The Star-Chamber, Volume 1 by W. Harrison Ainsworth (page 3)

demands.’ ‘The greater reason he should relieve himself by speedy acknowledgment of the justice of his sentence,’ said the King. ‘The matter rests not with us, but with himself.’ ‘But he is a gentleman, Sire,’ I persisted, ‘to whom truth is dearer than life, and who would rather languish in misery for thrice the term he is likely to last, than forfeit his own self-esteem by admitting falsehood and injustice.’ ‘Then let him perish in his pride and obstinacy,’ cried the King impatiently. And thereupon he dismissed me.”

“O Sir!” exclaimed Jocelyn, rising and throwing, his arms round the Puritan’s neck; “you, then, were the friend who tended my poor father in his last moments. Heaven bless you for it!”

“Yes, Jocelyn, it was I who heard your father’s latest sigh,” the Puritan replied, returning his embrace, “and your own name was breathed with it. His thoughts were of his son far away–too young to share his distresses, or to comprehend them.”

“Alas! alas!” cried Jocelyn mournfully.

“Lament not for your father, Jocelyn,” said the Puritan, solemnly; “he is reaping the reward of his earthly troubles in heaven! Be comforted, I say. The tyrant can no longer oppress him. He is beyond the reach of his malice. He can be arraigned at no more unjust tribunals. He is where no cruel and perfidious princes, no iniquitous judges, no griping extortioners shall ever enter.”

Jocelyn endeavoured to speak, but his emotion overpowered him.

“I have already told you that your father rendered me a service impossible to be adequately requited,” pursued the Puritan. “What that service was I will one day inform you. Suffice it now, that it bound me to him in chains firmer than brass. Willingly would I have laid down my life for him, if he had desired it. Gladly would I have taken his place in the Fleet prison, if that could have procured him liberation. Unable to do either, I watched over him while he lived–and buried him when dead.”

“O Sir, you have bound me to you as strongly as you were bound to my father,” cried Jocelyn. “For the devotion shown to him, I hold myself eternally your debtor.”

The Puritan regarded him steadfastly for a moment.

“What if I were to put these professions to the test?” he asked.

“Do so,” Jocelyn replied earnestly. “My life is yours!”

“Your life!” exclaimed Hugh Calveley, grasping his arm almost fiercely, while his eye blazed. “Consider what you offer.”

“I need not consider,” Jocelyn rejoined. “I repeat my life is yours, if you demand it.”

“Perhaps I _shall_ demand it,” cried Hugh Calveley. “Ere long, perhaps.”

“Demand it when you will,” Jocelyn said.

“Father!” Aveline interposed, “do not let the young man bind himself by this promise. Release him, I pray of you.”

“The promise cannot be recalled, my child,” the Puritan replied. “But I shall never claim its fulfilment save for some high and holy purpose.”

“Are you sure your purpose _is_ holy, father?” Aveline said in a low tone.

“What mean you, child?” cried Hugh Calveley, knitting his brows. “I am but an instrument in the hands of Heaven, appointed to do its work; and as directed, so I must act. Heaven may make me the scourge of the oppressor and evil-doer, or the sword to slay the tyrant. I may die a martyr for my faith, or do battle for it with carnal weapons. For all these I am ready; resigning myself to the will of God. Is it for nothing, think’st thou, that this young man–the son of my dear departed friend–has been brought hither at this particular conjuncture? Is it for nothing that, wholly unsolicited, he has placed his life at my disposal, and in doing so has devoted himself to a great cause? Like myself he hath wrongs to avenge, and the Lord of Hosts will give him satisfaction.”

“But not in the way you propose, father,” Aveline rejoined. “Heaven will assuredly give you both satisfaction for the wrongs you have endured; but it must choose its own means of doing so, and its own time.”

“It _hath_ chosen the means, and the time is coming quickly,” cried the Puritan, his eye again kindling with fanatical light. “‘The Lord will cut off from Israel head and tail.'”

“These things are riddles to me,” observed Jocelyn, who had listened to what was passing with great uneasiness. “I would solicit an explanation?”

“You shall have it, my son,” Hugh Calveley replied. “But not now. My hour for solitary prayer and self-communion is come, and I must withdraw to my chamber. Go forth into the garden, Jocelyn–and do thou attend him, Aveline. I will join you when my devotions are ended.”

So saying he quitted the room, while the youthful pair went forth as enjoined.

CHAPTER XVIII.

How the promise was cancelled.

It was a large garden, once fairly laid out and planted, but now sadly neglected. The broad terrace walk was overgrown with weeds; the stone steps and the carved balusters were broken in places, and covered with moss; the once smooth lawn was unconscious of the scythe; the parterres had lost their quaint devices; and the knots of flowers–tre-foil, cinque-foil, diamond, and cross-bow–were no longer distinguishable in their original shapes. The labyrinths of the maze were inextricably tangled, and the long green alleys wanted clearing out.

But all this neglect passed unnoticed by Jocelyn, so completely was he engrossed by the fair creature at his side. Even the noise of the May Games, which, temporarily interrupted by Hugh Calveley, had recommenced with greater vigour than ever–the ringing of the church bells, the shouts of the crowd, and the sounds of the merry minstrelsy, scarcely reached his ear. For the first time he experienced those delicious sensations which new-born love excites within the breast; and the enchantment operated upon him so rapidly and so strongly, that he was overpowered by its spell almost before aware of it. It seemed that he had never really lived till this moment; never, at least, comprehended the bliss afforded by existence in the companionship of a being able to awaken the transports he now experienced. A new world seemed suddenly opened to him, full of love, hope, sunshine, of which he and Aveline were the sole inhabitants. Hitherto his life had been devoid of any great emotion. The one feeling latterly pervading it had been a sense of deep wrong, coupled with the thirst of vengeance. No tenderer influence had softened his almost rugged nature; and his breast continued arid as the desert. Now the rock had been stricken, and the living waters gushed forth abundantly. Not that in Norfolk, and even in the remote part of the county where his life had been passed, female beauty was rare. Nowhere, indeed, is the flower of loveliness more thickly sown than in that favoured part of our isle. But all such young damsels as he had beheld had failed to move him; and if any shaft had been aimed at his breast it had fallen wide of the mark. Jocelyn Mounchensey was not one of those highly susceptible natures–quick to receive an impression, quicker to lose it. Neither would he have been readily caught by the lures spread for youth by the designing of the sex. Imbued with something of the antique spirit of chivalry, which yet, though but slightly, influenced the age in which he lived, he was ready and able to pay fervent homage to his mistress’s sovereign beauty (supposing he had one), and maintain its supremacy against all questioners, but utterly incapable of worshipping at any meaner shrine. Heart-whole, therefore, when he encountered the Puritan’s daughter, he felt that in her he had found an object he had long sought, to whom he could devote himself heart and soul; a maiden whose beauty was without peer, and whose mental qualities corresponded with her personal attractions.

Nor was it a delusion under which he laboured. Aveline Calveley was all his imagination painted her. Purity of heart, gentleness of disposition, intellectual endowments, were as clearly revealed by her speaking countenance as the innermost depths of a fountain are by the pellucid medium through which they are viewed. Hers was a virgin heart, which, like his own, had received no previous impression. Love for her father alone had swayed her; though all strong demonstrations of filial affection had been checked by that father’s habitually stern manner. Brought up by a female relative in Cheshire, who had taken charge of her on her mother’s death, which had occurred during her infancy, she had known little of her father till late years, when she had come to reside with him, and, though devout by nature, she could ill reconcile herself to the gloomy notions of religion he entertained, or to the ascetic mode of life he practised. With no desire to share in the pomps and vanities of life, she could not be persuaded that cheerfulness was incompatible with righteousness; nor could all the railings she heard against them make her hate those who differed from her in religious opinions. Still she made no complaint. Entirely obedient to her father’s will, she accommodated herself, as far as she could, to the rule of life prescribed by him. Aware of his pertinacity of opinion, she seldom or ever argued a point with him, even if she thought right might be on her side; holding it better to maintain peace by submission, than to hazard wrath by disputation. The discussion on the May Games was an exception to her ordinary conduct, and formed one of the few instances in which she had ventured to assert her own opinion in opposition to that of her father.

Of late, indeed, she had felt great uneasiness about him. Much changed, he seemed occupied by some dark, dread thought, which partially revealed itself in wrathful exclamations and muttered menaces. He seemed to believe himself chosen by Heaven as an instrument of vengeance against oppression; and her fears were excited lest he might commit some terrible act under this fatal impression. She was the more confirmed in the idea from the eagerness with which he had grasped at Jocelyn’s rash promise, and she determined to put the young man upon his guard.

If, in order to satisfy the reader’s curiosity, we are obliged to examine the state of Aveline’s heart, in reference to Jocelyn, we must state candidly that no such ardent flame was kindled within it as burnt in the breast of the young man. That such a flame might arise was very possible, nay even probable, seeing that the sparks of love were there; and material for combustion was by no means wanting. All that was required was, that those sparks should be gently fanned–not heedlessly extinguished.

Little was said by the two young persons, as they slowly paced the terrace. Both felt embarrassed: Jocelyn longing to give utterance to his feelings, but restrained by timidity–Aveline trembling lest more might be said than she ought to hear, or if obliged to hear, than she could rightly answer. Thus they walked on in silence. But it was a silence more eloquent than words, since each comprehended what the other felt. How much they would have said was proclaimed by the impossibility they found of saying anything!

At length, Jocelyn stopped, and plucking a flower, observed, as he proffered it for her acceptance, “My first offering to you was rejected. May this be more fortunate.”

“Make me a promise, and I will accept it,” she replied.

“Willingly,”, cried Jocelyn, venturing to take her hand, and gazing at her tenderly. “Most willingly.”

“You are far too ready to promise,” she rejoined with a sad, sweet smile. “What I desire is this. Recall your hasty pledge to my father, and aid me in dissuading him from the enterprise in which he would engage you.”

As the words were uttered the Puritan stepped from behind the alley which had enabled him to approach them unperceived, and overhear their brief converse.

“Hold!” he exclaimed in a solemn tone, and regarding Jocelyn with great earnestness. “That promise is sacred. It was made in a father’s name, and must be fulfilled. As to my purpose it is unchangeable.”

The enthusiast’s influence over Jocelyn would have proved irresistible but for the interposition of Aveline.

“Be not controlled by him,” she said in a low tone to the young man; adding to her father, “For my sake, let the promise be cancelled.”

“Let him ask it, and it shall be,” rejoined the Puritan, gazing steadily at the young man, as if he would penetrate his soul. “Do you hesitate?” he cried in accents of deep disappointment, perceiving Jocelyn waver.

“You cannot misunderstand his wishes, father,” said Aveline.

“Let him speak for himself,” Hugh Calveley exclaimed angrily. “Jocelyn Mounchensey!” he continued, folding his arms upon his breast, and regarding the young man fixedly as before, “son of my old friend! son of him who died in my arms! son of him whom I committed to the earth! if thou hast aught of thy father’s true spirit, thou wilt rigidly adhere to a pledge voluntarily given, and which, uttered as it was uttered by thee, has all the sanctity, all the binding force of a vow before Heaven, where it is registered, and approved by him who is gone before us.”

Greatly moved by this appeal, Jocelyn might have complied with it, but Aveline again interposed.

“Not so, father,” she cried. “The spirits of the just made perfect–and of such is the friend you mention–would never approve of the design with which you would link this young man, in consequence of a promise rashly made. Discharge him from it, I entreat you.”

Her energy shook even the Puritan’s firmness.

“Be it as thou wilt, daughter,” he said, after the pause of a few moments, during which he waited for Jocelyn to speak; but, as the young man said nothing, he rightly interpreted his silence,–“be it as thou wilt, since he, too, wills it so. I give him back his promise. But let me see him no more.”

“Sir, I beseech you–” cried Jocelyn.

But he was cut short by the Puritan, who, turning from him contemptuously, said to his daughter–“Let him depart immediately.”

Aveline signed to the young man to go; but finding him remain motionless, she took him by the hand, and led him some way along the terrace. Then, releasing her hold, she bade him farewell!

“Wherefore have you done this?” inquired Jocelyn reproachfully.

“Question me not; but be satisfied I have acted for the best,” she replied. “O Jocelyn!” she continued anxiously, “if an opportunity should occur to you of serving my father, do not neglect it.”

“Be assured I will not,” the young man replied. “Shall we not meet again?” he asked, in a tone of deepest anxiety.

“Perhaps,” she answered. “But you must go. My father will become impatient. Again farewell!”

On this they separated: the young man sorrowfully departing, while her footsteps retreated in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile the May games went forward on the green with increased spirit and merriment, and without the slightest hinderance. More than once the mummers had wheeled their mazy rounds, with Gillian and Dick Taverner footing it merrily in the midst of them. More than once the audacious ‘prentice, now become desperately enamoured of his pretty partner, had ventured to steal a kiss from her lips. More than once he had whispered words of love in her ear; though, as yet, he had obtained no tender response. Once–and once only–had he taken her hand; but then he had never quitted it afterwards. In vain other swains claimed her for a dance. Dick refused to surrender his prize. They breakfasted together in a little bower made of green boughs, the most delightful and lover-like retreat imaginable. Dick’s appetite, furious an hour ago, was now clean gone. He could eat nothing. He subsisted on love alone. But as she was prevailed upon to sip from a foaming tankard of Whitsun ale, he quaffed the remainder of the liquid with rapture. This done, they resumed their merry sports, and began to dance, again. The bells continued to ring blithely, the assemblage to shout, and the minstrels to play. A strange contrast to what was passing in the Puritan’s garden.

CHAPTER XIX.

Theobalds’ Palace.

The magnificent palace of Theobalds, situated near Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire, originally the residence of the great Lord Treasurer Burleigh, and the scene of his frequent and sumptuous entertainments to Queen Elizabeth and the ambassadors to her Court, when she “was seen,” says Stow, “in as great royalty, and served as bountifully and magnificently as at any other time or place, all at his lordship’s charge; with rich shows, pleasant devices, and all manner of sports, to the great delight of her Majesty and her whole train, with great thanks from all who partook of it, and as great commendations from all that heard of it abroad:”–this famous and delightful palace, with its stately gardens, wherein Elizabeth had so often walked and held converse with her faithful counsellor; and its noble parks and chases, well stocked with deer, wherein she had so often hunted; came into possession of James the First, in the manner we shall proceed to relate, some years before the date of this history.

James first made acquaintance with Theobalds during his progress from Scotland to assume the English crown, and it was the last point at which he halted before entering the capital of his new dominions. Here, for four days, he and his crowd of noble attendants were guests of Sir Robert Cecil, afterwards Earl of Salisbury, who proved himself the worthy son of his illustrious and hospitable sire by entertaining the monarch and his numerous train in the same princely style that the Lord Treasurer had ever displayed towards Queen Elizabeth. An eyewitness has described the King’s arrival at Theobalds on this occasion. “Thus, then,” says John Savile, “for his Majesty’s coming up the walk, there came before him some of the nobility, barons, knights, esquires, gentlemen, and others, amongst whom was the sheriff of Essex, and most of his men, the trumpets sounding next before his highness, sometimes one, sometimes another; his Majesty riding not continually betwixt the same two, but sometimes one, sometimes another, as seemed best to his highness; the whole nobility of our land and Scotland round about him observing no place of superiority, all bare-headed, all of whom alighted from their horses at their entrance into the first court, save only his Majesty alone, who rid along still, four noblemen laying their hands upon his steed, two before and two behind. In this manner he came to the court door, where I myself stood. At the entrance into that court stood many noblemen, amongst whom was Sir Robert Cecil, who there meeting his Majesty conducted him into his house, all which was practised with as great applause of the people as could be, hearty prayer, and throwing up of hats. His Majesty had not stayed above an hour in his chamber, but hearing the multitude throng so fast into the uppermost court to see his highness, he showed himself openly out of his chamber window by the space of half an hour together; after which time he went into the labyrinth-like garden to walk, where he secreted himself in the Meander’s compact of bays, rosemary, and the like overshadowing his walk, to defend him from the heat of the sun till supper time, at which was such plenty of provision for all sorts of men in their due places as struck me with admiration. And first, to begin with the ragged regiments, and such as were debarred the privilege of any court, these were so sufficiently rewarded with beef, veal, mutton, bread, and beer, that they sung holiday every day, and kept a continual feast. As for poor maimed and distressed soldiers, which repaired thither for maintenance, the wine, money, and meat which they had in very bounteous sort, hath become a sufficient spur to them to blaze it abroad since their coming to London.” The reader will marvel at the extraordinary and unstinting hospitality practised in those days, which, as we have shown, was exhibited to all comers, irrespective of rank, even to the “ragged regiments,” and which extended its bounties in the shape of alms to the wounded and disabled veteran. We find no parallel to it in modern times.

Theobalds produced a highly favourable impression upon James, who, passionately attached to the chase, saw in its well-stocked parks the means of gratifying his tastes to the fullest extent. Its contiguity to Enfield Chase was also a great recommendation; and its situation, beautiful in itself, was retired, and yet within easy distance of the metropolis. It appeared to him to combine all the advantages of a royal hunting-seat with all the splendours of a palace; and his predilections were confirmed by a second visit paid by him to it in 1606, when he was accompanied by his brother-in-law, Christianus, King of Denmark, and when the two monarchs were gloriously entertained by the Earl of Salisbury. The Danish king drank inordinately; so did the whole of his suite: and they soon inoculated the English Court with their sottish tastes. Bonnie King Jamie himself got _fou_ twice a-day; and, melancholy to relate, the ladies of the Court followed the royal example, and, “abandoning their sobriety, were seen to roll about in intoxication.” So says Sir John Harington, who has given a very diverting account of the orgies at Theobalds, and the inebriate extravagances of Christianus. “One day,” writes Sir John, “a great feast was held; and after dinner the representation of Solomon’s Temple and the coming of the Queen of Sheba was made, or (as I may better say) was meant to have been made before their Majesties, by device of the Earl of Salisbury and others. But alas! as all earthly things do fail to poor mortals in enjoyment, so did prove our presentment thereof. The lady that did play the Queen’s part did carry most precious gifts to both their Majesties, but forgetting the steps arising to the canopy, overset her casket into his Danish Majesty’s lap, and fell at his feet, though I rather think it was into his face. Much was the hurry and confusion. Cloths and napkins were at hand to make all clean. His Majesty then got up, and would dance with the Queen of Sheba; but he fell down and humbled himself before her, and was carried to an inner chamber, and laid on a bed of state. The entertainment and show went forward, and most of the presenters went backward, or fell down; wine did so occupy their upper chambers.” Worthy Sir John seems to have been greatly scandalized, as he well might be, at these shameless proceedings, and he exclaims pathetically, “The Danes have again conquered the Britons; for I see no man, or woman either, that can command himself or herself.” Nor does he fail to contrast these “strange pageantries” with what occurred of the same sort, in the same place, in Queen Elizabeth’s time, observing, “I never did see such lack of good order, discretion, and sobriety as I have now done.”

Having set his heart upon Theobalds, James offered the Earl of Salisbury, in exchange for it, the palace and domains of Hatfield; and the proposal being accepted (it could not very well be refused), the delivery of the much-coveted place was made on the 22nd May, 1607; the Prince Joinville, brother to the Duke de Guise, being present on the occasion, where fresh festivities were held, accompanied by an indifferent Masque from Ben Jonson. Whether the King or the Earl had the best of the bargain, we are not prepared to decide.

Enchanted with his acquisition, James commenced the work of improvement and embellishment by enlarging the park, appropriating a good slice of Enfield Chace, with parts of Northaw and Cheshunt Commons, and surrounding the whole with a high brick wall ten miles in circumference. Within this ring he found ample scope for the indulgence of his hunting propensities, since it contained an almost inexhaustible stock of the finest deer in the kingdom; and within it might be heard the sound of his merry horn, and the baying of his favourite stag-hounds, whenever he could escape from the cares of state, or the toils of the council-chamber. His escapes from these demands upon his time were so frequent, and the attraction of the woods of Theobalds so irresistible, that remonstrances were made to him on the subject; but they proved entirely ineffectual. He declared he would rather return to Scotland than forego his amusements.

Theobalds, in the time of its grandeur, might be styled the Fontainebleau of England. Though not to be compared with Windsor Castle in grandeur of situation, or magnificence of forest scenery, still it was a stately residence, and worthy of the monarch of a mighty country. Crowned with four square towers of considerable height and magnitude, each with a lion and vane on the top; it had besides, a large, lantern-shaped central turret, proudly domineering over the others, and “made with timber of excellent workmanship, curiously wrought with divers pinnacles at each corner, wherein were hung twelve bells for chimage, and a clock with chimes of sundry work.” The whole structure was built, says the survey, “of excellent brick, with coigns, jambs, and cornices of stone.” Approached from the south by a noble avenue of trees, planted in double rows, and a mile in length, it presented a striking and most picturesque appearance, with its lofty towers, its great gilded vanes, supported, as we have said, by lions, its crowd of twisted chimnies, its leaded and arched walks, its balconies, and its immense bay windows. Nor did it lose its majestic and beautiful aspect as you advanced nearer, and its vast proportions became more fully developed. Then you perceived its grand though irregular facades, its enormous gates, its cloistered walks, and its superb gardens; and comprehended that with its five courts and the countless apartments they contained, to say nothing of the world of offices, that the huge edifice comprised a town within itself–and a well-peopled town too. The members of the household, and the various retainers connected with it, were multitudinous as the rooms themselves.

One charm and peculiarity of the palace, visible from without, consisted in the arched walks before referred to, placed high up on the building, on every side. Screened from the weather, these walks looked upon the different courts and gardens, and commanded extensive views of the lovely sylvan scenery around. Hence Cheshunt and Waltham Abbey, Enfield, and other surrounding villages, could be distinguished through the green vistas of the park.

On the south, facing the grand avenue, was “a large open cloister, built upon several large fair pillars of stone, arched over with seven arches, with a fair rail, and balusters, well painted with the Kings and Queens of England, and the pedigree of the old Lord Burleigh, and divers other ancient families.”

The body of the palace consisted of two large quadrangles: one of which, eighty-six feet square, was denominated the Fountain Court, from the circumstance of a fountain of black and white marble standing within it. The other quadrangle, somewhat larger, being one hundred and ten feet square, was called the Middle Court. In addition to these, there were three other smaller courts, respectively entitled the Dial Court, the Buttery Court, and the Dove-house Court, wherein the offices were situated.

On the east side of the Fountain Court stood an arched cloister; and on the ground-floor there was a spacious hall, paved with marble, and embellished with a curiously-carved ceiling. Adjoining it were the apartments assigned to the Earl of Salisbury as Keeper of Theobalds, the council-chamber, and the chambers of Sir Lewis Lewkener, Master of the Ceremonies, and Sir John Finett. Above was the presence-chamber, wainscotted with oak, painted in liver-colour and gilded, having rich pendents from the ceiling, and vast windows resplendent with armorial bearings. Near this were the privy-chamber and the King’s bed-chamber, together with a wide gallery, one hundred and twenty-three feet in length, wainscotted and roofed like the presence-chamber, but yet more gorgeously fretted and painted. Its walls were ornamented with stags’ heads with branching antlers. On the upper floor were the rooms assigned to the Duke of Lennox, as Lord Chamberlain, and close to them was one of the external leaded walks before alluded to, sixty-two feet long-and eleven wide, which, from its eminent position, carried the gaze to Ware.

In the Middle-court were the Queen’s apartments, comprising her chapel, presence-chamber, and other rooms, and over them a gallery nearly equal in length to that reserved for the King. In this quadrangle, also, were Prince Charles’s lodgings. Over the latter was the Green Gallery, one hundred and nine feet in length, and proportionately wide. And above the gallery was another external covered walk, wherein were two “lofty arches of brick, of no small ornament to the house, and rendering it comely and pleasant to all that passed by.”

The gardens were enchanting, and in perfect keeping with the palace. Occupying several acres. They seemed infinitely larger than they were, since they abounded in intricate alleys, labyrinths, and mazes; so that you were easily lost within them, and sometimes wanted a clue to come forth. They contained some fine canals, fountains, and statues. In addition to the great gardens were the priory-gardens, with other inclosures for pheasants, aviaries, and menageries; for James was very fond of wild beasts, and had a collection of them worthy of a zoological garden. In one of his letters to Buckingham when the latter was at Madrid, we find him inquiring about the elephant, camels, and wild asses. He had always a camel-house at Theobalds. To close our description, we may add that the tennis-court, _manege_ stable kennels, and falconry were on a scale of magnitude proportionate to the palace.

Beneath the wide-spreading branches of a noble elm, forming part of the great avenue, and standing at a short distance from the principal, entrance to the palace, were collected together, one pleasant afternoon in May, a small group of persons, consisting almost entirely of the reader’s acquaintances. Chief amongst them was Jocelyn Mounchensey, who, having dismounted and fastened his horse to the branch, was leaning against the large trunk of the tree, contemplating the magnificent structure we have attempted to describe. Unacquainted as yet with its internal splendours, he had no difficulty in comprehending them from what he beheld from without. The entrance gates were open, and a wide archway beyond leading to the great quadrangle, gave him a view of its beautiful marble fountain in the midst, ornamented with exquisite statues of Venus and Cupid. Numerous officers of the household, pages, ushers, and serving-men in the royal liveries, with now and then some personage of distinction, were continually passing across the Fountain Court. Gaily attired courtiers, in doublets of satin and mantles of velvet, were lounging in the balconies of the presence-chamber, staring at Jocelyn and his companions for, want of better occupation. Other young nobles, accompanied by richly-habited dames–some of them the highest-born and loveliest in the land–were promenading to and fro upon the garden terrace on the right, chattering and laughing loudly. There was plenty of life and movement everywhere. Even in the Lord Chamberlain’s walk, which, as we have said, was contrived in the upper part of the structure, and formed a sort of external gallery, three persons might be discerned; and to save the reader any speculation, we will tell him that these persons were the Duke of Lennox (Lord Chamberlain), the Conde de Gondomar (the Spanish lieger-ambassador), and the Lord Roos. In front of the great gates were stationed four warders with the royal badge woven in gold on the front and back of their crimson doublets, with roses in their velvet hats, roses in their buskins, and halberts over their shoulders. Just within the gates stood a gigantic porter, a full head and shoulders taller than the burly warders themselves. From the summit of the lofty central tower of the palace floated the royal banner, discernible by all the country round.

On the other side of the tree against which Jocelyn was leaning, and looking down the long avenue, rather than towards the palace, stood Dick Taverner, who however bestowed little attention upon his master, being fully occupied by a more attractive object close at hand. Dickon, it appeared, had succeeded in inducing Gillian Greenford to accompany him in the expedition to Theobalds, and as the fair damsel could not of course go alone, she had cajoled her good-natured old grandsire into conveying her thither; and she was now seated behind him upon a pillion placed on the back of a strong, rough-coated, horse. Dick was in raptures at his success. The ride from Tottenham had been delightful. They had tarried for a short time to drink a cup of ale at the Bell at Edmonton, where Dick meant to have breakfasted, though chance had so agreeably prevented him, and where the liquor was highly approved by the old farmer, who became thenceforth exceedingly chatty, and talked of nothing else but good Queen Bess and her frequent visits to Theobalds in the old Lord Burleigh’s time, during the rest of the journey. Little heed was paid to his garrulity by the young couple. They let him talk on, feigning to listen, but in reality noting scarce a word he said. As they entered the park of Theobalds, however, they found their tongues, and Gillian became loud in her admiration of the beautiful glades that opened before them, and of the dappled denizens of the wood that tripped lightsomely across the sward, or hurried towards the thickets. The park, indeed, looked beautiful with its fine oaks in their freshly-opened foliage of the tenderest green, its numerous spreading beeches, its scattered thorns white with blossom, and the young fern just springing from the seed in the brakes. No wonder Gillian was delighted. Dick was equally enchanted, and regretted he was not like King James, master of a great park, that he might hunt within it at his pleasure. Of course, if he had been king, Gillian would naturally have been his queen, and have hunted with him. Old Greenford, too, admired the scene, and could not but admit that the park was improved, though he uttered something like a groan as he thought that Queen Elizabeth and the Lord Treasurer could be seen in it no longer.

After riding for a couple of miles along a road which led them over beautifully undulating ground, affording glimpses of every variety of forest scenery–sometimes plunging them into the depths of groves, where the path was covered by over-arching trees–sometimes crossing the open chace, studded by single aged oaks of the largest size–sometimes, skirting the margin of a pool, fringed with flags, reeds, and bulrushes for the protection of the water-fowl–now passing the large heronry, to the strict preservation of which James attached the utmost importance; they at length approached the long avenue leading to the palace. At its entrance they found Jocelyn waiting for them.

The young man, who cared not for their company, had ridden on in advance. The strange events of the morning gave him plenty of material for reflection, and he longed to commune with himself. Accordingly, when the others stopped at Edmonton, he quitted them, promising to halt till they came up, before entering the precincts of the palace. If his ride was not so agreeable as their’s, it at least enabled him to regain, in some degree, his composure of mind, which had been greatly disturbed by his abrupt parting with Aveline. Her image was constantly before him, and refusing to be dismissed, connected itself with every object he beheld. At first he despaired of meeting her again; but as he gradually grew calmer, his hopes revived, and difficulties which seemed insuperable began to disperse. By the time Dick Taverner and his companions came up, he felt some disposition to talk, and Gillian’s hearty merriment and high spirits helped to enliven him. Having ascertained, from one of the royal keepers whom he had encountered, that the King, with a large company, was out hawking on the banks of the New River, which was cut through the park, and that he would in all probability return through the great avenue to the palace, he proposed that they should station themselves somewhere within it, in order to see him pass. This arrangement pleased all parties, so proceeding slowly up the avenue, they took up a position as described.

More than an hour, however, elapsed, and still James, who no doubt was pleased with his sport, came not.

Without being aware of their high quality, or having the slightest notion that the Conde Gondomar was one of them, Jocelyn had remarked the three personages in the Lord Chamberlain’s Walk. He had seen them pause, and apparently look towards the little group of which he himself formed part. Shortly after this, two of the party retired, leaving the third alone in the gallery. By-and-by these two individuals were seen to cross the Fountain Court, and passing through the great gates, to direct their steps towards the avenue.

As they approached, Jocelyn recognised one of them as Lord Roos, whom he had seen play so singular a part at Madame Bonaventure’s ordinary. The other was wholly unknown to him. But that he was a person of the utmost distinction he felt convinced, as well from his haughty bearing and sumptuous attire, as from the evident respect paid him by his companion. In stature he was rather short, being somewhat under the ordinary standard; but his figure was admirably proportioned, and was displayed to the greatest advantage by his rich habiliments. His doublet was of sea-green satin, embroidered with silver and black, with rich open sleeves, and his Spanish cloak was of velvet of the same colour and similarly embroidered. His hose were of tawny silk, and the plumes in his bonnet black, striped with white. He was decorated with the order of the Golden Fleece, and bore at his side a genuine blade of Toledo, with a handle of rarest workmanship. Bound his throat he wore a large, triple ruff, edged with pointed lace. His face was oval in shape, his complexion of a rich olive hue, his eyes large, dark, and keen, his features singularly handsome, and his looks penetrating. His hair was raven-black, cut short, and removed from the forehead.

Lord Roos and his companion passed close to Jocelyn without appearing to notice him; but they halted before Gillian, regarding her with insolent admiration. Evidently she was the object that had brought them forth. The poor damsel was terribly confused by their ardent glances and libertine scrutiny, and blushed to her very temples. As to Dick Taverner, he trembled with rage and jealousy, and began to repent having brought his treasure into such a dangerous neighbourhood.

The person who seemed to be most struck with Gillian’s charms was the wearer of the Spanish mantle.

“En verdad!” he exclaimed, “that is the loveliest piece of rusticity I have seen since I came to England. I thought mine eyes did not deceive me, as to her beauty, when I caught sight of her from the Lord Chamberlain’s gallery.”

“The Conde de Gondomar hath ever an eagle’s eye for a pretty woman,” Lord Roos replied, laughing.

“The Conde de Gondomar!” mentally ejaculated Jocelyn, who had overheard what he said. “Why, this is he to whom the ring must be shown. The opportunity must not be lost.”

Accordingly, regardless of the impropriety of the proceeding, he uncovered his head, and advancing towards the Spaniard said–

“I believe I have the honour of addressing the Conde de Gondomar?”

“What means this intrusion, Sir?” Lord Roos demanded insolently. “What have you to say to his Excellency?”

“I bring him a token, my lord,” the young man replied, exhibiting the ring, given him by the masked horseman, to the ambassador.

“Ha!” exclaimed De Gondomar, glancing at the ring, and then regarding Jocelyn steadfastly, “I must speak with this young man, my lord.”

“And abandon the damsel?” demanded Lord Roos.

“No–no–you must take care of her,” De Gondomar replied in a low tone. “Can you not induce Lady Exeter to take her into her service?”

“I will try,” Lord Roos replied. “And see!” he added, pointing down the avenue, “the royal party is returning, so I can at once ascertain whether her ladyship will second your Excellency’s designs.”

“Do so,” said De Gondomar, “and I shall be for ever indebted to you. This girl has quite taken my fancy, and I must not lose her. And now, Sir,” he added, stepping aside with Jocelyn, “you have brought me the token from my assured agent, and I understand from it that you are a person upon whom I may rely.”

“In all that beseems a gentleman and a man of honour and loyalty your Excellency may rely on me,” Jocelyn replied.

“I shall require nothing inconsistent with those principles,” the Spanish Ambassador said. “This point disposed of, let me know how I can serve you, for I presume you have some request to prefer?”

“Your Excellency can very materially serve me,” Jocelyn returned. “I am in danger.”

“I thought as much,” De Gondomar observed with a smile. “Since you have placed yourself under my protection, I will do my best to hold you harmless. But who is your enemy?”

“I have two deadly enemies, Sir Giles Mompesson and Sir Francis Mitchell,” Jocelyn rejoined.

“I know them well–instruments of Buckingham,” said De Gondomar. “They are indeed dangerous enemies.”

“I have another yet more dangerous,” returned Jocelyn. “I have reason to fear that, by boldness of speech I have incurred the enmity of the Marquis of Buckingham himself.”

“Ah! this, indeed, is serious,” said De Gondomar.

“I am threatened with arrest by the Star-Chamber,” pursued Jocelyn; “so your Excellency will perceive that my position is fraught with extreme peril. Still I persuade myself, if I could obtain a hearing of the King, I should be able to set my enemies at defiance and obtain my right.”

De Gondomar smiled somewhat scornfully.

“You will obtain little in that way,” he said, “and your enemies will crush you effectually. But you must explain to me precisely how you are circumstanced, and I will then consider what can be done for you. And begin by acquainting me with your name and condition, for as yet I am entirely ignorant whom I am addressing.”

Upon this Jocelyn succinctly related to the Ambassador all such particulars of his history as have been laid before the reader. De Gondomar listened to him with attention, and put some questions to him as he proceeded. At its close his countenance brightened.

“You are in an awkward dilemma, it must be owned, Master Jocelyn Mounchensey,” he said. “But I think I can protect you in spite of them all–in spite of Buckingham himself. Luckily, he is not at Theobalds at present–so the coast is clear for action. The first blow is half the battle. I must present you to the King without delay. And see, his Majesty approaches. Stand close behind me, and act as I advise you by a sign.”

CHAPTER XX.

King James the First.

Meantime the royal cavalcade came slowly up the avenue. It was very numerous, and all the more brilliant in appearance, since it comprised nearly as many high-born dames as nobles. Amongst the distinguished foreigners who with their attendants swelled the party were the Venetian lieger-ambassador Giustiniano, and the Marquis de Tremouille, of the family des Ursins, ambassador from France.

These exalted personages rode close behind the King, and one or the other of them was constantly engaged in conversation with him. Giustiniano had one of those dark, grave, handsome countenances familiarized to us by the portraits of Titian and Tintoretto, and even the King’s jests failed in making him smile. He was apparelled entirely in black velvet, with a cloak bordered with the costly fur of the black fox. All his followers were similarly attired. The sombre Venetian presented a striking contrast to his vivacious companion, the gay and graceful De Tremouille, who glittered in white satin, embroidered with leaves of silver, while the same colour and the same ornaments were adopted by his retinue.

No order of precedence was observed by the court nobles. Each rode as he listed. Prince Charles was absent, and so was the supreme favourite Buckingham; but their places were supplied by some of the chief personages of the realm, including the Earls of Arundel, Pembroke, and Montgomery, the Marquis of Hamilton, and the Lords Haddington, Fenton, and Doncaster. Intermingled with the nobles, the courtiers of lesser rank, and the ambassadors’ followers, were the ladies, most of whom claimed attention from personal charms, rich attire, and the grace and skill with which they managed their horses.

Perhaps the most beautiful amongst them was the young Countess of Exeter, whose magnificent black eyes did great execution. The lovely Countess was mounted on a fiery Spanish barb, given to her by De Gondomar. Forced into a union with a gouty and decrepit old husband, the Countess of Exeter might have pleaded this circumstance in extenuation of some of her follies. It was undoubtedly an argument employed by her admirers, who, in endeavouring to shake her fidelity to her lord, told her it was an infamy that she should be sacrificed to such an old dotard as he. Whether these arguments prevailed in more cases than one we shall not inquire too nicely; but, if court-scandal may be relied on, they did–Buckingham and De Gondomar being both reputed to have been her lovers.

The last, however, in the list, and the one who appeared to be most passionately enamoured of the beautiful Countess, and to receive the largest share of her regard, was Lord Roos; and as this culpable attachment and its consequences connect themselves intimately with our history we have been obliged to advert to them thus particularly. Lord Roos was a near relative of the Earl of Exeter; and although the infirm and gouty old peer had been excessively jealous of his lovely young wife on former occasions, when she had appeared to trifle with his honour, he seemed perfectly easy and unsuspicious now, though there was infinitely more cause for distrust. Possibly he had too much reliance on Lord Roos’s good feelings and principles to suspect him.

Very different was Lady Roos’s conduct. This unhappy lady, whom we have already mentioned as the daughter of Sir Thomas Lake, Secretary of State, had the misfortune to be sincerely attached to her handsome but profligate husband, whose neglect and frequent irregularities she had pardoned, until the utter estrangement, occasioned by his passion for the Countess of Exeter, filled her with such trouble, that, overpowered at length by anguish, she complained to her mother Lady Lake,–an ambitious and imperious woman, whose vanity had prompted her to bring about this unfortunate match. Expressing the greatest indignation at the treatment her daughter had experienced, Lady Lake counselled her to resent it, undertaking herself to open the eyes of the injured Earl of Exeter to his wife’s infidelity; but she was dissuaded from her purpose by Sir Thomas Lake. Though generally governed by his wife, Sir Thomas succeeded, in this instance, in over-ruling her design of proceeding at once to extremities with the guilty pair, recommending that, in the first instance, Lord Roos should be strongly remonstrated with by Lady Lake and her daughter, when perhaps his fears might be aroused, if his sense of duty could not be awakened.

This final appeal had not yet been made; but an interview had taken place between Lady Roos and her husband, at which, with many passionate entreaties, she had implored him to shake off the thraldom in which he had bound himself, and to return to her, when all should be forgiven and forgotten,–but without effect.

Thus matters stood at present.

As we have seen, though the Countess of Exeter formed one of the chief ornaments of the hawking party, Lord Roos had not joined it; his absence being occasioned by a summons from the Conde de Gondomar, with some of whose political intrigues he was secretly mixed up. Whether the Countess missed him or not, we pretend not to say. All we are able to declare is, she was in high spirits, and seemed in no mood to check the advances of other aspirants to her favour. Her beautiful and expressive features beamed with constant smiles, and her lustrous black eyes seemed to create a flame wherever their beams alighted.

But we must quit this enchantress and her spells, and proceed with the description of the royal party. In the rear of those on horseback walked the falconers, in liveries of green cloth, with bugles hanging from the shoulder; each man having a hawk upon his fist, completely ‘tired in its hood, bells, varvels, and jesses. At the heels of the falconers, and accompanied by a throng of varlets, in russet jerkins, carrying staves, came two packs of hounds,–one used for what was termed, in the language of falconry, the Flight at the River,–these were all water-spaniels; and the other, for the Flight at the Field. Nice music they made, in spite of the efforts of the varlets in russet to keep them quiet.

Hawking, in those days, was what shooting is in the present; fowling-pieces being scarcely used, if at all. Thus the varieties of the hawk-tribe were not merely employed in the capture of pheasants, partridges, grouse, rails, quails, and other game, besides water-fowl, but in the chase of hares; and in all of these pursuits the falconers were assisted by dogs. Game, of course, could only be killed at particular seasons of the year; and wild-geese, wild-ducks, woodcocks, and snipes in the winter; but spring and summer pastime was afforded by the crane, the bustard, the heron, the rook, and the kite; while, at the same periods, some of the smaller description of water-fowl offered excellent sport on lake or river.

A striking and picturesque sight that cavalcade presented, with its nodding plumes of many colours, its glittering silks and velvets, its proud array of horsemen, and its still prouder array of lovely women, whose personal graces and charms baffle description, while they invite it. Pleasant were the sounds that accompanied the progress of the train: the jocund laugh, the musical voices of women, the jingling of bridles, the snorting and trampling of steeds, the baying of hounds, the shouts of the varlets, and the winding of horns.

But having, as yet, omitted the principal figure, we must hasten to describe him by whom the party was headed. The King, then, was mounted on a superb milk-white steed, with wide-flowing mane and tail, and of the easiest and gentlest pace. Its colour was set off by its red chanfrein, its nodding crest of red feathers, its broad poitrinal with red tassels, and its saddle with red housings. Though devoted to the chase, as we have shown, James was but an indifferent horseman; and his safety in the saddle was assured by such high-bolstered bows in front and at the back, that it seemed next to impossible he could be shaken out of them. Yet, in spite of all these precautions, accidents had befallen him. On one occasion, Sir Symonds D’Ewes relates that he was thrown headlong into a pond; and on another, we learn from a different source that he was cast over his horse’s head into the New River, and narrowly escaped drowning, his boots alone being visible above the ice covering the stream. Moreover the monarch’s attire was excessively stiff and cumbrous, and this, while it added to the natural ungainliness of his person, prevented all freedom of movement, especially on horseback. His doublet, which on the present occasion was of green velvet, considerably frayed,–for he was by no means particular about the newness of his apparel,–was padded and quilted so as to be dagger-proof; and his hose were stuffed in the same manner, and preposterously large about the hips. Then his ruff was triple-banded, and so stiffly starched, that the head was fixed immovably amidst its plaits.

Though not handsome, James’s features were thoughtful and intelligent, with a gleam of cunning in the eye, and an expression of sarcasm about the mouth, and they contained the type of the peculiar physiognomy that distinguished all his unfortunate line. His beard was of a yellowish brown, and scantily covered his chin, and his thin moustaches were of a yet lighter hue. His hair was beginning to turn gray, but his complexion was ruddy and hale, proving that, but for his constant ebriety and indulgence in the pleasures of the table, he might have attained a good old age–if, indeed, his life was not unfairly abridged. His large eyes were for ever rolling about, and his tongue was too big for his mouth, causing him to splutter in utterance, besides giving him a disagreeable appearance when eating; while his legs were so weak, that he required support in walking. Notwithstanding these defects, and his general coarseness of manner, James was not without dignity, and could, when he chose, assume a right royal air and deportment. But these occasions were rare. As is well known, his pedantry and his pretensions to superior wisdom and discrimination, procured him the title of the “Scottish Solomon.” His general character will be more fully developed as we proceed; and we shall show the perfidy and dissimulation which he practised in carrying out his schemes, and tried to soften down under the plausible appellation of “King-craft.”

James was never seen to greater advantage than on occasions like the present. His hearty enjoyment of the sport he was engaged in; his familiarity with all around him, even with the meanest varlets by whom he was attended, and for whom he had generally some droll nickname; his complete abandonment of all the etiquette which either he or his master of the ceremonies observed elsewhere; his good-tempered vanity and boasting about his skill as a woodsman,–all these things created an impression in his favour, which was not diminished in those who were not brought much into contact with him in other ways. When hunting or hawking, James was nothing more than a hearty country gentleman engaged in the like sports.

The cavalcade came leisurely on, for the King proceeded no faster than would allow the falconers to keep easily up with those on horseback. He was in high good humour, and laughed and jested sometimes with one ambassador, sometimes with the other, and having finished a learned discussion on the manner of fleeing a hawk at the river and on the field, as taught by the great French authorities, Martin, Malopin, and Aime Cassian, with the Marquis de Tremouille, had just begun a similar conversation with Giustiniano as to the Italian mode of manning, hooding, and reclaiming a falcon, as practised by Messer Francesco Sforzino Vicentino, when he caught sight of the Conde de Gondomar, standing where we left him at the side of the avenue, on which he came to a sudden halt, and the whole cavalcade stopped at the same time.

“Salud! Conde magnifico!” exclaimed King James, as the Spaniard advanced to make his obeisance to him; “how is it that we find you standing under the shade of the tree friendly to the vine,–_amictoe vitibus ulmi_ as Ovid hath it? Is it that yon blooming Chloe,” he continued, leering significantly at Gillian, “hath more attraction for you than our court dames? Troth! the quean is not ill-favoured; but ye ha’ lost a gude day’s sport, Count, forbye ither losses which we sall na particularize. We hae had a noble flight at the heron, and anither just as guid after the bustard. God’s santy! the run the lang-leggit loon gave us. Lady Exeter, on her braw Spanish barb–we ken whose gift it is–was the only one able to keep with us; and it was her leddyship’s ain peregrine falcon that checked the fleeing carle at last. By our faith the Countess understands the gentle science weel. She cared not to soil her dainty gloves by rewarding her hawk with a _soppa_, as his Excellency Giustiniano would term it, of the bustard’s heart, bluid, and brains. But wha hae ye gotten wi’ ye?” he added, for the first time noticing Jocelyn.

“A young gentleman in whom I am much interested, and whom I would crave permission to present to your Majesty,” replied De Gondomar.

“Saul of our body, Count, the permission is readily granted,” replied James, evidently much pleased with the young man’s appearance. “Ye shall bring him to us in the privy-chamber before we gang to supper, and moreover ye shall hae full licence to advance what you please in his behoof. He is a weel-grown, weel-favoured laddie, almost as much sae as our ain dear dog Steenie; but we wad say to him, in the words of the Roman bard,

‘O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori!’

Gude pairts are better than gude looks; not that the latter are to be undervalued, but baith should exist in the same person. We shall soon discover whether the young man hath been weel nurtured, and if all correspond we shall not refuse him the light of our countenance.”

“I tender your Majesty thanks for the favour you have conferred upon him,” replied De Gondomar.

“But ye have not yet tauld us the youth’s name, Count?” said the King.

“Your Majesty, I trust, will not think I make a mystery where none is needed, if I say that my protege claims your gracious permission to preserve, for the moment, his incognito,” De Gondomar replied. “When I present him of course his name will be declared.”

“Be it as you will, Count,” James replied. “We ken fu’ weel ye hae gude reason for a’ ye do. Fail not in your attendance on us at the time appointed.”

As De Gondomar with a profound obeisance drew back, the King put his steed in motion. General attention having been thus called to Jocelyn, all eyes were turned towards him, his appearance and attire were criticised, and much speculation ensued as to what could be the Spanish Ambassador’s motive for undertaking the presentation.

Meanwhile, Lord Roos had taken advantage of the brief halt of the hunting party to approach the Countess of Exeter, and pointing out Gillian to her, inquired in a low tone, and in a few words, to which, however, his looks imparted significance, whether she would take the pretty damsel into her service as tire-woman or handmaiden. The Countess seemed surprised at the request, and, after glancing at the Beauty of Tottenham, was about to refuse it, when Lord Roos urged in a whisper, “‘T is for De Gondomar I ask the favour.”

“In that case I readily assent,” the Countess replied. “I will go speak to the damsel at once, if you desire it. How pretty she is! No wonder his inflammable Excellency should be smitten by her.” And detaching her barb, as she spoke, from the cavalcade, she moved towards Gillian, accompanied by Lord Roos. The pretty damsel was covered with fresh confusion at the great lady’s approach; and was, indeed, so greatly alarmed, that she might have taken to her heels, if she had been on the ground, and not on the pillion behind her grandsire.

“Be not abashed, my pretty maiden,” the Countess said, in a kind and encouraging tone; “there is nothing to be afraid of. Aware that I am in want of a damsel like yourself, to tire my hair and attend upon me, Lord Roos has drawn my attention to you; and if I may trust to appearances–as I think I may,” she added, with a very flattering and persuasive smile, “in your case–you are the very person to suit me, provided you are willing to enter my service. I am the Countess of Exeter.”

“A Countess!” exclaimed Gillian. “Do you hear that, grandsire? The beautiful lady is a countess. What an honour it would be to serve her!”

“It might be,” the old man replied, with hesitation, and in a whisper; “yet I do not exactly like the manner of it.”

“Don’t accept the offer, Gillian. Don’t go,” said Dick Taverner, whose breast was full of uneasiness.

“Your answer, my pretty maiden?” the Countess said, with a winning smile.

“I am much beholden to you, my lady,” Gillian replied, “and it will delight me to serve you as you propose–that is, if I have my grandsire’s consent to it.”

“And the good man, I am sure, has your welfare too much at heart to withhold it,” the Countess replied. “But follow me to the palace, and we will confer further upon the matter. Inquire for the Countess of Exeter’s apartments.” And with another gracious smile, she rejoined the cavalcade, leaving Lord Roos behind. He thanked her with a look for her complaisance.

“O Gillian, I am sure ill will come of this,” Dick Taverner exclaimed.

“Wherefore should it?” she rejoined, almost beside herself with delight at the brilliant prospect suddenly opened before her. “My fortune is made.”

“You are right, my pretty damsel, it is,” Lord Roos remarked. “Fail not to do as the Countess has directed you, and I will answer for the rest.”

“You hear what the kind young nobleman says, grandsire?” Gillian whispered in his ear. “You cannot doubt his assurance?”

“I hear it all,” old Greenford replied; “but I know not what to think. I suppose we must go to the palace.”

“To be sure we must,” Gillian cried; “I will go there alone, if you will not go with me.”

Satisfied with what he had heard, Lord Roos moved away, nodding approval at Gillian.

The cavalcade, as we have said, was once more in motion, but before it had proceeded far, it was again, most unexpectedly, brought to a halt.

Suddenly stepping from behind a large tree which had concealed him from view, a man in military habiliments, with grizzled hair and beard, and an exceedingly resolute and stern cast of countenance, planted himself directly in the monarch’s path, and extending his hand towards him, exclaimed, in a loud voice,

“Stand! O King!”

“Who art thou, fellow? and what wouldst thou?” demanded James, who had checked his horse with such suddenness as almost to throw himself out of his high-holstered saddle.

“I have a message to deliver to thee from Heaven,” replied Hugh Calveley.

“Aha!” exclaimed James, recovering in some degree, for he thought he had a madman to deal with. “What may thy message be?”

And willing to gain a character for courage, though it was wholly foreign to his nature, he motioned those around him to keep back. “Thy message, fellow!” he repeated.

“Hear, then, what Heaven saith to thee,” the Puritan replied. “Have I not brought thee out of a land of famine into a land of plenty? Thou oughtest, therefore, to have judged my people righteously! But thou hast perverted justice, and not relieved the oppressed. Therefore, unless thou repent, I will rend thy kingdom from thee, and from thy posterity after thee! Thus saith the Lord, whose messenger I am.”

CHAPTER XXI.

Consequences of the Puritan’s warning.

Coupling Hugh Calveley’s present strange appearance and solemn warning with his previous denunciations uttered in secret, and his intimations of some dread design, with which he had sought to connect the young man himself, intimating that its execution would jeopardize his life; putting these things together, we say, Jocelyn could not for an instant doubt that the King was in imminent danger, and he felt called upon to interfere, even though he should be compelled to act against his father’s friend, and the father of Aveline. No alternative, in fact, was allowed him. As a loyal subject, his duty imperiously required him to defend his sovereign; and perceiving that no one (in consequence of the King’s injunctions) advanced towards the Puritan, Jocelyn hastily quitted the Conde de Gondomar, and rushing forward stationed himself between the monarch and his bold admonisher; and so near to the latter, that he could easily prevent any attack being made by him upon James.

Evidently disconcerted by the movement, Hugh Calveley signed to the young man to stand aside, but Jocelyn refused compliance; the rather that he suspected from the manner in which the other placed his hand in his breast that he had some weapon concealed about his person. Casting a look of bitterest reproach at him, which plainly as words said–“Ungrateful boy, thou hast prevented my purpose,” the Puritan folded his hands upon his breast with an air of deep disappointment.

“Fly!” cried Jocelyn, in a tone calculated only to reach his ears. “I will defend you with my life. Waste not another moment–fly!”

But Hugh Calveley regarded him with cold disdain, and though he moved not his lips, he seemed to say, “You have destroyed me; and I will not remove the guilt of my destruction from your head.”

The Puritan’s language and manner had filled James with astonishment and fresh alarm; but feeling secure in the propinquity of Jocelyn to the object of his uneasiness, and being closely environed by his retinue, the foremost of whom had drawn their swords and held themselves in readiness to defend him from the slightest hostile attempt, it was not unnatural that even so timorous a person as he, should regain his confidence. Once more, therefore, he restrained by his gestures the angry impetuosity of the nobles around him, who were burning to chastise the rash intruder, and signified his intention of questioning him before any measures were adopted against him.

“Let him be,” he cried. “He is some puir demented creature fitter for Bedlam than anywhere else; and we will see that he be sent thither; but molest him not till we hae spoken wi’ him, and certified his condition more fully. Quit not the position ye hae sae judiciously occupied, young Sir, albeit against our orders,” he cried to Jocelyn. “Dinna draw your blade unless the fellow seeks to come till us. Not that we are under ony apprehension; but there are bluidthirsty traitors even in our pacific territories, and as this may be ane of them, it is weel not to neglect due precaution. And now, man,” he added, raising his voice, and addressing the Puritan, who still maintained a steadfast and unmoved demeanour, with his eye constantly fixed upon his interrogator. “Ye say ye are a messenger frae heaven. An it be sae,–whilk we take leave to doubt, rather conceiving ye to be an envoy from the Prince of Darkness than an ambassador from above,–an ill choice hath been made in ye. Unto what order of prophets do ye conceive yourself to belong?”

To this interrogation, propounded in a jeering tone, the Puritan deigned no reply; but an answer was given for him by Archee, the court jester, who had managed in the confusion to creep up to his royal master’s side.

“He belongs to the order of Melchisedec,” said Archee. A reply that occasioned some laughter among the nobles, in which the King joined heartily.

“Tut, fule! ye are as daft as the puir body before us,” cried James. “Ken ye not that Melchisedec was a priest and not a prophet; while to judge frae yon fellow’s abulyiements, if he belongs to any church at all, it maun be to the church militant. And yet, aiblins, ye are na sae far out after a’. Like aneuch, he may be infected with the heresy of the Melchisedecians,–a pestilent sect, who plagued the early Christian Church sairly, placing their master aboon our Blessed Lord himself, and holding him to be identical wi’ the Holy Ghaist. Are ye a Melchisedecian, sirrah?”

“I am a believer in the Gospel,” the Puritan replied. “And am willing to seal my faith in it with my blood. I am sent hither to warn thee, O King, and thou wilt do well not to despise my words. Repent ere it be too late. Wonderfully hath thy life been preserved. Dedicate the remainder of thy days to the service of the Most High. Persecute not His people, and revile them not. Purge thy City of its uncleanness and idolatry, and thy Court of its corruption. Profane not the Sabbath”–

“I see how it is,” interrupted Archee with a scream; “the man hath been driven stark wud by your Majesty’s Book of Sports.”

“A book devised by the devil,” cried Hugh Calveley, catching at the suggestion; “and which ought to be publicly burnt by the hangman, instead of being read in the churches. How much, mischief hath that book done! How many abominations hath it occasioned! And, alas! how much persecution hath it caused; for have not many just men, and sincere preachers of the Word, been prosecuted in thy Court, misnamed of justice, and known, O King! as the Star-Chamber; suffering stripes and imprisonment for refusing to read thy mischievous proclamation to their flocks.”

“I knew it!–I knew it!” screamed Archee, delighted with the effect he had produced. “Take heed, sirrah,” he cried to the Puritan, “that ye make not acquaintance wi’ ‘that Court misnamed of justice’ yer ain sell.”

“He is liker to be arraigned at our court styled the King’s Bench, and hanged, drawn, and quartered afterwards,” roared James, far more enraged at the disrespectful mention made of his manifesto, than by anything that had previously occurred. “The man is not sae doited as we supposed him.”

“He is not sane enough to keep his neck from the halter,” rejoined Archee. “Your Majesty should spare him, since you are indirectly the cause of his malady.”

“Intercede not for me,” cried Hugh Calveley. “I would not accept any grace at the tyrant’s hands. Let him hew me in pieces, and my blood shall cry out for vengeance upon his head.”

“By our halidame! a dangerous traitor!” exclaimed James.

“Hear me, O King!” thundered the Puritan. “For the third and last time I lift up my voice to warn thee. Visions have appeared to me in the night, and mysterious voices have whispered in mine ear. They have revealed to me strange and terrible things–but not more strange and terrible than true. They have told me how thy posterity shall suffer for the injustice thou doest to thy people. They have shown me a scaffold which a King shall mount–and a block whereon a royal head shall be laid. But it shall be better for that unfortunate monarch, though he be brought to judgment by his people, than for him who shall be brought to judgment by his God. Yet more. I have seen in my visions two Kings in exile: one of whom shall be recalled, but the other shall die in a foreign land. As to thee, thou mayst live on yet awhile in fancied security. But destruction shall suddenly overtake thee. Thou shalt be stung to death by the serpent thou nourishest in thy bosom.”

Whatever credit might be attached to them, the Puritan’s prophetic forebodings produced, from the manner in which they were delivered, a strong impression upon all his auditors. Unquestionably the man was in earnest, and spoke like one who believed that a mission had been entrusted to him. No interruption was offered to his speech, even by the King, though the latter turned pale as these terrible coming events were shadowed forth before him.

“His words are awsome,” he muttered, “and gar the flesh creep on our banes. Will nane o’ ye stap his tongue?”

“Better hae stapt it afore this,” said Archee; “he has said ower meikle, or not aneuch, The Deil’s malison on thee, fellow, for a prophet of ill! Hast thou aught to allege why his Majesty should not tuck thee up with a halter?”

“I have spoken,” responded the Puritan; “let the King do with me what he lists.”

“Seize him! arrest him! ye are nearest to him, Sir,” shouted the king to Jocelyn.

The command could not be disobeyed. As Jocelyn drew near, and laid his hand upon Hugh Calveley, the latter looked reproachfully at him, saying, “Thou doest well, son of my old friend.”

Jocelyn was unable to reply, for a crowd now pressed forward on all sides, completely surrounding the prisoner. Some of the nobles threatened him with their swords, and the warders, who had come up from the gateway, thrust at him with their partizans. Jocelyn had great difficulty in shielding him from the infuriated throng.

“Touch him not!” he cried, clearing a space around them with the point of his sword. “His Majesty has committed him to my custody, and I am responsible for him. Pardon me if I disarm you, Sir,” he added in an undertone to the prisoner.

“Here is my sword,” replied Hugh Calveley, unbuckling his belt and delivering up the weapon it sustained to Jocelyn; “it hath never been dishonoured, and,” he added, lowering his voice, “it hath been twice drawn in thy father’s defence.”

The reproach cut Jocelyn to the heart.

At this moment the crowd drew aside to allow the King’s approach.

“Hath he been searched to see whether any deadly or offensive weapon is concealed about him?” demanded James.

“He cannot have any more offensive weapon than his tongue,” cried Archee, who accompanied his royal master. “I counsel your Majesty to deprive him of that.”

“There is something hidden in his breast,” cried one of the warders, searching in his jerkin, and at length drawing forth a short, clumsy pistol, or dag, as the weapon was then called. “It is loaded, an please your Majesty,” the man continued, after examining it.

Exclamations of horror arose from those around, and Jocelyn had again some difficulty in protecting the prisoner from their fury.

“A dag!” ejaculated James, “a loaded dag, crammed to the muzzle wi’ bullets, nae doubt. Haud it down, man! haud it down! it may fire off of itsel’, and accomplish the villain’s murtherous and sacrilegious design. And sae this was to be the instrument of our destruction! Dost thou confess thy guilt, thou bluid-thirsty traitor, or shall the torture force the truth from thee?”

“The torture will force nothing from me,” replied Hugh Calveley. “But I tell thee, tyrant, that I would have slain thee, had not my hand been stayed.”

“Heard ye ever the like o’ that?” exclaimed James, his ruddy cheek blanched with fright, and his voice quavering. “Why, he exceedeth in audacity the arch-traitor Fawkes himsel’. And what stayed thy hand, villain?” he demanded,–“what stayed thy hand, thou blood-thirsty traitor?”

“The presence of this youth, Jocelyn Mounchensey,” rejoined Hugh Calveley. “Had he not come between us when he did, and checked my purpose, I had delivered my country from oppression. I told thee, tyrant, thou hadst been marvellously preserved. Thy preserver stands before thee.”

“Heaven defend us!” exclaimed James, trembling. “What an escape we hae had. There hath been a special interposition o’ Providence in our behoof. Our gratitude is due to Him who watcheth ower us.”

“And in some degree to him who hath been made the instrument of your Majesty’s preservation,” observed the Conde de Gondomar, who formed one of the group near the King. “Since the foul traitor hath proclaimed the name of my young protege”, there can be no need for further concealment. Master Jocelyn Mounchensey hath been singularly fortunate in rendering your Majesty a service, and may for ever congratulate himself on his share–accidental though it be–in this affair.”

“By my halidame! he shall have reason for congratulation,” cried James, graciously regarding the young man.

“Ay, let him rise by my fall. ‘Tis meet he should,” cried the Puritan, bitterly. “Shower thy honours upon him, tyrant. Give him wealth and titles. I could not wish him worse misfortune than thy favour.”

“Hold thy scurril tongue, villain, or it shall be torn out by the roots,” said James. “Thou shalt see that I can as promptly reward those that serve me, as thou shalt presently feel I can severely punish those that seek to injure me. Hark ye, Count!” he added to the Spanish Ambassador, while those around drew back a little, seeing it was his Majesty’s pleasure to confer with him in private, “this youth–this Jocelyn Mounchensey, hath gentle bluid in his veins?–he comes of a good stock, ha?”

“He is the representative of an old Norfolk family,” De Gondomar replied.

“What! the son of Sir Ferdinando?” demanded James, a shade crossing his countenance, which did not escape the wily ambassador’s notice.

“You have guessed right, Sire,” he said. “This is Sir Ferdinando’s son; and, if I may be permitted to say so, your Majesty owes him some reparation for the wrongs done his father.”

“How! Count!” exclaimed James, with a look of slight displeasure. “Do you venture to question our judgments on hearsay–for ye can know naething o’ your ain knowledge?”

“I know enough to be satisfied that misrepresentations were made to your Majesty respecting this young man’s father,” De Gondomar replied; “for I am well assured that if you ever erred at all, it must have been through ignorance, and want of due information. This was what I designed to explain more fully than I can well do now, when I availed myself of your Majesty’s gracious permission to bring the young man into your presence; and I should then have taken leave to express how much he merited your Majesty’s favour and protection. Fortune, however, has outrun my wishes, and given him a stronger claim upon you than any I could urge.”

“Ye are right, Count,” rejoined James cautiously. “He hath the strongest claim upon us, and he shall not find us ungrateful. We will confer wi’ Steenie–wi’ Buckingham, we mean–about him.”

“Pardon me, Sire,” said De Gondomar, “if I venture to suggest that your Majesty hath an admirable opportunity, which I should be sorry to see neglected, of showing your goodness and clemency, and silencing for ever the voice of calumny, which will sometimes be raised against you.”

“What mean ye, Count?” cried James. “Ye wad na hae me pardon yon traitor?”

“Most assuredly not, Sire,” De Gondomar rejoined. “But I would urge some present mark of favour for him who hath saved you from the traitor’s fell designs. And I am emboldened to ask this, because I feel assured it must be consonant to your Majesty’s own inclinations to grant the request.”

“It is sae, Count,” rejoined James. “We only desired to consult wi’ Buckingham to ascertain whether he had ony objections; but as this is altogether unlikely, we will follow our ain inclinations and do as your Excellency suggests.”

De Gondomar could scarcely conceal his satisfaction.

At this moment Lord Roos pressed towards the King.

“I have something to say in reference to this young man, my liege,” he cried.

“In his favour?” demanded the King.

“Yes, yes; in his favour, Sire,” said De Gondomar, looking hard at the young nobleman. “You need not trouble his Majesty further, my lord. He is graciously pleased to accede to our wishes.”

“Ay, ay; nae mair need be said,” cried James. “Let the young man stand forward.”

And as Jocelyn obeyed the injunction which was immediately communicated to him by De Gondomar, the King bade him kneel down, and taking Lord Roos’s sword, touched him with it upon the shoulder, exclaiming, “Arise! Sir Jocelyn.”

“You are safe now,” whispered De Gondomar. “This is the first blow, and it has been well struck.”

So confused was the new-made knight by the honour thus unexpectedly conferred upon him, that when he rose to his feet he could scarcely command himself sufficiently to make the needful obeisance, and tender thanks to the King. For a moment, his brow was flushed with pride, and his breast beat high; but the emotions were instantly checked, as he thought how the title had been purchased. Looking towards the prisoner, he beheld him in the hands of the warders, to whose custody he had been committed, with his arms bound behind him by thongs. His gaze had never quitted the young man during the ceremony which had just taken place, and he still regarded him sternly and reproachfully.

“Let the prisoner be removed, and kept in a place of safety till our pleasure respecting him be made known,” cried James. “And now, my lords and ladies, let us forward to the palace.”

And the cavalcade was once more put in motion, and passing through the great gateway entered the Fountain Court, where the nobility of both sexes dismounted, while their attendants and the falconers and varlets passed off to the offices.

The prisoner was conveyed to the porter’s lodge, and strictly guarded, till some secure chamber could be prepared for him. On the way thither Jocelyn contrived to approach him, and to say in a low tone–“Can I do aught for Aveline?”

“Concern not yourself about her, _Sir_ Jocelyn,” rejoined Hugh Calveley, with stern contempt. “She is in a place of safety. You will never behold her more.”

CHAPTER XXII.

Wife and Mother-in-Law.

Quick steps descended the narrow staircase–steps so light and cautious that they made no sound. Before drawing aside the arras that covered the secret entrance to the chamber, the lady paused to listen; and hearing nothing to alarm her, she softly raised a corner of the woof and looked in.

What did she behold? A young man seated beside a carved oak table, with his back towards her. He was reading a letter, the contents of which seemed greatly to disturb him, for he more than once dashed it aside, and then compelled himself to resume its perusal. No one else was in the room, which was spacious and lofty, though somewhat sombre, being wholly furnished with dark oak; while the walls were hung with ancient tapestry. Heavy curtains were drawn before the deep bay windows, increasing the gloom. The chamber was lighted by a brass lamp suspended from the moulded ceiling, the ribs of which were painted, and the bosses, at the intersections, gilded. Near the concealed entrance where the lady stood was placed a large curiously-carved ebony cabinet, against which leaned a suit of tilting armour and a lance; while on its summit were laid a morion, a brigandine, greaves, gauntlets, and other pieces of armour. On the right of the cabinet the tapestry was looped aside, disclosing a short flight of steps, terminated by the door of an anti-chamber.

Almost as the lady set foot within the room, which she did after a brief deliberation, dropping the arras noiselessly behind her, the young man arose. Her entrance had not been perceived, so violently was he agitated. Crushing the letter which had excited him so much between his fingers, and casting it furiously from him, he gave vent to an incoherent expression of rage. Though naturally extremely handsome, his features at this moment were so distorted by passion that they looked almost hideous. In person he was slight and finely-formed; and the richness of his attire proclaimed him of rank.

The lady who, unperceived, had witnessed his violent emotion was remarkably beautiful. Her figure was superb; and she had the whitest neck and arms imaginable, and the smallest and most delicately-formed hands. Her features derived something of haughtiness from a slightly aquiline nose and a short curled upper lip. Her eyes were magnificent–large, dark, and almost Oriental in shape and splendour. Jetty brows, and thick, lustrous, raven hair, completed the catalogue of her charms. Her dress was of white brocade, over which she wore a loose robe of violet-coloured velvet, with open hanging sleeves, well calculated to display the polished beauty of her arms. Her ruff was of point lace, and round her throat she wore a carcanet of pearls, while other precious stones glistened in her dusky tresses.

This beautiful dame, whose proud lips were now more compressed than usual, and whose dark eyes emitted fierce rays–very different from their customary tender and voluptuous glances–was the Countess of Exeter. He whom she looked upon was Lord Roos, and the chamber she had just entered was the one assigned to the young nobleman in the Palace of Theobalds.

She watched him for some time with curiosity. At length his rage found vent in words.

“Perdition seize them both!” he exclaimed, smiting his forehead with his clenched hand. “Was ever man cursed with wife and mother-in-law like mine! They will, perforce, drive me to desperate measures, which I would willingly avoid; but if nothing else will keep them quiet, the grave must. Ay, the grave,” he repeated in a hollow voice; “it is not my fault if I am compelled to send them thither. Fools to torment me thus!”

Feeling she had heard more than she ought, the Countess would have retired; but as retreat might have betrayed her, she deemed it better to announce her presence by saying,

“You are not alone, my Lord.”

Startled by her voice, Lord Roos instantly turned, and regarded her with haggard looks.

“You here, Frances?” he exclaimed; “I did not expect you so soon.”

“I came before the hour, because–but you seem greatly agitated. Has anything happened?”

“Little more than what happens daily,” he replied. “And yet it _is_ more; for the crisis has arrived, and a fearful crisis it is. O, Frances!” he continued vehemently, “how dear you are to me. To preserve your love I would dare everything, even my soul’s welfare. I would hesitate at no crime to keep you ever near me. Let those beware who would force you from me.”

“What means this passion, my Lord?” inquired the Countess.

“It means that since there are those who will mar our happiness; who, jealous of our loves, will utterly blight and destroy them; who will tear us forcibly asunder, recking little of the anguish they occasion: since we have enemies who will do this; who will mortally wound us–let us no longer hesitate, but strike the first blow. We must rid ourselves of them at any cost, and in any way.”

“I will not affect to misunderstand you, my Lord,” the Countess replied, her beautiful features beginning to exhibit traces of terror. “But has it arrived at this point? Is the danger imminent and inevitable?”

“Imminent, but not inevitable,” Lord Roos rejoined. “It _can_ be avoided, as I have hinted, in one way, and in one way only. There is a letter I have just received from my wife; wherein, after her usual upbraidings, remonstrances, and entreaties, she concludes by saying, that if I continue deaf to her prayers, and refuse to break off entirely with you, and return to her, our ‘criminal attachment,’–for so she terms our love–should be divulged to the deluded Earl of Exeter, who will know how to redress her wrongs, and avenge his own injured honour. What answer, save one, can be returned to that letter, Frances? If we set her at defiance, as we have hitherto done, she will act, for she is goaded on by that fury, her mother. We must gain a little time, in order that the difficulties now besetting us may be effectually removed.”

“I shudder to think of it, William,” said the Countess, trembling and turning deathly pale. “No; it must not be. Rather than such a crime should be committed, I will comply with their demand.”

“And leave me?” cried Lord Roos, bitterly. “Frances, your affection is not equal to mine, or you could not entertain such a thought for a moment. You almost make me suspect,” he added, sternly, “that you have transferred your love to another. Ah! beware! beware! I am not to be trifled with, like your husband.”

“I forgive you the doubt, my Lord–unjust though it be–because your mind is disturbed; but were you calm enough to view the matter as it really is, you would perceive that my resolution has nothing in it inconsistent with affection for you; but rather that my very love for you compels me to the step. What _I_ propose is best for both of us. The remedy you suggest would work our ruin here and hereafter; would drive us from society, and render us hateful to each other. My soul revolts at it. And though I myself have received a mortal affront from your wife’s mother, Lady Lake; though she has poured forth all the malice of which she is capable upon my devoted head; yet I would rather forgive her–rather sue for pity from her than go the fearful length you propose. No, William. The pang of parting from you will indeed be terrible, but it must be endured. Fate wills it so, and it is therefore useless to struggle against it.”

“O, recall those words, Frances!” cried the young nobleman, throwing himself at her feet, and clasping her hands passionately. “Recall them, I implore’ of you. In uttering them you pronounce my doom–a doom more dreadful than death, which would be light in comparison with losing you. Plunge this sword to my heart,” he exclaimed, plucking the shining weapon from his side, and presenting it to her. “Free me from my misery at once, but do not condemn me to lingering agony.”

“Rise, William! rise, I pray of you,” ejaculated the Countess, overcome by the intensity of his emotion, “and put up your sword. The love you display for me deserves an adequate return, and it shall meet it. Come what will, I will not leave you. But, O! let us not plunge deeper in guilt if it can be avoided.”

“But how _can_ it be avoided?” cried Lord Roos. “Will _they_ listen to our prayers? Will _they_ pity us? Will _they_ hesitate at our destruction?”

“I know not–I know not,” replied the Countess, bewildered; “but I stand appalled before the magnitude of the offence.”

“They will _not_ spare us,” pursued Lord Roos; “and therefore we cannot spare them.”

“In my turn I bend to you, William,” said the Countess, sinking on her knee before him, and taking his hand. “By the love you bear me, I beseech you not to harm your wife! We have wronged her deeply–let us not have her death to answer for. If the blow _must_ fall, let it be upon the mother’s head. I have less compassion for her.”

“Lady Lake deserves no compassion,” replied Lord Roos, raising the Countess, and embracing her tenderly, “for she is the cause of all this mischief. It is to her agency we owe the storm which threatens us with ruin. But things have gone too far now to show compunction for either of them. Our security demands that both should be removed.”

“I may now say as you have just said, William, and with, far greater reason,” cried the Countess, “that you love me not, or you would not refuse my request.”

“How can I comply with it?” he rejoined. “Nothing were done, if only partly done. Know you the charge that Lady Roos means to bring against you? Though alike false and improbable, it is one to find easy credence with the King; and it has been framed with that view. You will understand this, when I tell you what it is. In this letter,” he added, picking up the paper he had thrown down, and unfolding it, “she accuses you of practising sorcery to enslave my affections. She declares you have bewitched me; and that she has proof of the manner in which it was done, and of the sinful compact you have entered into for the purpose.”

“O William! this is false–utterly false!” exclaimed the Countess, in despair.

“I know it,” he rejoined. “You have no need to practise other enchantments with me than those you possess by nature. But what I tell you will show you the extent of their malice, and steel your heart, as it hath already steeled mine, against them.”

“But this accusation is too monstrous. It will not be believed,” cried the Countess.

“Monstrous as it is, it is more likely to be believed–more certain to be maintained–than the other which they lay at our door. We may deny all their assertions; may intimidate or give the lie to the witnesses they may produce against us; may stamp as forgeries your letters which have unluckily fallen into their hands; but if this charge of witchcraft be once brought against you, it will not fall to the ground. The King will listen to it, because it flatters his prejudices; and even my voice would fail to save you from condemnation–from the stake.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Lady Exeter spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to exclude some dreadful object. “O to live in an age when such enormities can be perpetrated! when such frightful weapons can be used against the innocent–for I _am_ innocent, at least of this offence. All seems against me; all doors of escape–save _one_–closed. And whither does that door lead? To the Bottomless Pit, if there be truth in aught we are told by Heaven.”

Lord Roos seemed unable or unwilling to reply; and a deep pause ensued for a few moments, during which the guilty pair shunned each other’s regards. It was broken at length by Lady Exeter, who said, reproachfully, “You should have burnt my letters, William. Without them, they would have had no evidence against me. Imprudent that you were, you have destroyed me!”

“Reproach me not, Prances,” he rejoined. “I admit my imprudence, and blame myself severely for it. But I could not part with a line I had received from you. I inclosed the letters in a little coffer, which I deposited in a secret drawer of that cabinet, as in a place of perfect safety. The coffer and its contents mysteriously disappeared. How it was purloined I cannot inform you.”

“Do your suspicions alight on no one?” she inquired.

“They have fallen on several; but I have no certainty that I have been right in any instance,” he replied. “That I have some spy near me, I am well aware; and if I detect him, he shall pay for his perfidy with his life.”

“Hist!” cried Lady Exeter. “Did you not hear a noise?”

“No,” he rejoined. “Where?”

She pointed to the little passage leading to the ante-chamber. He instantly went thither, and examined the place, but without discovering any listener.

“There is no one,” he said, as he returned. “No one, in fact, could have obtained admittance without my knowledge, for my Spanish servant, Diego, in whom I can place full confidence, is stationed without.”

“I distrust that man, William,” she observed. “When I asked whom you thought had removed the letters, my own suspicions had attached to him.”

“I do not think he would have done it,” Lord Roos replied. “He has ever served me faithfully; and, besides, I have a guarantee for his fidelity in the possession of a secret on which his own life hangs. I can dispose of him as I please.”

“Again that sound!” exclaimed the Countess. “I am sure some one is there.”

“Your ears have deceived you,” said the young nobleman, after examining the spot once more, and likewise the secret entrance by which the Countess had approached the chamber. “I heard nothing, and can find nothing. Your nerves are shaken, and make you fanciful.”

“It may be so,” she rejoined. But it was evident she was not convinced, for she lowered her tones almost to a whisper as she continued. It might be that the question she designed to put was one she dared not ask aloud. “What means do you purpose to employ in the execution of your design?”

“The same as those employed by Somerset and his Countess in the removal of Sir Thomas Overbury; but more expeditious and more certain,” he replied under his breath.

“Dreadful!” she exclaimed, with a shudder. “But the same judgment that overtook the Somersets may overtake us. Such crimes are never hidden.”

“Crimes fouler than theirs have never been brought to light, and never will. There was one in which Somerset himself was concerned, involving the destruction of a far higher personage than Overbury; and this dare not even be hinted at.”

“Because the greatest person in the land was connected with it,” returned the Countess, “I conclude you refer to the death of Prince Henry?”

“I do,” answered Lord Roos. “Somerset would never have been questioned about Overbury, if his fall had not been resolved upon by the King.”

“One other question, and I ask no more,” said the Countess, scarcely able to syllable her words. “Who is to administer the deadly draught?”

“Luke Hatton, Lady Lake’s apothecary. He is a creature of mine, and entirely devoted to me.”

“Our lives will be in his hands ever afterwards,” said the Countess, in a deep whisper.

“They will be in safe keeping,” he rejoined, endeavouring to reassure her.

“O, William! I would I could prevail upon you to defer this project.”

“To what end? The sooner it is done the better. It cannot, indeed, be deferred. I shall send for Luke Hatton to-night.”

At this announcement, the Countess, who had gradually been growing fainter and becoming paler, lost all power of supporting herself, and, uttering a cry, fell into his outstretched arms in a state of complete insensibility.

While Lord Roos, half distracted, was considering what means he could adopt for her restoration, a man, with an almost tawny complexion, hair and eyes to match, and habited in the young nobleman’s livery of crimson and white, suddenly entered from the ante-chamber.

“How dare you come in unsummoned, Diego?” cried Lord Roos, furiously. “Begone instantly, sirrah!”.

“I crave your lordship’s pardon,” replied the Spanish servant; “but I was obliged to apprise you that your wife, the Baroness Roos, and Lady Lake are without, and will not be denied admission.”

“Damnation!” exclaimed Lord Roos. “What brings them here at such an hour? But you must on no account admit them, Diego–at least, till I have had time to remove the Countess to her own chamber. What a cursed mischance!”

Diego instantly withdrew, apparently to obey his lord’s command; but he had scarcely entered the little passage when two ladies pushed past him, and made their way into the room. They arrived just in time to intercept Lord Roos, who was conveying his insensible burthen towards the secret staircase.

The young nobleman was as much confounded by their appearance as if two spectres had risen before him. Both ladies were very richly attired, and the younger of the two was by no means destitute of beauty, though of a pale and pensive character. The elder had a full, noble figure, haughty features, now lighted up with a smile of triumph as she gazed on Lord Roos. Very different was the expression of the other, who seemed so much grieved and agitated by what she beheld, as to be almost ready to lapse into the same condition as the Countess.

If Lord Roos could have seen the grin upon Diego’s swarthy visage, as he stood at the entrance of the passage leading to the ante-chamber, he would have had little doubt to whom he was indebted for this surprise.

It is needless to say that the ladies who had thus broken upon Lord Roos’s privacy, and obtained full confirmation of their suspicions (if they had any doubts remaining) were his wife and mother-in-law.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The Tress of Hair.

How to extricate himself from the dilemma in which he was placed, Lord Roos scarcely knew. But he had a good deal of self-possession, and it did not desert him on the present trying occasion. After such consideration as circumstances permitted, he could discern only one chance of escape, and though well-nigh hopeless, he resolved to adopt it. If consummate audacity could carry him through–and it was required in the present emergency–he had no lack of it.

Hitherto, not a word had passed between him and the intruders on his privacy. Lady Lake seemed to enjoy his confusion too much to do anything to relieve it, and his wife was obliged to regulate her movements by those of her mother. Without breaking the silence, which by this time had become painfully oppressive, he proceeded to deposit the still inanimate person of the Countess of Exeter upon a couch, and, casting a handkerchief, as if undesignedly, over her face, he marched quickly up to the spot where Diego was standing, and said to him, in a deep, determined tone, but so low as not to be overheard by the others:

“You have betrayed me, villain; and unless you obey me unhesitatingly, and corroborate all my assertions, however startling they may appear, you shall pay for your treachery with your life.”

This done, he turned towards the two ladies, and with more calmness than might have been expected, addressed himself to Lady Lake:

“You imagine you have made an important discovery, Madam,” he said; “a discovery which will place me and a noble lady, whose reputation you and your daughter seek to injure, in great perplexity. And you conclude that, being completely (as you fancy) in your power, I shall consent to any terms you and Lady Roos may propose, rather than suffer you to go forth from this chamber and reveal what you have seen in it. Is it not so, Madam?”

“Ay, my lord,” Lady Lake replied, bitterly. “You have stated the matter correctly enough, except in one particular. We do not _imagine_ we have made a discovery; because we are quite sure of it. We do not _fancy_ you will agree to our terms; because we are certain you will only too gladly screen yourself and the partner of your guilt from exposure and disgrace, at any sacrifice. And allow me to observe, that the tone adopted by your lordship is neither befitting the circumstances in which you are placed, nor the presence in which you stand. Some sense of shame must at least be left you–some show of respect (if nothing more) ought to be observed towards your injured wife. Were I acting alone in this matter, I would show you and my lady of Exeter no consideration whatever; but I cannot resist the pleadings of my daughter; and for her sake–and _hers_ alone–I am content to suspend the blow, unless forced to strike; in which case, nothing shall stay my hands.”

“I thank your ladyship for your clemency,” said Lord Roos, with mock humility.

“O, my dear lord! do not for ever close the door between us!” cried Lady Roos. “Return to me, and all shall be forgiven.”

“Peace, Elizabeth!” exclaimed Lady Lake, impatiently. “Know you not, from sad experience, that your husband is inaccessible to all gentle entreaty? His heart is steeled to pity. Solicit not that which is your right, and which must be conceded, whether he like or not. Let him bend the knee to you. Let him promise amendment, and implore pardon, and it will then be for you to consider whether you will extend forgiveness to him.”

Lady Roos looked as if she would fain interrupt her mother, but she was too much under her subjection to offer a remark.

“It is time to undeceive you, Madam,” said Lord Roos, wholly unmoved by what was said. “I am not in the strait you suppose; and have not the slightest intention of soliciting Lady Roos’s pardon, or making any promise to her.”

“O mother! you see that even _you_ fail to move him,” said Lady Roos, tearfully. “What is to happen to me?”

“You will make me chide you, daughter, if you exhibit this weakness,” cried Lady Lake, angrily. “Let me deal with him. In spite of your affected confidence, my lord, you cannot be blind to the position in which you stand. And though you yourself personally may be careless of the consequences of a refusal of our demands, you cannot, I conceive, be equally indifferent to the fate of the Countess of Exeter, which that refusal will decide.”

“I am so little indifferent to the safety of the Countess, Madam, that I cannot sufficiently rejoice that she is out of the reach of your malice.”

“How, my lord!” exclaimed Lady Lake, astounded at his assurance. “Out of reach, when she is here! You cannot mean,” she added, with an undefinable expression of satisfaction, “that she is dead?”

“Dead!” ejaculated Lady Roos; “the Countess dead! I thought she was only in a swoon.”

“What riddle is it you would have us read, my lord?” demanded Lady Lake.

“No riddle whatever, Madam,” replied Lord Roos. “I only mean to assert that the person you behold upon that couch is not the Countess of Exeter.”

“Not the Countess!” exclaimed Lady Roos. “Oh, if this were possible! But no, no! I cannot be deceived.”

“I now see the reason why her face has been covered with a ‘kerchief,” cried Lady Lake. “But it shall not save her from our scrutiny.”

So saying, she advanced towards the couch, with the intention of removing the covering, when Lord Roos barred her approach.

“Not a step nearer, Madam,” he cried, in a peremptory tone. “I will not allow you to gratify your curiosity further. You and Lady Roos may make the most of what you have seen; and proclaim abroad any tale your imaginations may devise forth. You will only render yourselves ridiculous, and encounter derision in lieu of sympathy. No one will credit your assertions, because I shall be able to prove that, at this moment, Lady Exeter is in a different part of the palace.”

“This bold falsehood will not serve your turn, my lord. Whoever she may be, the person on that couch shall be seized, and we shall then ascertain the truth.”

And she would have moved towards the door, if Lord Roos had not caught hold of her arm, while at the same time he drew his sword. Thinking from his fierce looks and menacing gestures that her mother might be sacrificed to his fury, Lady Roos fell on her knees before him, imploring pity; and she continued in this supplicating posture till Lady Lake angrily bade her rise.

“You have come here without my permission, Madam,” Lord Roos cried furiously to his mother-in-law, “and you shall not depart until I choose. Secure the door, Diego, and bring me the key. It is well,” he continued, as the injunction was obeyed.

Lady Lake submitted without resistance to the constraint imposed upon her. She could not well do otherwise; for though her screams would have brought aid, it might have arrived too late. And, after all, she did not intend to settle matters in this way. But she betrayed no symptoms of fear, and, as we have stated, ordered her daughter to discontinue her supplications.

“And now, Madam,” said Lord Roos, releasing Lady Lake, as he took the key from Diego, “I will tell you who that person is,” pointing to the couch.

“Add not to the number of falsehoods you have already told, my lord,” rejoined Lady Lake, contemptuously. “I am perfectly aware who she is.”

“But I would fain hear his explanation, mother,” said Lady Roos.

“What explanation can be offered?” cried Lady Lake. “Do you doubt the evidence of your senses?”