CHAPTER VI.
Provocation.
A momentary pause ensued, during which Mounchensey regarded the knight so fiercely, that the latter began to entertain apprehensions for his personal safety, and meditated a precipitate retreat. Yet he did not dare to move, lest the action should bring upon him the hurt he wished to avoid. Thus he remained, like a bird fascinated by the rattlesnake, until the young man, whose power of speech seemed taken from him by passion, went on, in a tone of deep and concentrated rage, that communicated a hissing sound to his words.
“Yes, I am Jocelyn Mounchensey,” he said, “the son of him whom your arts and those of your partner in iniquity, Sir Giles Mompesson, brought to destruction; the son of him whom you despoiled of a good name and large estates, and cast into a loathsome prison, to languish and to die: I am the son of that murdered man. I am he whom you have robbed of his inheritance; whose proud escutcheon you have tarnished; whose family you have reduced to beggary and utter ruin.”
“But Sir Jocelyn, my worthy friend,” the knight faltered, “have patience, I pray of you. If you consider yourself aggrieved, I am willing to make reparation — ample reparation. You know what were my intentions towards you, before I had the slightest notion who you might be. (If I had but been aware of it, he thought, I would have taken care to keep at a respectful distance from him.) I will do more than I promised. I will lend you any sums of money you may require; and on your personal security. Your bare word shall suffice. No bonds — no written obligations of any kind. Does that sound like usury? As I am a true gentleman! I am most unfairly judged. I am not the extortioner men describe me. You shall find me your friend,” he added in a low earnest tone. “I will re-establish your fortune; give you a new title, higher and prouder than that which you have lost; and, if you will follow my counsel, you shall supplant the haughty favourite himself. You shall stand where Buckingham now stands. Hear reason, good Sir Jocelyn. Hear reason, I entreat you.”
“I will hear nothing further,” Jocelyn rejoined. “Were you to talk till Doomsday, you could not alter my feelings towards you a jot. My chief errand in coming to London was to call you and Sir Giles Mompesson to strict account.”
“And we will answer any charges you may bring against us readily — most readily, Sir Jocelyn. All was done in fairness — according to law. The Star-Chamber will uphold us.”
“Tut! you think to terrify me with that bugbear; but I am not so easily frightened. We have met for the first time by chance, but our next meeting shall be by appointment.”
“When and where you please, Sir Jocelyn,” the knight replied; but recollect the duello is forbidden, and, though I would not willingly disappoint you in your desire to cut my throat, I should be sorry to think you might be hanged for it afterwards. Come, Sir Jocelyn, lay aside this idle passion, and look to your true interests, which lie not in quarrelling with me, but in our reconciliation. I can help you effectually, as I have shown; and, as I am a true gentleman, I will help you. Give me your hand, and let us be friends!”
“Never!” Jocelyn exclaimed, withdrawing from him, “never shall the hand of a Mounchensey grasp yours in friendship! I would sooner mine rotted off! I am your mortal foe. My father’s death has to be avenged.”
“Provoke him not, my good young Sir,” interposed an elderly man, next him, in a long furred gown, with hanging sleeves, and a flat cap on his head, who had heard what was now passing. “You know not the mischief he may do you.”
“I laugh at his malice, and defy him,” Jocelyn cried— “he shall not sit one moment longer beside me. Out, knave! out!” he added, seizing Sir Francis by the wing of his doublet, and forcibly thrusting him from his seat. “You are not fit company for honest men. Ho! varlets, to the door with him! Throw him into the kennel.”
“You shall rue this, villain! — you shall rue it bitterly,” Sir Francis cried, shaking his clenched hands at him. “Your father perished like a dog in the Fleet, and you shall perish there likewise. You have put yourself wholly in my power, and I will make a fearful example of you. You have dared to utter scandalous and contemptuous language against the great and high court of Star-Chamber, before the decrees of which, all men bow; impugning its justice and denying its authority; and you shall feel the full weight of its displeasure. I call upon these worthy gentlemen to testify against you.”
“We have heard nothing, and can testify nothing,” several voices cried.
“But you, Sir, who were next him, you must have heard him?” Sir Francis said, addressing the elderly man in the furred gown.
“Not I!” rejoined the person appealed to; “I gave no heed to what was said.”
“But I did, Sir Francis,” squeaked a little whey-faced man, in a large ruff and tight-laced yellow doublet, from the opposite side of the table; “I heard him most audaciously vilipend the high court of Star-Chamber and its councils; and I will bear testimony against him when called upon.”
“Your name, good Sir, your name?” Sir Francis demanded, taking out his tablets.
“Set me down as Thopas Trednock, tailor, at the sign of the Pressing Iron, in Cornhill,” the whey-faced man replied, in his shrill tones, amid the derisive laughter of the assemblage.
“Thopas Trednock, tailor — good!” the knight repeated, as he wrote the name down. “You will be an excellent witness, Master Trednock. Fare you well for the present, Master Jocelyn Mounchensey, for I now mind well your father was degraded from the honour of knighthood. As I am a true gentleman! you may be sure of committal to the Fleet.”
As may be supposed, the scuffle which had taken place, attracted the attention of those in its immediate vicinity; and when the cause of it became known, as it presently did throughout both tables, great indignation was expressed against Sir Francis, who was censured on all hands, jeered and flouted, as he moved to the door. So great was the clamour, and so opprobrious were the epithets and terms applied to him, that the knight was eager to make his escape; but he met Cyprien in his way; and the droll young Gascon, holding a dish-cover in one hand, by way of buckler, and a long carving-knife in the other, in place of a sword, opposed his egress.
“Let me pass, knave,” Sir Francis cried in alarm.
“By your leave, no,” returned Cyprien, encouraged by the laughter and plaudits of the company. “You have come hither uninvited, and must stay till you have permission to depart. Having partaken of the banquet, you must, perforce, tarry for the rerebanquet. The sweets and cates have yet to come, Sir Francis.”
“What mean you, sirrah?” the knight demanded, in increased trepidation.
“Your presence is necessary at a little entertainment I have provided to follow the dinner, sweet Sir Francis,” Madame Bonaventure cried, advancing towards him; “and as you have a principal part in it, I can by no means spare you.”
“No one can spare you, sweet Sir Francis,” several voices chimed in, derisively. “You must remain with us a little longer.”
“But I will not stay. I will not be detained. There is some conspiracy a-foot against me. I will indict you all for it, if you hinder me in going forth,” the knight vociferated, in accents of mingled rage and terror. “Stop me at your peril, thou saucy Gascon knave.”
“Cornes du diable! — no more a knave than yourself, gros usurier!” Cyprien cried.
“Laissez-lui, Cyprien,” Madame Bonaventure interposed;— “the courteous knight will yield to my entreaties, and stay of his own free will.”
“I have business that calls me hence. I must go,” Sir Francis said, endeavouring to push by them.
“Let the door be closed,” an authoritative voice cried from the head of the table.
The order was instantly obeyed. Two serving-men stationed themselves before the place of exit, and Sir Francis found himself a prisoner.
The roof rang with the laughter and gibes of the guests.
“This is a frolic, gentleman, I perceive. You are resolved to make me your sport — ha! ha!” Sir Francis said, trying to disguise hi
s uneasiness under an appearance of levity— “But you will not carry the jest too far. You will not maltreat me. My partner, Sir Giles Mompesson, will be here anon, and will requite any outrage committed upon me.”
“Sir Giles is impatiently expected by us,” a spruce coxcomb near him replied. “Madame Bonaventure had prepared us for his coming. We will give him the welcome he deserves.”
“Ah! traitress! then it was all planned,” Sir Francis thought;— “and, blind owl that I am, I have fallen into the snare.”
But the poor knight was nearly at his wit’s end with fright, when he saw Lord Roos quit his place at the upper table and approach him.
CHAPTER VII.
How Lord Roos obtained Sir Francis Mitchell’s signature.
“What, my prince of usurers!” exclaimed Lord Roos, in a mocking tone; “my worthy money-lender, who never takes more than cent. per cent., and art ill content with less; who never exacts more than the penalty of thy bond, — unless more may be got; who never drives a hard bargain with a needy man — by thine own account; who never persecutes a debtor — as the prisons shall vouch for thee; who art just in all thy transactions — as every man who hath had dealings with thee will affirm; and who knows not how to lie, to cheat, to cozen — as some usurers do.”
“You are pleasant, my lord,” Sir Francis replied.
“I mean to be so,” Lord Roos said; “for I esteem thee for thy rare qualities. I know not thy peer for cunning and knavery. Thy mischievous schemes are so well-conceived that they prove thee to have an absolute genius for villany. Scruples thou hast none; and considerations and feelings which might move men less obdurate than thyself, have no influence over thee. To ruin a man is with thee mere pastime; and groans of the oppressed are music in thine ears.”
“Aha! a good jest. You were always merry with me, my lord.”
“Yes, when I borrowed money from thee — but not when I had to repay it twice over. I laughed not then; but was foolish enough to threaten to take thy life. My anger is past now. But we must drink together — a rousing toast.”
“At your lordship’s pleasure,” Sir Francis replied.
“Cyprien! a flask of wine, and thy largest goblet,” Lord Roos cried. “’Tis well! Now pour the whole into the flagon. Do me reason in this cup, Sir Francis?”
“What! in this mighty cup, my lord?” the knight replied. “Nay, ’tis too much, I swear. If I become drunken, the sin will lie at your door.”
“Off with it! without more ado. And let the toast be what thou practisest— ‘Pillage and Extortion!’”
“I cannot drink that toast, my lord. ‘Twill choke me.”
“‘Sdeath! villain, but thou shalt, or thou shalt never taste wine more. Down with it, man! And now your signature to this paper?”
“My signature!” Sir Francis cried, reeling from the effect of the wine he had swallowed. “Nay, my good lord; I can sign nothing that I have not read. What is it?”
“A blank sheet,” Lord Roos rejoined. “I will fill it up afterwards.”
“Then, my lord, I refuse — that is, I decline — that is, I had rather not, if your lordship pleases.”
“But my lordship pleases otherwise. Give him pen and ink, and set him near the table.”
This was done; and Sir Francis regarded the paper with swimming eyes.
“Now, your name, — written near the bottom of the sheet,” Lord Roos cried.
“’Tis done under com — compulsion; and I pro — protest against it.”
“Sign, I say,” the young nobleman exclaimed, rapping the table peremptorily.
On this, Sir Francis wrote his name in the place indicated.
“Enough!” Lord Roos cried, snatching up the paper. “This is all I want. Now set him on the table, that his partner may have him in full view when he arrives. ‘Twill give him a foretaste of what he may himself expect.”
“What mean you, ruff — ruffians? ’Tis an indignity to which I shall not submit,” cried Sir Francis, who was now, however, too far gone to offer any resistance.
A leathern girdle was found, with which he was fastened to the chair, so as to prevent him slipping from it; and in this state he was hoisted upon the table, and set with his face to the door; looking the very picture of inebriety, with his head drooping on one side, his arms dangling uselessly down, and his thin legs stretched idly out. After making some incoherent objections to this treatment, he became altogether silent, and seemed to fall asleep. His elevation was received with shouts of laughter from the whole company.
The incident had not taken place many minutes, and a round had scarcely been drunk by the guests, when a loud and peremptory summons was heard at the door. The noise roused even the poor drunkard in the chair, who, lifting up his head, stared about him with vacant eyes.
“Let the door be opened,” the same authoritative voice exclaimed, which had before ordered its closure.
The mandate was obeyed; and, amidst profound silence, which suddenly succeeded the clashing of glasses, and expressions of hilarity, Sir Giles Mompesson entered, with his body-guard of myrmidons behind him.
Habited in black, as was his custom, with a velvet mantle on his shoulder, and a long rapier by his side, he came forward with a measured step and assured demeanour. Though he must necessarily have been surprised by the assemblage he found — so much more numerous and splendid than he could have anticipated — he betrayed no signs whatever of embarrassment. Nor, though his quick eye instantly detected Sir Francis, and he guessed at once why the poor knight had been so scandalously treated, did he exhibit any signs of displeasure, or take the slightest notice of the circumstance; reserving this point for consideration, when his first business should be settled. An additional frown might have darkened his countenance; but it was so stern and sombre, without it, that no perceptible change could be discerned; unless it might be in the lightning glances he cast around, as if seeking some one he might call to account presently for the insult. But no one seemed willing to reply to the challenge. Though bold enough before he came, and boastful of what they would do, they all looked awed by his presence, and averted their gaze from him. There was, indeed, something so formidable in the man, that to shun a quarrel with him was more a matter of prudence than an act of cowardice; and on the present occasion, no one liked to be first to provoke him; trusting to his neighbour to commence the attack, or awaiting the general outbreak.
There was one exception, however, and that was Jocelyn Mounchensey, who, so far from desiring to shun Sir Giles’s searching regards, courted them; and as the knight’s eagle eye ranged round the table and fell upon him, the young man (notwithstanding the efforts of his pacific neighbour in the furred cloak to restrain him) suddenly rose up, and throwing all the scorn and defiance he could muster into his countenance, returned Mompesson’s glance with one equally fierce and menacing.
A bitter smile curled Sir Giles’s lip at this reply to his challenge, and he regarded the young man fixedly, as if to grave his features upon his memory. Perhaps they brought Mounchensey’s father to mind, for Sir Giles withdrew his gaze for a moment to reflect, and then looked again at Jocelyn with fresh curiosity. If he had any doubts as to whom he beheld, they were removed by Sir Francis, who managed to hiccup forth —
“’Tis he, Sir Giles— ’tis Jocelyn Mounchensey.”
“I thought as much,” Sir Giles muttered. “A moment, young man,” he cried, waving his hand imperiously to his antagonist. “Your turn will come presently.”
And without bestowing further notice on Jocelyn, who resisted all his neighbour’s entreaties to him to sit down, Sir Giles advanced towards the middle chamber, where he paused, and took off his cap, having hitherto remained covered.
In this position, he looked like a grand inquisitor attended by his familiars.
CHAPTER VIII.
Of Lupo Vulp, Captain Bludder, Clement Lanyere, and Sir Giles’s other Myrmidons.
Close behind Sir Giles, and a little in advance of the rest of the my
rmidons, stood Lupo Vulp, the scrivener.
Lupo Vulp was the confidential adviser of our two extortioners, to whom they referred all their nefarious projects. He it was who prepared their bonds and contracts, and placed out their ill-gotten gains at exorbitant usance. Lupo Vulp was in all respects worthy of his employers, being just as wily and unscrupulous as they were, while, at the same time, he was rather better versed in legal tricks and stratagems, so that he could give them apt counsel in any emergency. A countenance more replete with cunning and knavery than that of Lupo Vulp, it would be difficult to discover. A sardonic smile hovered perpetually about his mouth, which was garnished with ranges of the keenest and whitest teeth. His features were sharp; his eyes small, set wide apart, of a light gray colour, and with all the slyness of a fox lurking within their furtive glances. Indeed, his general resemblance to that astute animal must have struck a physiognomist. His head was shaped like that of a fox, and his hair and beard were of a reddish-tawny hue. His manner was stealthy, cowering, suspicious, as if he feared a blow from every hand. Yet Lupo Vulp could show his teeth and snap on occasions. He was attired in a close-fitting doublet of russety-brown, round yellow hose, and long stockings of the same hue. A short brown mantle and a fox-skin cap completed his costume.
The leader of the troop was Captain Bludder, a huge Alsatian bully, with fiercely-twisted moustachios, and fiery-red beard cut like a spade. He wore a steeple-crowned hat with a brooch in it, a buff jerkin and boots, and a sword and buckler dangled from his waist. Besides these, he had a couple of petronels stuck in his girdle. The captain drank like a fish, and swaggered and swore like twenty troopers.
The rear of the band was formed by the tipstaves — stout fellows with hooks at the end of their poles, intended to capture a fugitive, or hale him along when caught. With these were some others armed with brown-bills. No uniformity prevailed in the accoutrements of the party, each man arraying himself as he listed. Some wore old leather jerkins and steel skirts; some, peascod doublets of Elizabeth’s time, and trunk-hose that had covered many a limb besides their own; others, slops and galligaskins; while the poorer sort were robed in rusty gowns of tuft-mockado or taffeta, once guarded with velvet or lined with skins, but now tattered and threadbare. Their caps and bonnets were as varied as their apparel, — some being high-crowned, some trencher-shaped, and some few wide in the leaf and looped at the side. Moreover, there was every variety of villainous aspect; the savage scowl of the desperado, the cunning leer of the trickster, and the sordid look of the mean knave. Several of them betrayed, by the marks of infamy branded on their faces, or by the loss of ears, that they had passed through the hands of the public executioner.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 516