"The fold stands empty in the drowned field,And crows are fatted with the murrain flocks,The nine men's morris is filled up with mud,And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,For lack of tread, are undistinguishable;Whilst on old Hyem's chin and icy crown,An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds,Is, as in mockery, set."
"The fold stands empty in the drowned field,And crows are fatted with the murrain flocks,The nine men's morris is filled up with mud,And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,For lack of tread, are undistinguishable;Whilst on old Hyem's chin and icy crown,An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds,Is, as in mockery, set."
Sir Hugh, after conferance with his man of business, is preparing in a few days again to set off for London. A journey of such extent is, however, matter of some consideration and considerable danger at such a season, with weather so unpropitious.
As the old knight looks out upon the chase, the gloom of the aspect adds to the gloom of his spirits.
Such a prospect is always calculated to beget a certain share of despondency, even in the most cheerful temper, and Sir Hugh has had enough of sorrow in his time to make him rather a grave than a merry companion.
The old knight, however, is not the man to give way to despair under circumstances like the present.
"Goods news, an Heaven will," he said, as he suddenly descried a horseman, with head bent to the saddle-bow, come sparring against the driving wind, his cloak blown into a balloon, the mire and water flying into the air as he dashed across the chase towards the mansion.
During the prevalence of heavy and continued rain, any object which enlivens the wet landscape, even in our own dull times, becomes of interest. In Elizabeth's day, when so many events of import were transpiring, and when news came but rarely to a country place, the arrival of a post as tho armed and heavily-accoutred horseman was called was of peculiar interest. He brought, perhaps, intelligence of the danger or death of those nearest and dearest, and now heard for the first time. He bore, perchance, some secret intelligence of warning, some caution against an imminent, deadly foe, some hint to put the seas between the receiver and his native land.
To Sir Hugh the sight of the coming horseman, as he emerged from the belt of plantation, and dashed into the open chase, was fraught almost with alarm.
"God grant," he said, an he strained his eyes to observe if he could recognize the features of the rider, "that this new comer may bring me good tidings of our Walter."
The increasing gloom, however, for it was now evening, hindered the knight from recognizing the person of the horseman. He heard the clatter of the hoofs of the steed along the approach, and, as he threw open the door, the rider having dismounted, unceremoniously entered the room. The next moment his hand was caught in the iron gripe of Captain Fluellyn.
"Thou hast news, Captain," said Sir Hugh, "news of import, or thou would'st scarce have left my nephew in his captivity?"
"Ihavenews, good Sir Hugh," said the Captain; "and when I have in something recovered wind enough, I will unfold it to you!"
"Good! an Heaven will," said Sir Hugh; "my nephew, good Captain—?"
"Is well," returned the Captain, "and commends him to you. Nay, he is, in some sort, out of his difficulties—that is to say, in as far as the charge of treason goeth."
"Nay, then, Heaven be praised for that!" said Sir Hugh, "for the other matter, the worst is but worldly loss."
"We are not so sure of that, either," returned the Captain, "affairs have altogether taken a new turn. Your nephew hath desired my return at once to inform you thereof, so as to stop your making any sacrifice of property."
"'Fore Heaven, this doth surprise me!" said the Knight, "but come, we will hear such matter at more leisure, and after you have refreshed yourself, for you seem to have ridden far and fast since morning."
"I have," said the Captain. "I am stained with variation of each soil, 'twist this seat of yours and the town of Oxford, and the ways are wondrous foul and hard to travel over, too. A cup of wine and a rasher will be welcome."
"You shall have the best that Clopton can afford," said the Knight, hurrying out, and calling lustily to his servants to prepare the evening meal without delay.
Accordingly, the Captain, having divested himself of his heavy riding-cloak, and removed the long petronels, rapier, and dagger from his side, was in a few minutes more seated cozily in a high-backed chair beneath the chimney, and opposite his host.
Between the pair stood a small table, plentifully furnished with several sorts of wine. A glorious log of wood blazed upon the hearth, and whilst the servants brought in the refreshments which furnished forth the evening meal, the new comer between each mouthful delivered his news to the greedy ears of his host.
"Many events of import have transpired," said he, as he at length pushed his plate from him, in token that the inner man was satisfied; "aye, and that too in the short period since you left London to arrange matters here. In the first place, I need not inform you that both yourself and Walter Arderne had a secret foe at Court."
"Of that I have long been aware," said Sir Hugh.
"Most probably," said the Captain. "A foe is generally found sooner or later, like the blind mole, by the effects of his progress; but I have unearthed this mole."
"Good," said Sir Hugh, "that's a point gained any how."
"Nay, more, I have discovered you have also a secret and powerful friend at Court, and the friend is more powerful than the foe. Witness the effects. Your nephew is released from all responsibility on the subject of the treasonable charge trumped up against him, and, as he himself bade me deliver to you, is in a fair way of getting rid also of other matters appertaining."
"And how is this derived?" said Sir Hugh. "You amaze me with so much good news, I pray you expound unto me the names of these persons who have interested themselves for and against me and mine. Set this foe before me, that I may know him, good Captain. 'Fore Heaven, I am old, but I have still some skill in fence. Thou shalt bear a cartel to the caitiff."
"It could be easily done," returned the Captain, filling his pipe and puffing out a volume of smoke.
"'Fore gad, then," said Sir Hugh, lighting a fellow pipe, and performing upon it with equal gusto, "you shall find it shall be as promptly done."
"Have you ever had personal quarrel with the Earl of Leicester?" inquired the Captain.
"None, as I am a gentleman," said Sir Hugh.
"And yet," said the Captain, "hath it been through his means that your nephew's late troubles have been brought to a serious issue, so indeed as to threaten his life as well as deprive him of his liberty."
"Were he twenty times an earl," said Sir Hugh, "he shall answer it. Thou shalt seek him, Captain, in my name, and demand the why and wherefore."
"I had much rather be excused," said the Captain, eyeing the gyrations of the smoke, and then peeping at Sir Hugh.
"How?" said Sir Hugh. "Wilt not be then my friend, good Captain? Well, be it so, I will to my good neighbour, Sir Thomas Lucy. He is a man to beard fifty earls, be they ever so powerful."
"Sir Thomas Lucy could hardly do your message either," said the Captain.
"Ha, say'st thou! Truly, then, thou knowest not the goodness and hot-valour of the knight of Charlecote; he is a true friend, and right honest. But wherefore should Sir Thomas refuse to carry a cartel to the Earl?"
"Because Sir Thomas would scarce carry a cartel to one unable to reply to it," said the Captain. "The Earl of Leicester is dead. He died two nights back at Cornbury, on his way to Kenilworth. So much I learnt as I tarried at Oxford, where, moreover, I further heard strange rumours of the manner of his death."
"Gad-a-mercy!" said Sir Hugh, "this doth indeed surprise me. What a world is this we live in. Dead, quotha! and mine enemy too! Well this is news, indeed. But then this friend at Court, good Captain? methinks I should not forget to ask for him."
"Ahem!" said the Captain. "Of that, anon. Bless me! how heavily the rain beats against the casement. Foul weather this, good Sir Hugh, for travellers. Truly the night hath come down dark, as a wolf's mouth, and ways be both foul and dangerous."
"Hast any friend on the road to-night, good Captain?" inquired Sir Hugh.
"I was consorted," said the Captain, "as far as Oxford by one who over-rode me on the way soon after leaving London, and whom I left at Oxford with a purpose of following hitherward. He is a native of Stratford, and one of pleasanter mood I never travelled withal. The man, I think, you know."
"And his name?" inquired Sir Hugh. "Come, fill your glass."
"William Shakespeare," said the Captain. "He who wrote the play we saw in London."
Sir Hugh laid down his pipe, and rose to his feet. "Is Shakespeare coming back?" he said. "'Fore Heaven, thou canst not think, my good friend the pleasure such information gives me. Thou canst not tell what I feel towards that young man—so little known, yet so well appreciated."
"Ha," said the Captain, "so have I heard you say."
"I have before named to thee," said Sir Hugh, "former passages in which my family became acquainted with this Shakespeare, and how we received an inestimable service from him in his early youth. And I tell thee now my very soul yearned to go to that man when in London and clasp him to my heart, but I was ashamed. I gave ear to the tales of his enemies; I believed him to have become worthless and an outcast in the world. And, as I shamed to take part with him in adversity, so I shame to see his face in his hour of triumph. But I love that man. Nay, I am old, Captain, but the words of his poetry, as we listened to it that night, yet ring in mine ears."
"Truly then," said the Captain, whose rough nature was in something moved, "your friendship is not ill bestowed. This Shakespeare hath bestirred himself in your nephew's favour, and procured his release from the graver charge of treason. He hath interested the Queen, through my Lords of Essex and Southampton, and hath given me a clue by which I have discovered the villany of our Stratford lawyer here, Pouncet Grasp, the secret foe through whose influence the Earl of Leicester was made instrumental. Nay, Shakespeare hath been your good friend, Sir Hugh."
"And is he in sooth coming back to Stratford?" said Sir Hugh, rubbing his hands. "In prosperity or adversity, he shall be welcome as if he were mine own son."
"Truly," said the Captain, "I can in some sort almost feel the same towards this friend of thine, for never travelled I with one who so cheered the long miles 'twixt post and post. He was right pleasant and facetious all the miry way 'twixt Acton and Oxbridge. I wished the miles twice us long whilst we pricked across the waste land towards Beaconsfield. Neither wind nor rain, or mud or mire, could alter his merry mood, as, by night, we made our way towards Walting Town; and when we lost our route, and were nearly drowned in the marshes of Abingdon, he turned our danger into a jest. Nothing came amiss to this Shakespeare; he had a saying for every mistake, and a good word for every misfortune."
"Such a comrade," said Sir Hugh, "were worth something on a journey."
"Nay, Sir Hugh," returned the Captain, "I have travelled far and near, yet never met I with such another. By 'ur Lady, I have consorted with your Dane, drank with your Hollander, revelled with your Frenchman, and fought with your Spaniard, yet none did I ever find who could hold comparison with this man."
"I marvel you came not on further together," said Sir Hugh, "since you so well relished his companionship."
"He tarried, as I told you, at Oxford," returned the Captain, "where it seems he had appointed to meet other company. Nay, I myself also tarried one night at Oxford, to rest my horse. We put up at the hostel of the Crown, and, in sooth, a merrier night I never spent withal. This Shakespeare hath a peculiar art. He made himself familiar amidst the various guests, and drew them out to exhibit themselves after the most exquisite fashion. Nay, the hostess of the Crown was herself a woman of exceeding wit and beauty, and seemed to relish the society of the player."
"I know that hostel," said Sir Hugh. "'Tis kept by one Davenant; and the hostess is indeed, as you say, 'a most sweet wench.'"[26]
Our readers, we doubt not, have for some time entertained a shrewd suspicion regarding the somewhat indistinct character latterly flitting about amongst thedramatis personæof our story. The Lady Clara de Mowbray, in her own proper person, has of late been but little seen in the twisted and ravelled skein of this history.
The fortunes of him who is enshrined in all hearts, has of necessity thrown all minor characters into the shade.
Nevertheless, the doings of so exquisite a creature as Clara de Mowbray, are worthy of the contemplation of our readers, for both in station and disposition she was considerably elevated above the ordinary fragments of the world.
She was a being in whom the best elements were mingled that she might well have been the worshipped idol of the noblest of the other sex. And yet have we seen this female, by one of those curious chances so common in real life, left alone almost in the world, steering her course across the ocean of adventurous deeds, unknown, and, apparently, unappreciated. And is not thin oft-times the case? Do we not oft-times see in the world the most paltry portions of humanity, the most impudent and assuming? The moat common-place, the most vain, and the most unworthy, exacting the most homage? Nay, succeeding in life better than the good and virtuous?
Clara de Mowbray was one worthy of an emperor's love; a creature we do occasionally, but rarely, meet with in the world; a sort of descended angel amongst mortals, sent apparently as the pattern, the model, for the baser worldlings to "dress themselves by." The world, however, would perhaps be likely to censure Clara, and her virtues to stand her but as enemies—her innocence and her regardlessness of form and ceremony, her recklessness of paltry opinion, be considered unmaidenly and bold! and so might the world think and say, for Clara possessed a spirit as undaunted in the resolve to carry out her projects as she was pure in heart and beautiful in person. If she had a fault it was her unbended determination to go through with any thing she once undertook. She was the creature of romance too, and altogether would have been better suited for a more romantic age than that in which she lived. Albeit her own times gave some scope for the exercise of her peculiarities.
We have seen that from childhood she had loved Arderne; she had had so many opportunities of observing his excellence and worth, that spite of her better reason, and against hope, she had loved. It was one of those unselfish passions which hopes all for the being beloved, and nothing for self. She knew that the object of her thoughts had been engaged elsewhere, that his affections were buried in the tomb of Charlotte Clopton, but that altered not her feelings towards him a jot. Whilst he lived, it was something to breathe in the same hemisphere; and to add to his happiness and prosperity, even by stealth, was her study.
Hence have we seen her in disguise seeking to deliver him from the horrors of captivity or starvation on a desolate shore. Herself enduring the extremity of mishap, and then rescued from captivity of the Spaniard. Hence have we seen her bequeathing, in the event of her own death, all she possessed upon the one so beloved, and hence have we seen her, and her extraordinary disposition revelled in such a situation, the disguised comrade, and then the guest of the wonderful man whose course of life it has been our task to follow. And hence we find her, up to the present period of our story, still bending all her energies to restore the fortunes and happiness of Walter Arderne.
In all things, however, Clara de Mowbray, as we have before hinted, chose to follow her own notions comparatively unknown, certainly she thought unloved by the object of her affections. She shrank from all idea of being recognised as the benefactor of Arderne, lest he should consider himself bound to tender her the devotion of the life she had sought to save. She pursued, therefore, an extremely cautious and erratic mode in all her proceeding. Even Shakespeare, the friend, the wonderful man who had saved her from the Spaniard, she feared entirely to place confidence in. The poet, however, had carefully studied the character of this beautiful female, resolved to thwart her ultimate intentions regarding herself, and if possible, to make her happy.
How strangely then flows the tide of human events. Clara de Mowbray alive, in health, and the real possessor of enormous wealth, was apparently dead to the world as to herself, her affections she thought unrequited. On the object of those affections she had conferred all her worldly goods, and herself she had intended to dedicate to Heaven.
She was a Catholic, and she meant, as soon an she saw all her schemes in a fair way of completion, to seclude herself from the world. She had arranged matters so as to retire to a convent in Navarre. With Arderne the case was as singular. This youth, so much thought of for his excellent disposition, albeit he mourned the beautiful Clara as one dead, adored her memory as a reality, and, had he suspected her of being in life, would have put a girdle round the earth to find her out.
"Love like a shadow flies, when substation love pursues,Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues."
"Love like a shadow flies, when substation love pursues,Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues."
And that such should be the case,—that the melancholy Walter should become enamoured of what seemed but a shadow, is not surprising in a man of his disposition. The splendid domains be had succeeded to, the romance of the situation altogether, his remembrance of the sometime heiress of these broad lands, at last caused him to be so enamoured of her bare memory that the subject of her beauty formed the entire subject of his thoughts. It seemed to him that she haunted each dell and glided about the stately halls of her forefathers, sighed in the winds which swept around the battlements of her ancestry; and, indeed, pervaded every spot around the woods and groves she had conferred upon him. The remembrance of his former love was by a newer object quite obliterated. The good Walter, in short, became a sort of dreamy person. For hours together would he stand in the long gallery at Shottery, and contemplate the picture of Clara de Mowbray; and had not Grasp's machinations, by driving him from these thoughts and from possession of the domains, driven him from the haunts that engendered them, he would most probably have become a melancholy maniac or a misanthrope.
Clara de Mowbray had in her early youth, beside the unfortunate Charlotte Clopton, one other dear and valued friend, the unhappy Countess of Leicester. This beautiful woman, whom the dark Earl had become enamoured of whilst her first husband was alive, he was reported to have "played most foully for." He was said, indeed to have poisoned Walter, Earl of Essex, in order to gain her hand.
The sorrowful Countess, who had ample leisure to repent of her second marriage, had been greatly attached to Clara, and frequently when she could escape from the splendid cares, "the glistering grief," of her own home, had been wont to pour her sorrows into the ear of the heiress. She had consequently been the only person, except the eccentric Martin, who was the entire confident of Clara. She had known of her attachment, and also had been privy to her adventure in search of her lover; she also knew of her determination to retire from the world it she succeeded, and in common with the world, she imagined Clara had perished in the attempt; but as she had been sworn to secresy by her young friend, ere she departed, so she had faithfully kept counsel.
Now, however, but a few days before the Earl of Leicester's death, to her astonishment, in the disguised individual who sought her at Kenilworth, the Countess beheld her dearly-loved friend, accompanied by the long lost Martin. How they had escaped from shipwreck and all the "portance of their travelled history," the Countess had small time to learn, for soon after their arrival she herself was summoned to the sick Earl at Cornbury Park.
The Countess, however, had granted Clara the boon she asked,—a letter to the Queen in favour of Arderne; and this letter, together with the applications of Essex and Southampton, had procured Walter's release; after which, together with the faithful Martin, Clara again sought retirement at Kenilworth.
And, oh! if that splendid record of pride and power could have spoken, what tales of sorrow and suffering, as well as of grandeur, what proofs of unbridled power could it have told. Those magnificent buildings of Leicester, where such princely revels had been held—how could they have uttered forth a wailing lament over the wickedness of unchecked and headstrong will! Those gaudy and tapestried chambers, the last built, the first to go to decay—how well could they have divulged the whispered deceit of human nature, the cunning and the baseness of theparvenuEarl who reared them!
For one hour those rooms had "blazed with light, and bray'd with minstrelsy," how many dark and melancholy weeks had they to tell of, whilst sorrow and whispered horror, and surmise that "dared not speak its fear," had reigned there! How had the very domestics feared the descending shadows in those vast rooms, and where the night-shriek "disturbed the curtain sleep!" Deeds of evil note had had their reign in those chambers. The wail of sorrow had been heard oft-times in the long winter's nights, in the dungeons of that castle; and, even to her who was the mistress there, that bright castle-lake, the fair scene without, all had been looked upon from those arched windows with eyes that marked not their beauty,—she, who was the wife of their possessor, slept there in fear.
Through the instrumentality of Essex and Southampton, on becoming better known to those chivalrous men, Arderne had been so much liked, that they had introduced him to the Queen; and Elizabeth was so struck with his handsome form and gallant bearing, that she had taken him into favour, and employed him in her service.
The national spirit of England had been so much, aroused by the Spanish invasion, that nothing less than some attempt at retaliation would satisfy the people. Don Anthonia, titular King of Portugal, was a suppliant at the English Court for assistance to establish him on the throne of his ancestors; and as Elizabeth rather relished the policy, albeit she liked not the cost of such a measure, she gave leave to her subjects to fit out an expedition for the liberation of Portugal from the Spanish yoke, always providing they did it at their own proper charge, she lending them ships of war.
This expedition the valiant Arderne resolved, at a hint from the Queen, to join; and, albeit he was forbidden to have anything to do with it by the doating Queen, the rash and headstrong Essex also resolved to play the knight-errant, and, escaping from the silken fetters of his courtly mistress, as a simple volunteer accompany the expedition.
Clara de Mowbray, meantime, was the guest of her early friend, Lettice, Countess of Leicester, at Kenilworth; the Countess, during the period of her mourning, being resident at the castle. Some three weeks had passed away since the Earl's death, and even in that short space, many events bad transpired. Arderne was released from all graver charges; Grasp, although discomfited, terrified and conscience-stricken, was still endeavouring to make a good fight for his client; and Shakespeare was returning to his wife and family. True to his resolve, after his own return to Stratford-upon-Avon, Grasp as soon as he recovered himself, had hastened to Charlecote with intelligence that the "sometime deer-stealer" was at length forthcoming, and would but Sir Thomas give fresh instructions, he, Grasp, would still pursue the delinquent, and bring him to condign punishment.
Sir Thomas had, however, entirely changed his opinion upon the subject of the offence, it appeared. He had also changed his opinion of Grasp, and summoning his head-falconer, old Hubert, he desired him to call together several of his followers, and toss Grasp in a blanket in the park—the knight watching the operations with infinite gusto from his window.
Such happiness, therefore, as usually falls to the share of mortals in this work-a-day world, may be supposed to have fallen to the share of many of tho individuals connected with our story.
In outward seeming, such was, indeed the case.
But perfect happiness is, in reality, beyond the reach of mortals. It is the green spot in the distance, and that on which we stand is ever but a sterile promontory.
"What we have not, still we strive to get,And what we have,forget."
"What we have not, still we strive to get,And what we have,forget."
It was one evening, about three weeks after Leicester's death, that the Countess and her interesting friend were seated in one of those magnificent apartments in the buildings to which the Earl had given his name.
Few, as we have before said, as they gaze upon this now ruined shell, can have an adequate notion of its former state and grandeur. The buildings reared by that proud Earl, almost for the sole purpose of offering to the Queen the most sumptuous entertainment ever given by subject to sovereign, seemed, indeed, reared but for that one scene of pomp and grandeur, and afterwards to have remained a sad memento of the mutability of human greatness, and then sank unnoted to decay. As they had added their sum of more to that before enormous pile, so had they, in their vastness, remained almost too spacious for a subject's means. For the castle altogether, with its numerous flanking towers, and the additions which had been made to it from time to time seemed capable of containing an army within the roundure of its walls.
As the Countess sat with her friend in one of the magnificent apartments of Leicester's Building, she listened to the recital Clara had to give of her own escape from death, when taken prisoner by the Spaniard.
'Twas a delicious evening. The October winds sighed upon the lake without, and scattered the dried leaves from the woodland on the opposite shore. The setting sun shone like gold upon the turrets of the castle, and tinged the massive forest, as the Lady Clara glanced occasionally in the direction where lay Stratford-upon-Avon. The Countess marked that glance as she sat opposite to her friend and beneath the huge chimney, for the coldness of the season, and the size of the room, made the blazing fire upon the hearth anything but disagreeable.
"And after enduring so much," said the Countess, "you mean then, to retire for ever from the world—you will forsake him for whom you have adventured life, fortune, reputation."
"I forsake none," said Clara. "Who knows or cares for one so solitary in the world! I bequeath to him I most love, all my worldly goods—myself I dedicate to heaven."
"There is one other," said the Countess, "and whom I have heard you mention in terms of admiration and respect—will not his persuasion avail."
"He is indeed a man," said Clara, with enthusiasm, "one whose words might do much. But are you quite sure he would not rather approve than censure my resolve? He knows something of my story, but like yourself, he is bound by me to secresy whilst I remain in England."
"Listen," said the Countess, "to what this friend has to urge;" and taking from a sort of cabinet a small packet, she read the following:—
I."From fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beauty's rose might never die.But as the riper should by time decease,His tender heir might bear his memory:But then, contracted to thine own bright eyes,Feed'st thy light's frame with self-substantial fuel,Making a famine where abundance lies,Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel,Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,And only herald to the gaudy spring,Within thine own bud buriest thy content,And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding,Pity the world, or else this glutton be,To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
I.
"From fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beauty's rose might never die.But as the riper should by time decease,His tender heir might bear his memory:But then, contracted to thine own bright eyes,Feed'st thy light's frame with self-substantial fuel,Making a famine where abundance lies,Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel,Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,And only herald to the gaudy spring,Within thine own bud buriest thy content,And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding,Pity the world, or else this glutton be,To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
II.When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:Then, being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,If thou could'st answer—'This fair-child of mineShall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'—Proving his beauty by succession thine.This were to be new made, when thou art old,And see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold."
II.
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:Then, being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,If thou could'st answer—'This fair-child of mineShall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'—Proving his beauty by succession thine.This were to be new made, when thou art old,And see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold."
There was a pause after the Countess had read these sonnets, and which she, in common with the entire Court circle, had been delighted with when they first appeared. The beauty of the poetry, like sweet music, placed a spell upon the pair; such verse in those lordly apartments had a double influence.
As Clara gazed around upon the arrassed walls, and then glanced from the window upon the sweet scene without,—when she looked towards the home of the poet, the spirit of that man seemed to breath around. In some sort the Countess of Leicester felt this, for both these high-born ladies knew Shakespeare; his exquisite poetry had stolen over their hearts. They were of the few of their day who already appreciated him.
"Your story, Clara," said Lady Leicester, at length breaking silence, "convinces me this generous man carries with him the remembrance of some early grief—some secret sorrow never to be expressed. I feel as firmly convinced of it, as that you yourself are the excited cause of those sonnets I have just perused. The time of their production and circulation amongst us by Essex and Southampton—the circumstances under which you was rescued by this Shakespeare from the Spaniard—his discovery of your true sex, and subsequent contemplation of your exquisite disposition, Clara, all confirm it. Heaven grant thou sweetest and best of women, that this poetic friend does not himself love, and whilst he has pleaded for license to inform his friend Arderne of your secret, has not indeed felt a pang sharp as the stilleto of the Italian."
Clara started at the words of the Countess, and a slight flush suffused her check. The thought was, for the moment, fraught with pleasant reminiscences, but then feelings of alarm pervaded her, lest there should be in reality some truth in the suspicion of her friend. That man, so immeasurably above all other mortals, to love her—that man, whose influence seemed always to pervade every spot around her, where aught noble, refined, or chivalrous breathed—that man, without whose society, even granting she were wedded to him she loved, she must now experience a void, a blank. For be it remembered that Clara de Mowbray had, from circumstances, been the intimate, the companion of Shakespeare, knew his sentiments, been with him in the hour when poetry flowed from lip as well as pen; and that whilst she had listened, his words had produced thoughts and imaginings belonging to the fabled ages of the early world, in Crete, in Sparta, and in Thessaly.
As the Countess remarked the effect her words had produced, she arose and walked to the window. How sad, she thought to herself, that the life of one so amiable should be an aimless one! How sad, that sorrow should inhabit that form where so much grace and beauty dwelt!
Her thoughts, however, were speedily withdrawn from her friend, for at that moment the Major Domo, or steward of the Castle, his white wand in his hand, announced the arrival of a messenger from London bearing dispatches.
"News," she said, as she took the several sealed packets and examined them. "News, Clara, and from my truant son."
"The messenger, an it so please ye," said the steward, "announces the Earl is on his road hitherward, and with a goodly company."
"'Tis even so," said Lady Leicester; "he writes me word he hath returned from Lisbon, where nothing but discomfort, sickness, and mortality attended the English army. Six out of eighteen thousand having already fallen victims to the climate."
"And have you news of others present in that ill-omened expedition?" inquired Clara.
"Nothing save that some of his companions of the expedition are with him. The Queen, I find, by another packet," said Lady Leicester, "is much blamed for permitting this expedition to be undertaken at all since it has thus failed. Nay, she hath been rated by Burleigh. The royal lioness is, therefore, chafed in spirit."
"Ah! and here is another letter," continued the Countess, as she perused a somewhat curious document, as curiously worded, and after a fashion not uncommon at a period when, "in speaking of dangerous majesty," it was necessary to be guarded. The letter was brief and secret, partly in figures, and the Countess read it aloud to her friend:
"Let not 1500[27]gain sight of 1000 till anger subdueth, or the hot blood of 1000 will chafe at what may peradventure follow; 1500 is wrathful, and the enemies of 1000 have worked during absence; keep, therefore, valour and worth employed till matters cool. Not only hath the disobedience of 1000 offended in the expedition, but 1500 hath seen a printed volume[28]oft—t's, title toa—a, a device, doubtless, of some crafty knave and enemy; 50 hath been committed this day to the tower."
"I understand it not," said Clara. "Albeit it is plain enough to the eye, the sense is mysterious."
"It speaks to me of danger to my gallant son," said the Countess with a sigh, "and is from a dear and true industrious friend. It means that the Queen is angry with my son, and we must, therefore, hold him here if possible. You must aid me in this Clara, and we must endeavour to make Kenilworth a pleasing prison to him for a brief space."
"Thou knowest," said Clara, "that I am thy guest under promise of strict incognito; thou knowest, dear Lettice, that I am strict in my resolve to remain unknown."
"I know thou art proud in spirit, Clara, as becomes one of the princely line of Plantagenet. But 'tis a mother who asks thee to aid her in keeping her darling son from danger. Heaven knows I have little heart for revelling just now, but something we must invent to detain Essex at Kenilworth till the danger blows over."
Our readers must now again look upon the town of Stratford, whilst the bright mid-day sun shines upon its roof and chimneys, mid glitters like innumerable diamonds upon its multitudinous windows.
Our readers must now again look upon the town of Stratford, whilst the bright mid-day sun shines upon its roof and chimneys, mid glitters like innumerable diamonds upon its multitudinous windows.
With one of those sudden changes so common to our climate, the damp weather has cleared up, and turned to frost. The air is light and cheerful, and a hoary tinge is given to all around.
How sweetly rural are the quiet old towns of England, as the approaching winter begins to give us that cozy anticipation of the comforts and fire-side enjoyments to come with the snow and the bracing blast.
In Elizabeth's day, when the season was fraught with games and revels, each house in the quaint-looking street seemed to promise its hospitality. The citizens' wives, as they bustled through the street, appeared to experience this feeling. The native burghers seemed to accost each other with a more cordial greeting. The change, even in the open country, albeit it is sterile, and the "one red leaf" is all that dances on the tall tree, is so seasonable, that it is grateful. The human mortals love the coming winter. Its change seems to freshen up all around. Even the old crone, shivering in the ingle neuk, looks with a renewed feeling of pleasure upon the frosted pane, and listens to the sound of the wind without with a kind of enjoyable feeling as she turns her eye again upon the bright hearth-log. Its very crackle seems to chirp of Christmas festivities—"to tell of youthful prime," and those departed days of lusty bachelorship and maiden coyness, with all the romps and revels of the time. And then, with the changeful current of thought, as remembrance dwells upon the many departed, amidst the many known,—then comes the more sombre picture, the superstitions of the old age, the sheeted ghost, the evil genius, the witch, and the thrice-told tale of Gramarie—those cherished remembrances of the hallowed period
"Wherein the Saviour's birth was celebrated."
"Wherein the Saviour's birth was celebrated."
Stratford, so picturesque in its old-world look, so peculiarly English, is just now putting on its winter garb.
A couple of days subsequent to that on which Captain Fluellyn arrived at Clopton, whilst the inhabitants progressed the streets, they seemed once more filled with the import of recent news. Rumour, in the absence of all assured information, with all its exaggeration of circumstance, was afloat amongst them. The great difficulty amidst the variety of information was to gain the real story which had arrived. Grasp, who had suddenly returned, had brought it; but then Grasp, who was hardly to be believed on his oath, had shut himself up the moment he arrived, and would see no one. Certain, however, it was (for everybody said it) that another desperate attempt had been made upon the life of the Queen. By some it was reported she had been stabbed; by others that she had been shot. Master Doubletongue went so far as to say that she was both dead and buried! But as such surmise amounted to treason, he was ordered by the head-bailiff to go about and deny all he had asserted, the drummer of the town being sent round with him, in order that he might proclaim himself a liar at every corner.
Those of our readers who have an eye for the picturesque can, we dare say, imagine the High Street of Stratford-upon-Avon at this season of the year, peopled thus with inhabitants clad in their quaint costume, their short cloaks, doublets, and high-crowned hats. Those respectable, dignified, and grave-looking men, progressing with an assured and stately step, cane in hand, not hurrying about, as at the present day, but greeting each other with something of ceremony in their deportment. Many of them stand in groups of three or four and discuss the news, whilst the good wives of the town, albeit they are few in number, for it was not considered over seemly for the sober sort of females to be much upon the tramp, are also to be observed in their wide-brimmed hats, mufflers and kirtles, passing and repassing along the highway.
The street altogether has, with the beetling stories on either hand, the clear frosty air, and the costumed figures, with here and there a red cloak amongst other sad-coloured suits, altogether the appearance of a winter view in an old Dutch painting.
The news is of import, and all seem impressed with it—for, in Elizabeth's day, so much importance was attached to the life of the Queen by her Protestant subjects, that man looked grave and anxious at such a rumour as the present. Public safety and the prosperity of the nation seemed to hang upon her life.
Grasp, albeit he was slightly regarded in the town, was called on several times, but no one could gain admittance at Grasp's. He seemed to have rammed up his doors against the world. He was sick, engaged, not within, not to be molested. Meanwhile, as the day passed and the evening approached, a light and gentle fall of snow seemed to herald the coming winter weather. And as light thickened, the sharp and rapid sound of an approaching horseman is heard at a distance on the Warwick road. Let us listen to the sound, as the sharp spur of that rider urges on his steed; now from a rapid trot to a gallop, and then again apparently he pulls up to a slower pace.
'Tis sweet to hear, in the still evening, the sound of hoofs on the hard road, mellowed by distance, now clattering along, loud and sharp, and now again so indistinct as to be almost lost to the ear.
One or two of the townsfolk have walked forth to meet that traveller and inquire the news, and at length he nears the suburb, spurs on his steed, and enters the inn; an event in the annals of that place which, could the inhabitants have appreciated it, would have doubtless been sufficiently noted.
He came comparatively unknown amongst them, that horseman, unannounced even to his own family. He thought not of his own importance, he knew it not, yet not a building, could it have spoken and felt, but would, we think, have uttered a note of joy. The very bells of the old tower should have rung out a joyous peal, and the hollow steeple of the guild of the Holy Cross have cracked with the reverberation of the sound.
Nay, we can almost wonder that the inhabitants did not, one and all, go forth to greet the rider in the high-crowned hat, long boots, ample cloak, and the long petronels in his girdle, for, take him for all in all, Stratford will never look upon his like again. His capable eye glanced down the High Street, as he rode; a tear glistened on his cheek as he beheld its well-known aspect, and then he spurred his steed, and rode up Henley Street. A few moments more and he was in the midst of his relatives. William Shakespeare had returned to Stratford-upon-Avon.
Grasp's return home was somewhat more sudden than he had intended. He returned indeed in an exceedingly discomfited and excited state.
Grasp's return home was somewhat more sudden than he had intended. He returned indeed in an exceedingly discomfited and excited state.
His friend Dismal was the only person who had gained access to him, and that but for a few moments. During the interview, however, Dismal had gathered from Doubletongue, who also arrived in all haste, that great events had transpired in London, of one sort or other. But so extraordinary and so perturbed did both the lawyer and his friend seem, that except certain incoherent expressions about an attempt upon the Queen's life, a spectre he himself had beheld, and various allusions to poison, assassination, death, destruction, and utter ruin. Dismal completely failed in discovering the exact news the travellers had to tall, and hence the variety of reports circulated through the town. Something certainly seemed to have gone all wrong with the lawyer. His friend Doubletongue had never seen him so put out, and altogether he feared that his wits were going.
To explain the meaning of this agitated and nervous state of the worthy Stratford lawyer, we must go back a few paces in our history.
Grasp, then, it will be remembered, whilst in London, had considerably extended his practice. He had apparently involved Walter Arderne in ruin; he had even carried on his intrigues so as to make the dark Earl, he of Leicester, a party concerned in his plot. For Grasp had given the Earl a hint about certain abbey lands and a manor near Kenilworth, which would fall to the said Earl in the event of Arderne's decease. He had ferreted out the existence of a plot, by means of which he hoped to rise to great preferment; and he had succeeded in beguiling a simple-minded gentleman, resident in Warwickshire, that he was indeed the real and undisputed heir to the estates of the before-named Clara de Mowbray, and actually by bribery, and using all sorts of villainy, got a verdict in such person's favour, and placed him in possession of some portion of the property.
Somehow or other, however, like the labours of the alchemist, which at the moment of projection are frequently overthrown by the bursting of some vessel containing the divine elixir, so all Grasp's schemes seemed unaccountably blown to the winds, and himself discomfited.
Acting upon wrong information, he had followed a female, who travelled in male disguise, as far as Oxford, where he lost all trace of her; and whilst he tarried at the City of Palaces, an express overtook him, with directions to hasten with all speed to Cornbury Park, where the Earl of Leicester was then lying sick, having arrived there by easy stages on the way to Kenilworth, a few days before.
Now, Grasp, since his first introduction to the Earl of Leicester, had made such considerable advances in that bad man's good graces, that the Earl had sent an express for him, in order to make some alterations in his will.
Grasp accordingly set forth, leaving directions that Sir Humphrey Graball, the gentleman who was disputing the succession of the Mowbray estates, and Master Quillett, the Temple lawyer, and with whom he had arranged a meeting at Oxford, should follow him to Cornbury. For Grasp argued very wisely, that both the matters of business apertaining to the Earl's claim, and the concoction of a new will, might be arranged at one and the same time.
The will of the sick and fallen favourite, had we space to dilate upon it, would perhaps be well worthy of contemplation. That part of it especially in which he bequeathed a costly legacy to his royal mistress—the bequest being wrapped up in a preamble of honeyed words, being not the least curious part of the document.
It was night when the Earl finished his business with Grasp, and the bleak winds of September sounded through the park of Cornbury, as the lawyer, after the interview, sat with the before-named client and the Templar, in a small apartment of the mansion. It was a dark hour, and a certain feeling of awe seemed to pervade that household.
The overgrown and fallen courtier lying helpless and hopeless, alike body and soul. His "ill-weaved ambition" shrank to the smallest span—his parks, his walks, his manors forsaking him. His swollen body, a thing abhorrent even to himself. That beautiful Countess too, attending upon him without love; and whilst duty called her to the side of him who had so vilely used her, the selfish courtier even envying her the life and health she enjoyed.
Nothing however, could exceed the elation of Grasp. He beheld in prospect a glorious array of difficulties and litigation consequent upon the matters he was engaged in; and most of all the success of his machinations in favour of Sir Humphrey Graball, and his succession to the manors of Mowbray, promised him endless profits.
"Sir Humphrey is altogether an easy simpleton," he said, "a most weak and debile man, and can as easily be led by the nose as an ass. Ergo, I shall thrive."
Accordingly, as Grasp sat with his client discussing matters of moment, whilst they relieved their labours by occasional indulgence in the good wine of the house, amongst other papers called for, was the will of the Lady Clara de Mowbray—an instrument we have, on a former occasion seen in his possession. There is always a secret horror suitable to the time, when in some antique apartment, and, by night, men meet together to peruse the musty documents which speak the last wishes of those within the tomb, more especially when sickness and those signs which foretell the ending of mortality pervade the habitation. On this rough night