The Star Chamber, Volume 1 by W. Harrison Ainsworth
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W. Harrison Ainsworth >> The Star Chamber, Volume 1
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"A sad change, truly," Sir Francis said, in a tone of sympathy, and with
a look of well-feigned concern; "and attributable, I much fear, to riot
and profusion on the part of your father, who so beggared his son."
"Not so, Sir," the young man gravely replied; "my father was a most
honourable man, and would have injured no one, much less the son on whom
he doated. Neither was he profuse; but lived bountifully and well, as a
country gentleman, with a large estate, should live. The cause of his
ruin was that he came within the clutches of that devouring monster,
which, like the insatiate dragon of Rhodes, has swallowed up the
substance of so many families, that our land is threatened with
desolation. My father was ruined by that court, which, with a mockery of
justice, robs men of their name, their fame, their lands, and goods;
which perverts the course of law, and saps the principles of equity;
which favours the knave, and oppresses the honest man; which promotes
and supports extortion and plunder; which reverses righteous judgments,
and asserts its own unrighteous supremacy, which, by means of its
commissioners, spreads its hundred arms over the whole realm, to
pillage and destroy--so that no one, however distant, can keep out of
its reach, or escape its supervision; and which, if it be not uprooted,
will, in the end, overthrow the kingdom. Need I say my father was ruined
by the Star-Chamber?"
"Hush! hush! my good young Sir," Sir Francis cried, having vainly
endeavoured to interrupt his companion's angry denunciation. "Pray
heaven your words have reached no other ears than mine! To speak of the
Star-Chamber as you have spoken is worse than treason. Many a man has
lost his ears, and been branded on the brow, for half you have uttered."
"Is free speech denied in this free country?" the young man cried in
astonishment. "Must one suffer grievous wrong, and not complain?"
"Certes, you must not contemn the Star-Chamber, or you will incur its
censure," Sir Francis replied in a low tone. "No court in England is so
jealous of its prerogatives, nor so severe in punishment of its
maligners. It will not have its proceedings canvassed, or its judgments
questioned."
"For the plain reason, that it knows they will not bear investigation or
discussion. Such is the practice of all arbitrary and despotic rule. But
will Englishmen submit to such tyranny?"
"Again, let me counsel you to put a bridle on your tongue, young Sir.
Such matters are not to be talked of at public tables--scarcely in
private. It is well you have addressed yourself to one who will not
betray you. The Star-Chamber hath its spies everywhere. Meddle not with
it, as you value liberty. Light provocation arouses its anger; and once
aroused, its wrath is all-consuming."
CHAPTER V.
Jocelyn Mounchensey.
Notwithstanding the risk incurred, the young man, whose feelings were
evidently deeply interested, seemed disposed to pursue the dangerous
theme; but perceiving one of their opposite neighbours glancing at them,
Sir Francis checked him; and filling his glass essayed to change the
conversation, by inquiring how long he had been in town, and where he
lodged?
"I only arrived in London yesterday," was the reply; "yet I have been
here long enough to make me loth to return to the woods and moors of
Norfolk. As to my lodging, it is without the city walls, near St.
Botolph's Church, and within a bow shot of Aldgate: a pleasant situation
enough, looking towards the Spital Fields and the open country. I would
fain have got me others in the Strand, or near Charing Cross, if my
scanty means would have allowed me. Chance, as I have said, brought me
here to-day. Strolling forth early to view the sights of town, I crossed
London Bridge, the magnificence of which amazed me; and, proceeding
along the Bankside, entered Paris Garden, of which I had heard much, and
where I was greatly pleased, both with the mastiffs kept there, and the
formidable animals they have to encounter; and, methought, I should like
to bait mine enemies with those savage dogs, instead of the bear.
Returning to the opposite shore in a wherry, the waterman landed me at
this wharf, and so highly commended the Three Cranes, as affording the
best French ordinary and the best French wine in London, that seeing
many gentlefolk flocking towards it, which seemed to confirm his
statement, I came in with them, and have reason to be satisfied with my
entertainment, never having dined so sumptuously before, and, certes,
never having tasted wine so delicious."
"Let me fill your glass again. As I am a true gentleman, it will not
hurt you; a singular merit of pure Bordeaux being that you may drink it
with impunity; and the like cannot be said of your sophisticated sack.
We will crush another flask. Ho! drawer--Cyprien, I say! More wine--and
of the best Bordeaux. The best, I say."
And for a wonder the order was obeyed, and the flask set before him.
"You have been at the Bankside you say, young Sir? On my credit, you
must cross the river again and visit the theatres--the Globe or the
Rose. Our great actor, Dick Burbadge, plays Othello to-day, and, I
warrant me, he will delight you. A little man is Dick, but he hath a
mighty soul. There is none other like him, whether it be Nat Field or
Ned Alleyn. Our famous Shakespeare is fortunate, I trow, in having him
to play his great characters. You must see Burbadge, likewise, in the
mad Prince of Denmark,--the part was written for him, and fits him
exactly. See him also in gentle and love-sick Romeo, in tyrannous and
murderous Macbeth, and in crookback Richard; in all of which, though
different, our Dick is equally good. He hath some other parts of almost
equal merit,--as Malevole, in the 'Malcontent;' Frankford, in the 'Woman
Killed with Kindness;' Brachiano, in Webster's 'White Devil;' and
Vendice, in Cyril Tournour's 'Revenger's Tragedy.'"
"I know not what may be the nature of that last-named play," the young
man rather sternly remarked; "but if the character of Vendice at all
bears out its name, it would suit me. I am an avenger."
"Forbear your wrongs awhile, I pray you, and drown your resentment in a
cup of wine. As I am a true gentleman! a better bottle than the first!
Nay, taste it. On my credit, it is perfect nectar. I pledge you in a
brimmer; wishing Success may attend you, and Confusion await your
Enemies! May you speedily regain your Rights!"
"I drink that toast most heartily, worthy Sir," the young man exclaimed,
raising his beaded flagon on high. "Confusion to my Enemies--Restoration
to my Rights!"
And he drained the goblet to its last drop.
"By this time he must be in a fit mood for my purpose," Sir Francis
thought, as he watched him narrowly. "Harkye, my good young friend," he
said, lowering his tone, "I would not be overheard in what I have to
say. You were speaking just now of the shortest way to fortune. I will
point it out to you. To him, who is bold enough to take it, and who hath
the requisites for the venture, the shortest way is to be found at
Court. Where think you most of those gallants, of whom you may catch a
glimpse through the traverse, derive their revenues?--As I am a true
gentleman!--from the royal coffers. Not many years ago, with all of
them; not many months ago, with some; those brilliant and titled
coxcombs were adventurers like yourself, having barely a Jacobus in
their purses, and scarce credit for board and lodging with their
respective landladies. Now you see how nobly they feast, and how richly
they bedeck themselves. On my credit! the like good fortune may attend
you; and haply, when I dine at an ordinary a year hence, I may perceive
you at the upper table, with a curtain before you to keep off the meaner
company, and your serving-man at your back, holding your velvet mantle
and cap, like the best of your fellow nobles."
"Heaven grant it may be so!" the young man exclaimed, with a sigh. "You
hold a dazzling picture before me; but I have little expectation of
realizing it."
"It will be your own fault if you do not," the tempter rejoined. "You
are equally well-favoured with the handsomest of them; and it was by
good looks alone that the whole party rose to their present eminence.
Why not pursue the same course; with the same certainty of success? You
have courage enough to undertake it, I presume?"
"If courage alone were wanting, I have that," the young man
replied;--"but I am wholly unknown in town. How then shall I accomplish
an introduction at Court, when I know not even its humblest attendant?"
"I have already said you were lucky in meeting with me," Sir Francis
replied; "and I find you were luckier than I supposed, when I told you
so; for I knew not then towards what bent your desires tended, nor in
what way I could help you; but now, finding out the boldness of your
flight, and the high game you aim at, I am able to offer you effectual
assistance, and give you an earnest of a prosperous issue. Through my
means you shall be presented to the king, and in such sort that the
presentation shall not be idly made. It will rest then with yourself to
play your cards dexterously, and to follow up a winning game. Doubtless,
you will have many adversaries, who will trip up your heels if they can,
and throw every obstacle in your way; but if you possess the strong arm
I fancy you do, and daring to second it, you have nothing to fear. As I
am a true gentleman! you shall have good counsel, and a friend in
secret to back you."
"To whom am I indebted for this most gracious and unlooked-for offer?"
the young man asked, his breast heaving, and his eye flashing with
excitement.
"To one you may perchance have heard of," the knight answered, "as the
subject of some misrepresentation; how justly applied, you yourself will
be able to determine from my present conduct. I am Sir Francis
Mitchell."
At the mention of this name the young man started, and a deep angry
flush overspread his face and brow.
Perceiving the effect produced, the wily knight hastened to remove it.
"My name, I see, awakens unpleasant associations in your breast," he
said; "and your look shows you have been influenced by the calumnies of
my enemies. I do not blame you. Men can only be judged of by report; and
those I have had dealings with have reported ill enough of me. But they
have spoken falsely. I have done no more than any other person would do.
I have obtained the best interest I could for my money; and my losses
have been almost equal to my gains. Folks are ready enough to tell all
they can against you; but slow to mention aught they conceive to be in
your favour. They stigmatize me as a usurer; but they forget to add, I
am ever the friend of those in need. They use me, and abuse me. That is
the way of the world. Wherefore, then, should I complain? I am no worse
off than my neighbours. And the proof that I can be disinterested is the
way in which I have acted towards you, a perfect stranger, and who have
no other recommendation to my good offices than your gracious mien and
gentle manners."
"I cannot accept your proffered aid, Sir Francis," the young man
replied, in an altered tone, and with great sternness. "And you will
understand why I cannot, when I announce myself to you as Jocelyn
Mounchensey."
It was now the knight's turn to start, change colour, and tremble.
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 his 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.
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