The Star-Chamber, Volume 1 An Historical Romance

CHAPTER II.

Sir Giles Mom­pes­son and his part­ner.

Madame Bonaven­ture had al­ready paid con­sid­er­able sums to the two ex­tor­tion­ers, but she re­sist­ed their last ap­pli­ca­tion; in con­se­quence of which she re­ceived a mo­ni­tion from Sir Giles Mom­pes­son, to the ef­fect that, in a month's time, her li­cense would be with­drawn, and her house shut up, un­less, in the in­ter­im, she con­sent­ed to make amends to him­self and his co-​paten­tee, Sir Fran­cis Mitchell, by pay­ment of the sum in ques­tion, to­geth­er with a fur­ther sum, equal to it in amount, by way of for­feit; thus dou­bling the orig­inal de­mand.

Our pret­ty host­ess, it would seem, had placed her­self in an awk­ward predica­ment by her temer­ity. Sir Giles was not a man to threat­en idly, as all who had in­curred his dis­plea­sure ex­pe­ri­enced to their cost. His plan was to make him­self feared; and he was in­ex­orable, as fate it­self, to a cred­itor. He ev­er ex­act­ed the full penal­ty of his bond. In this in­stance, ac­cord­ing to his own no­tion, he had act­ed with great le­nien­cy; and cer­tain­ly, judged by his cus­tom­ary mode of pro­ceed­ing in such cas­es, he had shown some lit­tle in­dul­gence. In this line of con­duct he had been main­ly in­flu­enced by his part­ner, who, not be­ing in­sen­si­ble to the at­trac­tions of the fair host­ess, hoped to win her favour by a show of con­sid­er­ation. But though Madame Bonaven­ture was will­ing enough, for her own pur­pos­es, to en­cour­age Sir Fran­cis Mitchell's at­ten­tions (she de­test­ed him in her se­cret heart), she by no means re­lied up­on him for se­cu­ri­ty. A more pow­er­ful friend was held in re­serve, whom she meant to pro­duce at the last mo­ment; and, con­se­quent­ly, she was not so ill at ease as she oth­er­wise would have been, though by no means free from mis­giv­ing.

Sir Giles Mom­pes­son was a ter­ri­ble en­emy, and sel­dom thwart­ed in his pur­pose. That she knew. But no man was more keen­ly alive to his own in­ter­est than he; and she per­suad­ed her­self he would find it to his ad­van­tage not to mo­lest her: in which case she was safe. Of Sir Fran­cis Mitchell she had less ap­pre­hen­sion; for, though equal­ly mis­chievous and malev­olent with his part­ner, he was far fee­bler of pur­pose, and for the most part gov­erned by him. Be­sides, she felt she had the amorous knight in her toils, and could eas­ily man­age him if he were alone.

So the case stood with re­spect to our pret­ty host­ess; but, be­fore pro­ceed­ing fur­ther, it may be well to give a more com­plete de­scrip­tion of the two birds of prey by whom she was threat­ened with beak and talon.

The mas­ter-​spir­it of the twain was un­doubt­ed­ly Sir Giles Mom­pes­son. Quick in con­cep­tion of vil­lainy, he was equal­ly dar­ing in ex­ecu­tion. How he had risen to his present bad em­inence no one pre­cise­ly knew; be­cause, with the craft and sub­tle­ty that dis­tin­guished him, he laid his schemes so deeply, and cov­ered his pro­ceed­ings with so thick a veil, that they had been rarely de­tect­ed. Re­port, how­ev­er, spoke of him as a usurer of the vilest kind, who wrung ex­or­bi­tant in­ter­est from needy bor­row­ers,--who ad­vanced mon­ey to ex­pec­tant heirs, with the in­ten­tion of plun­der­ing them of their in­her­itance,--and who re­sort­ed to ev­ery trick and mal­prac­tice per­mit­ted by the law to ben­efit him­self at his neigh­bour's ex­pense. These were bad enough, but even graver ac­cu­sa­tions were made against him. It was whis­pered that he had ob­tained fraud­ulent pos­ses­sion of deeds and fam­ily pa­pers, which had en­abled him to wrest es­tates from their right­ful own­ers; and some did not scru­ple to add to these charges that he had forged doc­uments to car­ry out his ne­far­ious de­signs. Be this as it may, from com­par­ative pover­ty he speed­ily rose to wealth; and, as his means in­creased, so his avari­cious schemes were mul­ti­plied and ex­tend­ed. His ear­li­er days were passed in com­plete ob­scu­ri­ty, none but the need­iest spendthrift or the most des­per­ate gam­bler know­ing where he dwelt, and ev­ery one who found him out in his wretched abode near the Mar­shalsea had rea­son to re­gret his vis­it. Now he was well enough known by many a court­ly prodi­gal, and his large man­sion near Fleet Bridge (it was said of him that he al­ways chose the neig­bour­hood of a prison for his dwelling) was re­sort­ed to by the town gal­lants whose, ne­ces­si­ties or ex­trav­agance com­pelled them to ob­tain sup­plies at ex­or­bi­tant in­ter­est. Lav­ish in his ex­pen­di­ture on oc­ca­sions, Sir Giles was ha­bit­ual­ly so greedy and penu­ri­ous, that he be­grudged ev­ery tester he ex­pend­ed. He wished to keep up a show of hos­pi­tal­ity with­out cost, and se­cret­ly pleased him­self by think­ing that he made his guests pay for his en­ter­tain­ments, and even for his es­tab­lish­ment. His ser­vants com­plained of be­ing half-​starved, though he was con­stant­ly at war with them for their waste­ful­ness and ri­ot. He made, how­ev­er, a great dis­play of at­ten­dants, inas­much as he had a whole ret­inue of myr­mi­dons at his beck and call; and these, as be­fore ob­served, were well paid. They were the crows that fol­lowed the vul­tures, and picked the bones of the spoil when their raven­ing mas­ters had been ful­ly glut­ted.

In the court of Star-​Cham­ber, as al­ready re­marked, Sir Giles Mom­pes­son found an in­stru­ment in ev­ery way fit­ted to his pur­pos­es; and he worked it with ter­ri­ble ef­fect, as will be shown here­after. With him it was at once a weapon to de­stroy, and a shield to pro­tect. This court claimed “a su­perla­tive pow­er not on­ly to take caus­es from oth­er courts and pun­ish them there, but al­so to pun­ish of­fences sec­on­dar­ily, when oth­er courts have pun­ished them.” Tak­ing ad­van­tage of this priv­ilege, when a suit was com­menced against him else­where, Sir Giles con­trived to re­move it to the Star-​Cham­ber, where, be­ing om­nipo­tent with clerks and coun­sel, he was sure of suc­cess,--the com­plaints be­ing so war­ily con­trived, the ex­am­ina­tions so adroit­ly framed, and the in­ter­roga­to­ries so nu­mer­ous and per­plex­ing, that the de­fen­dant, or delin­quent, as he was in­dif­fer­ent­ly styled, was cer­tain to be baf­fled and de­feat­ed. “The sen­tences of this court,” it has been said by one in­ti­mate­ly ac­quaint­ed with its prac­tice, and very favourably in­clined to it, “strike to the root of men's rep­uta­tions, and many times of their es­tates;” and, again, it was a rule with it, that the pros­ecu­tor “was ev­er in­tend­ed to be favoured.” Know­ing this as well as the high le­gal au­thor­ity from whom we have quot­ed, Sir Giles ev­er placed him­self in the favoured po­si­tion, and, with the aid of this in­iq­ui­tous tri­bunal, blast­ed many a fair rep­uta­tion, and con­signed many a vic­tim of its in­jus­tice to the Fleet, there to rot till he paid him the ut­most of his de­mands, or paid the debt of na­ture.

In an age less cor­rupt and ve­nal than that un­der con­sid­er­ation, such a ca­reer could not have long con­tin­ued with­out check. But in the time of James the First, from the need­iness of the monarch him­self, and the ra­pac­ity of his min­ions and courtiers and their satel­lites,--each striv­ing to en­rich him­self, no mat­ter how--a thou­sand abus­es, both of right and jus­tice, were tol­er­at­ed or con­nived at, crime stalk­ing abroad un­pun­ished. The Star-​Cham­ber it­self served the king as, in a less de­gree, it served Sir Giles Mom­pes­son, and oth­ers of the same stamp, as a means of in­creas­ing his rev­enue; half the fines mulct­ed from those who in­curred its cen­sure or its pun­ish­ments be­ing award­ed to the crown. Thus nice in­quiries were rarely made, un­less a pub­lic ex­am­ple was need­ed, when the wrong­do­er was com­pelled to dis­gorge his plun­der. But this was nev­er done till the pear was ful­ly ripe. Sir Giles, how­ev­er, had no ap­pre­hen­sions of any such re­sult in his case. Like a sly fox, or rather like a crafty wolf, he was too con­fi­dent in his own cun­ning and re­sources to fear be­ing caught in such a trap.

His ti­tle was pur­chased, and he reaped his re­ward in the con­se­quence it gave him. Sir Fran­cis Mitchell act­ed like­wise; and it was about this time that the con­nec­tion be­tween the wor­thy pair com­menced. Hith­er­to they had been in op­po­si­tion, and though very dif­fer­ent in tem­per­ament and in modes of pro­ceed­ing, they had one aim in com­mon; and rec­og­niz­ing great mer­it in each oth­er, cou­pled with a pow­er of mu­tu­al as­sis­tance, they agreed to act in con­cert. Sir Fran­cis was as cau­tious and timid as Sir Giles was dar­ing and in­flex­ible: the one be­ing the best con­triv­er of a scheme, and the oth­er the fittest to car­ry it out. Sir Fran­cis trem­bled at his own de­vices and their pos­si­ble con­se­quences: Sir Giles adopt­ed his schemes, if promis­ing, and laughed at the dif­fi­cul­ties and dan­gers that be­set them. The one was the head; the oth­er the arm. Not that Sir Giles lacked the abil­ity to weave as sub­tle a web of de­ceit as his part­ner; but each took his line. It saved time. The plan of li­cens­ing and in­spect­ing tav­erns and ho­tels had orig­inat­ed with Sir Fran­cis, and very prof­itable it proved. But Sir Giles car­ried it out much fur­ther than his part­ner had pro­posed, or thought pru­dent.

And they were as dif­fer­ent in per­son­al ap­pear­ance, as in men­tal qual­ities and dis­po­si­tion. Mom­pes­son was the dash­ing ea­gle; Mitchell the sor­ry kite. Sir Fran­cis was weak­ly, ema­ci­at­ed in frame; much giv­en to sen­su­al in­dul­gence; and his body con­formed to his tim­orous or­ga­ni­za­tion. His shrunk­en shanks scarce­ly suf­ficed to sup­port him; his back was bent; his eyes blear; his head bald; and his chin, which was con­tin­ual­ly wag­ging, clothed with a scanty yel­low beard, shaped like a stilet­to, while his sandy mous­ta­chios were curled up­ward. He was dressed in the ex­trem­ity of the fash­ion, and af­fect­ed the air of a young court gal­lant. His dou­blet, hose, and man­tle were ev­er of the gayest and most fan­ci­ful hues, and of the rich­est stuffs; he wore a di­amond brooch in his beaver, and sash­es, tied like garters, round his thin legs, which were ut­ter­ly des­ti­tute of calf. Pre­pos­ter­ous­ly large ros­es cov­ered his shoes; his ruff was a “tre­ble-​quadru­ple-​dedalion;” his gloves rich­ly em­broi­dered; a large crim­son satin purse hung from his gir­dle; and he was scent­ed with pow­ders and pul­vil­ios. This with­ered cox­comb af­fect­ed the minc­ing gait of a young man; and though rather an ob­ject of de­ri­sion than ad­mi­ra­tion with the fair sex, per­suad­ed him­self they were all cap­ti­vat­ed by him. The vast sums he so un­just­ly ac­quired did not long re­main in his pos­ses­sion, but were dis­persed in min­is­ter­ing to his fol­lies and de­prav­ity. Tim­orous he was by na­ture, as we have said, but cru­el and un­re­lent­ing in pro­por­tion to his cow­ardice; and where an in­jury could be se­cure­ly in­flict­ed, or a pros­trate foe struck with im­puni­ty, he nev­er hes­itat­ed for a mo­ment. Sir Giles him­self was scarce­ly so ma­lig­nant and im­pla­ca­ble.

A strong con­trast to this das­tard­ly de­bauchee was of­fered by the bold­er vil­lain. Sir Giles Mom­pes­son was a very hand­some man, with a strik­ing phys­iog­no­my, but dark and sin­is­ter in ex­pres­sion. His eyes were black, sin­gu­lar­ly pierc­ing, and flashed with the fiercest fire when kin­dled by pas­sion. A fine­ly-​formed aquiline nose gave a hawk-​like char­ac­ter to his face; his hair was coal-​black (though he was no longer young), and hung in long ringlets over his neck and shoul­ders. He wore the hand­some­ly cut beard and mous­tache sub­se­quent­ly de­pict­ed in the por­traits of Vandyke, which suit­ed the stern grav­ity of his coun­te­nance. Rich, though sober in his at­tire, he al­ways af­fect­ed a dark colour, be­ing gen­er­al­ly habit­ed in a dou­blet of black quilt­ed silk, Vene­tian hose, and a mur­rey-​coloured vel­vet man­tle. His con­ical hat was or­na­ment­ed with a sin­gle black os­trich feath­er; and he car­ried a long rapi­er by his side, in the use of which he was sin­gu­lar­ly skil­ful; be­ing one of Vin­cen­tio Savi­olo's best pupils. Sir Giles was a lit­tle above the mid­dle height, with a well pro­por­tioned ath­let­ic fig­ure; and his strength and ad­dress were such, that there seemed good rea­son for his boast when he de­clared, as he of­ten did, “that he feared no man liv­ing, in fair fight, no, nor any two men.”

Sir Giles had none of the weak­ness­es of his part­ner. Tem­per­ate in his liv­ing, he had nev­er been known to com­mit an ex­cess at ta­ble; nor were the blan­dish­ments or lures of the fair sex ev­er suc­cess­ful­ly spread for him. If his arm was of iron, his heart seemed of adamant, ut­ter­ly im­pen­etra­ble by any gen­tle emo­tion. It was af­firmed, and be­lieved, that he had nev­er shed a tear. His sole pas­sion ap­peared to be the ac­cu­mu­la­tion of wealth; unat­tend­ed by the de­sire to spend it. He be­stowed no gifts. He had no fam­ily, no kins­men, whom he cared to ac­knowl­edge. He stood alone--a hard, grasp­ing man: a bond-​slave of Mam­mon.

When it pleased him, Sir Giles Mom­pes­son could play the courtier, and fawn and gloze like the rest. A con­sum­mate hyp­ocrite, he eas­ily as­sumed any part he might be called up­on to en­act; but the tone nat­ural to him was one of in­so­lent dom­ina­tion and bit­ter raillery. He sneered at all things hu­man and di­vine; and there was mock­ery in his laugh­ter, as well as ven­om in his jests. His man­ner, how­ev­er, was not with­out a cer­tain cold and grave dig­ni­ty; and he clothed him­self, like his pur­pos­es, in in­scrutable re­serve, on oc­ca­sions re­quir­ing it. So omi­nous was his pres­ence, that many per­sons got out of his way, fear­ing to come in con­tact with him, or give him of­fence; and the broad walk at Paul's was some­times cleared as he took his way along it, fol­lowed by his band of tip­staves.

If this were the case with per­sons who had no im­me­di­ate ground of ap­pre­hen­sion from him, how much ter­ror his som­bre fig­ure must have in­spired, when pre­sent­ed, as it was, to Madame Bonaven­ture, with the as­pect of a mer­ci­less cred­itor, armed with full pow­er to en­force his claims, and re­solved not to abate a jot of them, will be re­vealed to the read­er in our next chap­ter.