A grave-looking man, of a melancholy and severe aspect, and attired in a
loose robe of black velvet, was seated alone in a chamber, the windows
of which opened upon the Fountain Court, which we have just quitted. He
wore a silken skull-cap, from beneath which a few gray hairs escaped;
his brow was furrowed with innumerable wrinkles, occasioned as much by
thought and care as by age; his pointed beard and moustaches were almost
white, contrasting strikingly with his dark, jaundiced complexion, the
result of an atrabilarious temperament; his person was extremely
attenuated, and his hands thin and bony. He had once been tall, but
latterly had lost much of his height, in consequence of a curvature of
the spine, which bowed down his head almost upon his breast, and fixed
it immoveably in that position. His features were good, but, as we have
stated, were stamped with melancholy, and sharpened by severity.
This person was Sir Thomas Lake, Secretary of State.
The table at which he sat was strewn over with official documents and
papers. He was not, however, examining any of them, but had just broken
the seal of a private packet which he had received from his wife, when
an usher entered, and intimated that a young maiden, who was without,
solicited a moment's audience. The request would have been refused, if
the man had not gone on to say that he believed the applicant was the
daughter of the crazy Puritan, who had threatened the King's life on the
previous day. On hearing this, Sir Thomas consented to see her, and she
was admitted accordingly.
As soon as the usher had retired, Aveline unmuffled herself, and, cold
and apathetic as he was, Sir Thomas could not help being struck by her
surpassing beauty, unimpaired even by the affliction under which she
laboured; and he consequently softened in some degree the customary
asperity of his tones in addressing her.
"Who are you, maiden, and what seek you?" he demanded, eyeing her with
curiosity.
"I am daughter to the unfortunate Hugh Calveley, now a prisoner in the
palace," she replied.
"I am sorry to hear it," rejoined Sir Thomas, resuming his habitually
severe expression; "for you are the daughter of a very heinous offender.
The enormity of Hugh Calveley's crime, which is worse than parricide,
deprives him of all human sympathy and compassion. In coming to me you
do not, I presume, intend to weary me with prayers for mercy; for none
is deserved, and none will be shown. For my own part, I shall not utter
a word in mitigation of the dreadful sentence certain to be pronounced
upon him; nor shall I advise the slightest clemency to be shown him on
the part of his Majesty. Such an offender cannot be too severely
punished. I do not say this," he continued, somewhat softening his
harshness, "to aggravate the distress and shame you naturally feel; but
I wish to check at once any hopes you may have formed. Yet though I have
no pity for him, I have much for you, since, doubtless, you are innocent
of all knowledge of your father's atrocious design--happily prevented.
And I would therefore say to you, shut out all feelings for him from
your heart. The man who raises his hand against his sovereign cuts off
by the act all ties of kindred and love. Affection is changed to
abhorrence; and such detestation does his horrible offence inspire, that
those of his own blood are bound to shun him, lest he derive comfort and
consolation from their presence. Thus considered, you are no longer his
daughter, for he has himself severed the links between you. You no
longer owe him filial duty and regard, for to such he is no more
entitled. Leave him to his fate; and, if possible, for ever obliterate
his memory from your breast."
"You counsel what I can never perform, honourable Sir," replied Aveline;
"and were he even branded like Cain, I could not shut my heart towards
him. Nothing can make me forget that I am his daughter. That his
offence will be dreadfully expiated, I do not doubt; but if I can
alleviate his sufferings in any way, I will do so; and I will never
cease to plead for mercy for him. And O, honourable Sir! you regard his
offence in a darker light than it deserves. You treat him as if he had
actually accomplished the direful purpose attributed to him; whereas,
nothing has been proven against him beyond the possession of a weapon,
which he might keep about his person for self-defence."
"The plea you urge is futile, maiden," rejoined Sir Thomas; "he is
judged out of his own mouth, for his own lips have avowed his criminal
intention."
"Still, it was but the intention, honourable Sir!"
"In such cases, the intention is equal to the crime--at least in the
eyes of law and justice. No plea will save Hugh Calveley. Of that rest
assured."
"One plea may be urged for him, which, whether it avail or not, is the
truth, and shall be made. It is painful to speak of my father as I must
now do; but there is no help for it. Of late years he has been subject
to strange mental hallucinations, which have bordered close upon
madness, if they have not reached that terrible point. Nocturnal vigils,
fastings, and prayers have affected his health. He has denied himself
sufficient rest, and has only partaken of food barely sufficient to
sustain nature, and no more. The consequence has been that strange
fancies have troubled his brain; that at dead of night, when alone in
his chamber, he has imagined that visions have appeared to him; that
voices have spoken--awful voices--talking of prophecies, lamentations,
and judgments, and charging him with a mighty and terrible mission. All
these things I have heard from his own lips, and I have heard and seen
much more, which has satisfied me that his intellects are disordered,
and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions."
"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.