There Sir Norman stood in his trance, as motionless as if some genii out
of the "Arabian Nights" had suddenly turned him into stone (a trick they
were much addicted to), and destined him to remain there an ornamental
fixture for ever. Ormiston looked at him distractedly, uncertain whether
to try moral suasion or to take him by the collar and drag him headlong
down the stairs, when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came
to his relief. A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly
rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: "Bring out your dead! Bring out
your dead!"
Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already almost
full on it way to the plague-pit. The driver stopped at his call, and
instantly followed him up stairs, and into the room. Glancing at the
body with the utmost sang-froid, he touched the dress, and indifferently
remarked: "A bride, I should say; and an uncommonly handsome one too. We'll just
take her along as she is, and strip these nice things off the body when
we get it to the plague-pit."
So saying, he wrapped her in the sheet, and directing Ormiston to take
hold of the two lower ends, took the upper corners himself, with the
air of a man quite used to that sort of thing. Ormiston recoiled from
touching it; and Sir Norman seeing what they were about to do, and
knowing there was no help for it, made up his mind, like a sensible
young man as he was, to conceal his feelings, and caught hold of the
sheet himself. In this fashion the dead bride was carried down stairs,
and laid upon a shutter on the top of a pile of bodies in the dead-cart.
It was now almost dark, and as the cart started, the great clock of St.
Paul's struck eight. St. Michael's, St Alban's, and the others took up
the sound; and the two young men paused to listen. For many weeks the
sky had been clear, brilliant, and blue; but on this night dark clouds
were scudding in wild unrest across it, and the air was oppressingly
close and sultry.
"Where are you going now?" said Ormiston. "Are you for Whitehall's to
night?"
"No!" said Sir Norman, rather dejectedly, turning to follow the
pest-cart. "I am for the plague-pit in Finsbury fields!"
"Nonsense, man!" exclaimed Ormiston, energetically, "what will take you
there? You surely are not mad enough to follow the body of that dead
girl?"
"I shall follow it! You can come or not, just as you please."
"Oh! if you are determined, I will go with you, of course; but it is the
craziest freak I ever heard of. After this, you need never laugh at me."
"I never will," said Sir Norman, moodily; "for if you love a face you
have never seen, I love one I have only looked on when dead. Does it
not seem sacrilege to throw any one so like an angel into that horrible
plague-pit?"