards her daughter, and straining her to her bosom, gave free vent to the impulses of her affection. Allowing the first transports of joy to subside, Mr. Bloundel begged, her to retire to her own room with Amabel, and not to leave it till they had both regained their composure, when he wished to have some serious conversation with them.
His request complied with, the grocer then retraced his steps to the cathedral with the intention of seeking an explanation from Leonard, and, if he saw occasion to do so, of revoking his severe mandate. But long before he reached the southern transept, the apprentice had disappeared, nor could he learn what had become of him. While anxiously pursuing his search among the crowd, and addressing inquiries to all whom he thought likely to afford him information, he perceived a man pushing his way towards him. As this person drew near, he recognised Pillichody, and would have got out of his way had it been possible.
"You are looking for your apprentice, I understand, Mr. Bloundel," said the bully, raising his hat -- "if you desire, it, I will lead you to him."
Unwilling as he was to be obliged to one whom he knew to be leagued with the Earl of Rochester, the grocer's anxiety overcame his scruples, and, signifying his acquiescence, Pillichody shouldered his way through the crowd, and did not stop till they reached the northern aisle, where they were comparatively alone.
"Your apprentice is a fortunate spark, Mr. Bloundel," he said. "No sooner does he lose one mistress than he finds another. Tour daughter is already forgotten, and he is at this moment enjoying a tender "tête-à-tête" in Bishop Kempe's chapel with Nizza Macascree, the blind piper's daughter."
"It is false, sir," replied the grocer, incredulously.
"Unbelieving dog!" cried Pillichody, in a furious tone, and clapping his hand upon his sword, "it is fortunate for you that the disparity of our stations prevents me from compelling you to yield me satisfaction for the insult you have offered me. But I caution you to keep better guard upon your tongue for the future, especially when addressing one who has earned his laurels under King Charles the Martyr."
"I have no especial reverence for the monarch you served under," replied Bloundel; "but he would have blushed to own such a follower."
"You may thank my generosity that I do not crop your ears, base Roundhead," rejoined Pillichody; "but I will convince you that I speak the truth, and if you have any shame in your composition, it will be summoned to your cheeks."
So saying, he proceeded to Bishop Kempe's chapel, the door of which was slightly ajar, and desired the grocer to look through the chink. This occurred at the precise time that the apprentice was seized with sudden faintness, and was leaning for support upon Nizza Macascree's shoulder.
"You see how lovingly they are seated together," observed Pillichody, with a smile of triumph. "Bowers of Paphos! I would I were as near the rich widow of Watling-street. Will you speak with him?"
"No," replied Bloundel, turning away; "I have done with him for ever. I have been greatly deceived."
"True," chuckled Pillichody, as soon as the grocer was out of hearing; "but not by your apprentice, Mr. Bloundel. I will go and inform Parravicin and Rochester that I have discovered the girl. The knight must mind what he is about, or Leonard Holt will prove too much for him. Either I am greatly out, or the apprentice is already master of Nizza's heart."
To return to Amabel. As soon as she was alone with her mother, she threw herself on her knees before her, and, imploring her forgiveness, hastily related all that had occurred.
"But for Leonard Holt," she said, "I should have been duped into a false marriage with the earl, and my peace of mind would have been for ever destroyed. As it is, I shall never be easy till he is restored to my father's favour. To have done wrong myself is reprehensible enough; but that another should suffer for my fault is utterly inexcusable."
"I lament that your father should be deceived," rejoined Mrs. Bloundel, "and I lament still more that Leonard Holt should be so unjustly treated. Nevertheless, we must act with the utmost caution. I know my husband too well to doubt for a moment that he will hesitate to fulfil his threat. And now, my dear child," she continued, "do not the repeated proofs you have received of this wicked nobleman's perfidy, and of Leonard's devotion -- do they not, I say, open your eyes to the truth, and show you which of the two really loves you, and merits your regard?"
"I will hide nothing from you, mother," replied Amabel. "In spite of his perfidy, in spite of my conviction of his unworthiness, I still love the Earl of Rochester. Nor can I compel myself to feel any regard, stronger than that of friendship, for Leonard Holt."
"You distress me, sadly, child," cried Mrs. Bloundel. "What will become of you! I wish my husband would shut up his house. That might put an end to the difficulty. I am not half so much afraid of the plague as I am of the Earl of Rochester. But compose yourself, as your father desired, that when he sends for us we may be ready to meet him with cheerfulness."
Mr. Bloundel, however, did "not" send for them. He remained in the shop all day, except at meal-times, when he said little, and appeared to be labouring under a great weight of anxiety. As Amabel took leave of him for the night, he dismissed her with coldness; and though he bestowed his customary blessing upon her, the look that accompanied it was not such as it used to be.
 
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