“But my claim is paramount to that of your Excellency,” cried the old usurer.
“I cannot admit it,” rejoined the other. “Let the damsel decide for herself.”
“Then I will accept neither,” said Gillian. “Dick Taverner is already master of my heart, and no one but he shall have my hand. I have been brought here to play a part, on the clear understanding that nothing serious was to come of it.”
“And nothing serious shall come of it, fair maiden,” said Prince Charles. “I promise that on my princely faith.”
“Then, indeed, I am easy,” replied Gillian, inclining herself reverentially towards the royal speaker.
At this juncture, Sir Giles Mompesson, who had been hitherto restrained by the presence of the royal guest from any violent measures, was advancing with menacing looks towards Lanyere, when the attention of Charles being directed to his movements by Buckingham, the Prince instantly arose, and in a tone of authority not to be disputed, said–
“Not a step further, Sir Giles. I will take care that all needful explanations be given.”
“But your Highness cannot be aware that this is a heinous offender and traitor,” rejoined Sir Giles, pointing to Lanyere. “I was about to take means to prevent his escape.”
“He has no intention of escaping,” rejoined Charles; “and I forbid any one to leave this apartment without my permission.”
“Will your Highness suffer me to relieve this fair creature from the embarrassing position in which she is placed,” said De Gondomar. “The youth she has mentioned, and to whom she declares her affections are given, was confined in the Fleet Prison for an attack on me; but, on my representation of the matter to the King, your father, his Majesty’s gracious consent was immediately accorded for his liberation.”
“I am aware of it, Count,” replied Prince Charles.
“But your Highness may not be aware that the poor fellow is without,” pursued the Ambassador. “Will it please you to allow him to be brought in?”
The Prince assented, on which De Gondomar signed to Luke Hatton, who seemed waiting for the order, and, disappearing for a moment, returned with the apprentice.
Though evidently prepared for the scene that awaited him, and not overburthened with modesty, Dick Taverner could not help exhibiting considerable confusion; but the sight of his mistress somewhat restored him, and he pressed towards her. Sir Francis, however, stepped between them, exclaiming–“Get hence, base varlet–she is my wife.”
“No such thing!” cried Gillian–“the ceremony has only been half performed. I am _not_ married. I am yours–and yours only, dear, sweet Dickon.”
“You never shall be his–you are mine–” exclaimed the old usurer–“I implore his Highness the Prince to let the marriage go forward.”
“Nay, I shall not allow any compulsion to be placed on the damsel’s inclinations,” replied Charles, unable to repress a smile. “She must choose for herself.”
“In that case, your Highness, my choice is soon made,” replied Gillian, taking her lover’s hand.
“And honest Dickon need not be under any alarm at such part of the marriage as has already taken place,” observed De Gondomar. “It has been a mock ceremonial throughout. This is no priest, but one of my Lord of Buckingham’s grooms employed for the occasion.”
“Then I have been a dupe all this time!” cried Sir Francis furiously. “O, purblind dolt that I am!”
But he met with no commiseration from the assemblage, who only laughed at his rage and absurd grimaces.
“Kneel and thank his Highness for his goodness,” said De Gondomar to the young couple; “and then, if he will give you leave to do so, depart at once. Stay not a moment longer than you can help it in this house, or in the neighbourhood.”
“Most assuredly I will not, your Excellency,” returned Dick. “It is much too near the Fleet to be agreeable to me. I have to offer my heartfelt thanks to your Excellency for your kindly consideration of me, and I own that I have scarcely deserved it at your hands.”
“Render your thanks, as I have said, to his Highness, who is alone entitled to them, good fellow,” said the Ambassador. “Take Gillian home to her grandsire–and wed her as soon as you can. She will need no dowry,” he added in a low tone–“for she is already provided with thirty thousand marks.”
“Honestly come by, I hope, your Excellency?” inquired Dick.
“Ay, ay–thou suspicious blockhead. Do as I have bidden thee, and get hence. More remains to be done to which thou art a hindrance.”
On this, the young couple prostrated themselves before Prince Charles, who graciously gave his hand to Gillian to kiss, and then motioning them to rise, they were allowed to quit the room.
Luke Hatton saw them safe out of the house, and very well it was he accompanied them, for they had many obstacles to encounter. Before quitting them, the apothecary delivered up the silver casket to Dick, bidding him take good care of it, as it contained his intended wife’s dowry.
Meanwhile, Sir Giles Mompesson, who had with difficulty controlled his impatience during the incidents previously described, advanced towards Prince Charles, and with a profound reverence, said–“Will it please your Highness to terminate this idle scene, which, though apparently amusing to the company assembled, is by no means so entertaining to Sir Francis and myself?”
“You shall have your wish, Sir,” rejoined Charles in a stern tone and with a freezing look, that seemed of ill augury to the extortioner–“It is my intention to terminate the scene. Stand forth, Clement Lanyere and let me hear what you have to declare in reference to this man.”
Hereupon, the promoter, consigning Aveline to the care of a gentleman who advanced towards her for the purpose, and respectfully took her hand, stepped forward, and, removing his mask, confronted his enemy.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Accusations.
By this time a very different complexion had been imparted to the scene. The interruption of the marriage ceremony, and the perplexities of the old usurer, tricked out of his intended bride, and bereft even of her substitute, had afforded abundant amusement to the company, who, so far from feeling pity for the sufferer, seemed vastly to enjoy his mortification and disappointment. But all laughter died away, and every tongue became suddenly mute, as Prince Charles, assuming the severe look and dignified deportment of a judge, commanded Clement Lanyere to stand forward, and prefer the charges he had to make against Sir Giles Mompesson.
All eyes were fixed upon the extortioner and his accuser; and though etiquette prevented the company from advancing too near the royal seat, a dense semicircle was formed in front of it, in the midst of which stood the two principal actors in the drama about to take place, together with the discomfited Sir Francis Mitchell.
Sir Giles Mompesson was not without great misgivings. He saw that his case was already prejudged by the Prince; and the glance of inquiry with which he had consulted his patron, the Marquis of Buckingham, and which was answered by a cold, menacing regard, convinced him that little support was to be expected in that quarter. Nevertheless, though he felt himself in considerable jeopardy, he allowed no look or gesture indicative of uneasiness to escape him; and the courage that had borne him through many a trial still remained unshaken. Not so Sir Francis Mitchell. He also perceived the perilous position in which he and his partner were placed, and his abject manner showed how thoroughly he was daunted. Look wherever he would, he found no sympathy: every one derided his distress.
But far more than the two extortioners did their accuser command attention. As he cast off his mask and displayed his appalling features, a thrill of surprise and horror pervaded such of the assemblage as had never seen them before. But the feeling was speedily lost in wonder. Drawing himself up to his full height, so that his lofty figure towered above those with whom he was confronted, he seemed to dart lightning glances against them. Even Sir Giles could not bear his scathing looks, and would have shielded himself from them if he could. Though fearful to behold, Lanyere’s countenance had a terrible purpose impressed upon it which none could mistake. The effect produced by his appearance upon the spectators was shared even by Prince Charles, and a few minutes elapsed before the silence was broken. At length, the Prince again spoke:–
“I sit here,” he said, “as the representative of the Majesty of England–clothed with the authority of my royal father, and prepared to exercise it, as he would do were he present in person. But though this seat is erected into a tribunal before which accusations against wrong-doers can be brought, and sentence upon them pronounced; still, whatever charges are now made, and against whomsoever they may be preferred, those charges will have to be repeated to the Lords of the Council of the Star-Chamber, before whom the accused will be taken; and any judgment now given will have to be confirmed by that high and honourable Court. Of late, the course of justice has been too often baffled and turned aside by the craft and subtlety of certain powerful and audacious offenders. Hence it has been the wish of the King’s Highness, in order that the laws may no longer be broken with impunity, that certain preliminary inquiries and investigations should be made on the spot itself, where it is alleged that the crimes and misdemeanours have been committed; and, according to the evidence afforded, such measures as may be deemed fitting taken against the wrong-doers. All present have witnessed this mock ceremonial, and have laughed at its conclusion, but mirth will be changed to indignation, when it is known that the intended marriage was the result of a vile conspiracy on the part of Sir Giles Mompesson and Sir Francis Mitchell, against a young, virtuous, and unprotected maiden, whose beauty had inflamed the breast of the elder, and it might have been expected from that circumstance, the wiser of the two. Into the details of their infamous scheme, it will not be necessary now to enter; and it may suffice to say, that the devoted attachment of the damsel to another was wholly disregarded, while the basest means were employed to induce her consent to a match so abhorrent to her feelings, as must have been that with Sir Francis. Failing in this, however, the two conspirators went yet further. They forcibly carried off the maiden from her own dwelling, and detained her against her will within this house, till by their arts they imagined they had gained their point–and that a love-potion would accomplish all for them, that their persuasions and fair promises were unable to effect. But the damsel was guarded from all ill by an unseen friend–and the weapons of the conspirators were turned against themselves. You have witnessed how they have been duped, and, as no mischief has resulted from this infamous endeavour, the mortification they have endured may be taken as part punishment of the offence. Stand forward, fair Mistress Aveline Calveley, and substantiate what I have just declared.”
Thus adjured, the maiden approached within a few paces of the Prince, and having made a lowly salutation, said,–
“All that your Highness has advanced concerning me is correct.”
“Enough, fair mistress,” rejoined Charles. “How say you, Sirs,” he continued, in a stern tone, to the two extortioners. “Do you confess your guilt, and sue for pardon? If so, down on your knees before this injured damsel, and implore her forgiveness!”
A prey to violent terror, the old usurer instantly adopted the supplicatory posture recommended by the Prince; but Sir Giles refused compliance.
“Having committed no offence, I sue for no pardon,” he said, with his wonted audacity. “I repel the charge with indignation; and, in my turn, accuse Clement Lanyere and Luke Hatton of a conspiracy against me. This damsel is but their tool, as I will show, if your Highness will deign to give ear to me.”
“It were mere waste of time to listen to idle fabrications,” replied Charles. “The evidence against you is complete, and my opinion upon it is formed. But what saith the maiden herself? Is she willing that any grace be shown her persecutors?”
“The redress I have already obtained at the hands of your Highness is amply sufficient,” replied Aveline. “Great as has been the misery these two persons have occasioned me, and grievously as they have sought to injure me, I seek no further satisfaction; but would implore your Highness to pardon them. Their own thoughts will be punishment enough.”
“Amply sufficient–for nothing can be more bitter,” cried the old usurer, while a scornful smile curled Sir Giles’s lips.
“Spoken as I expected you would speak, fair maiden,” said Charles; “and, were there nothing else against them, I might listen to your kindly intercessions. But other and darker disclosures have to be made; and when you have heard all, even your compassionate breast may be steeled against them. Retire for a moment; but do not leave the room. Your presence may yet be needed.”
And bowing graciously to Aveline, she withdrew under the care of the gentleman who had brought her forward, but still remained a spectatress of the scene.
“And now to proceed with the investigation,” pursued Charles. “What have you to allege against the two persons before you?” he added, to Clement Lanyere.
“Were I to relate all their enormities, most gracious Prince,” replied the promoter, “the recital would be too painful for your hearing, and that of this noble assemblage. But I will, in a word, declare that there is no kind of outrage, oppression, and extortion of which they have not been guilty. Their insatiable greediness has been fed by constant plunder; and, alike cruel and rapacious, nothing but the ruin and absolute destruction of their victims would content them. Merciless as creditors, they have ground their unfortunate debtors to the dust. The tears of the widow they have robbed of her husband and her means of existence–the despair of the orphan, whose fair prospects they have blighted–have failed to move them. Utterly unscrupulous as to the means of obtaining possession of property, they have forged wills, deeds, and other documents. Their ingenuity has been taxed to devise new means of unjust gain; and, imposing upon the King’s Majesty by false representations, they have succeeded in obtaining his letters patent for certain monopolies, which they have so shamefully abused, as to bring his sovereign authority into discredit.”
“Hold!” cried Sir Giles Mompesson. “To the first–vague and general accusations brought against me and my co-patentee, by this branded traitor, who, having been publicly punished for falsehood and libel, cannot be received as a witness, I have deigned no answer, conceiving such accusations cannot be for a moment entertained by you, most gracious Prince. But to this specific charge, I give a flat denial; and demand proof of it. I appeal to the most noble Marquis of Buckingham, through whose interest Sir Francis Mitchell and myself obtained those patents for the licences of inspection of inns and hostelries, as well as for the manufacture of gold and silver lace, whether he has ever heard aught to our disparagement in our conduct of them?”
“Do not appeal to me, Sir,” replied Buckingham, coldly.
“Sir Giles has demanded proof of my charge, and I am prepared to produce it,” said Lanyere. “As to the vagueness of my accusations, your Highness will judge of that when the full catalogue of the offences of these two extortioners, with the damnatory proofs of them, shall be laid before you. This memorial, signed by nearly the whole of the sufferers from their exactions, perpetrated by means of the monopolies, will satisfy your Highness of the truth of my statement–but I have also a witness to call.”
“A witness!–here!” muttered Sir Giles, uneasily. “This must be a deeply-concerted scheme.”
“Before you bring forward any one,” said Charles, addressing Lanyere, “Sir Giles must be set right on one point in which he is in error. Your credibility is not to be disputed, and I accept your testimony against him.”
“Your Highness!” cried the extortioner.
“Peace, Sir! you shall be heard anon,” said Charles. “Produce your witness,” he added to Lanyere.
At a sign from the promoter, Luke Hatton, who was standing near the doorway, stepped behind the tapestry, and almost immediately reappearing with Madame Bonaventure, led her towards the Prince, before whom she prostrated herself.
“Arise, Madame,” said Charles, graciously. “Your features are not unfamiliar to me. Methinks you are the hostess of the French ordinary at the tavern of the Three Cranes, in the Vintry.”
“Tour Highness is in the right–I am Madame Bonaventure, at your Highness’s service,” replied the hostess, enchanted at this recognition on the part of the Prince. “My lord of Buckingham, I am well persuaded, will condescend to speak to the merits and respectability of my establishment.”
“In sooth will I, good hostess,” replied the Marquis. “I can give your Bordeaux my heartiest commendation. ‘Tis the best in London.”
“Nay, I can speak to it myself–and to the good order of the house too; having visited the tavern incognito,” remarked the Prince, smiling.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Madame Bonaventure, rapturously. “Have I been so greatly honoured? Mon Dieu!–and not to be aware of it!”
“I must remind you of the cause of your appearance here, Madame Bonaventure,” said Lanyere.
“You are required to depose before his Highness as to the exactions you suffered from Sir Giles and his partner.”
“His Highness shall hear all from me,” rejoined the hostess. “I should have been reduced to beggary had I submitted to their extortionate usage. I bore it as long as I could, but when absolute ruin stared me in the face, I had recourse to a noble friend who helped me in my extremity and delivered me by a, stratagem.”
“It was a fraudulent scheme,” cried Sir Giles;–“a fraud upon his Majesty, as well as upon those who enjoyed the privileges conferred by his letters patent.”
“That I can contradict, Sir,” said Buckingham, “since I myself was present on the occasion, and stated in the hearing of the large company then assembled,–several of whom are now before us,–that his Majesty relinquished all share of the ruinous fine of three thousand marks imposed by you and your co-patentee upon this good woman.”
“And I trust you added, my Lord, that the King’s Highness would never knowingly consent to have his exchequer enriched by such shameful means,” said Charles, with a look of indignation. “These monopolies were not granted by his Majesty for the wrongful profit of their holders; and, since they have been turned to such iniquitous use, I will take upon me to declare that they shall all be suppressed. Do you attempt to deny,” he continued to Sir Giles, “that this outrageous fine was imposed?”
“It were useless to deny it,” replied the extortioner, with a malicious look at Buckingham; “but the noble Marquis has not always disapproved so strongly of my proceedings. Nay, I can show that he himself has been secretly a party to like transactions.”
“Ah, villain!” exclaimed Buckingham,–“do you venture to calumniate your protector? I shall leave you to the fate you so richly merit. Your foul and false assertions cannot affect me; but they are not likely to improve your case with his Highness, who, though aware of its impotency, will perceive the extent of your malice. If you dared, I doubt not you would likewise assert that his Majesty himself was cognisant of your frauds and oppressions, and approved them.”
“I do assert, and will maintain it–ay, and prove it, too–that the King’s Highness was aware how these monopolies were managed, and derived a considerable revenue from them,” said Sir Giles.
“You hear him, Prince,” remarked Buckingham, with a disdainful smile.
“I would not have believed in such matchless effrontery had I not witnessed it,” replied Charles. “You may retire, Madame,” he added to the hostess, who, with a profound reverence, withdrew. “Have you aught further to declare, or any other witnesses to produce?” he continued to Lanyere.
“I have both, your Highness,” replied the promoter.
“What more false accusations have you to bring against me?” demanded Sir Giles, folding his arms upon his breast, and fixing his keen gaze upon Lanyere.
“His Highness shall hear,” replied the promoter. “I have a multitude of cases which I could adduce in support of my charges–all of which will be mentioned in due season–but I shall now content myself with one, and from it the nature of the rest may be inferred. But let me premise that, in the greater part of these cases, and in all the more important of them, where grievous and irreparable wrong has been committed, the engine employed by these crafty and dangerous men has been the Star-Chamber.”
“The Star-Chamber!” exclaimed Charles, bending his brows.
“Your Highness will now perceive the drift of this cunning knave’s argument,” said Sir Giles. “Through me and my partner, all whose actions will bear the strictest scrutiny, he would covertly attack that high and honourable Court, whose dignity we have ever been most zealous to maintain; and his motive for doing so is because he has incurred its censure. When I have heard his precise charges, I will reply to them–ay, one by one–if he will bring forward the multitude of cases he affirms he can produce against me. But meanwhile I can fearlessly declare my innocence of the wrong imputed to me. If I have been to blame in those monopolies, I am not the only one in fault, as time will show. Nay, there are greater culprits than I”–looking hard at Buckingham, who regarded him disdainfully–“but I deny that I have done more than I can fully justify. As regards other matters, and the way in which my wealth has been acquired, I have acted only with caution, prudence, and foresight. Is it my fault that there are so many persons who, from various causes, will have money, no matter what they pay for it? If they apply to me under such circumstances, and ruin ensues to them, am I to blame? I lend monies as a usurer–all men know it. ‘Tis my vocation, and that of my partner; and my answer is his answer. We have done nothing beyond the law; and the law, which has hitherto supported us, will support us still. To affirm that we have employed the highest court of the kingdom as an instrument of oppression and extortion is an assertion too monstrous to obtain a moment’s credit. The Star-Chamber is too jealous of its honour not to resent the imputation; and such a charge will not escape its censure.”
“Nevertheless, at whatever risk, I repeat the accusation,” rejoined Lanyere; “and my words will not be forgotten by his Highness, and by all others who hear them. I assert that Sir Giles Mompesson has subtly and designedly perverted the practice of that high and honourable Court, causing it to aid his schemes of rapacity and injustice, and using it as a means of stifling the cries of his victims, and working out his purposes of vengeance. Hitherto, he has succeeded in masking his designs with so much skill that they have escaped detection; but when the mischief he has done under the mask of justice, and the wrongs and cruelties he has perpetrated in the name of the law shall be fully made known, no punishment will be deemed commensurate to his crimes. It is chiefly he and his partner who, by their evil doings, have brought the Star-Chamber into disrepute, and made it a terror to all just men, who have dreaded being caught within the toils woven around it by these infamous wretches; and the Court will do well to purge itself of such villanies, and make a terrible example of those who have so dishonoured it.”
“The Star-Chamber will never desert its faithful servants, and such we have been,” said Sir Giles.
“Say rather the serpents it has nourished in its bosom,” rejoined Lanyere. “But to my case. Years ago, a gentleman possessed of noble estates in Norfolk, was unfortunate enough to have some dealings with these two usurers, who thus becoming acquainted with his circumstances, marked him for their prey. He borrowed a large sum of money from them. The loan was not obtained for himself, but for a younger brother”–here the voice of the promoter was choked with emotion, and a few moments elapsed before he could proceed–“I have said that the money was borrowed, not for himself, but for a younger brother, whose recklessness and extravagance had plunged him deeply in debt. Would that his too generous relative had left him to his fate, and allowed him to rot in a dungeon! But he rescued him from it, only to take his place in the end. From this sad epoch may all the unfortunate gentleman’s calamities be dated. Certain title-deeds and other instruments had to be deposited with Sir Giles and his partner, as security for repayment of the sum borrowed. They were never returned. On the contrary, under one plea or another, all the deeds relating to the property were obtained from its unsuspecting owner; and then a mortgage deed covering the whole estates was forged by them.”
“‘Tis false!” exclaimed Sir Giles.
“Have I your Highness’s gracious promise of pardon to all except the principals in these great offences?” pursued Lanyere.
“As it may materially serve the ends of justice that such promise should be given, I do not hesitate to comply with your request,” replied Charles.
“In that case I shall be able to confound the villains with a witness whom they little expect to be produced against them,” replied Lanyere. “Let Lupo Vulp be called,” he added.
The summons was responded to as before by Luke Hatton, and the next moment the ill-favoured scrivener emerged from behind the tapestry, and made his way through the assemblage, who recoiled with abhorrence from him, towards the Prince.
“Who art thou?” demanded Charles.
“I am named Lupo Vulp, your Highness, and have for many years been a money-scrivener in the employ of these two gentlemen,” replied the individual addressed.
“Thou knowest all their transactions?” said Charles.
“No man better,” answered Lupo; “unless it be Clement Lanyere.”
“You remember a certain deed of mortgage from Sir Ferdinando Mounchensey to your two employers?” said Lanyere.
“I remember it perfectly,” returned the scrivener, “as I should do, seeing I prepared it myself.”
During all this time Lupo Vulp had kept his eyes upon the ground, and had never dared to raise them towards Sir Giles, though he felt that the gaze of the latter was fixed upon him.
“Was Sir Ferdinando’s signature attached to that deed?” demanded Lanyere.
“Look at me, Lupo, ere thou answerest,” cried Sir Giles. “Look at me well–and take heed what thou say’st.”
“Be not influenced by him,” interposed Charles. “Look only at me, and speak truly, as thou valuest thy safety. If thou hidest aught, or falsifiest aught, the heaviest punishment awaits thee!”
“Hark ye, Lupo,” said Sir Giles, in a low tone. “Be warned by me. Utter a word to my detriment, and as surely as thou art suborned to injure me, I will hang thee. I _can_ do so, as thou knowest!”
“Fear him not, Lupo,” said Lanyere. “Thou hast his Highness’s gracious promise of pardon.”
“If my life be but spared, most gracious Prince,” said the scrivener, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands together in supplication, “I will reveal all I know touching the malpractices of these two persons.”
“Speak, then, without fear,” said Charles.
“I repeat my question,” said Lanyere, “and demand an explicit answer to it. What was the nature of that deed?”
“It was a forgery,” replied the scrivener. “Sir Ferdinando Mounchensey had nothing whatever to do with it. His signature was imitated from other deeds in the possession of my employers, and his seal was likewise fabricated.”
“What say you to this, Sir?” said Charles, to Sir Giles.
“I deny it, as I do all the rest,” he replied. “‘Tis a foul conspiracy against me, as will appear in the end.”
“This is only one amongst many such frauds committed by them, your Highness,” said the scrivener. “Since I have your gracious promise of pardon, I will make a clean breast of it, and reveal all I know. Many and many a fair estate has been wrongfully wrested from its owner in this way–by forged deed or will. I will name all the parties to your Highness.”
“Hereafter, I will listen to thee,” rejoined Charles, motioning him to rise; “but I shall now confine myself to the case immediately before me. Proceed, Sir,” he added, to Lanyere.
“I have come to the saddest and darkest part of all,” said the promoter. “Your Highness has seen that a deed was forged to obtain possession of the Mounchensey estates–and the fraudulent design was only too successful. It was in vain Sir Ferdinando denied all knowledge of the instrument–in vain he refused payment of the large sum demanded–his estates were seized by the extortioners–and he was deprived of the power of redemption. He commenced a suit against them in the Star-Chamber, but here again he was baffled by the cunning and knavery of Sir Giles, and having unwittingly incurred the censure of the Court, he was cast into the Fleet Prison, where he perished miserably.”
“A lamentable history,” exclaimed Charles. “It is grievous to think that justice cannot be done him.”
“Justice may he done his son,” said Buckingham, “who has been oppressed in like manner with his father. Restitution may be made him of the estates of which he has been plundered.”
“It is well,” said Sir Giles, glancing at Lanyere. “You will not enjoy them.”
“What means he?” inquired Charles.
“The estates were assigned to this treacherous knave, your Highness,” said Sir Giles, pointing to Lanyere, “for a certain consideration, which was never performed. But, while denying, as I do most energetically, that any underhand means whatever were used by us to obtain possession of those estates, and repeating my declaration that a most artful conspiracy has been formed against us, I assert, as will appear on investigation, that if I fail in sustaining my claim to the Mounchensey estates, they cannot go to Sir Jocelyn.”
“Wherefore not?” inquired Charles.
“Because Sir Ferdinando left them to his brother Osmond. I have possession of his will.”
“It may be a forgery,” said Charles.
“Not so, your Highness,” observed Lupo Vulp. “This statement is correct.”
“I have it with me now,” cried Sir Giles, producing a document. “Will it please your Highness to look at it?” he added, handing it to the Prince. “You will see that the estates are wholly left to Osmond Mounchensey. If, therefore, your Highness should seek to deprive me of them, you must bestow them as they are herein bequeathed.”
“Undoubtedly, if this instrument be valid,” said Charles, looking at Lanyere.
“I do not dispute it, your Highness,” said the promoter.
“But there is no proof that Osmond Mounchensey is living, your Highness,” observed Lupo Vulp. “He has not been heard of for many years–not, indeed, since the time when his debts were paid by Sir Ferdinando. Though Sir Giles has used every exertion for the purpose, he has never been able to discover any traces of him–and it is reasonable, therefore, to suppose that he is no more.”
“That is false,” cried Sir Giles. “It is true I have long sought for him in vain–but within these few days I have obtained some tidings of him, which, if followed up, will assuredly lead to his detection. Nay more, Lanyere himself must know that he is alive, since, from the intelligence I have received, he must have been recently in company with him.”
“Is this assertion correct?” said Charles, to the promoter.
“It is, your Highness,” replied Lanyere; “but I had good reasons for concealing the circumstances.”
“Undoubtedly,” cried Sir Giles; “because you had ascertained from the traitor Lupo that this will existed, and feared a claim might be advanced to the estates–but they will never be yours, or Sir Jocelyn’s. If not mine, they are Osmond Mounchensey’s.”
“He says right,” remarked Charles.
“Then learn to your confusion, villain, that Osmond Mounchensey stands before you!” cried the promoter, addressing Sir Giles. “Behold him in me!”
“You Osmond Mounchensey!” exclaimed Sir Giles; eyeing him with an astonishment which was shared by Sir Francis and by the greater part of the spectators. To judge from their manner, however, Prince Charles, together with Buckingham and De Gondomar, did not seem unprepared for the announcement.
“Ay,” rejoined Osmond to Sir Giles. “Look on me if you can. Never should my name have been revealed to you, except at a moment when there should have been no chance of its repetition, on your part, but for my brother’s will, of the existence of which I have only been lately aware, and which has obliged me to avow myself. But for this, I would have remained for ever in obscurity, and have perished as I have lived–the despised Clement Lanyere. The name of Mounchensey should not have been shamed in me. But if I am the reproach of that ancient and honourable house–untarnished by any other member of it–I am also its avenger, and will wipe out effectually the stains you have cast upon it. By your machinations, villain, was my brother destroyed–by your machinations has his son been imprisoned, and his life endangered–by your machinations I myself was censured by the terrible Star-Chamber, and its severest punishments inflicted upon me. You knew not whom you tortured; and had you been aware of my real name, even this wrong might not have contented you. But no matter. From the hour when the tormentor, by your order, did his work upon me, I devoted myself to vengeance–slow, sure vengeance. I resolved not to interfere with your career of villany till you were full-blown in crime; and though I have had some difficulty in holding back my hand, I have been patient. The hour at length has arrived, and I hold you firmly in my grasp. I have crushed in pieces the whole of the fabric you have been at such pains to rear. Your estates and all your possessions will be forfeited to the Crown; and, if you escape with life, you will bear the indelible marks of disgrace which you have inflicted upon me!”
Overpowered by what he heard, Sir Giles threw himself at the feet of Charles.
“Do not sue to me, Sir,” replied the Prince, regarding him with stern displeasure. “Enough for you to know that I have been in this much-injured gentleman’s secret. Let your nephew now be introduced, Sir,” he added, to Osmond Mounchensey.
“His nephew!” muttered Sir Giles, as he arose. “Nay, then, all is indeed lost!”
“I have felt that for a long time,” groaned Sir Francis.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Judgment.
On the intimation of the Prince’s wishes, the tapestry was again raised to admit Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey, who, stepping forward, made a profound reverence to the Prince.
“I greet you well, Sir Jocelyn,” said Charles, in the kindest and most gracious tone, as the young knight advanced towards him. “As your disgrace was public, so shall your restoration to the King’s favour be likewise public. Your return to Court will be a satisfaction to his Majesty. Any imprudence of which you have been guilty will be entirely overlooked. All graver faults imputed to you have been explained–so that no unfavourable impressions against you remain upon my royal father’s mind–or on mine. Let me assure you that you have now no more zealous friends than the Conde de Gondomar and the Marquis of Buckingham.”
“For any wrong I may have done Sir Jocelyn I am heartily sorry,” said Buckingham, frankly. “And he may rely on my present oiler of friendship.”
“And on mine, too,” subjoined De Gondomar. “The services I have rendered him must be set against any mischief I have subsequently done.”
“You make me more than amends,” said Sir Jocelyn, bowing to them, “and I at once accept your proffered friendship.”
“You are in the midst of friends and foes, Sir Jocelyn,” said Prince Charles, “and have before you a new-found relative; and not far distant from you one, whom–unless I am greatly mistaken–has the strongest hold upon your affections; but before you turn to her, or to any one, listen to the sentence, which in the King’s name I shall pronounce upon those two offenders–a sentence which most assuredly will be ratified by his Majesty in person, and by the Lords of the Council of the Star-Chamber, before whom they will be brought. Hear me, then, ye wrong-doers. Ye shall be despoiled of your unjustly-acquired possessions, which will be escheated to the Crown. Where restitution is possible, it shall be made.”
“Restitution by the Crown!–a likely thing!” muttered Sir Giles.
“Moreover, ye shall pay for your misdeeds in person,” pursued Charles. “Degraded from the knighthood ye have dishonoured, and with all the ceremonies of debasement, when ye have become Giles Mompesson and Francis Mitchell, knaves, ye shall undergo precisely the same ignominious punishment, with all its dreadful details, which ye caused to be inflicted upon him you supposed to be Clement Lanyere. This being done to you, and no part of the torture being on any plea omitted, ye shall be brought back to the Fleet Prison, and be there incarcerated for the residue of your lives.”
Mompesson heard this sentence apparently unmoved, though his flashing eye betrayed, in some degree, his secret emotion. Not so his partner. Flinging himself on his knees before the Prince, he cried in piteous tones–“I confess my manifold offences, and own that my sentence is lenient in comparison with them. But I beseech your Highness to spare me the mutilation and branding. All else I will patiently endure.”
“He merits no compassion,” said Buckingham, “and yet I would intercede for him.”
“And your intercession shall avail to the extent which he himself hath mentioned–but no further,” rejoined Charles.
“I solicit nothing–and I confess nothing,” said Mompesson, in a tone of defiance. “If I am ever brought to trial I shall know how to defend myself. But I well know that will never be. I can make such revelations concerning those in high places–ay, in the highest places,” he added, with a vindictive look at Buckingham, “that they will not dare to molest me.”
“The hound must be muzzled,” said Buckingham, in a low tone, to the Prince.
“He must,” replied Charles. “Let the prisoners be removed. They are committed to the Fleet Prison.”
“Prisoners!” exclaimed Mompesson.
“Ay, prisoners,” repeated Osmond Mounchensey, “_my_ prisoners. I have a Star-Chamber warrant for your arrest. Behold it. Under this warrant his Highness has committed you, and you will be taken hence to the Fleet, where you, Giles Mompesson, shall occupy the cell you destined for my nephew! Now, your sword.”
“Take it,” rejoined Mompesson, plucking the rapier from its sheath, “take it in your heart. You, at least, shall not live to enjoy your triumph.”
But Osmond was too quick for him, and seizing his arm, ere he could deal the meditated blow, with almost superhuman force, he wrested the sword from him, and broke it beneath his feet.
At the same time, other personages appeared on the scene. These were the Serjeant-at-arms and a party of halberdiers. Advancing slowly towards the prisoners, the officer received the warrant from Osmond Mounchensey, while the halberdiers closed round the two extortioners.
“Before the prisoner, Mompesson, is removed,” said Charles, “see that he delivers up to you his keys. Let an inventory be taken of all monies within the house, and let the royal seal be placed upon all boxes and caskets. All deeds and other documents must be carefully preserved to be examined hereafter. And let strict search be made–for I have heard there are many hidden depositories of treasure–especially within the prisoner’s secret cabinet.”
“Take heed that the strictest examination be made,” subjoined Buckingham, “in accordance with his Highness’s behests–for the knave smiles, as if he thought his precautions were so well taken that the searchers would be baffled.”
“Fear nothing, my Lord Marquis,” replied the Serjant-at-arms. “Now, prisoner,” he added, to Mompesson–“your keys!”
While the officer was thus employed, Luke Hatton stepped forward.
“Those keys will be of little use,” he said, to the Prince. “Others have been beforehand with your Highness.”
“How, Sir–what others?” demanded Charles, bending his brows.
“The extortioner’s lawless band of attendants–generally known as his myrmidons, your Highness,” replied Hatton. “Instinctively discerning, as it would seem, that all was over with their master, they had determined to quit his service, and without giving him any notice of their intention. Not content with deserting him in the hour of danger, they have robbed him as well–robbed him of the bulk of his treasure. They have broken into his secret cabinet–and stripped it of all its valuables that could be of use to them, and have not left one of his hidden hoards unvisited.”
“Hell’s curses upon them!” exclaimed Mompesson, with irrepressible rage. “May they all swing upon the gibbet!”
“The chief among them–a rascally Alsatian, known as Captain Bludder–has been captured,” pursued Luke Hatton. “And a large sum, together with a rich casket of jewels, has been found upon him; and it is to be hoped that the officers will succeed in finding the others. Will your Highness interrogate Bludder?”
“Not now,” replied Charles. “Let him be taken to the Fleet. But there were other matters of more importance than the treasures–the deeds and legal instruments. These, as being useless to the robbers, were probably left untouched.”
“They were so, your Highness,” replied Luke Hatton.
“Would they had burned them!” ejaculated Mompesson. “Would all had been destroyed!”
And he gave utterance to such wild exclamations of rage, accompanied by such frenzied gestures, that the halberdiers seized him, and dragged him out of the room. The old usurer was removed at the same time.
“And now,” said Charles, rising from his chair, “one thing only remains to be done ere I depart, and it will he pleasanter to me than aught that has preceded it. I must again address myself to you, Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey, ay, and to you, also, fair Mistress Aveline. I pray you to come near me,” he continued, with a gracious smile, to the damsel.
And, as she blushingly complied,–for she half divined his purpose,–he said–“As I have already told you, Sir Jocelyn, your restoration to the King’s favour is complete, and your re-appearance at Court would be a gratification to his Majesty, but, after the events which have occurred, a brief retirement will, I conceive, be most agreeable to you, and I would counsel a visit to the hall of your ancestors.”
“Nothing could be more in accordance with my own wishes, most gracious Prince, if my newly-found relative will accept me as his guest.”
“Not as his guest, my good nephew” said Osmond. “You are sole lord of Mounchensey. I have made over the mansion and all the estates to you. They are yours, as by right they should be.”
Sir Jocelyn’s emotion was too great to allow him to express his gratitude in words.
“A noble gift!” exclaimed Charles. “But you must not go there alone, Sir Jocelyn. You must take a bride with you. This fair lady has well approved her love for you–as you have the depth of your devotion to her. Take her from my hands. Take her to jour heart; and may years of fondest wedded happiness attend you both! When you re-appear at Court, you will be all the more welcome if Lady Mounchensey be with you.”
So saying, he placed Aveline’s hand in that of her lover; and, with a look of ineffable delight, they knelt to express their gratitude.
The Prince and the courtly train passed out–and, lastly, Sir Jocelyn and the object of his affections. Vainly did he seek for his relative and benefactor. Osmond Mounchensey had disappeared. But, just as the young Knight and his fair companion were quitting the house, Luke Hatton, followed by two porters, bearing a stout chest, approached them, and said–
“Sir Jocelyn, you have seen the last of your uncle. He has charged me to bid you an eternal adieu. You will never hear of him again, unless you hear of his death. May no thoughts of him mar your happiness–or that of her you love. This is what he bade me say to you. This chest contains the title-deeds of your estates–and amongst them is a deed of gift from him to you. They will be conveyed by these porters whithersoever you may direct them. And now, having discharged mine office, I must take my leave.”
“Stay, Sir,” cried Sir Jocelyn; “I would fain send a message to my uncle.”
“I cannot convey it,” replied Luke Hatton. “You must rest content with what I have told you. To you, and to all others, Osmond Mounchensey is as the dead.”
With this, he hastily retreated.
Three days after this, the loving pair were wedded; and the ceremony–which was performed with strict privacy, in accordance with the wishes of the bride–being concluded, they set out upon their journey into Norfolk. Sir Jocelyn had noticed among the spectators of the marriage rites, a tall personage wrapped in a sable cloak, whom he suspected to be his uncle; but, as the individual was half hidden by a pillar of the ancient fabric, and as he lost sight of him before he could seek him out, he never could be quite sure of the fact.
Sir Jocelyn’s arrival at the hall of his ancestors was the occasion of great rejoicings; and, in spite of the temptations held out to him, many years elapsed ere he and Lady Mounchensey revisited the scene of their troubles in London.
CONCLUDING CHAPTER.
Retribution.
As will have been foreseen, the judgment pronounced by Prince Charles upon Mompesson and his partner, was confirmed by the King and the Lords of the Council, when the two offenders were brought be them in the Star-Chamber. They were both degraded from the honour of knighthood; and Mitchell, besides being so heavily fined that all his ill-gotten wealth was wrested from him, had to endure the in of riding through the streets–in a posture the reverse of the ordinary mode of equitation–name with his face towards the horse’s tail, two quart pots tied round his neck, to show that he was punished I for his exactions upon ale-house keepers and hostel-keepers, and a placard upon his breast, detailing the nature of his offences. In this way,–hooted and pelted by the rabble, who pursued him as he was led along, and who would have inflicted serious injuries upon him, and perhaps despatched him outright, had it not been for the escort by whom he was protected,–he was taken in turn to all such taverns and houses of entertainment as had suffered most from his scandalous system of oppression.
In the course of his progress, he was brought to the Three Cranes in the Vintry, before which an immense concourse was assembled to witness the spectacle. Though the exhibition made by the culprit, seated as he was on a great ragged beast purposely selected for the occasion, was sufficiently ludicrous and grotesque to excite the merriment of most of the beholders, who greeted his arrival with shouts of derisive laughter; still his woe-begone countenance, and miserable plight–for he was covered with mud from head to foot–moved the compassion of the good-natured Madame Bonaventure, as she gazed at him from one of the upper windows of her hostel, and the feeling was increased as the wretched old man threw a beseeching glance at her. She could stand the sight no longer, and rushed from the window.
In the same room with her there were four persons, who had been partaking of a plentiful repast, as was proved by the numerous dishes and flasks of wine garnishing the table at which they had been seated, and they, too, as well as the hostess, on hearing the noise outside the tavern, had rushed to the windows to see what could cause so much disturbance. As they were all well acquainted with the old usurer and his mal-practices, the spectacle had a special interest to them as well as to the hostess, and they were variously affected by it.
The party, we must state, consisted of Master Richard Taverner, as the quondam apprentice was now styled, and his pretty wife, Gillian, who now looked prettier than usual in her wedding attire–for the ceremony uniting them in indissoluble bonds had only just been performed; old Greenford, the grandsire of the bride; and Master John Wolfe, of the Bible and Crown in Paul’s Churchyard, bookseller, erstwhile Dick’s indulgent master, and now his partner, Master Taverner having very prudently invested the contents of the silver coffer in the purchase of a share in his employers business, with the laudable determination of bestirring himself zealously in it ever after; and, as another opportunity may not occur for mentioning the circumstance, we will add that he kept to his resolution, and ultimately rose to high offices in the city. Dick’s appearance had already considerably improved. His apparel was spruce and neat, but not showy, and well became him; while his deportment, even under the blissful circumstances in which he was placed, had a sobriety and decorum about it really surprising, and which argued well for his future good conduct. He began as he meant to go on; and it was plain that John Wolfe’s advice had produced a salutary effect upon him. Old Greenford looked the picture of happiness.
With Master Richard’s predilections for the Three Cranes we are well acquainted, and it will not, therefore, appear unnatural that he should choose this, his favourite tavern, for his wedding-dinner. Madame Bonaventure was delighted with the bride, and brought the blushes to her fair cheeks by the warmth of her praises of her beauty; while she could not sufficiently congratulate the bridegroom on his good luck in obtaining such a treasure. The best in the house was set before them–both viands and wine–and ample justice was done by all to the good cheer. Cyprien, as usual, brought in the dishes, and filled the flagons with the rare Bordeaux he had been directed by his mistress to introduce; but Madame Bonaventure personally superintended the repast, carving the meats, selecting the most delicate bits for Gillian’s especial consumption, and seasoning them yet more agreeably with her lively sallies.
The dinner had come to a close, and they were just drinking the health of the bonny and blushing bride, when the clamour on the quay proclaimed the old usurer’s arrival. As he was the furthest person from her thoughts, and as she had not heard of the day appointed for his punishment, Madame Bonaventure was totally unprepared for the spectacle offered to her when she reached the window; and her retreat from it, as we have related, was almost immediate.
To his shame be it spoken, Master Richard Taverner was greatly entertained by the doleful appear of his old enemy, and could not help exulting over his downfall and distress; but he was quickly checked by his bride, who shared in the hostess’s gentler and more compassionate feelings. So much, indeed, was the gentle Gillian touched by the delinquent’s supplicating looks, that she yielded to the impulse that prompted her to afford him some solace, and snatching up a flask of wine and a flagon from the table, she rushed out of the room, followed by her husband, who vainly endeavoured to stay her.
In a moment Gillian was out upon the quay; and the mounted guard stationed round the prisoner, divining her purpose, kindly drew aside to let her pass. Filling the goblet, she handed it to the old man, who eagerly drained it, and breathed a blessing on her as he returned it. Some of the bystanders said the blessing would turn to a curse–but it was not so; and so well pleased was Dick with what his good wife had done, that he clasped her to his heart before all the crowd.
This incident was so far of service to the prisoner, that it saved him from further indignity at the moment. The mob ceased to jeer him, or to hurl mud and missiles at him, and listened in silence to the public crier as he read aloud his sentence. This done, the poor wretch and his escort moved away to the Catherine Wheel, in the Steelyard, where a less kindly reception awaited him.
In taking leave, as we must now do, of Master Richard Taverner and his pretty wife, it gives us pleasure to say that they were as happy in their wedded state as loving couples necessarily must be. We may add that they lived long, and were blessed with numerous issue–so noumerous indeed, that, as we have before intimated, Dick had to work hard all the rest of his days.
In bidding adieu, also, to Madame Bonaventure, which we do with regret, we have merely to state that she did not reign much longer over the destinies of the Three Cranes, but resigned in favour of Cyprien, who, as Monsieur Latour, was long and favourably known as the jovial and liberal host of that renowned tavern. Various reasons were assigned for Madame Bonaventure’s retirement; but the truth was, that having made money enough, she began to find the banks of the Thames too damp and foggy for her, especially during the winter months; so the next time the skipper entered the river, having previously made her arrangements, she embarked on board his vessel, and returned to the sunny shores of the Garonne.
Mompesson’s sentence, though far more severe and opprobrious than that of the elder extortioner, was thought too lenient, and most persons were of opinion that, considering the enormity of his offences, his life ought not to be spared. But they judged unadvisedly. Death by the axe, or even by the rope, would have been infinitely preferred by the criminal himself, to the lingering agonies he was destined to endure. Moreover, there was retributive justice in the sentence, that doomed him to undergo tortures similar to those he had so often inflicted on others.
The pillory was erected at Charing Cross. A numerous escort was required to protect him from the fury of the mob, who would otherwise have torn him in pieces; but, though shielded in some degree from their active vengeance, he could not shut his ears to their yells and execrations. Infuriated thousands were collected in the open space around the pillory, eager to glut their eyes upon the savage spectacle; and the shout they set up on his appearance was so terrific, that even the prisoner, undaunted as he had hitherto shown himself, was shaken by it, and lost his firmness, though he recovered it in some degree as he mounted the huge wooden machine, conspicuous at a distance above the heads of the raging multitude. On the boards on which he had to stand, there was another person besides the tormentor,–and the sight of him evidently occasioned the criminal great disquietude. This person was attired in black, with a broad-leaved hat pulled down over his brows.
“What doth this fellow here?” demanded Mompesson. “You do not need an assistant.”
“I know not that,” replied the tormentor,–a big, brawny fellow, habited in a leathern jerkin, with his arms bared to the shoulder,–taking up his hammer and selecting a couple of sharp-pointed nails; “but in any case he has an order from the Council of the Star-Chamber to stand here. And now, prisoner,” he continued roughly and authoritatively,–“place your head in this hole, and your hands here.”
Since resistance would have been vain, Mompesson did as he was bidden. A heavy beam descended over his neck and wrists, and fastened him down immovably; while, amid the exulting shouts of the spectators, his ears were nailed to the wood. During one entire hour the ponderous machine slowly revolved, so as to exhibit him to all the assemblage; and at the end of that time the yet more barbarous part of the sentence, for which the ferocious mob had been impatiently waiting, was carried out. The keen knife and the branding-iron were called into play, and in the bleeding and mutilated object before them, now stamped with indelible infamy, none could have recognised the once haughty and handsome Sir Giles Mompesson.
A third person, we have said, stood upon the pillory. He took no part in aiding the tormentor in his task; but he watched all that was done with atrocious satisfaction. Not a groan–not the quivering of a muscle escaped him. He felt the edge of the knife to make sure it was sharp enough for the purpose, and saw that the iron was sufficiently heated to burn the characters of shame deeply in. When all was accomplished, he seized Mompesson’s arm, and, in a voice that seemed scarcely human, cried,–“Now, I have paid thee back in part for the injuries thou hast done me. Thou wilt never mock me more!”
“In part!” groaned Mompesson. “Is not thy vengeance fully satiated? What more wouldst thou have?”
“What more?” echoed the other, with the laugh of a demon,–“for every day of anguish thou gavest my brother in his dungeon in the Fleet I would have a month–a year, I would not have thee perish too soon, and therefore thou shalt be better cared for than he was. But thou shalt never escape–never! and at the last I will be by thy side.”
It would almost seem as if that moment were come, for, as the words were uttered, Mompesson fainted from loss of blood and intensity of pain, and in this state he was placed upon a hurdle tied to a horse’s heels, and conveyed back to the Fleet.
As threatened, he was doomed to long and solitary imprisonment, and the only person, beside the jailer, admitted to his cell, was his unrelenting foe. A steel mirror was hung up in his dungeon, so that he might see to what extent his features had been disfigured.
In this way three years rolled by–years of uninterrupted happiness to Sir Jocelyn and Lady Mounchensey, as well as to Master Richard Taverner and his dame; but of increasing gloom to the captive in his solitary cell in the Fleet. Of late, he had become so fierce and unmanageable that he had to be chained to the wall. He sprang at his jailer and tried to strangle him, and gnashed his teeth, and shook his fists in impotent rage at Osmond Mounchensey. But again his mood changed, and he would supplicate for mercy, crawling on the floor, and trying to kiss the feet of his enemy, who spurned him from him. Then he fell sick, and refused his food; and, as the sole means of preserving his life, he was removed to an airier chamber. But as it speedily appeared, this was only a device to enable him to escape from prison,–and it proved successful. He was thought to be so ill that the jailer, fancying him incapable of moving, became negligent, and when Osmond Mounchensey next appeared, the prisoner had flown. How he had effected his escape no one could at first explain; but it appeared, on inquiry, that he had been assisted by two of his old myrmidons, Captain Bludder and Staring Hugh, both of whom were prisoners at the time in the Fleet.
Osmond’s rage knew no bounds. He vowed never to rest till he had traced out the fugitive, and brought him back.
But he experienced more difficulty in the quest than he anticipated. No one was better acquainted with the obscure quarters and hiding-places of London than he; but in none of these retreats could he discover the object of his search. The potentates of Whitefriars and the Mint would not have dared to harbour such an offender as Mompesson, and would have given him up at once if he had sought refuge in their territories. But Osmond satisfied himself, by a perquisition of every house in those sanctuaries, that he was not there. Nor had any one been seen like him. The asylum for “masterless men,” near Smart’s Quay, and all the other dens for thieves and criminals hiding from justice, in and about the metropolis, were searched, but with the like ill result. Hitherto, Mompesson had contrived entirely to baffle the vigilance of his foe.
At last, Osmond applied to Luke Hatton, thinking it possible his cunning might suggest some plan for the capture of the fugitive. After listening with the greatest attention to all related to him, the apothecary pondered for awhile, and then said–“It is plain he has trusted no one with his retreat, but I think I can find him. Come to me on the third night from this, and you shall hear further. Meantime, you need not relax your own search, though, if it be as I suspect, failure is sure to attend you.”
Obliged to be satisfied with this promise, Osmond departed. On the third night, at a late hour, he returned. He did not, however, find Luke Hatton. The apothecary, it appeared, had been absent from home during the last three days, and the old woman who attended upon him was full of uneasiness on his account. Her master, she said, had left a letter on his table, and on investigation it proved to be for Osmond. In it the writer directed him, in the event of his non-return before the time appointed, to repair without delay, well armed, to the vaults beneath Mompesson’s old habitation near the Fleet, and to make strict search for him throughout them. He also acquainted him with a secret entrance into the house, contrived in the walls beneath the lofty north-eastern turret. On reading this letter, Osmond at once understood his ally’s plan, together with its danger, and felt that, as he had not returned, he had, in all probability, fallen a victim to his rashness. Telling the old woman whither he was going, and that inquiries might be made there for him on the morrow, if he did not re-appear with her master, he set out at once for the place indicated.
We shall, however, precede him.
Ever since Mompesson had been taken to the Fleet, his habitation had been deserted. The place was cursed. So much odium attached to it,–so many fearful tales were told of it,–that no one would dwell there. At the time of its owner’s committal, it was stripped of all its contents, and nothing was left but bare walls and uncovered floors. Even these, from neglect and desertion, had become dilapidated, and a drearier and more desolate place could not be imagined. Strict search had been made by the officers of the Star-Chamber for concealed treasure, but little was found, the bulk having been carried off, as before related, by the myrmidons. Nevertheless, it was supposed there were other secret hoards, if a clue to them could only be found. Mompesson had been interrogated on the subject; but he only made answers calculated to excite the cupidity of his hearers without satisfying them, and they fancied he was deceiving them.
On the night in question, to all outward appearance, the house was sombre and deserted as usual, and the city watch who passed it at midnight, and paused before its rusty gates and its nailed-up door, fancied all was secure. The moon was at the full, shining brightly on the sombre stone walls of the mansion,–on its windows, and on the lofty corner turret, whence Mompesson used so often to reconnoitre the captives in the opposite prison; and, as certain of the guard looked up at the turret, they laughed at its present emptiness. Yet they little dreamed who was there at the time, regarding them from the narrow loop-hole. After the pause of a few minutes they moved on, and the gleam of their halberts was presently seen, as they crossed Fleet Bridge, and marched towards Ludgate.
About two hours afterwards the watch re-appeared, and, while again passing the house, the attention of their leader was attracted by an unusual appearance in the masonry near the north-east angle, above which the tall turret was situated. On closer examination, the irregularity in the walls was found to be produced by a small secret door, which was left partially open, as if it had been recently used. The suspicions of the party being aroused by this singular circumstance (none of them having been aware of the existence of such a door), they at once entered the house, resolved to make strict search throughout it. In the first instance, they scaled the turret, with which the secret outlet communicated by a narrow winding staircase; and then, proceeding to the interior of the habitation, pursued their investigations for some time without success. Indeed, they were just about to depart, when a sound resembling a deep groan seemed to arise from the cellars which they had not visited. Hearing this, they immediately rushed down, and made an extraordinary discovery.
To explain this, however, we must go back to the time when they first passed the house. We then mentioned that there was a person in the turret watching their movements. As they disappeared in the direction of Ludgate, this individual quitted his post of observation, and, descending the spiral staircase, threaded a long passage in the darkness, like one familiar with the place, until he arrived at a particular chamber, which he entered; and, without pausing, proceeded to a little cabinet beyond it. The moonlight streaming through a grated window, showed that this cabinet had been completely dismantled; stones had been removed from the walls; and several of the boards composing the floor, had been torn up and never replaced. The intruder did not pass beyond the door, but, after gazing for a few minutes at the scene of ruin, uttered an ejaculation of rage, and retired.
His steps might have been next heard descending the great stone staircase. He paused not a moment within the entrance-hall, but made his way along a side passage on the left, and down another flight of steps, till he reached a subterranean chamber. Here all would have been profound obscurity, had it not been for a lamp set on the ground, which imperfectly illumined the place.
As the man took up the lamp and trimmed it, the light fell strongly upon his features, and revealed all their hideousness. No visage, except that of Osmond Mounchensey, could be more appalling than this person’s, and the mutilation was in both cases the same. It is needless to say it was Mompesson. His habiliments were sordid; and his beard and hair, grizzled by suffering rather than age, were wild and disordered. But he was armed both with sword and dagger; and his limbs looked muscular and active as ever.
Casting a glance towards the entrance of the vault as if to make quite sure he was not observed–though he entertained little anxiety on that score–Mompesson stepped towards a particular part of the wall, and touching a spring, a secret door (not to be detected within the masonry except on minute examination) flew open, and disclosed another and smaller vault.
Here, it was at once evident, was concealed the treasure that had escaped the clutches of the myrmidons and the officers of the Star-Chamber. There was a large open chest at the further end, full of corpulent money-bags, any one of which would have gladdened the heart of a miser. On this chest Mompesson’s gaze was so greedily fixed that he did not notice the body of a man lying directly in his path, and well-nigh stumbled over it. Uttering a bitter imprecation, he held down the lamp, and beheld the countenance of Luke Hatton, now rigid in death, but with the sardonic grin it had worn throughout life still impressed upon it. There was a deep gash in the breast of the dead man, and blood upon the floor.
“Accursed spy and traitor,” cried Mompesson, as he took hold of the body by the heels and dragged it to one corner–“thou wilt never betray me more. What brought thee here I know not, unless it were to meet the death thou hast merited at my hands. Would a like chance might bring Osmond Mounchensey here–and alone–I would desire nothing more.”
“Be thy wish gratified then!” cried a voice, which Mompesson could not mistake.
Looking up, he beheld his enemy.
In an instant his hand was upon his sword, and the blade gleamed in the lamp-light. Osmond had likewise plucked forth his rapier, and held a poignard in his left hand. For a few moments they gazed at each other with terrible looks, their breasts animated with an intensity of hatred which only mortal foes, met under such circumstances, can feel. So fiercely bloodthirsty were their looks that their disfigured features seemed to have lost all traces of humanity.
“Yield thee, murtherous villain,” cried Osmond at length. “I will drag thee to the hangman.”
“Call in thy fellows, and thou shalt see whether I will yield,” rejoined Mompesson, with a laugh of defiance.
“I have none at my back,” rejoined Osmond; “I will force thee to follow me alone!”
“Thou _art_ alone then!” roared Mompesson; “that is all I desired!”
And, without a word more, he commenced the attack. During the brief colloquy just detailed, he had noticed that his enemy was doubly armed, and before beginning the conflict he drew his own dagger, so that there was no greater advantage on one side than the other.
Both were admirable swordsmen, and in strength they were nearly matched; but the combat was conducted with a ferocity that almost set skill at defiance.
After the exchange of a few desperate passes, they closed; and in the terrific struggle that ensued the lamp was extinguished.
The profound darkness prevented them from seeing the frightful wounds they inflicted on each other; but both knew they were severely hurt, though each hoped he was not so much injured as his adversary.
Exhausted, at length, by loss of blood, and ready to drop, they released each other by mutual consent; and, after making a few more feeble and ineffectual thrusts, leaned upon their swords for support.
“Wilt thou yield now, villain?” demanded Osmond, in a hoarse voice. “Or must I finish thee outright?”
“Finish me!” echoed Mompesson, in tones equally hoarse. “Strike another blow against me if thou canst. But I well know thou art sped. When I have recovered breath, I will make short work with thee.”
“About it quickly, then,” rejoined Osmond: “I am ready for thee. But thy boast was idle. Thou art bleeding to death. Twice has my poignard pierced thy breast.”
“Thou wilt never use thy poignard again. Thy left arm is disabled,” rejoined Mompesson–“besides, my sword passed through thee almost to the hilt.”
“It glanced from my doublet: I scarcely felt the scratch.”
“‘Twas a scratch deep enough to let thy life-blood out. But since thou hast more to be spilt, have at thee again!”
“Where art thou?” cried Osmond, staggering towards him.
“Here!” rejoined Mompesson, avoiding the thrust made at him, and dealing one in return that stretched his adversary lifeless at his feet.
In the exultation of the moment, he forgot his own desperate condition, and, with a fierce, triumphant laugh, set his foot upon the body of his prostrate foe.
But a mortal faintness seized him. He essayed to quit the vault–but it was too late. His strength was utterly gone. With an irrepressible groan, he fell to the ground, close beside his enemy.
There they lay, the dying and the dead, for more than an hour. At the end of that time, they were discovered by the watch.
Mompesson yet breathed; and as the torch-light fell upon the scene of horror, he slightly raised his head, and pointing to his slaughtered adversary, with a ghastly smile, expired.
THE END.