“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.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 531