"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 unmasked, 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.