“Her shrieks were indeed dreadful,” remarked Cholmondeley. “I shall never forget their effect upon me. But you allowed her to perish from famine at last?”
“Her death was accidental,” replied Nightgall, in a hollow voice, “though it lies as heavy on my soul as if I had designed it. I had shut her up for security in the cell in the Devilin Tower, where you found her, meaning to visit her at night, as was my custom, with provisions. But I was sent on special business by the queen to the palace at Greenwich for three days; and on my return to the Tower, I found the wretched captive dead.”
“She had escaped you, then,” said Cholmondeley, bitterly. “But you have not spoken of her daughter?”
“First, let me tell you where I have hidden the body, that decent burial may be given it,” groaned Nightgall. “It lies in the vault beneath the Devilin Tower—in the centre of the chamber—not deep—not deep.”
“I shall not forget,” replied Cholmondeley, noticing with alarm that an awful change had taken place in his countenance. “What of her child?”
“I must be brief,” replied Nightgall, faintly; “for I feel that my end approaches. The little Angela was conveyed by me, to Dame Potentia Trusbut. I said she was the offspring of a lady of rank,—but revealed no name,—and what I told beside was a mere fable. The good dame, having no child of her own, readily adopted her, and named her Cicely. She grew up in years—in beauty; and as I beheld her dawning charms, the love I had entertained for the mother was transferred to the child—nay, it was ten times stronger. I endeavoured to gain her affections, and fancied I should succeed, till you”—looking at Cholmondeley—“appeared. Then I saw my suit was hopeless. Then evil feelings again took possession of me, and I began a fresh career of crime. You know the rest.”
“I do,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught further to disclose?”
“Only this,” rejoined Nightgall, who was evidently on the verge of dissolution. “Cut open my doublet; and within its folds you will find proofs of Angela’s birth, together with other papers referring to her ill-fated parents. Lay them before the queen; and I make no doubt that the estates of her father, who was a firm adherent to the Catholic faith, and died for it, as well as a stanch supporter of Queen Catherine of Arragon, will be restored to her.”
Cholmondeley lost not a moment in obeying the injunction. He cut open the blood-stained jerkin of the dying man, and found, as he had stated, a packet.
“That is it,” cried Nightgall, fixing his glazing eyes on Angela,—“that will restore you to your wealth—your title. The priest by whom you were baptised was the queen’s confessor, Feckenham. He will remember the circumstance—he was the ghostly counsellor of both your parents. Take the packet to him and he will plead your cause with the queen. Forget— forgive me—”