The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Ay, well enough to confound you and all your wicked purposes, my Lord,” cried Lady Lake. “You have not accomplished my destruction, as you perceive; nor shall you accomplish your wife’s destruction, though you have well-nigh succeeded. Let it chafe you to madness to learn that I possess an antidote, which I have myself approved, and which will kill the poison circling in her veins, and give her new life.”

  “An antidote!” exclaimed Lord Roos. “So far from galling me to madness, the intelligence fills me with delight beyond expression. Give it me, Madam, that I may administer it at once; and heaven grant its results may be such as you predict!”

  “Administered by you, my Lord, it would be poison,” said Lady Lake, bitterly. “But you may stand by and witness its beneficial effects. They will be instantaneous.”

  “As you will, Madam, so you do not delay the application,” cried Lord Roos.

  “Drink of this, my child,” said Lady Lake, after she had poured some drops of the cordial into a glass.

  “I will take it from no hand but my husband’s,” murmured Lady Roos.

  “How?” exclaimed her mother, frowning.

  “Give it me, I say, Madam,” cried Lord Roos. “Is this a time for hesitation, when you see her life hangs upon a thread, which you yourself may sever?”

  And taking the glass from her, he held it to his wife’s lips; tenderly supporting her while she swallowed its contents.

  It was not long before the effects of the cordial were manifest. The deathly hue of the skin changed to a more healthful colour, and the pulsations of the heart became stronger and more equal; and though the debility could not be so speedily repaired, it was apparent that the work of restoration had commenced, and might be completed if the same treatment were pursued.

  “Now I owe my life to you, my dear Lord,” said Lady Roos, regarding her husband with grateful fondness.

  “To him!” exclaimed her mother. “You owe him nothing but a heavy debt of vengeance, which we will endeavour to pay, and with interest. But keep calm, my child, and do not trouble yourself; whatever may occur. Your speedy restoration will depend much on that.”

  “You do not adopt the means to make me calm, mother,” replied Lady Roos.

  But Lady Lake was too much bent upon the immediate and full gratification of her long-deferred vengeance to heed her. Clapping her hands together, the signal was answered by Sir Thomas Lake, who came forth from the adjoining room with Luke Hatton. At the same time, and as if it had been so contrived that all the guilty parties should be confronted together, the outer door of the chamber was opened, and the Countess of Exeter was ushered in by Sarah Swarton.

  On seeing in whose presence she stood, the Countess would have precipitately retreated; but it was too late. The door was closed by Sarah.

  “Soh! my turn is come at last,” cried Lady Lake, gazing from one to the other with a smile of gratified vengeance. “I hold you all in my toils. You, my Lord,” addressing her son-in-law, “have treated a wife, who has ever shown you the most devoted affection, with neglect and cruelty, and, not content with such barbarous treatment, have conspired against her life, and against my life.”

  “Take heed how you bring any charge against him, mother,” cried Lady Roos, raising herself in her couch. “Take heed, I say. Let your vengeance fall upon her head,” pointing to the Countess— “but not upon him.”

  “I am willing to make atonement for the wrongs I have done you, Lady Roos,” said the Countess, “and have come hither to say so, and to implore your forgiveness.”

  “You fancied she was dying,” rejoined Lady Lake— “dying from the effects of the poison administered to her and to me by Luke Hatton, according to your order; but you are mistaken, Countess. We have found an antidote, and shall yet live to requite you.”

  “It is more satisfaction to me to be told this, Madam, than it would be to find that Luke Hatton had succeeded in his design, which I would have prevented if I could,” said Lady Exeter.

  “You will gain little credit for that assertion, Countess,” remarked Sir Thomas Lake, “since it is contradicted by an order which I hold in my hand, signed by yourself, and given to the miscreant in question.”

  “O Heavens!” ejaculated the Countess.

  “Do you deny this signature?” asked Sir Thomas, showing her the paper.

  Lady Exeter made no answer.

  “Learn further to your confusion, Countess,” pursued Lady Lake, “that the wretch, Luke Hatton, has made a full confession of his offence, wherein he declares that he was incited by you, and by you alone, on the offer of a large reward, to put my daughter and myself to death by slow poison.”

  “By me alone! — incited by me!” cried Lady Exeter; “why, I opposed him. It is impossible he can have confessed thus. Hast thou done so, villain?”

  “I have,” replied Luke Hatton, sullenly.

  “Then thou hast avouched a lie — a lie that will damn thee,” said Lady Exeter. “Lord Roos knows it to be false, and can exculpate me. Speak, my Lord, I charge you, and say how it occurred.”

  But the young nobleman remained silent.

  “Not a word — not a word in my favour,” the Countess exclaimed, in a voice of anguish. “Nay, then I am indeed lost!”

  “You are lost past redemption,” cried Lady Lake with an outburst of fierce exultation, and a look as if she would have trampled her beneath her feet. “You have forfeited honour, station, life. Guilty of disloyalty to your proud and noble husband, you have sought to remove by violent deaths those who stood between you and your lover. Happily your dreadful purpose has been defeated; but this avowal of your criminality with Lord Roos, signed by yourself and witnessed by his lordship and his Spanish servant, — this shall be laid within an hour before the Earl of Exeter.”

  “My brain turns round. I am bewildered with all these frightful accusations,” exclaimed the Countess distractedly. “I have made no confession, — have signed none.”

  “Methought you said I had witnessed it, Madam?” cried Lord Roos, almost as much bewildered as Lady Exeter.

  “Will you deny your own handwriting, my Lord?” rejoined Lady Lake; “or will the Countess? Behold the confession, subscribed by the one, and witnessed by the other.”

  “It is a forgery!” shrieked the Countess. “You have charged me with witchcraft; but you practise it yourself.”

  “If I did not know it to be false, I could have sworn the hand was yours, Countess,” cried Lord Roos; “and my own signature is equally skilfully simulated.”

  “False or not,” cried Lady Lake, “it shall be laid before Lord Exeter as I have said — with all the details — ay, and before the King.”

  “Before the King!” repeated Lord Roos, as he drew near Lady Exeter, and whispered in her ear— “Countess, our sole safety is in immediate flight. Circumstances are so strong against us, that we shall never be able to disprove this forgery.”

  “Then save yourself in the way you propose, my Lord,” she rejoined, with scorn. “For me, I shall remain, and brave it out.”

  The young nobleman made a movement towards the door.

  “You cannot go forth without my order, my Lord,” cried Sir Thomas Lake. “It is guarded.”

  “Perdition!” exclaimed Lord Roos.

  Again Lady Lake looked from one to the other with a smile of triumph. But it was presently checked by a look from her daughter, who made a sign to her to approach her.

  “What would you, my child? — more of the cordial?” demanded Lady Lake.

  “No, mother,” she replied, in a tone so low as to be inaudible to the others. “Nor will I suffer another drop to pass my lips unless my husband be allowed to depart without molestation.”

  “Would you interfere with my vengeance?” said Lady Lake.

  “Ay, mother, I will interfere with it effectually unless you comply,” rejoined Lady Roos, firmly. “I will acquaint the Countess with the true nature of that confession. As it is, she has awakened by her conduct some feelings
of pity in my breast.”

  “You will ruin all by your weakness,” said Lady Lake.

  “Let Lord Roos go free, and let there be a truce between you and the Countess for three days, and I am content.”

  “I do not like to give such a promise,” said Lady Lake. “It will be hard to keep it.”

  “It may be harder to lose all your vengeance,” rejoined Lady Roos, in a tone that showed she would not be opposed.

  Compelled to succumb, Lady Lake moved towards Sir Thomas, and a few words having passed between them in private, the Secretary of State thus addressed his noble son-in-law —

  “My Lord,” he said in a grave tone, “at the instance of my daughter, though much against my own inclination, and that of my wife, I will no longer oppose your departure. I understand you are about to travel, and I therefore recommend you to set forth without delay, for if you be found in London, or in England, after three days, during which time, at the desire also of our daughter — and equally against our own wishes — we consent to keep truce with my lady of Exeter; if, I say, you are found after that time, I will not answer for the consequences to yourself. Thus warned, my Lord, you are at liberty to depart.”

  “I will take advantage of your offer, Sir Thomas, and attend to your hint,” replied Lord Roos. And turning upon his heel, he marched towards the door, whither he was accompanied by Sir Thomas Lake, who called to the attendants outside to let him go free.

  “Not one word of farewell to me! not one look!” exclaimed his wife, sinking back upon the pillow.

  “Nor for me — and I shall see him no more,” murmured the Countess, compressing her beautiful lips. “But it is better thus.”

  While this was passing, Luke Hatton had contrived to approach the Countess, and now said in a low tone— “If your ladyship will trust to me, and make it worth my while, I will deliver you from the peril in which you are placed by this confession. Shall I come to Exeter House to-night?”

  She consented.

  “At what hour?”

  “At midnight,” she returned. “I loathe thee, yet have no alternative but to trust thee. Am I free to depart likewise?” she added aloud to Sir Thomas.

  “The door is open for you, Countess,” rejoined the Secretary of State, with mock ceremoniousness. “After three days, you understand, war is renewed between us.”

  “War to the death,” subjoined Lady Lake.

  “Be it so,” replied the Countess. “I shall not desert my post.”

  And assuming the dignified deportment for which she was remarkable, she went forth with a slow and majestic step.

  Luke Hatton would have followed her, but Sir Thomas detained him.

  “Am I a prisoner?” he said, uneasily, and glancing at Lady Lake. “Her ladyship promised me instant liberation.”

  “And the promise shall be fulfilled as soon as I am satisfied my daughter is out of danger,” returned Sir Thomas.

  “I am easy, then,” said the apothecary. “I will answer for her speedy recovery.”

  CHAPTER V.

  A visit to Sir Giles Mompesson’s habitation near the fleet.

  Allowing an interval of three or four months to elapse between the events last recorded, and those about to be narrated, we shall now conduct the reader to a large, gloomy habitation near Fleet Bridge. At first view, this structure, with its stone walls, corner turrets, ponderous door, and barred windows, might be taken as part and parcel of the ancient prison existing in this locality. Such, however, was not the fact. The little river Fleet, whose muddy current was at that time open to view, flowed between the two buildings; and the grim and frowning mansion we propose to describe stood on the western bank, exactly opposite the gateway of the prison.

  Now, as no one had a stronger interest in the Fleet Prison than the owner of that gloomy house, inasmuch as he had lodged more persons within it than any one ever did before him, it would almost seem that he had selected his abode for the purpose of watching over the safe custody of the numerous victims of his rapacity and tyranny. This was the general surmise; and, it must be owned, there was ample warranty for it in his conduct.

  A loop-hole in the turret at the north-east angle of the house commanded the courts of the prison, and here Sir Giles Mompesson would frequently station himself to note what was going forward within the jail, and examine the looks and deportment of those kept by him in durance. Many a glance of hatred and defiance was thrown from these sombre courts at the narrow aperture at which he was known to place himself; but such regards only excited Sir Giles’s derision: many an imploring gesture was made to him; but these entreaties for compassion were equally disregarded. Being a particular friend of the Warden of the Fleet, and the jailers obeying him as they would have done their principal, he entered the prison when he pleased, and visited any ward he chose, at any hour of day or night; and though the unfortunate prisoners complained of the annoyance, — and especially those to whom his presence was obnoxious, — no redress could be obtained. He always appeared when least expected, and seemed to take a malicious pleasure in troubling those most anxious to avoid him.

  Nor was Sir Giles the only visitant to the prison. Clement Lanyere was as frequently to be seen within its courts and wards as his master, and a similar understanding appeared to exist between him and the jailers. Hence, he was nearly as much an object of dread and dislike as Sir Giles himself, and few saw the masked and shrouded figure of the spy approach them without misgiving.

  From the strange and unwarrantable influence exercised by Sir Giles and the promoter in the prison, they came at length to be considered as part of it; and matters were as frequently referred to them by the subordinate officers as to the warden. It was even supposed by some of the prisoners that a secret means of communication must exist between Sir Giles’s habitation and the jail; but as both he and Lanyere possessed keys of the wicket, such a contrivance was obviously unnecessary, and would have been dangerous, as it must have been found out at some time by those interested in the discovery.

  It has been shown, however, that, in one way or other, Sir Giles had nearly as much to do with the management of the Fleet Prison as those to whom its governance was ostensibly committed, and that he could, if he thought proper, aggravate the sufferings of its unfortunate occupants without incurring any responsibility for his treatment of them. He looked upon the Star-Chamber and the Fleet as the means by which he could plunder society and stifle the cry of the oppressed; and it was his business to see that both machines were kept in good order, and worked well.

  But to return to his habitation. Its internal appearance corresponded with its forbidding exterior. The apartments were large, but cold and comfortless, and, with two or three exceptions, scantily furnished. Sumptuously decorated, these exceptional rooms presented a striking contrast to the rest of the house; but they were never opened, except on the occasion of some grand entertainment — a circumstance of rare occurrence. There was a large hall of entrance, where Sir Giles’s myrmidons were wont to assemble, with a great table in the midst of it, on which no victuals were ever placed — at least at the extortioner’s expense — and a great fire-place, where no fire ever burnt. From this a broad stone staircase mounted to the upper part of the house, and communicated by means of dusky corridors and narrow passages with the various apartments. A turnpike staircase connected the turret to which Sir Giles used to resort to reconnoitre the Fleet Prison, with the lower part of the habitation, and similar corkscrew stairs existed in the other angles of the structure. When stationed at the loophole, little recked Sir Giles of the mighty cathedral that frowned upon him like the offended eye of heaven. His gaze was seldom raised towards Saint Paul’s, or if it were, he had no perception of the beauty or majesty of the ancient cathedral. The object of interest was immediately below him. The sternest realities of life were what he dealt with. He had no taste for the sublime or the beautiful.

  Sir Giles had just paid an inquisitorial visit, such as we have described, to the prison, and was
returning homewards over Fleet Bridge, when he encountered Sir Francis Mitchell, who was coming in quest of him, and they proceeded to his habitation together. Nothing beyond a slight greeting passed between them in the street, for Sir Giles was ever jealous of his slightest word being overheard; but he could see from his partner’s manner that something had occurred to annoy and irritate him greatly. Sir Giles was in no respect changed since the reader last beheld him. Habited in the same suit of sables, he still wore the same mantle, and the same plumed hat, and had the same long rapier by his side. His deportment, too, was as commanding as before, and his aspect as stern and menacing.

  Sir Francis, however, had not escaped the consequences naturally to be expected from the punishment inflicted upon him by the apprentices, being so rheumatic that he could scarcely walk, while a violent cough, with which he was occasionally seized, and which took its date from the disastrous day referred to, and had never left him since, threatened to shake his feeble frame in pieces; this, added to the exasperation under which he was evidently labouring, was almost too much for him. Three months seemed to have placed as many years upon his head; or, at all events, to have taken a vast deal out of his constitution. But, notwithstanding his increased infirmities, and utter unfitness for the part he attempted to play, he still affected a youthful air, and still aped all the extravagances and absurdities in dress and manner of the gayest and youngest court coxcomb. He was still attired in silks and satins of the gaudiest hues, still carefully trimmed as to hair and beard, still redolent of perfumes.

  Not without exhibiting considerable impatience, Sir Giles was obliged to regulate his pace by the slow and tottering steps of his companion, and was more than once brought to a halt as the lungs of the latter were convulsively torn by his cough, but at last they reached the house, and entered the great hall, where the myrmidons were assembled — all of whom rose on their appearance, and saluted them. There was Captain Bludder, with his braggart air, attended by some half-dozen Alsatian bullies; Lupo Vulp, with his crafty looks; and the tipstaves — all, in short, were present, excepting Clement Lanyere, and Sir Giles knew how to account for his absence. To the inquiries of Captain Bludder and his associates, whether they were likely to be required on any business that day, Sir Giles gave a doubtful answer, and placing some pieces of money in the Alsatian’s hand, bade him repair, with his followers, to the “Rose Tavern,” in Hanging Sword Court, and crush a flask or two of wine, and then return for orders — an injunction with which the captain willingly complied. To the tipstaves Sir Giles made no observation, and bidding Lupo Vulp hold himself in readiness for a summons, he passed on with his partner to an inner apartment. On Sir Francis gaining it, he sank into a chair, and was again seized with a fit of coughing that threatened him with annihilation. When it ceased, he made an effort to commence the conversation, and Sir Giles, who had been pacing to and fro impatiently within the chamber, stopped to listen to him.