The Star-Chamber, Volume 1 by W. Harrison Ainsworth (page 4)

“I know not what I doubt, or what I believe,” exclaimed Lady Roos distractedly.

“Then believe what I tell you, Bess,” said her husband. “This is the countess’s handmaiden, Gillian Greenford.”

“An impudent lie!” cried Lady Lake.

“A truth, my lady,” interposed Diego. “A truth to which I am ready to swear.”

“No doubt of it, thou false knave, and double traitor! thou art worthy of thy lord. There is no lie, however absurd and improbable, which he can invent, that thou wilt not support. Thou art ready now to perjure thyself for him; but let him place little reliance on thee, for thou wilt do the same thing for us to-morrow.”

“I scarcely think it probable, my lady,” Diego replied, bowing.

Lady Lake turned from him in supreme disgust.

“Admitting for a moment the possibility of your lordship’s assertion being correct,” said Lady Roos, “how comes Gillian Greenford (for so methinks you name her) in her mistress’s attire?”

“‘T is easily explained, chuck,” Lord Roos rejoined. “Anxious, no doubt, to set herself off to advantage, she hath made free with the countess’s wardrobe. Your own favourite attendant, Sarah Swarton, hath often arranged herself in your finest fardingales, kirtlets, and busk-points, as Diego will tell you. Is it not so, rascal?”

“‘T is precisely as my lord hath stated, my lady,” said the Spaniard to Lady Roos. “When Sarah Swarton hath been so habited, I have more than once mistaken her for your ladyship.”

“Yet Sarah is very unlike me,” said Lady Roos.

“That only shows how deceptive appearances are, chuck, and how little we ought to trust to them,” observed Lord Roos.

“How can you suffer yourself to be thus duped, Elizabeth?” said Lady Lake.

“Because her ladyship would rather believe me than you, Madam,” rejoined Lord Roos. “But she is _not_ duped.”

“Heaven forgive him!” exclaimed Diego, aside.

“And supposing it were Gillian, how would the case be mended, as far as you are concerned, Elizabeth?” said Lady Lake. “Are you not as much injured by one as by the other?”

“It may be,” replied her daughter, “but I am jealous only of the Countess. I would kneel to any other woman, and thank her, who would tear my husband from her embraces!”

“Weak fool! I disown you,” exclaimed Lady Lake, angrily.

“What a wife!” cried Diego, apart. “His lordship is quite unworthy of her. Now I should appreciate such devotion.”

At this juncture there was a slight movement on the part of Lady Exeter, and something like a sigh escaped her.

“She revives!” whispered Lady Lake to her daughter. “We shall soon learn the truth. I will find a means to make her speak. Well, my lord,” she added aloud, and speaking in a sarcastic tone, “if you will have it so, it is idle to dispute it. But what will the Countess say, when she discovers your infidelity?”

On this a brisker movement took place on the couch, and a hand was raised as if to snatch away the ‘kerchief.

“We have her,” whispered Lady Lake triumphantly to her daughter. “Surely,” she proceeded aloud, “the Countess will deeply resent the transfer of your affections to her handmaiden.”

Lord Roos saw the peril in which he stood. A moment more and Lady Lake had gained her point, and the Countess betrayed herself.

“Lady Exeter will place little reliance on any representations you may make, Madam,” he said, giving particular significance to his words, “except so far as they concern herself, and then she will take care to refute them. As to the circumstance of Gillian Greenford visiting me, fainting in my arms (from excess of timidity, poor girl!) and being discovered by you and Lady Roos in that position, the Countess will laugh at it when it comes to her knowledge–as why should she do otherwise? But she will feel very differently when she finds that you and your daughter insist that it was she herself, and not her handmaiden, whom you beheld. Rely on it, Madam, Lady Exeter will contradict that assertion, and disprove it.”

“Let it be disproved now. Let the person on that couch disclose her features, and we shall then see whether she be the Countess or Gillian.”

“Ay, let her do that, my lord,–let her speak to us,” urged Lady Roos.

“Diablo! how is this request to be complied with, I marvel?” said Diego apart.

But Lord Roos was too experienced a player to be defeated by this turn in the game.

“Gillian has already been sufficiently annoyed,” he cried; “and shall not submit to this ordeal. Besides, she has relapsed into insensibility, as you see.”

“She does what your lordship wills her, it is clear,” said Lady Lake, contemptuously. “We know what construction to put upon your refusal.”

“I care not what construction you put upon it,” cried Lord Roos, losing patience. “You and Lady Roos may think what you please, and act as you please. Enough for me, you can prove nothing.”

“Why, this is more like yourself, my lord,” retorted Lady Lake, derisively. “Having thrown aside the mask, you will be spared the necessity of further subterfuge. The Countess, doubtless, will imitate your example, lay aside her feigned insensibility, and defy us. She need be under no apprehension; since she has your own warrant that we can prove nothing.”

“Your purpose, I perceive, is to irritate me, Madam,” cried Lord Roos, fiercely; “and so far you are likely to succeed, though you fail in all else. I have no mask to throw off; but if you will have me declare myself your enemy, I am ready to do so. Henceforth, let there be no terms kept between us–let it be open warfare.”

“Be it so, my lord. And you will soon find who will be worsted in the struggle.”

“Oh, do not proceed to these fearful extremities, dear mother, and dearest husband!” cried Lady Roos, turning from one to the other imploringly. “Cease these provocations, I pray of you. Be friends, and not enemies.”

“As you please–peace or war; it is the same to me,” said Lord Roos. “Meantime, I am wearied of this scene, and must put an end to it. Diego!” And beckoning his servant to him, he whispered some directions in his ear.

“My lord shall be obeyed,” said Diego, as he received his commission. “Gillian shall be conveyed with all care to her chamber.”

“We must have some proof that she has been here,” thought Lady Lake. But how to obtain it? I have it. “Take these,” she added in a whisper to her daughter, and giving a pair of scissors; “and contrive, if possible, to sever a lock of her hair before she be removed.”

By a look Lady Roos promised compliance.

While this was passing, Diego had approached the couch; and fastening the kerchief securely round the Countess’s face, he raised her in his arms, and moved towards the secret staircase, the tapestried covering of which was held aside by Lord Roos to give him passage.

Rapidly as the Spaniard moved, he did not outstrip Lady Roos, whose design being favoured by the escape from its confinement of one of the Countess’s long dark tresses, she had no difficulty of possessing, herself of it in the manner prescribed by her mother. Lady Exeter was aware of the loss she had sustained, and uttered a stifled cry; but this was attributed to the fright natural to the occasion by Lord Roos, who had not noticed what had taken place, and only caused him to hurry Diego’s departure. But before the latter had wholly disappeared with his burthen, the perfumed and silken tress of hair was delivered to Lady Lake, who muttered triumphantly as she received it–“This will convict her. She cannot escape us now.”

The prize was scarcely concealed when Lord Roos, sheathing the sword which he had hitherto held drawn, advanced towards his mother-in-law.

“Now that the object of your disquietude is removed, Madam, it will not be necessary to prolong this interview,” he said.

“Have we then your lordship’s permission to depart?” rejoined Lady Lake, coldly. “We are not, I presume, to avail ourselves of the private means of exit contrived for your amorous adventures, lest we should make other discoveries.”

“Your ladyship will leave by the way you entered,” rejoined Lord Roos. “I will attend you to the door–and unfasten it for you.”

“Before we go, I would have a word with my husband–it may be my last,” said Lady Roos to her mother. “I pray you withdraw a little, that we may be alone.”

“Better not,” rejoined Lady Lake. But unable to resist her daughter’s imploring looks, she added, “Well, as you will. But it is useless.”

With this she proceeded to the little passage, and remained there.

As Lady Roos turned to her husband, she saw, from the stern and inflexible look he had assumed, that any appeal made to him would be unavailing, and she attempted none. A moment elapsed before she could utter a word, and then it was only a murmur to heaven for guidance and support.

“What say you, Elizabeth?” demanded Lord Roos, thinking she had addressed him.

“I asked for support from on High, William, and it has been accorded to me,” she replied in a low sweet voice. “I can now speak to you. It is not to weary you with supplications or reproaches that I thus detain you. I have something to impart to you, and I am sure you will eagerly listen to it. Come nearer, that we may not be overheard.”

Lord Roos, whose curiosity was aroused by her manner, obeyed her.

“I am all attention,” he said.

“I feel I am in your way, William,” she rejoined, in a deep whisper; “and that you desire my death. Nay, interrupt me not; I am sure you desire it; and I am equally sure that the desire will be gratified, and that you will kill me.”

“Kill you, Bess!” cried Lord Roos, startled. “How can you imagine aught so frightful?”

“There is a power granted to those who love deeply as I do, of seeing into the hearts of those they love, and reading their secrets. I have read yours, William. Nay, be not alarmed. I have kept it to myself hitherto, and will keep it to the end. You wish me dead, I say; and you shall have your wish–but not in the way you propose. Having lost your love, I am become indifferent to life–or, rather, life is grown intolerable to me. But though death may be a release, it must not come from your hand.”

“You cannot mean to destroy yourself, Elizabeth?” cried Lord Roos, appalled.

“I mean to trouble you no longer. I mean to make the last and greatest sacrifice I can for you; and to save you from a crime–or, if you must share the crime, at least to screen you from punishment. Look, here!” she added, producing a small phial. “Bid me drink of this, and ere to-morrow you are free, and I am at rest. Shall I do it?”

“No–no,” rejoined Lord Roos, snatching the phial from her. “Live, Bess, live!”

“Am I to live for you, William?” she cried, with inexpressible joy.

He made no answer, but averted his head.

“In mercy give me back the phial,” she exclaimed, again plunged into the depths of despair.

“I must refuse your request,” he replied.

“Have you done, Elizabeth?” demanded Lady Lake, coming forth from the passage.

“A moment more, mother,” cried Lady Roos. “One word–one look!” she added to her husband.

But he neither spoke to her, nor regarded her.

“I am ready to accompany you now, mother,” said the poor lady faintly.

“Nerve yourself, weak-hearted girl,” said Lady Lake, in a low tone. “Revenge is ours.”

“If I could only strike her without injuring him, I should not heed,” thought Lady Roos. “But where he suffers, I must also suffer, and yet more acutely.”

And scarcely able to support herself, she followed her mother to the door of the ante-chamber, which was unlocked, and thrown open for them by her husband. He did not bid her farewell!

As Lady Lake passed forth, she paused for a moment, and said–

“To-morrow, my Lord, we will ascertain whether the tress of hair we have obtained from the fair visitant to your chamber, matches with that of Gillian Greenford or with the raven locks of the Countess of Exeter.”

And satisfied with the effect produced by this menace, she departed with her daughter, before Lord Roos could utter a reply.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The Fountain Court.

On the morning after the eventful passage in his life, previously related, our newly-created knight was standing, in a pensive attitude, beside the beautiful fountain, adorned with two fair statues, representing the Queen of Love and her son, heretofore described as placed in the centre of the great quadrangle of the Palace of Theobalds. Sir Jocelyn was listening to the plashing of the sparkling jets of water, as they rose into the air, and fell back into the broad marble basin, and appeared to be soothed by the pleasant sound. His breast had been agitated by various and conflicting emotions. In an incredibly short space of time events had occurred, some of which seemed likely to influence the whole of his future career; while one of them, though it had advanced him far beyond what he could have anticipated, appeared likely to mar altogether his prospects of happiness.

Though the difficulties, therefore, that surrounded him had been unexpectedly overcome; though, by the exertions of the Conde de Gondomar, who had followed up his first success with wonderful promptitude and perseverance, and had dexterously contrived, by all the insidious arts of which lie was so perfect a master, to ingratiate his protege still further with the King, without the protege himself being aware of the manner in which he was served; though James himself appeared greatly pleased with him, at the banquet in the evening, to which, owing to the skilful management of the Spanish ambassador, he was invited, and bestowed such marked attention upon him, that the envy and jealousy of most of the courtiers were excited by it; though he seemed on the high-road to still greater favour, and was already looked upon as a rising favourite, who might speedily supplant others above him in this ever-changing sphere, if he did not receive a check; though his present position was thus comparatively secure, and his prospects thus brilliant, he felt ill at ease, and deeply dissatisfied with himself. He could not acquit himself of blame for the part he had played, though involuntarily, in the arrest of Hugh Calveley. It was inexpressibly painful to him; and he felt it as a reproach from which he could not free himself, to have risen, however unexpectedly on his own part, by the unfortunate Puritan’s fall. How could he ever face Aveline again! She must regard him with horror and detestation, as the involuntary cause of her father’s destruction. A bar had been placed between them, which nothing could ever remove. And though, on the one hand, he was suddenly exalted far beyond his hopes; yet on the other he was as suddenly cast down, and threatened to be for ever deprived of the bliss he had in view, the possession of which he coveted far more than wealth or grandeur. Additional complexity had been given to his position from the circumstance that, at De Gondomar’s secret instance, of which, like all the rest, he was unaware, he had been appointed as officer in custody of Hugh Calveley, until the latter, who was still detained a close prisoner in the porter’s lodge, should be removed to the Tower, or the Fleet, as his Majesty might direct. This post he would have declined, had there been a possibility of doing so. Any plan he might have formed of aiding the prisoner’s escape was thus effectually prevented, as he could not violate his duty; and it was probably with this view that the wily ambassador had obtained him the appointment. In fact, he had unconsciously become little more than a puppet in the hands of the plotting Spaniard, who pulled the strings that moved him at pleasure, regardless of the consequences. What De Gondomar’s ulterior designs were with him had not yet become manifest.

These perplexing thoughts swept through Sir Jocelyn’s breast, as he stood by the marble fountain, and listened to the sound of its falling waters.

While thus occupied, he perceived two persons issue from the arched entrance fronting the gate (adjoining the porter’s lodge, in which the prisoner was still detained), and make their way slowly across the quadrangle, in the direction of the cloister on its eastern side, above which were apartments assigned to the Secretary of State, Sir Thomas Lake.

The foremost of the two was merely a yeoman of the guard, and would not for a moment have attracted Sir Jocelyn’s attention, if it had not been for a female who accompanied him, and whom he was evidently conducting to Sir Thomas Lake’s rooms, as Sir Jocelyn not only saw the man point towards them, but heard him mention the Secretary of State’s name.

Something whispered him that this closely-hooded female,–the lower part of whose face was shrouded in a muffler, so that the eyes alone were visible,–was Aveline. Little could be discerned of the features; but the exquisitely-proportioned figure, so simply yet so tastefully arrayed, could only be hers; and if he _could_ have doubted that it was Aveline, the suddenness with which her looks were averted as she beheld him, and the quickness with which she stepped forward, so as even to outstrip her companion–these circumstances, coupled with the violent throbbing of his own heart, convinced him he was right. He would have flown after her, if he had dared; would have poured forth all his passionate feelings to her, had he been permitted; would have offered her his life, to deal with as she pleased; but his fears restrained him, and he remained riveted to the spot, gazing after her until she entered the great hall on the ground floor, beneath the Secretary of State’s apartments. Why she sought Sir Thomas Lake he could easily understand. It was only from him that authority to visit her father could be obtained.

After remaining irresolute for a few minutes, during which the magnificent structure around him faded entirely from his view like a vision melting into air, and he heard no more the pleasant plashing of the fountain, he proceeded to the great hall near the cloister, resolved to wait there till her return.

CHAPTER XXV.

Sir Thomas Lake.

A grave-looking man, of a melancholy and severe aspect, and attired in a loose robe of black velvet, was seated alone in a chamber, the windows of which opened upon the Fountain Court, which we have just quitted. He wore a silken skull-cap, from beneath which a few gray hairs escaped; his brow was furrowed with innumerable wrinkles, occasioned as much by thought and care as by age; his pointed beard and moustaches were almost white, contrasting strikingly with his dark, jaundiced complexion, the result of an atrabilarious temperament; his person was extremely attenuated, and his hands thin and bony. He had once been tall, but latterly had lost much of his height, in consequence of a curvature of the spine, which bowed down his head almost upon his breast, and fixed it immoveably in that position. His features were good, but, as we have stated, were stamped with melancholy, and sharpened by severity.

This person was Sir Thomas Lake, Secretary of State.

The table at which he sat was strewn over with official documents and papers. He was not, however, examining any of them, but had just broken the seal of a private packet which he had received from his wife, when an usher entered, and intimated that a young maiden, who was without, solicited a moment’s audience. The request would have been refused, if the man had not gone on to say that he believed the applicant was the daughter of the crazy Puritan, who had threatened the King’s life on the previous day. On hearing this, Sir Thomas consented to see her, and she was admitted accordingly.

As soon as the usher had retired, Aveline unmuffled herself, and, cold and apathetic as he was, Sir Thomas could not help being struck by her surpassing beauty, unimpaired even by the affliction under which she laboured; and he consequently softened in some degree the customary asperity of his tones in addressing her.

“Who are you, maiden, and what seek you?” he demanded, eyeing her with curiosity.

“I am daughter to the unfortunate Hugh Calveley, now a prisoner in the palace,” she replied.

“I am sorry to hear it,” rejoined Sir Thomas, resuming his habitually severe expression; “for you are the daughter of a very heinous offender. The enormity of Hugh Calveley’s crime, which is worse than parricide, deprives him of all human sympathy and compassion. In coming to me you do not, I presume, intend to weary me with prayers for mercy; for none is deserved, and none will be shown. For my own part, I shall not utter a word in mitigation of the dreadful sentence certain to be pronounced upon him; nor shall I advise the slightest clemency to be shown him on the part of his Majesty. Such an offender cannot be too severely punished. I do not say this,” he continued, somewhat softening his harshness, “to aggravate the distress and shame you naturally feel; but I wish to check at once any hopes you may have formed. Yet though I have no pity for him, I have much for you, since, doubtless, you are innocent of all knowledge of your father’s atrocious design–happily prevented. And I would therefore say to you, shut out all feelings for him from your heart. The man who raises his hand against his sovereign cuts off by the act all ties of kindred and love. Affection is changed to abhorrence; and such detestation does his horrible offence inspire, that those of his own blood are bound to shun him, lest he derive comfort and consolation from their presence. Thus considered, you are no longer his daughter, for he has himself severed the links between you. You no longer owe him filial duty and regard, for to such he is no more entitled. Leave him to his fate; and, if possible, for ever obliterate his memory from your breast.”

“You counsel what I can never perform, honourable Sir,” replied Aveline; “and were he even branded like Cain, I could not shut my heart towards him. Nothing can make me forget that I am his daughter. That his offence will be dreadfully expiated, I do not doubt; but if I can alleviate his sufferings in any way, I will do so; and I will never cease to plead for mercy for him. And O, honourable Sir! you regard his offence in a darker light than it deserves. You treat him as if he had actually accomplished the direful purpose attributed to him; whereas, nothing has been proven against him beyond the possession of a weapon, which he might keep about his person for self-defence.”

“The plea you urge is futile, maiden,” rejoined Sir Thomas; “he is judged out of his own mouth, for his own lips have avowed his criminal intention.”

“Still, it was but the intention, honourable Sir!”

“In such cases, the intention is equal to the crime–at least in the eyes of law and justice. No plea will save Hugh Calveley. Of that rest assured.”

“One plea may be urged for him, which, whether it avail or not, is the truth, and shall be made. It is painful to speak of my father as I must now do; but there is no help for it. Of late years he has been subject to strange mental hallucinations, which have bordered close upon madness, if they have not reached that terrible point. Nocturnal vigils, fastings, and prayers have affected his health. He has denied himself sufficient rest, and has only partaken of food barely sufficient to sustain nature, and no more. The consequence has been that strange fancies have troubled his brain; that at dead of night, when alone in his chamber, he has imagined that visions have appeared to him; that voices have spoken–awful voices–talking of prophecies, lamentations, and judgments, and charging him with a mighty and terrible mission. All these things I have heard from his own lips, and I have heard and seen much more, which has satisfied me that his intellects are disordered, and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions.”

“If such be the case, he should have been kept under restraint, and not suffered to go abroad,” said Sir Thomas. “Such madmen are highly mischievous and dangerous. Much blame rests with you, maiden.”

“The whole blame is mine!” she exclaimed. “I confess my error–my crime–and will atone for it willingly with my life, provided he be spared. If a sacrifice must be made, let me be the victim.”

“There is no sacrifice, and no victim,” returned Sir Thomas gravely, though he was not unmoved by her filial devotion. “There is an offender, and there will be justice; and justice must be satisfied. Inexorable as fate, her dread sentences cannot be averted.”

“O, honourable Sir! you may one day recall those words; for which of us can hold himself free from offence? My father is not guilty in the eyes of Heaven; or if he be, I am equally culpable, since I ought to have prevented the commission of the crime. O, I shall never forgive myself that I did not follow him when he parted from me yesterday!”

“Let me hear how that occurred, maiden?” asked Sir Thomas.

“It chanced in this way, Sir. I have already described my father’s state of mind, and the distempered view he has been accustomed to take of all things. Yesterday, May-day sports were held in the village of Tottenham, where we dwelt; and as such things are an abomination in his sight, he took upon him to reprove the actors in the pastimes. They who witnessed his conduct on that occasion would hardly hold him to be under the due control of reason. Amongst the spectators was the son of an old friend, whose name having accidentally reached my father, he invited him into the house, and a misunderstanding having arisen between them, the latter suddenly left–dismissed almost with rudeness. On his departure, my father was greatly disturbed–more so than I have ever seen him. After awhile, he withdrew to his own chamber, as was his habit, to pray, and I hoped would become tranquillized; but the very reverse happened, for when he reappeared, I saw at once that a fearful change had taken place in him. His eye blazed with preternatural light, his gestures were wild and alarming, and his language full of menace and denunciation. He again spoke of his mission from Heaven, and said that its execution could no longer be delayed.”

“This should have been a warning to you,” observed Sir Thomas, knitting his brows.

“It should, honourable Sir. But I did not profit by it. I knew and felt that he was no longer under the dominion of reason–that he was labouring under some terrible delusion that approached its crisis; but I did not check him. I yielded passive obedience to his injunction, that I should depart instantly with an old servant to London; and I agreed to tarry at a house, which he mentioned, till I heard from him. I had sad forebodings that I should never hear from him again–or if I _did_, that the tidings would be worse than none at all; but I obeyed. I could not, indeed, resist his will. I set forth with my attendant, and my father parted with us at the door. He placed money in my hand, and bade me farewell! but in such a tone, and with such a look, that I felt his senses were gone, and I would have stayed him, but it was then too late. Breaking from my embrace, he sprang upon his horse, which was ready saddled, and rode off, taking the direction of Edmonton; while I, with a heart full of distress and misgiving, pursued my way to London. Ere midnight, my sad presentiments were verified. A messenger traced me out, bringing intelligence of the direful event that had happened, and informing me that my father was a prisoner at Theobalds. As soon as I could procure means of reaching the palace, I set forth, and arrived here about an hour ago, when, failing in my efforts to obtain an interview with my father, who is closely confined, and none suffered to come near him save with authority from the Secretary of State, I sought an audience of you, honourable Sir, in the hope that you would grant me permission to see him.”

“If I do grant it, the interview must take place in the presence of the officer to whom his custody has been committed,” replied Sir Thomas. “With this restriction, I am willing to sign an order for you.”

“Be it as you please, honourable Sir; and take my heartfelt gratitude for the grace.”

Sir Thomas struck a small bell upon the table, and the usher appeared at the summons.

“Bid the officer in charge of Hugh Calveley attend me,” he said.

The man bowed, and departed.

Sir Thomas Lake then turned to the paper which he had just opened before Aveline’s appearance, and was soon so much engrossed by it that he seemed quite unconscious of her presence. His countenance became gloomier and more austere as he read on, and an expression of pain–almost a groan–escaped him. He appeared then to feel sensible that he had committed an indiscretion, for he laid down the paper, and, as if forcibly diverting himself from its contents, addressed Aveline.

“What you have said respecting your father’s condition of mind,” he observed, “by no means convinces me that it is so unsound as to render him irresponsible for his actions. It were to put a charitable construction upon his conduct to say that no one but a madman could be capable of it; but there was too much consistency in what he has said and done to admit of such an inference. But for the interposition of another person he owned that he would have killed the King; and the disappointment he exhibited, and the language he used, prove such to have been his fixed intention. His mind may have been disturbed; but what of that? All who meditate great crimes, it is to be hoped, are not entirely masters of themselves. Yet for that reason they are not to be exempt from punishment. He who is sane enough to conceive an act of wickedness, to plan its execution, and to attempt to perpetrate it, although he may be in other respects of unsettled mind, is equally amenable to the law, and ought equally to suffer for his criminality with him who has a wiser and sounder head upon his shoulders.”

Aveline attempted no reply, but the tears sprang to her eyes.

At this moment the door was thrown open by the usher to admit Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey.

The emotion displayed by the young couple when thus brought together passed unnoticed by the Secretary of State, as he was occupied at the moment in writing the authority for Aveline, and did not raise his eyes towards them.

“Are you the officer to whom my father’s custody has been entrusted?” exclaimed Aveline, as soon as she could give utterance to her surprise.

“Why do you ask that question, mistress?” demanded Sir Thomas, looking up. “What can it signify to you who hath custody of your father, provided good care be taken of him? There is a Latin maxim which his Majesty cited at the banquet last night–_Etiam aconito inest remedium_–and which may be freely rendered by our homely saying, that ‘It is an ill wind that bloweth nobody good luck;’ and this hath proved true with Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey–for the gust that hath wrecked your father hath driven him into port, where he now rides securely in the sunshine of the King’s favour. Nor is this to be wondered at, since it was by Sir Jocelyn that his Majesty’s life was preserved.”

“The King preserved by him!” exclaimed Aveline, in bewilderment.

“Ay, marry and indeed, young mistress,” rejoined Sir Thomas. “He arrested the fell traitor; was knighted on the spot for the service, by the King; was invited afterwards to the grand banquet in the evening, and received with more distinction than any other guest; and he is now, as you find, entrusted with the custody of the prisoner. Thus, if your father has done little good to himself, he hath done much to Sir Jocelyn.”

Aveline could not repress an exclamation of anguish.

“No more of this, I entreat, Sir Thomas,” cried Sir Jocelyn.

“It is right she should hear the truth,” replied the Secretary of State. “Here is her authority for admittance to her father,” he continued, giving it to him. “It must take place in your presence, Sir Jocelyn. And you will pay strict attention to what they say,” he added in a low tone, “for you will have to report all that passes between them to the council. Something may arise to implicate the girl herself, so let naught escape you. Be vigilant in your office, as is needful. I mention this as you are new to it. If the prisoner continues obstinate, as he hath hitherto shown himself, threaten him with the torture. The rack will certainly be applied when he reaches the Tower. I need not give you further instructions I think, Sir Jocelyn. Be pleased to return to me when the interview is over.”

Upon this, he bowed gravely, and sounded the bell for the usher. Unable to offer any remonstrance, Sir Jocelyn approached Aveline, who could scarcely support herself, with the intention of offering her assistance; but she shrank from him, and again muffling her face, went forth, while he slowly followed her.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The forged Confession.

Some little time had elapsed since Aveline’s departure on her sorrowful errand, and Sir Thomas Lake was still alone, and once more deeply engrossed in the consideration of the document, which, it will be recollected, had occasioned him so much disquietude; and the feeling by no means diminished when the usher entered and announced Lady Lake. Severe and inflexible as we have described him, the Secretary of State was generally yielding enough towards his lady, of whom he stood in great awe, and whom he treated with the utmost deference; but on this occasion, contrary to habitude, he received her very coldly, and without rising motioned her to a seat beside him. Disregarding the want of attention, which, under other circumstances, she would have resented, Lady Lake took the seat indicated without remark, and continued silent till the usher had retired. Then turning quickly towards her husband, and fixing an inquiring look upon him, she said in a low voice–

“What think you of this document, Sir Thomas?”

“This forgery?” he rejoined in the same tone, but without raising his eyes towards her.

“Ay, this forgery, if you choose to call it so,” she returned. “Let me have your opinion upon it? Is it as it should be? Are its expressions such as would be used by a guilty woman, like the Countess, imploring pity, and seeking to shield herself from disgrace? Do you find fault with it? Can it be amended in any particular?”

“I find such grave fault with it,” replied the Secretary of State, still without looking up, “that I would amend it by casting it into the flames. Lady Lake, it is my duty to warn you. This is a fearful crime you would commit, and severely punishable by the law. You may excuse it to yourself, because you have an end in view which seems to justify the means; but the excuse will not avail you with others. You have said that in a conflict with one so cunning and unscrupulous as our noble son-in-law, you are compelled to fight him with his own weapons–to meet trick with trick, manoevre with manoeuvre; but take my word for it, you would more easily defeat him by straight-forward means. Be ruled by me in this one instance. Abandon a scheme which must inevitably lead to consequences I shudder to contemplate; and let this fabricated confession be destroyed.”

“Give it me,” she cried, snatching the paper from him. “You were ever timid, Sir Thomas; and if you had not lacked courage, this expedient would not have been necessary. Odious and dangerous as it is, the measure is forced upon me, and I shall not shrink from it. But you shall not be called upon to play any part in the transaction. I alone will do it. I alone will be responsible for all that may ensue.”

“We shall all be responsible!” he rejoined. “You will not only ruin yourself, but all your family, if this fearful step be taken. Hitherto we have had right on our side, but henceforth we shall be more culpable than the others.”

“I am resolved upon the course,” cried Lady Lake; “and all your arguments–all your warnings will not dissuade me from it, so you may spare your breath, Sir Thomas. As you see, I have omitted the charge of witchcraft, and have only made the Countess confess her criminality with Lord Roos, and of this we have had abundant proofs; nay, we should have them still, if those condemnatory letters of hers, which had come into our possession, had not been stolen. That mischance necessitates the present measure. Having managed to deprive us of our weapons, Lord Roos thinks himself secure. But he will find his mistake when this document is produced to confound him.”

“I tremble at the thought,” groaned the Secretary of State.

“These fears are worse than womanish,” exclaimed his lady. “Shake them off, and be yourself. Who is to prove that the confession proceeds not from the Countess? Not she herself; since no one will believe her. Not Lord Roos; for he will be equally discredited. Not Diego; for his testimony would be valueless. The Countess’s hand-writing has been so skilfully imitated, that the falsification cannot be detected. Compare it with this note written by herself to Lady Roos, and which, though it proves nothing, has so far answered my purpose. Compare, I say, the writing of the confession and the signature with this note, and declare if you can discern any difference between them. As to the signatures of Lord Roos and Diego affixed to the document, they are equally well simulated.”

“That the forgery is skilfully executed, I do not deny,” replied the Secretary of State; “and that circumstance, though it does not lessen the crime, may lessen the chance of detection. Since nothing I can urge will turn you from your design, and you are determined to employ this dangerous instrument, at least be cautious in its use. Terrify Lord Roos with it, if you choose. Threaten to lay it before the Earl of Exeter–before the King himself–in case of our son-in-law’s non-compliance with your demands. But beware how you proceed further. Do not part with it for a moment; so that, if need be, you may destroy it. Do you heed me, my lady?”

“I do, Sir Thomas,” she replied. “Be assured I will act with due caution.–I am glad to find you are coming round to my views, and are disposed to countenance the measure.”

“I countenance it!” exclaimed the Secretary of State, in alarm. “No such thing. I disapprove of it entirely, and cannot sufficiently reprehend it. But, as I well know, when you have once made up your mind, the fiend himself cannot turn you from your purpose, I give you the best counsel I can under the circumstances. I wash my hands of it altogether. Would to Heaven I had never been consulted upon it–never even been made acquainted with the project. However, as you have gone so far with me you may go a step further, and let me know what story you mean to attach to this confession? How will you feign to have obtained it?”

“The statement I shall make will be this, and it will be borne out by so many corroborative circumstances that it will be impossible to contradict it. You observe that the document is dated on the 10th of April last. It is not without reason that it is so dated. On that day I and our daughter, Lady Roos, attended by her maid, Sarah Swarton, proceeded to the Earl of Exeter’s residence at Wimbledon, for the purpose of having an interview with the Countess, and we then saw her in the presence of Lord Roos and his servant Diego.”

“But you gained nothing by the journey?” remarked her husband.

“Your pardon, Sir Thomas,” she rejoined; “I gained this confession. On the way back I reflected upon what had occurred, and I thought how flushed with triumph I should have been if, instead of meeting with discomfiture, I had gained my point–if I had brought the haughty Countess to her knees–had compelled her to write out and sign a full avowal of her guilt, coupled with supplications for forgiveness from my injured daughter and myself–and as a refinement of revenge, had forced Lord Roos and his servant to attest by their signatures the truth of the confession! I thought of this–and incensed that I had not done it, resolved it _should_ be done.”

“An ill resolve!” muttered her husband.

“In Luke Hatton, our apothecary, I had the man for my purpose,” pursued Lady Lake. “Aware of his marvellous talent for imitating any writing he pleased–aware, also, that I could entirely rely upon him, I resolved to call in his aid.”

“Imprudent woman! You have placed yourself wholly in his power,” groaned Sir Thomas. “Suppose he should betray the terrible trust you have reposed in him?”

“He will not betray it,” replied Lady Lake. “He is too deeply implicated in the matter not to keep silence for his own sake. But to proceed. The document, such as you see it, was drawn out by myself and transcribed by Luke Hatton, and the writing so admirably counterfeited that Lady Exeter herself may well doubt if it be not her own. Then, as to the circumstances, they will all bear me out. We were known to have been at Wimbledon on the day in question. We were known to have had an interview with Lady Exeter, at which Lord Roos and Diego were present. The interview was private, and therefore no one can tell what took place at it; but the probabilities are that what I shall assert really did occur.”

Sir Thomas signified his assent, and she went on.

“The plot is well contrived, and, with prudent management, cannot fail of success. We have the time of the supposed occurrence–the actors in it–and the scene–for I shall describe the particular room in which the interview really did take place, and I shall further bring forward Sarah Swarton, who will declare that she was concealed behind the hangings, and heard the Countess read over the confession before she signed it.”

“Another party to the affair–and a woman!” ejaculated Sir Thomas. “The dangers of discovery are multiplied a hundredfold.”

“The danger exists only in your imagination,” said his Lady. “Come, admit, Sir Thomas, that the scheme is well contrived, and that they must be cunning indeed if they escape from the meshes I have woven for them.”

“You have displayed ingenuity enough, I am free to own, if it had been directed to a better end; but in the best contrived scheme some flaw is ever found, which is sure to mar it.”

“You can detect no flaw in this I am persuaded, Sir Thomas. If you can, let me know it?”

“Nay, it is only when too late that such things are found out. The supposed armour of proof is then found wanting at some vital point. However, I will say no more,” he observed, perceiving her impatience. “What is done cannot be undone. Have you prepared our daughter? Will she consent to aid you?”

“She will,” replied Lady Lake. “I had some difficulty with her at first, but I found means to overrule her scruples, and she consented at last to act as I desired, provided all other means failed of accomplishing the object in view. And they _have_ failed since we have lost those letters, for though I have one other proof left which might perhaps be adduced, I do not attach much importance to it.”

“What is it?” inquired Sir Thomas, quickly.

“You shall know anon,” she answered. “Suffice it, I have done all I could to avoid having recourse to the present measure; and have delayed–its execution to the last moment.”

“But that proof of which you were speaking?” cried Sir Thomas. “Let me hear it? Perhaps it may obviate the necessity of this dangerous proceeding?”

“I do not think so. But you shall judge. Last night, our daughter and myself obtained secret admittance to Lord Roos’s chamber, and we found the Countess there, and fainting in his arms.”

“Why that is enough to convict them. You want nothing more.”

“Hear me to an end, and you will change your opinion. Placing the inanimate Countess on a couch, and covering her face with a handkerchief, Lord Roos had the effrontery to assert that we were mistaken; insisting that it was not Lady Exeter we beheld–but her hand-maiden, Gillian Greenford; and he appealed to the perfidious knave, Diego, in confirmation of his assertion.”

“But you did not leave without satisfying yourselves of the truth?” demanded Sir Thomas.

“His lordship took care we should have no means of doing so,” she answered. “He caused Diego to convey her away by a secret staircase.”

“‘Sdeath! that was unlucky. You have no proof then that it was the Countess you beheld?”

“Nothing beyond a lock of her hair, which was secured by Lady Roos as the man was removing her.”

“That may be enough,” cried the Secretary of State; “and prevent the necessity of resorting to this frightful expedient. We must see the girl, and interrogate her. Gillian Greenford you say she is called. She shall be brought hither at once.”

“It is possible she may be without,” returned Lady Lake. “Before I came here, I summoned her in your name.”

“We will see,” cried Sir Thomas, striking upon the bell. And the usher, appearing to the summons, informed him that in effect the damsel in question was in attendance. “She seems much alarmed, Sir Thomas,” said the usher, “and has with her a young man, who appears to take a tender interest in her, and wishes to be present at the investigation.”

“Let him come in with her,” said the Secretary of State. And seeing the usher pause, he inquired if he had anything further to say.

“His Excellency the Spanish Ambassador and my Lord Roos are without, and desire admittance,” replied the man.

Sir Thomas consulted his lady by a look; and as she made no objection, he signified his pleasure that they should be admitted, and accordingly the door was thrown open for the entrance of all the persons mentioned.

Gillian came first, and seemed much embarrassed by the situation in which she found herself. She had been well tutored for the part she had to play; but the instructions she had received entirely fled from her mind as she found herself in the presence of two such awful personages as Sir Thomas Lake and his lady, both of whom fixed keen glances upon her. Feeling ready to drop with fright, she looked at Dick Taverner, as if imploring his support. But this Dick declined to afford. His jealousy having been roused by what he had heard, he determined to be governed in his conduct towards her by the result of the investigation. Accordingly, though it cost him an effort, he held back. As the Conde de Gondomar appeared, Sir Thomas Lake arose, and made him a profound salutation, which was returned with equal ceremony by the Spanish Ambassador. The latter, however, did not take a seat, but remained standing with Lord Roos, whose presence was acknowledged by a cold and distant bow from his father-in-law. The young nobleman did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by the reception he met with, or apprehensive of the result of the investigation. He jested apart with De Gondomar; and both he and the Spanish Ambassador appeared greatly amused by Gillian’s embarrassment. Behind him stood his servant Diego.

“You are handmaiden to the Countess of Exeter, I presume?” demanded Lady Lake of the damsel.

“I am, my lady,” she answered.

“The girl does not look as if the imputations cast upon her character can be true,” observed Sir Thomas Lake.

As this was said, poor Gillian became suffused with blushes, and hung her head.

“Before I put any further questions to her,” remarked Lady Lake, “I will ask Lord Roos if he still persists in affirming that it was this damsel who visited him last night?”

Dick Taverner looked as if his fate depended upon the response the young nobleman might make to the inquiry.

“I must decline to answer your ladyship’s question,” returned Lord Roos.

“Why cannot he speak out?” muttered Dick. “This uncertainty is worse than anything.”

“What says the damsel herself,” observed Sir Thomas Lake. “Does she admit the charge?”

“You cannot expect her to do that, Sir Thomas,” interposed Lord Roos.

“I expect her to answer my question,” rejoined the Secretary of State, sharply. “Were you in Lord Roos’s room last night?” he added, to Gillian.

“Oh, dear! I am ready to faint,” she exclaimed. “Catch me, Dick–catch me!”

“Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ or I won’t,” he rejoined.

“Well, then, ‘yes!’ if I must say something,” she replied.

Poor Dick fell back, as if struck by a shot.

“I don’t believe it,” cried Sir Thomas.

“Nor I either,” said Dick, recovering himself. “I don’t believe she could do such a wicked thing. Besides, it was the foreign ambassador, there,” he added, pointing to De Gondomar, “who seemed most enamoured of her yesterday; and I shouldn’t have been so much surprised if she had gone to see him. Perhaps she did,” he continued, addressing the poor damsel, who again hung her head.

“I can take upon me to affirm that such was not the case,” observed De Gondomar.

“Have you the lock of hair with you?” whispered Sir Thomas to his lady.

“I have,” she replied, taking a small packet from her bosom.

The movement did not pass unnoticed by Lord Roos and the Spanish Ambassador, between whom an almost imperceptible smile passed.

“If you have put all the interrogations you desire to make to Gillian, Madam,” said Lord Roos to his mother-in-law, “perhaps she may be permitted to depart? The situation cannot be agreeable to her.”

“A moment more, my lord,” cried Lady Lake. “If I detain her it is to clear her character. I know her to be perfectly innocent.”

At this announcement, Dick Taverner’s countenance brightened, and he extended his arms towards Gillian, who gladly availed herself of his support.

“I am quite sure she was not the person I surprised in your chamber last night,” continued Lady Lake.

“Indeed, Madam! How do you arrive at that conviction?”

“Because that person’s hair was jet black, whereas Gillian’s, as we see, is of the exactly opposite colour.”

Dick Taverner could not help pressing his lips against the back of the pretty damsel’s neck as this was uttered.

“Your proof of this, Madam?” demanded Lord Roos.

“Behold it!” she cried. “This look of hair was cut off before your visitant escaped, and has remained in my possession ever since. Ha! how is this?” she exclaimed, as she unfolded the packet, and disclosed a tress of fair hair, evidently matching Gillian’s lint-white locks. “What transformation has taken place! Witchcraft has been practised. This is the Countess’s work.”

“The minion must have been there, after all,” cried Dick Taverner, thrusting Gillian from him.

“The charge of witchcraft will not serve your turn, Madam,” said Lord Roos derisively. “The explanation is simple. Your eyes have deceived you.”

“Most palpably,” cried the Conde de Gondomar, who had caught Gillian in his arms, as the jealous apprentice cast her from him. “I am afraid her ladyship cannot see very clearly.”

“I see clearly enough that a trick has been practised upon me,” Lady Lake rejoined sharply. “But let Lord Roos look to himself. I will have my revenge, and a terrible one it shall be.”

“Do not commit yourself,” said Sir Thomas in a low tone.

“Your business here is at an end, fair maiden,” said the Conde de Gondomar to Gillian; “and as your lover abandons you, I am ready to take charge of you.”

So saying he led her forth, followed by Lord Roos, whose smile of triumph exasperated his mother-in-law almost beyond endurance.

For a moment Dick Tayerner remained irresolute; but his mistress had no sooner disappeared, than he rushed after her, vowing he would have her back if it cost him his life.

CHAPTER XXVII.

The Puritan’s Prison.

Hugh Calveley, it has already been intimated, was lodged in a vault beneath the gateway. The place was commonly used as a sort of black-hole for the imprisonment of any refractory member of the royal household, or soldier on guard guilty of neglect of duty. Circular in shape, it contained a large pillar, to which iron rings and chains were attached. The walls were of stone, the roof arched with ribs springing from the pillar that supported it, and the floor was paved. Window there was none; but air was admitted through a small grated aperture in the roof; and thus imperfectly ventilated, it will not be wondered at that the vault should be damp. Moisture constantly trickled down the walls, and collected in pools on the broken pavement; but unwholesome as it was, and altogether unfit for occupation, it was deemed good enough for those generally thrust into it, and far too good for its present tenant.

As the prisoner exhibited no violence, the thongs with which his hands were bound were removed on his entrance to the vault, and he was allowed the free use of his limbs. The breast-plate in which he was clad was taken from him, and his vesture was again closely searched, but no further discovery was made either of concealed weapon, or of any paper or letter tending to show that he had accomplices in his dread design. The only thing found upon him, indeed, was a small Bible, and this, after it had been examined, he was permitted to retain. To the interrogatories put to him by Master Dendy, the serjeant-at-arms, he returned the briefest answers; and when he had said as much as he thought fit, he obstinately refused to make further reply.

Incensed at his perversity, and determined to extort a full confession, in order that it might be laid before the King, the serjeant-at-arms ordered the manacles to be applied. But though the torture was exquisite, he bore it with firmness, and without uttering a groan; maintaining the same determined silence as before. Had he dared, Master Dendy would have had recourse to severer measures; but having no warrant for any such proceeding, he was obliged to content himself with threats. To these Hugh Calveley replied by a grim smile of contempt; but as the serjeant-at-arms was departing to make his report to Sir Thomas Lake, he said, “I have something to disclose; but it is for the King’s ear alone.”

“Better reveal it to me,” rejoined Dendy, halting. “I have it in my power to render your situation far more tolerable, or to inflict greater torment upon you. Make your choice.”

“Deal with me as you please,” returned Hugh Calveley sternly. “What I have to say is to the King, and to the King only; and though you break every bone in my body with your engines, and tear off my flesh with red-hot pincers, you shall not force the secret from me.”

Master Dendy looked at him, and felt disposed to place him in the dreadful instrument of torture called Skeffington’s irons, which was hanging against the wall; but the consideration that had hitherto restrained him–namely, that he was without authority for the step, and might be called to account for it–weighed with him still; wherefore he contented himself with ordering the prisoner to be chained to the pillar; and having seen the injunction obeyed, he left him.

In this miserable plight Hugh Calveley remained for some hours, without light and without food. How the time was passed none knew; but the two yeomen of the guard who entered the vault found him on his knees absorbed in prayer. They brought a lamp with them, and refreshments of a better kind than those usually afforded to a prisoner, and set them before him. But he refused to partake of them. The only favour he besought was permission to read his Bible; and the lamp placed within reach, he was soon deeply engrossed in the perusal of those pages from which, when earnestly sought, consolation has ever been derived under the most trying circumstances.

Sir Jocelyn had forborne to visit the prisoner from a fear that his presence might be painful; but the office imposed upon him by the King left him no alternative; and about midnight he descended to the vault, to ascertain from personal inspection that Hugh Calveley was in safe custody. The door was unlocked by the halberdier stationed at it, and the young man found himself alone with the prisoner. He was inexpressibly shocked by the spectacle he beheld, as he had no idea how severely the unfortunate Puritan had been treated, nor of the sort of prison in which he was confined.

Hugh Calveley, who was still intently reading the Bible, which he had placed upon his knee while he held the lamp near it, to throw the light upon its leaves, did not appear to be disturbed by the opening of the door, nor did he raise his eyes. But, at last, a deep groan issuing from the breast of the young man aroused him, and he held up the lamp to ascertain who was near. On discovering that it was Sir Jocelyn, he knitted his brow, and, after sternly regarding him for a moment, returned to his Bible, without uttering a word; but finding the other maintained his post, he demanded, almost fiercely, why he was disturbed?

“Can I do aught for your relief?” rejoined the young man. “At least, I can have those chains taken off.”

“Thou speakest as one in authority,” cried Hugh Calveley, regarding him, fixedly. “Art thou appointed to be my jailer?”

Sir Jocelyn made no answer, but averted his head.

“This only was wanting to fill up the measure of my scorn for thee,” pursued the Puritan. “Thou art worthy of thine office. But show me no favour, for I will receive none at thy hands. I would rather wear these fetters to my death, however much they may gall my limbs, than have them struck off by thee. I would rather rot in this dungeon–ay, though it were worse than it is–than owe my liberation to thee. The sole favour thou canst show me is to rid me of thy presence, which is hateful to me, and chases holy thoughts from my breast, putting evil in their place.”

“Why should this be so, O friend of my father?” exclaimed Sir Jocelyn. “And why should my presence be hateful to you? There is no man living whom I would less willingly offend than yourself; and in all I have done, where you have been concerned, I have had no free agency. Judge me not then too harshly. I commiserate your situation from the depths of my heart, and would relieve it were it possible.”

“Then wherefore persist in troubling me?” rejoined Hugh Calveley. “Have I not good cause for my dislike of you? You have disappointed the expectations I had formed of you. You failed me when I put your professions to the test. You thwarted my design at the moment when its success was certain, and when the tyrant was completely in my power. But for you I should not be here, loaded with these fetters; or if I were, I should be consoled by the thought that I had liberated my country from oppression, instead of being crushed by the sense of failure. What seek you from me, miserable time-server? Have you not had your reward for the service you have rendered the King? Is he not grateful enough? I have served as your stepping-stone to promotion. What more can I do?”

“You can cease to do me injustice,” returned Sir Jocelyn. “Honours, procured as mine have been, are valueless, and I would rather be without them. I sought them not. They have been forced upon me. Look at the matter fairly, and you will see that all these consequences, whether for good or ill, have sprung from your own desperate act.”

“It may be so,” rejoined the Puritan. “I will not dispute it. But though ill has accrued to me, and good to you, I would not change positions with you. You will wear the tyrant’s fetters for ever. I shall soon be free from mine.”

“Have you nothing to say concerning your daughter?” demanded the young man.

“Nothing,” replied the Puritan, with an expression of deep pain, which, however, he checked by a mighty effort. “I have done with the world, and desire not to be brought back to it.”

“And you refuse to be freed from your chains?”

“My sole desire, as I have said, is to be freed from you.”

“That wish, at least, shall be granted,” replied Sir Jocelyn, as, with a sad heart, he departed.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The Secret.

Thrice was the guard relieved during that long night, and as often was the prisoner visited. On the first occasion, he was found to be still engaged with his Bible, and he so continued during the whole time the man remained in the vault.

The next who came discovered him on his knees, praying loudly and fervently, and, unwilling to disturb him, left him at his devotions.

But the third who entered was struck with terror at the prisoner’s appearance. He had risen from the ground, and was standing as erect as the fetters would permit, with his hands outstretched, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. He was muttering something, but his words were unintelligible. He looked like one who beheld a vision; and this impression was produced upon the man, who half expected some awful shape to reveal itself to him. But whatever it might be, spirit of good or ill, it was visible to the Puritan alone.

After gazing at him for some minutes, in mixed wonderment and fright, the halberdier ventured to draw near him. As he touched him, the Puritan uttered a fearful cry, and attempted to spring forward, as if to grasp some vanishing object, but being checked in the effort by the chain, he fell heavily to the ground, and seemed to sustain severe injury; for when the man raised him, and set him against the pillar, though he made no complaint, it was evident he suffered excruciating pain. The halberdier poured out a cup of wine, and offered it to him; but, though well-nigh fainting, he peremptorily refused it.

From this moment a marked change was perceptible in his looks. The hue of his skin became cadaverous; his eyes grew dim and glassy; and his respiration was difficult. Everything betokened that his sufferings would be speedily over, and that, however he might deserve it, Hugh Calveley would be spared the disgrace of death by the hands of the executioner. The halberdier was not unaware of his condition, and his first impulse was to summon assistance; but he was deterred from doing so by the earnest entreaty of the Puritan to be left alone; and thinking this the most merciful course he could pursue under the circumstances, he yielded to the request, scarcely expecting to behold him alive again.

It was by this same man that the door of the vault was opened to Sir Jocelyn and Aveline.

The shock experienced by the maiden at the sight of her father had well-nigh overcome her. She thought him dead, and such was Sir Jocelyn’s first impression. The unfortunate Puritan was still propped against the pillar, as the halberdier had left him, but his head had fallen to one side, and his arms hung listlessly down. With a piercing shriek his daughter flew towards him, and kneeling beside him, raised his head gently, and gazing eagerly into his face, perceived that he still lived, though the spirit seemed ready to wing its flight from its fleshly tabernacle.

The situation was one to call forth every latent energy in Aveline’s character. Controlling her emotion, she uttered no further cry, but set herself, with calmness, to apply such restoratives as were at hand to her father. After bathing his temples and chafing his hands, she had the satisfaction, ere long, of seeing him open his eyes. At first, he seemed to have a difficulty in fixing his gaze upon her, but her voice reached his ears, and the feeble pressure of his hand told that he knew her.

The power of speech returned to him at length, and he faintly murmured, “My child, I am glad to see you once more. I thought all was over; but it has pleased Heaven to spare me for a few moments to give you my blessing. Bow down your head, O my daughter, and take it; and though given by a sinner like myself, it shall profit you! May the merciful God, who pardoneth all that repent, even at the last hour, and watcheth over the orphan, bless you, and protect you!”

“Amen!” exclaimed Jocelyn, fervently.

“Who was it spoke?” demanded the Puritan. And as no answer was returned, he repeated the inquiry.

“It was I–Jocelyn Mounchensey, the son of your old friend,” replied the young man.

“Come nigh to me, Jocelyn,” said the dying man. “I have done you wrong, and entreat your pardon.”

“O, talk not thus!” cried Jocelyn, springing towards him. “I have nothing to forgive, but much to be forgiven.”

“You have a noble heart, Jocelyn,” rejoined Hugh Calveley; “and in that respect resemble your father. In his name, I conjure you to listen to me. You will not refuse my dying request. I have a sacred trust to commit to you.”

“Name it!” cried the young man; “and rest assured it shall be fulfilled.”

“Give me some wine,” gasped the Puritan, faintly. “My strength is failing fast, and it may revive me.”

And with, great effort he swallowed a few drops from the cup filled for him by Jocelyn. Still, his appearance was so alarming, that the young man could not help urging him not to delay.

“I understand,” replied Hugh Calveley, slightly pressing his hand. “You think I have no time to lose; and you are right. My child, then, is the trust I would confide to you. Son, behold thy sister! Daughter, behold thy brother!”

“I will be more than a brother to her,” cried Sir Jocelyn, earnestly.

“More thou canst not be,” rejoined Hugh Calveley; “unless–“

“Unless what?” demanded Sir Jocelyn.

“I cannot explain,” cried the Puritan, with an expression of agony; “there is not time. Suffice it, she is already promised in marriage.”

“Father!” exclaimed Aveline, in surprise, and with something of reproach. “I never heard of such an engagement before. It has been made without my consent.”

“I charge you to fulfil it, nevertheless, my child, if it be required,” said Hugh Calveley, solemnly. “Promise me this, or I shall not die content. Speak! Let me hear you.”

And she reluctantly gave the required promise.

Sir Jocelyn uttered an exclamation of anguish.

“What afflicts you, my son?” demanded the Puritan.

“To whom have you promised your daughter in marriage?” inquired the young man. “You have constituted me her brother, and I am therefore entitled to inquire.”

“You will learn when the demand is made,” said the Puritan. “You will then know why I have given the promise, and the nature of the obligation imposed upon my daughter to fulfil it.”

“But is this obligation ever to remain binding?” demanded Sir Jocelyn.

“If the claim be not made within a year after my death, she is discharged from it,” replied Hugh Calveley.

“O, thanks, father, thanks!” exclaimed Aveline.

At this moment the door of the vault was thrown open, and two persons entered, the foremost of whom Sir Jocelyn instantly recognised as the King. The other was his Majesty’s physician, Doctor Mayerne Turquet. A glance sufficed to explain to the latter the state of the Puritan.

“Ah! parbleu! the man is dying, your Majesty,” he exclaimed.

“Deeing! is he?” cried James. “The mair reason he suld tell his secret, to us without procrastination. Harkye, prophet of ill!” he continued, as he strode forward. “The judgment of Heaven ye predicated for us, seems to have fallen on your ainsell, and to have laid you low, even afore our arm could touch you. Ye have gude reason to be thankful you have escaped the woodie; sae e’en make a clean breast of it, confess your enormities, and reveal to us the secret matter whilk we are tauld ye hae to communicate!”

“Let all else withdraw a few paces,” said Hugh Calveley, “and do thou, O King, approach me. What I have to say is for thine ear alone.”

“There will be no danger in granting his request?” inquired James of his physician.

“None whatever,” replied Doctor Mayerne Turquet. “The only danger is in delay. Your Majesty should lose no time. The man is passing rapidly away. A few moments more, and he will have ceased to exist.”

On a sign from the King, Sir Jocelyn then stepped aside, but Aveline refused to quit her father, even for a moment.

As James drew near, Hugh Calveley raised himself a little in order to address him. “I say unto thee, O King,” he cried, “as Elijah said unto Ahab, ‘Because thou hast sold thyself to work evil in the sight of the Lord–behold! I will bring evil upon thee, and will take away thy posterity. And I will make thine house like the house of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, and like the house of Baasha the son of Ahijah, for the provocation wherewith thou hast provoked me to anger, and made Israel to sin.'”

“Now the muckle Diel seize thee, villain!” exclaimed James furiously. “Is it to listen to thy texts that thou hast brought me hither?” And as Hugh Calveley, exhausted by the effort he had made, fell back with a groan, he bent his head towards him, crying, “The secret, man, the secret! or the tormenter shall wring it from thee?”

The Puritan essayed to speak, but his voice was so low that it did not reach the ears of the King.

“What sayest thou?” he demanded. “Speak louder. Saul of our body!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s pause, during which the sudden alteration that took place in the prisoner’s features made him suspect that all was over. “Our belief is he will never speak again. He hath escaped us, and ta’en his secret wi’ him.”

A loud shriek burst from Aveline, as she fell upon her father’s lifeless body.

“Let us forth,” cried the King, stopping his ears. “We carena to be present at scenes like this. We hae had a gude riddance o’ this traitor, though we wad hae gladly heard what he had to tell. Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey, ye will see that this young woman be cared for; and when ye have caused her to be removed elsewhere, follow us to the tennis-court, to which we shall incontinently adjourn.”

So saying, he quitted the vault with his physician.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Luke Hatton.

Feigning sudden indisposition (and the excuse was not altogether without foundation), the Countess of Exeter quitted Theobalds Palace on the day after her unlucky visit to Lord Roos’s chamber, and proceeded to her husband’s residence at Wimbledon, where she was speedily joined by her lover, who brought her word of the advantage he had gained over their foe.

“I have fairly checkmated my gracious mother-in-law,” he cried, with a laugh; “and it would have diverted you as much as it did me and De Gondomar, who was present on the occasion, if you could have witnessed her rage and mortification, when she discovered the change that had been effected; and that in place of your magnificent black ringlet (which I now wear next my heart, and shall ever keep as a love-token), she had only a sorry specimen of your hand-maiden’s lint-white locks. As I live, it was truly laughable. The good lady would have annihilated me if she could; and threatened me with terrible reprisals. At first, she tried to attribute the transformation, which she could not otherwise account for, to witchcraft; and though I derided the charge, I must needs say, the trick was so cleverly performed, that it _did_ look like magic. The packet containing the tress of hair had never been out of her own keeping. This she affirmed; and it was true. But there was a friendly hand to open it nevertheless; to purloin its priceless treasure; and to substitute something of a similar kind, though of comparatively little value in its place. That hand,–one not likely to be suspected, was no other than that of my lady’s confidential attendant, Sarah Swarton. The juggle was played by her at the instance of Diego. Anticipating some such occurrence as the present, and desirous of having a spy upon the movements of our enemies, I some time since directed Diego to pay secret court to Sarah, and my forethought has now been rewarded. The main difficulty lay with poor Gillian. She was greatly embarrassed by her situation; and her perplexity was increased by the presence of a jealous lover in the shape of an apprentice, who refused to leave her till his doubts should be satisfied. This was awkward, as the story could not be very well reconciled so as to suit all parties. Accordingly, when the discovery was made, which seemed to proclaim the poor girl’s infidelity, the youth’s rage and consternation were nearly equal to Lady Lake’s; a circumstance that added considerable zest to the comedy. But I see it does not divert you so much as I expected, and therefore, to relieve your mind, I may tell you that the jealous varlet soon repented of his rash determination, and pursuing his mistress, whom Do Gondomar had considerately taken under his protection, prevailed upon her to give the amorous ambassador the slip, and return with him to her father’s abode at Tottenham.”

“I am right glad to hear it,” said the Countess. “Though I have seen so little of Gillian, I cannot help taking an interest in her; she is so pretty, and so innocent in appearance, and her manners are so artless and engaging. I owe her some reparation for the mischief I have done her, and will not neglect to make it. I am sorry I ever was induced by you to take her into my service; and I am thankful to hear she has escaped De Gondomar’s snares.”

“You are wonderfully interested about her, methinks, Frances; and I hope she will be grateful for your consideration,” rejoined Lord Roos, with a laugh. “But I should not be surprised if De Gondomar still gained his point. It is not his way to give up a pursuit he has once undertaken. However, to leave the pretty damsel to her fate, which will depend entirely on her own conduct, let us return to ourselves. We have good reason to be satisfied with the issue of this adventure of the lock of hair. Nevertheless, that recurrence to the charge of witchcraft on the part of my vindictive mother-in-law shows the extent of her malice, and I cannot doubt that in threatening me with reprisals she will be as good as her word. It behoves us, therefore, to be beforehand with her. What she may intend I cannot say, but I am satisfied she has a formidable scheme on foot, and that nothing but her husband’s interposition prevented its disclosure when she was so violently incensed against me.”

“You fill me with terror, William,” exclaimed the Countess. “Will this woman’s hostility towards me never cease?”

“Never,” replied Lord Roos, with a sudden change of manner, and laying aside the levity he had hitherto exhibited. “There is but one way of ending the struggle. Luke Hatton can help us to it. Persuaded we should require him, I have brought him with me. He waits in the hall below with Diego. Shall I summon him to our conference?”

“On no account,” exclaimed Lady Exeter hastily; “I will not see him. You have done wrong to bring that poisoner here, my lord. You will destroy me.”

“Listen to me, Frances,” replied Lord Roos. “The next step taken by Lady Lake will be fatal to us. There must be no delay, no irresolution on our part, or all is lost. I cannot depend upon myself, or I would not call in another’s aid. You will comprehend how wanting in firmness I am, when I tell you what happened the other night. Incredible as it may sound, my wife, in order to prove her devotion to me and to free me from further annoyance on her part, offered to take poison; and but for my interference (fool that I was to stay her!) would have drained the phial containing the deadly potion. The weakness was momentary, and I reproached myself for it when too late. But it convinced me that a firmer hand than mine must be employed in the task.”

“And can you, after what you have related, William,–can you seriously meditate the destruction of a fond woman, who has generosity enough to lay down her life for you? This is more incredible than the rest–more monstrously wicked.”

“Wicked it may be; but the excuse–if I have any–lies in my overwhelming passion for you, Frances,” replied Lord Roos in a frenzied tone. “And it seems decided by the relentless destiny that governs me, that the continued indulgence of the fatal passion shall only be purchased at the price of my soul. That penalty I am prepared to pay rather than lose you. I will become obdurate, will turn my heart to stone, so that it shall no more melt at the tears of this fond, foolish woman; and I will slay her without remorse. Any other obstacle between us shall be removed;–be it her mother, her father–your husband! I will immolate a hundred victims at the altar of our love. I will shrink from nothing to make you mine for ever. For I would rather share eternal bale with you, Frances, than immortal bliss with another.”

“You almost make me fancy some evil being has obtained possession of you, William,” said the Countess, gazing at him with affright.

“It may be that the Fiend himself hath accepted my wild offer,” he rejoined gloomily; “but if my wish be granted it matters not.”

“I will not listen to such fearful impiety,” said the Countess, shuddering. “Let us dismiss this subject for the present, and recur to it when you are calmer.”

“It cannot be postponed, Frances. Time presses, and even now Lady Lake may have got the start of us. I shall be calm enough when this is over. Will you consent to see Luke Hatton?”

“Why need I see him?” inquired the Countess with increasing uneasiness. “Why will you force his hateful presence upon me? If the deed must be done, why can you not alone undertake it?”

“I will tell why I cannot,” he replied in a sombre tone, and regarding her fixedly. “I must have a partner in the crime. It will bind us to each other in links not to be severed. I shall have no fear of losing you then, Countess. I go to bring Luke Hatton to you.”

And without waiting for her reply he strode out of the room. Lady Exeter would have arrested him, but she had not the nerve to do so, and with an exclamation of anguish she fell back in her chair.

“What dominion sin has usurped over me!” she mentally ejaculated. “I have lost the power of resisting its further encroachment. I see the enormity of the offence I am about to commit, and though my soul revolts at it, I cannot hold back. I am as one on the brink of a precipice, who beholds the dreadful gulf before him, into which another step must plunge him, yet is too giddy to retreat, and must needs fall over. Pity me, kind Heaven! I am utterly helpless without thy aid.”

While the unhappy lady thus unavailingly deplored the sad position in which her own misconduct had placed her, and from which she felt wholly incapable of extricating herself; while in this wretched frame of mind, she awaited her lover’s return,–with, as we have shown, some remains of good struggling with the evil in her bosom,–we will cast a hasty glance round the chamber in which she sat. And we are prompted to do this, not because it merits particular description, but because it was the room referred to by Lady Lake as the scene of the confession she had forged.

The apartment, then, was spacious and handsomely furnished in the heavy taste of the period, with but little to distinguish it from other rooms visited by us in the course of this story. Like most of them, it had a gloomy air, caused by the dark hue of its oaken panels, and the heavy folds of its antiquated and faded tapestry. The latter was chiefly hung against the lower end of the chamber, and served as a screen to one of the doors. At the opposite end, there was a wide and deep bay window, glowing with stained glass, amid the emblazonry of which might be discerned the proud escutcheon of the house of Exeter, with the two lions rampant forming its supporters. On the right of the enormous carved mantel-piece, which, with its pillars, statues, ‘scutcheons, and massive cornice, mounted to the very ceiling, was hung a portrait of the Earl of Exeter–a grave, dignified personage, clad in the attire of Elizabeth’s time; and on the left, was a likeness of the Countess herself, painted in all the pride of her unequalled beauty, and marvellous in resemblance then; but how different in expression from her features now!

In the recess of the window stood an oak table, covered with a piece of rich carpet fringed with gold, on which a massive silver inkstand and materials for writing were placed; and this table was seized upon by Lady Lake as a feature in her plot. Here she would have it the confession was signed by the Countess.

Another point in reference to this scheme must not be passed unnoticed. We have mentioned the heavy hangings at the lower end of the room. According to the plotter, it was behind these that Sarah Swarton–the intended witness of the imaginary scene–was concealed. The principal subjects represented on the arras were the Judgment of Solomon, and the Temptation of our first Parents in the Garden by the Serpent. The hangings had evidently not been removed for years, and did not reach within two feet of the ground–a circumstance that had escaped the attention of Lady Lake–proving the truth of her husband’s observation, that in the best contrived plot some imperfection will exist certain to operate in its detection.

To return to the unhappy Countess. So lost was she in reflection, that she did not remark Lord Roos’s return till made aware of it by a slight touch on the shoulder. When she raised her eyes, they fell upon an object that inspired her with the dread and aversion that a noxious reptile might have produced. She had never seen Luke Hatton before; and if she had figured him to her mind at all, it was not as anything agreeable; but she was not prepared for so hideous and revolting a personage as he appeared to be. His face was like an ugly mask, on which a sardonic grin was stamped. His features were large and gaunt, and he had the long, hooked nose, and the sharp-pointed bestial ears of a satyr, with leering eyes–betokening at once sensuality and cunning. He had the chin and beard of a goat, and crisply-curled hair of a pale yellow colour. With all this, there was something sordid in his looks as well as his attire, which showed that to his other vices he added that of avarice. A mock humility, belied by the changeless sneer upon his countenance, distinguished his deportment. It could be seen at once that, however cringing he might be, he despised the person he addressed. Moreover, in spite of all his efforts to control it, there was something sarcastic in his speech. His doublet and hose, both of which had endured some service, and were well-nigh threadbare, were tawny-coloured; and he wore a short yellow cloak, a great ruff of the same colour, and carried a brown steeple-crowned hat in his hand.

“I await your ladyship’s commands,” said Luke Hatton, bowing obsequiously.

“I have none to give you,” Lady Exeter rejoined with irrepressible disgust. “I have not sent for you. Go hence.”

Not at all abashed by this reception, Luke Hatton maintained his place, and threw an inquiring glance at Lord Roos.

“My dear Countess,” said the young nobleman, seating himself negligently upon a tabouret beside her, “I must pray you not to dismiss this worthy man so hastily. You will find him eminently serviceable; and as to his trustworthiness, I have the best reasons for feeling satisfied of it, because I hold in my hand a noose, which, whenever I please, I can tighten round his neck. Of this he is quite aware, and therefore he will serve us faithfully, as well from fear as from gratitude.”

“Her ladyship may place entire confidence in me,” remarked Luke Hatton, with a grin. “This is not the first affair of the kind in which I have been engaged. I have prepared potions and powders which Mistress Turner (with whose reputation your ladyship must needs be acquainted) used to vend to her customers. My draughts have removed many a troublesome husband, and silenced many a jealous wife. I have helped many an heir to the speedy enjoyment of an inheritance, which, but for my assistance, would not have come to him for years. The lover with a rival in his way, who has come to me, has soon been freed from all anxiety on that score. The courtier, eager for a post which a superior held, has gained it by my aid. Yet none of those whom I have thus benefited have been suspected. Your ladyship, I repeat, need have no fears of me–and no scruples with me. State your wishes, and they shall be implicitly obeyed.”

“I have no wish, except to be relieved of a presence which is disagreeable to me,” replied the Countess.

Again Luke Hatton consulted Lord Roos with a regard.

“I find I must act for her ladyship,” said the young nobleman. “You will take, therefore, the instructions I shall give you, as proceeding from her. What two names do you find upon that paper?”

“Those of your lordship’s wife and mother-in-law,” returned Luke Hatton.

“You comprehend what her ladyship would have done with those persons?” said Lord Roos, looking at him steadfastly.

“Perfectly,” replied Luke Hatton.

“O, do not give this fatal order, my Lord!” cried Lady Exeter, trembling.

“How many days do you require to effect their removal?” demanded Lord Roos, without appearing to notice her remark.

“I do not require many hours,” replied Luke Hatton; “but it will be well not to be too precipitate. Neither must they die at the same time. All precaution shall be taken. The names are placed in a particular order. Is it so the Countess would have them taken? In that case I must commence with Lady Roos.”

“Wretch! dost thou dare to make such an appeal to me?” cried Lady Exeter rising. “Begone, instantly, I say. Thou hast no order whatever from me; or if thou fanciest so, I revoke it.”

“The order cannot be revoked,” cried Lord Roos, grasping her arm. “This is not a time for hesitation or repentance. Having commenced the work, you must go through with it–whether you will or not.”

“Whether I will or not!” exclaimed Lady Exeter, regarding him with angry surprise. “Have I heard you aright, my Lord? Am I to be forced into association in this foul deed? Have I sunk so low in your esteem that you venture to treat me thus?”

“Pardon me, Frances–pardon me!” he cried, imploringly. “I have said more than I intended. If I appear to exercise undue influence over you now, you will forgive me hereafter, because the situation is one that requires decision, and that quality I possess in a higher degree than yourself. Luke Hatton must obey the orders given him. And you must sanction them.”

“Never!” she exclaimed, emphatically.

“Then we part for ever,” cried Lord Roos. “No matter what the pang may be–nor what befals me–I will go. Farewell for ever, Countess!”

“Stay!” she cried. “We must not part thus.”

“Then you consent?” he exclaimed. “Luke Hatton receives his orders from you?”

“Ask me not that question!” she cried, with a shudder.

“If her ladyship will but sign this,” said Luke Hatton, holding towards her the paper on which the names were written, “it will suffice for me.”

“You hear what he says, Frances. You will do it?” cried Lord Roos. “‘Tis but a few strokes of a pen.”

“Those few strokes will cost me my soul,” she rejoined. “But if it must he so, it must. Give me the pen.”

And as Lord Roos complied, she signed the paper.

“Nov you may go,” said Lord Roos to Luke Hatton, who received the paper with a diabolical grin. “You may count upon your reward.”

“In a week’s time, my lord,” said Luke Hatton, still grinning, and shifting his glance from the half-fainting Countess to the young nobleman; “in a week’s time” he repeated, “you will have to put on mourning for your wife–and in a month for your mother-in-law.”

And with a cringing bow, and moving with a soft cat-like footstep, he quitted the room, leaving the guilty pair alone together.

END OF VOL. I.