“Ay, ay, Sir Giles, you have to wipe out the outrage he inflicted upon you in the tilt-yard. As I am a true gentleman, that was worse than the indignity I endured from him in the court-yard of the palace. It must be confessed that the villain hath a powerful hand as well as a sharp tongue, and follows up his bitter words by bold deeds. The stroke he dealt you with his sword was like a blow from a sledge hammer, Sir Giles. He felled you from your horse as a butcher felleth an ox; and, in good truth, I at first thought the ox’s fate had been yours, and that you would never rise again. Your helmet was dinted in as if by a great shot. And for twelve hours and upwards you were senseless and speechless; — But thanks to my care and the skill of Luke Hatton the apothecary who tended you, you have been brought round. After such treatment, I cannot wonder that you are eager for revenge upon Sir Jocelyn. How will you deal with him Sir Giles? How will you deal with him?”
“I will hurl him from the proud position he now holds,” replied the other, “and immure him in the Fleet.”
“While I revel in the bliss he panted to enjoy,” cried the old usurer, chuckling. “Take it altogether, ’tis the sweetest scheme we ever planned, and the most promising, Sir Giles! But when am I to claim Aveline? when shall I make her mine?”
“You shall claim her to-morrow, and wed her as soon after as you list.”
“Nay, there shall be no delay on my part, Sir Giles. I am all impatience. When such a dainty repast is spread out before me, I am not likely to be a laggard. But now, to the all-important point on which the whole affair hinges! How am I to assert my claim to her hand — how enforce it when made? Explain that to me, Sir Giles, I beseech you.”
“Readily,” replied the extortioner. “But before doing so let me give you a piece of information which will surprise you, and which will show you that my tenure of this great Norfolk property is not quite so secure as you suppose it. You are aware that Sir Ferdinando Mounchensey had a younger brother, Osmond—”
“Who disappeared when very young, and died, it was concluded,” interrupted Sir Francis, “for he was never heard of more. And it was lucky for us he did so die, or he might have proved a serious obstacle to our seizure of these estates, for I remember it being stated at the time, by one of the judges, that had he been living, he might have procured a reversal of the Star-Chamber sentence upon Sir Ferdinando in his favour.”
“Precisely so, and that judge’s opinion was correct,” said Sir Giles. “Now listen to me, Sir Francis. It is quite true that Osmond Mounchensey quitted his home when very young, owing to some family quarrel; but it is not true that he died. On the contrary, I have recently ascertained, beyond a doubt, that he is still alive. Hitherto, I have failed in tracing him out, though I have got a clue to him; but he has enveloped himself in so much mystery that he is difficult of detection. Yet I trust to succeed ere long; and my great business will be to prevent his re-appearance, which would be fraught with danger to us both. I have a scheme on foot in reference to him which will answer more than one purpose. You will learn it anon. And now, to give you the explanation you require in respect to Aveline.”
And he stamped upon the floor.
“You are not about to invoke a spirit of darkness to our councils?” said Sir Francis, staring at him in astonishment and alarm.
“You will see,” rejoined the extortioner with a grim smile.
After a brief pause, the door was almost noiselessly opened, and Clement Lanyere entered the chamber.
“What has Lanyere to do with the matter?” cried Sir Francis, suspiciously regarding the promoter, who was without his mask.
“You will hear,” replied Sir Giles. “Be pleased to inform Sir Francis, good Lanyere, how you come to be in a position to demand the hand of fair Mistress Aveline Calveley?”
“He demand it! I understand you not, Sir Giles!” exclaimed the old usurer.
“Let him speak, I pray you, Sir Francis,” returned the other. “You will the sooner learn what you desire to know.”
CHAPTER XV.
Clement Lanyere’s Story.
“My tale shall be briefly told,” said Lanyere. “You are aware, Sir Francis, that in the pursuit of my avocation I am often led into the most dangerous quarters of the metropolis, and at hours when the peril to any honest man is doubled. Adventures have not unfrequently occurred to me when so circumstanced, and I have been indebted to my right hand and my good sword for deliverance from many a desperate risk. Late one night, I chanced to be in the neighbourhood of Whitefriars, in a place called the Wilderness, when, hearing cries for help, accompanied by the clash of steel, I rushed towards a narrow court, whence the clatter and vociferations resounded, and perceived by the light of the moon, which fortunately happened to be shining brightly at the time, one man engaged with four others, who were evidently bent upon cutting his throat in order to take his purse. He defended himself gallantly, but the odds were too great, and he must have been speedily slain — for the villains swore with great oaths they would murder him if he continued to resist them — if I had not come to the rescue. I arrived just in time. They were pressing him hard. I struck down the point of a rapier which was within an inch of his breast — gave the swashbuckler who carried it a riposta he did not expect, and sent him off bowling — and then addressed myself to the others with such good effect, that in a brief space the stranger and I were alone together. I had been slightly wounded in the fray; but I thought nothing of it — a mere scratch. It seemed something more to the gentleman I had preserved. He expressed great concern for me, and bound his handkerchief round my arm. I was about to depart, but he detained me to renew his professions of gratitude for the service I had rendered him, and his earnest wish that he might be able to requite me. From his discourse, and from the texts of Scripture he mixed up with it, I knew him to be a Puritan; and I might have supposed him to be a preacher of the Gospel, had he not carried a sword, and borne himself so manfully in the encounter. However, he left me no doubt on the subject, for he told me he was named Hugh Calveley, and that he had served in the wars with more honour to himself than profit. He added, that if the knaves had succeeded in their design, and robbed and slain him, they would have deprived his daughter of her sole protector; and, indeed, of all means of subsistence, since the little they had would be lost with him. On hearing this, a thought struck me, and I said to him— ‘You have expressed an earnest desire to requite the service I have just been fortunate enough to render you, and as I am well assured your professions are not idly made, I shall not hesitate to proffer a request to you.’ ‘Ask what you will; if I have it to give, it shall be yours,’ he replied. ‘You make that promise solemnly, and before heaven?’ I said. ‘I make it solemnly,’ he replied. ‘And to prove to you that I mean it to be binding upon me, I will confirm it by an oath upon the Bible.’ And as he spoke he took the sacred volume from his doublet, and reverently kissed it. Then I said to him— ‘Sir, you have told me you have a daughter, but you have not told me whether she is marriageable or not?’ He started at the question, and answered somewhat sternly. ‘My daughter has arrived at womanhood. But wherefore the inquiry? Do you seek her hand in marriage?’ ‘If I did so, would you refuse her to me?’ A pause ensued, during which I observed he was struggling with deep emotion, but he replied at last, ‘I could not do so after my solemn promise to you; but I pray you not to make the demand.’ I then said to him: ‘Sir, you cannot lay any restrictions upon me. I shall exact fulfilment of your promise. Your daughter must be mine.’ Again he seemed to be torn by emotion, and to meditate a refusal; but after a while he suppressed his feelings, and replied. ‘My word is plighted. She shall be yours. — Ay, though it cost me my life, she shall be yours.’ He then inquired my name and station, and I gave him a different name from that by which I am known; in fact, I adopted one which chanced to be familiar to him, and which instantly changed his feelings towards me into those of warmest friendship. As you may well suppose, I did not think fit to reveal my odious profession, and though I was u
nmasked, I contrived so to muffle my hateful visage with my cloak, that it was in a great degree concealed from him. After this, I told him that I had no intention of pressing my demand immediately; that I would take my own means of seeing his daughter without her being conscious of my presence; and that I would not intrude upon her in any way without his sanction. I used some other arguments, which seemed perfectly to satisfy him, and we separated, he having previously acquainted me that he lived at Tottenham. Not many days elapsed before I found an opportunity of viewing his daughter, and I found her exquisitely beautiful. I had indeed gained a prize; and I resolved that no entreaties on his part, or on hers, should induce me to abandon my claim. I took care not to be seen by her, being sensible that any impression I might make would be prejudicial to me; and I subsequently learnt from her father that he had not disclosed to her the promise he had been rash enough to make to me. I had an interview with him — the third and last that ever took place between us — on the morning of the day on which he made an attempt upon the life of the King. I rode over to Tottenham, and arrived there before daybreak. My coming was expected, and he himself admitted me by a private door into his garden, and thence into the house. I perceived that his mind was much disturbed, and he told me he had passed the whole night in prayer. Without acquainting me with his desperate design, I gathered from what he said, that he meditated some fearful act, and that he considered his own life in great jeopardy. If he fell, and he anticipated he should fall, he committed his daughter to my care; and he gave me a written injunction, wherein, as you will find, his blessing is bestowed upon her for obedience to him, and his curse laid upon her in the event of a breach of duty; commanding her, by all her hopes of happiness hereafter, to fulfil the solemn promise he had made me — provided I should claim her hand within a twelvemonth of his death. The unfortunate man, as you know, died within two days of that interview, having, as I have since ascertained, reiterated the same solemn charge, and in terms equally impressive, to his daughter.”
“A strange story truly,” observed Sir Francis, who had listened attentively to the relation; “but though Aveline may consent to be bound by her father’s promise to you, I see not how Lean enforce the claim.”
“Hugh Calveley, when dying, disclosed no name to his daughter,” said Sir Giles. “There is no name mentioned in the paper confided by him to Lanyere; and, possessed of that authority, you will represent the party entitled to make the claim, and can act as Lanyere would have acted.”
“She will not resist the demand,” said the promoter. “That I can avouch, for I overheard her declare as much to Sir Jocelyn.”
“If such be the case, I am content,” cried the old usurer. “Give me the authority,” he added to Lanyere.
“I have it with me, Sir Francis,” rejoined the promoter; “but Sir Giles will explain to you that there is something to be done before I can yield it to you.”
“What does he require?” asked the old usurer, glancing uneasily at his partner.
“Merely all these title-deeds of the Mounchensey estates in exchange for that paper,” replied Sir Giles.
“Not merely the deeds,” said Lanyere; “but an assignment on your part, Sir Giles, and on yours, Sir Francis, of all your joint interest in those estates. I must have them absolutely secured to me; and stand precisely as you stand towards them.”
“You shall have all you require,” replied Mompesson.
“Amazement!” exclaimed Sir Francis. “Can you really mean to relinquish this noble property to him, Sir Giles? I thought I was assigning my share to you, and little dreamed that the whole estates would be made over in this way.”
“I have told you, Sir Francis,” rejoined the other, “that vengeance — ample, refined vengeance — cannot be too dearly purchased; and you will now perceive that I am willing to pay as extravagantly as yourself for the gratification of a whim. On no other terms than these would Lanyere consent to part with the authority he possesses, which while it will ensure you the hand of Aveline, will ensure me the keenest revenge upon Sir Jocelyn. I have therefore acceded to his terms. Thou hast got a rare bargain, Lanyere; and when the crack-brained Puritan gave thee that paper, he little knew the boon he bestowed upon thee.”
“The exchange would, indeed, seem to be in my favour, Sir Giles,” he said; “but you may believe me when I say, that though I gain these large estates, I would rather have had the damsel.”
“Well, let the business be completed,” said Sir Giles; “and that it may be so with all dispatch, do you, Lanyere, summon Lupo Vulp to us. You will find him in his chamber, and bid him bring with him the deed of assignment to you of the Mounchensey estates which he has already prepared, and which only requires my signature and that of Sir Francis.”
“I obey you, Sir Giles,” replied Lanyere, departing on the errand.
As soon as they were alone, the old usurer observed to his partner— “I am lost in astonishment at what you are about to do, Sir Giles. That I should make a sacrifice for a dainty damsel, whose charms are doubled because she should belong to an enemy, is not surprising; but that you should give up so easily a property you have so long coveted — I confess I cannot understand it.”
A strange smile crossed the extortioner’s countenance.
“And do you really think I would give it up thus, Sir Francis?” he said.
“But if we sign that deed— ’tis his. How are you to get it back again?”
“Ask me not how — I have no time for explanation. Recollect what I told you of Osmond Mounchensey, and the possibility of his re-appearance.”
“I will not seek to penetrate your scheme, Sir Giles,” observed the old usurer; “but I would have you beware of Lanyere. He is cunning and determined.”
“He will scarcely prove a match for me, I think,” observed the extortioner— “but here he comes.”
And as he spoke, the promoter again entered the chamber, followed by Lupo Vulp, with a parchment under his arm.
“Give me the deed, good Lupo,” said Sir Giles, taking it from him. “It must be first executed by me — there! — and now your signature, Sir Francis,” he added, passing the instrument to him. “Now thou shalt witness it, Lupo. ’Tis well!— ’tis well!” he cried, snatching it back again, as soon as the scrivener had finished the attestation. “All is done in due form. This deed makes you Lord of Mounchensey, Lanyere.” And he handed it to him.
“And this makes Sir Francis Mitchell ruler of the destiny of Aveline Calveley,” rejoined Lanyere, giving a paper to the old usurer.
“This chest and its contents are yours also, Lanyere,” pursued Sir Giles, putting in the deeds, and locking it. “Will it please you to take the key. From this moment we cease to be master and servant, and become equals and friends!”
“Equals, it may be, Sir Giles!” cried Lanyere, drawing himself up to his full height, and speaking with great haughtiness; “but never friends.”
“Ha! what are we, then?” demanded the extortioner, fiercely. “Am I mistaken in you? Take heed. You are yet in my power.”
“Not so, Sir Giles. I have nothing to apprehend from you now,” replied Lanyere; “but you have much to fear from me.”
So saying, and placing the parchment within his doublet, he hastily quitted the chamber.
“Perdition! have I been outwitted?” cried Sir Giles. “But he shall not escape me.” And rushing after him, he called from the head of the great staircase— “What, ho! Captain Bludder! — and ye, Tom Wootton and Cutting Dick — let not Lanyere go forth. Stay him and take from him the deed which he hath placed in his doublet. Cut him down, or stab him if he resists.”
But, though efforts were made to obey Sir Giles’s commands, the promoter effected his retreat.
CHAPTER XVI.
Sir Jocelyn’s rupture with de Gondomar.
Far and wide echoed the report of Sir Jocelyn’s brilliant achievements at the jousts; and wherever he went, he was hailed as vanquisher of the hitherto-unconquered Buckingham. He bo
re his honours meekly, yet he did not escape calumny; for at a court, as everywhere else, distinguished success is certain to awaken a spirit of envy and detraction. These paltry feelings, however, were entirely confined to the disappointed of his own sex. By fairer and more impartial judges, who had witnessed his exploits, he was spoken of in terms of unmingled admiration; and at the grand revel at Whitehall that followed the jousts, many a soft glance told him how tenderly the gentle heart, whose feelings it betrayed, was inclined towards him. Faithful, loyal, and chivalrous, our young knight was as much proof against these lures, as against the ruder attacks of his armed opponents in the lists; and his constancy to the lady of his love remained entirely unshaken. Far rather would he have been with Aveline, in her humble dwelling, than in those superb festal halls, surrounded by all that was noble and beautiful — all that was dangerous and delusive. Far rather would he have received one smile from her, one kindly look, than all the blandishments showered upon him by these enchantresses.
Fain would he have avoided the banquet — but as the hero of the day, he was compelled to attend it. Indeed, he had to enact a principal part at the revel; and so well did he play it that compliments were lavished upon him, enough to have turned an ordinary head. Not from any desire for ostentatious display, but because Prince Charles had signified to him his wishes on the subject, he was arrayed in all the pearls and ornaments he had won from Buckingham; and more than one subtle courtier, anxious to stand well with him, flatteringly declared that they became him infinitely better than the Marquis. Others, less favourably disposed, remarked that his gem-bedecked doublet was like the garment of Nessus, and would cause its wearer’s destruction; and if they could have read Buckingham’s secret thoughts, when he beheld his rival so adorned, they would have felt that the observation was not unwarranted. But, though fully determined upon revenge, Buckingham allowed neither look nor word to betray his purpose. On the contrary, he displayed more than his usual affability to Mounchensey, laughed at his own ill-luck, and even went so far as to say that Sir Giles Mompesson had been rightly served; adding, that he blamed himself for including him in his party, and was glad Sir Jocelyn had handled him so rudely.
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