"From the four corners of the earth they comeTo kiss the shrine."
"From the four corners of the earth they comeTo kiss the shrine."
Sir Hugh had, however, made election for his daughter, of one who had been her companion from childhood, a cousin of her own, Walter Arderne. This young man, who was now about two and twenty years of age, absolutely doated on his affianced bride. His fortune was ample, and the woods of Arderne could be seen from the grounds of Clopton. Added to this he was extremely handsome, of a most amiable and generous disposition, brave as the steel he wore, and "complete in all good grace to grace a gentleman."
And yet withal, although Charlotte loved him as a brother, esteemed him as a friend, and had been taught to regard him as her future husband, to entertain any more tender feelings towards him she found impossible.
Still, Walter Arderne being thus the constant companion, the affianced husband of Charlotte, although numerous other cavaliers saw, and seeing, admired, their brief bow was soon made. They saw—they were smitten by the blind bow-boy—but they felt that the prize was appropriated worthily and withdrew.
Few men, indeed, were more worthy of a lady's eye than Walter Arderne. Gentle, generous, and frank, as we have before described him—rich and handsome withal—it seems scarcely possible that his fair cousin could fail in returning the strong love he felt for her. Yet so it was, and whether this love "chosen by another's eye" was distasteful to her, or that she thought the near relationship any bar to a more tender feeling, it is certain the very thought of her betrothment was disagreeable. Still Walter had been her friend, her companion, and her champion from childhood's hour, and under his fostering care and tuition she had become a sort of Dian of the woods and groves. Dearly did she love the bounding steed and the chase: the wild, the wold, the hawk, and the free air.
Her father's wishes also were law to her, and as she found it would be a terrible disappointment to him were she to own her dislike to a marriage with her cousin, she had suffered the engagement to remain unchallenged.
For centuries the Cloptons had seemed a doomed race; as if some ban was upon them they had been strangely unlucky by flood and field. Gentle by birth, noble in spirit, and in the enjoyment of all the world could give, they seemed doomed to be unfortunate. There was even a melancholy about the old hall itself consequent upon the mishaps and disasters that appeared the hereditary portion of the family. The sons were brave, their banner ever in the van, but they fell early in the fight. The daughters were chaste as they were beautiful, but an early grave had almost always closed over them. Nay, the villagers called the old manor-house the house of mourning, so invariably had most of its numerous occupants been swept off. An old legend (they affirmed) proclaimed this near extinction of the line of Clopton, and that the hall would be unlucky whilst their race continued its owners.
The brave old knight, gentle and even-tempered as he was, and whom on ordinary provocation it was difficult to anger, was peculiarly sensitive on this subject. Any allusion to the wild legend from a servitor, or rustic on his estate, would be sure to be followed by displeasure or dismissal; whilst mention of it from one in his own rank would have been considered equivalent to an invitation to the dark walk at the end of the pleasance, armed with rapier and dagger.
Sir Hugh had beheld his children fade away, apparently of hereditary disease, one after another in their early youth; all except the beautiful Charlotte, the pledge of a second marriage, and whose mother had died soon after giving birth to this their only child, and he was in consequence tremblingly alive to the slightest alarm of accident or illness. It was under such circumstances that Sir Hugh, in accepting the guardianship of his nephew, had learned to look upon the well-favoured Walter almost with the eye of a parent, and had set his heart upon a marriage between him and his lovely child.
Under such circumstances, too, had young Shakespeare performed the piece of service we have described,—a service beyond reward (as the old knight worded it), beyond aught he had to bestow; and it was under such circumstances that the youth became an occasional visitor at Clopton Hall, where he was admitted on an equality with the inmates, and received in a manner perhaps no other circumstances would have been likely to lead to.
The line drawn between persons of different condition in life was then more strictly kept, and more accurately defined than in our own day. But the good sense of Sir Hugh led him to appreciate superior attainments wherever they were to be found. The ignorance of youth proceeded, he thought, from idleness; the continuance of ignorance in manhood from pride—the pride which is less ashamed of being ignorant than of seeking instruction. At Clopton, therefore, men of worth were received, even though of low estate.
On the evening of the day on which the accident had happened to Charlotte Clopton, that lady, together with her father, her cousin Walter, and young Shakespeare, were assembled in an ample apartment at Clopton Hall, situate on the ground floor, the windows looking out upon the lovely pleasure-grounds in the rear of the building. The youth had spent the entire day at the hall, and in the society of those to whom he had rendered so great a service.
Indeed any person (albeit he might not so well deserve consideration by this good family) would still have been a cherished guest; nay, even an "unmannered churl," under the same circumstances, would have been tolerated and made much of; but in this lad, Sir Hugh and his family found something so extraordinary, so superior, and of so amiable a disposition, that it appeared a blessing and an honour to have him as an associate beneath their roof.
Those who can associate with persons above them in rank, it has been said, and yet neither disgust or affront them by over-familiarity, or disgrace themselves by servility, prove that they are as much gentlemen by nature as their companions are by rank and station. If our readers wish to picture the youthful Shakespeare's first introduction into "worshipful society," and amongst people of condition of his day, and where he received those first impressions from which some of his delicious scenes have been drawn, they must imagine to themselves a large and somewhat gloomy oak-pannelled room, whose principal ornament is the huge elaborately-carved chimney-piece, which, in truth, seems to occupy one entire side of the apartment, and appears inclined also to march into the very centre thereof. The apartment (albeit it was, as we have said, by no means stinted to space, and had an exceeding quiet, retired, and comfortable look withal) was by no means constructed or fashioned after the more approved style of modern architecture. The ceiling was somewhat low, traversed by an enormous beam, and cut and carved elaborately, displaying fruits and flowers, heraldic devices of the brave, and all those extraordinary and grotesque figures which the cunning architects of old were so fond of inventing. On the side of the apartment opposite the huge chimney-piece, and on which side hung several scowling and bearded portraits, stood a sort of spinnet or harpsichord, and beside that leant an instrument, fashioned somewhat like a bass viol of the present day, but of a more curious form, and elaborately inlaid with ivory, a viol-de-gamba, an instrument then much in vogue. Two ample casements which opened inwards, and which were festooned by creeping plants, the eglantine and sweet jessamine, and which casements, as we have before said, looked into the green and bowery garden, and through which the soft evening breeze of May breathed the most exquisite perfume, gave a sort of green and fairy light to the interior. A heavy oaken table with enormous legs was placed near the window. Upon it were to be seen a silver salver, with several bottles of antique and most exquisite pattern, containing liquors of comfortable appearance and delicious flavour. These were flanked by high glasses of Venetian workmanship. In addition to these articles, several high-backed cane-bottomed chairs and one or two stools formed the remaining furniture of the room, and which, in comparison with our own over-crowded style, would perhaps have been termed only half furnished.
Nic-nacs there were few or none. Two or three dull-faced miniature mirrors, looking all frame, hung heavily against the pannelling, and even a cross-bow, several rapiers, one or two matchlocks, and other weapons of ancient fashion, were to be observed; whilst, to complete the picture, on the ample hearth (although the room constituted what in the present day would have been called the withdrawing-room of the mansion) sprawled several of the smaller dogs then used in field sports, and an enormous hound, sufficiently large and powerful to pull down a stag; and in the enjoyment of the sight and flavour of the good wines placed before him, sat the portly form of the master of the house. Beside the open window stood the youthful cavalier Walter Arderne, and on one of the oaken lockers or benches in the embrazure of the casement, was seated Charlotte Clopton. As she leant her cheek upon her hand, one moment she gazed abstractedly into the bowery garden, the next her eyes wandered into the softened light of the interior of the apartment, and rested upon the features of her deliverer, young Shakespeare. This youth stood beside the spinnet, and (unconscious of the sensation his narrative produced upon the ears and hearts of his hearers, and of the beauty of the description) was giving them the plot of a tale in verse which he had that morning been perusing, when the lady's danger interrupted him.
He related the story briefly, but in such language that his listeners were wrapt by the recital. He even accompanied his description by some action, and where he wished to impress his hearers more especially he endeavoured to recollect and repeat the lines of the poem, piecing out the story, when memory failed him, with such verses as he made for the nonce.
In addition to these, the principal personages of our chapter, there was one other individual in the room, who (albeit he occupied the background of the scene, being crouched up in a corner) is also deserving of a description.
This was a sort of hanger-on, or appendage to the establishments of the old families of condition in England not then quite extinct—a sort of good familiar creature, attached to the master of the house principally, and indifferently familiar with all and sundry, in doors and out—a sort of humorist—a privileged, seeming half idiotic, though in reality extremely shrewd and clever companion, who used his folly "like a stalking-horse, under cover of which, he shot his wit;" but who was indeed more the friend than the fool of the family, and oft-times consulted on matters of moment by the good knight.
This individual, clad in somewhat fantastic costume, fashioned by himself, be it understood, and which it was his especial pleasure to wear, (for Sir Hugh would by no means have forced any one in his establishment to wear motley,) was seated in a huge high-backed arm-chair, in a corner of the apartment, where, with his legs drawn up under him on the cushion, his hands clasped together over his breast, and his thumbs in his mouth, he kept a shrewd eye upon the other occupants; the long ears of his cap every now and then, as they shook with a sort of nervous twitch of the head, alone proclaiming that he was not some stuffed ornament, occupying the position it was his wont usually to choose in the apartment.
The story Shakespeare had related seemed to have made an impression on his own youthful mind. It professed to pourtray that baneful passion jealousy—a passion which, when once indulged, is the inevitable destroyer of conjugal happiness. It formed one of the old romances then in vogue amongst such as delighted in reading of the sort; for in those days of leisure, sobriety, and lack of excitement amongst females in the country, reading, spinning, embroidery, and other ornamental needlework, principally occupied the hours of the elder; and out-door amusements and music the younger. Those females who were given to literature, however, would, in our times, have indeed been considered learned, since many (albeit they eschewed light reading) understood both the Greek and Latin tongues to perfection, and many were no less skilful in the Spanish, Italian, and French.
In the narration of this story, and whilst (as we have said) young Shakespeare gave his own version, might have been observed gleams of that mighty genius which was, in after-times, to astonish the world.
His relation had, indeed, much of the fire and descriptive beauty which he afterwards threw into every line of his writings. He called up before his hearers the fiery openness of the injured husband; boundless in confidence, ardent in affection. He touched upon the soft and gentle simplicity of the victim; her consciousness of innocence; and her slowness to suspect she could be suspected. And, lastly, he described the clever devil, the fiend-like and malignant accuser, with matchless power.
Indeed the enormity of the crime of adultery, and upon which this story touched so forcibly, was in after days (as our readers doubtless recollect) made by the great dramatic moralist the subject of not less than four of his finished productions.
Another thing remarkable, and which struck all present, was the facility with which, by a touch as it were, he ever and anon (and as if by some incomprehensible magic of description) impressed the climate and country, the manners and customs of the actors in this romance, upon the hearers.
The relation had, indeed, seemed to the auditors like a dramatic performance. The melody of the speaker's voice, and the lines he uttered, left his audience as we sometimes feel after the scenic hour. There was a want of some soother of the excitement produced.
The old knight felt this. He took his viol-de-gamba and drew his bow lightly across the strings, producing that silver and somewhat solemn sound which those who have heard the instrument so well remember—sounds suited to the hour, age, and scene, and which give their own impressions of days long passed away.
"Come, Charlotte," said Sir Hugh, after executing one of the pieces of music then in vogue, "now a madrigal in which all can join. This youth hath put a spell upon us with his sad story. Come, a madrigal; and after that our evening meal in the garden, beneath the mulberry-tree. Do thou take the first, whilst I and Walter chime in second and third, and Martin shall e'en do his best to help us."
"Nay, uncle," said Martin, jerking out his legs straight before him, then putting them to the ground gently, and then lightly executing a sort of somersault and coming forward, "I pr'ythee hold me excused. I shall but spoil your music: my voice is rugged. I am not gifted to sing squealingly with a lady. A psalm or so at church, or a quaver after supper I can execute; but my voice is like the howl of an Irish wolf when I sing a part with the lady Charlotte: blessings on her celestial throat."
"Nay, Martin," said Charlotte, as she seated herself, "thou wilt not refuse when I tell thee it is to pleasure our new friend, to whom we owe so much."
Martin glanced quickly upon Shakespeare, as she said this, and then slowly turned his eye upon the young lady.
He stroked his chin knowingly, and seemed to be considering them both very curiously. "Truly so," he said, "we do indeed owe much to this lad. May God requite the debt." So saying, the familiar walked to the window, and, looking affectionately in the handsome face of Walter, as he stood leaning against the casement and regarding Charlotte, he put his arm through that of the young cavalier, and remained beside him whilst the madrigal was sung; his own fine bass voice coming in with singular effect, and belying his modest assertion of incompetency.
To say that the voice of the lovely Charlotte delighted Shakespeare would be to say little; he felt ravished and enchanted, and it left an impression upon the young poet which he never forgot from that hour!
And oh! how calmly, how contentedly, and how quietly flowed the hours of private life even during such a reign of glory as that of the great and good Queen Bess!
In those days the whirl of events, the increasing villany of the world, the petty doings of the actors in this vale of tears, the very minutiæ of crime and sin, the most paltry acts "committed on this ball of earth," in town, city, village, and hamlet were not as now, printed and published and blown into every corner of the kingdom, a few hours after commission. Even the leading events of the day, the acts of the great amongst the nations of the earth, and all the stirring deeds going on in the world, and which shook and overturned thrones; even these travelled slowly, and though posts "came tiring on," still rumour, full of tongues, made oft-times many slanderous reports ere the true one was manifest.
To the country gentleman his domain was his little world, his court, wherein he received the homage of his neighbouring dependents and tenants.
The charm of life consisted in these pursuits, those associations—nay even those superstitions, and those antiquated customs which modern utilitarianism has driven from the world. Whilst, as we have said, mighty events shook the nation, men continued to pursue their even way in that station of life in which it had pleased Heaven to call them.
After the madrigal, the old knight, with the viol-de-gamba clutched between his legs, fell fast asleep, his wonted custom in the evening; and having gently relieved him from all care of the instrument by withdrawing it from his custody, Charlotte invited the trio to a stroll in the garden, where they held converse upon various matters, occasionally interrupted in their discourse by the quaint sayings and witticisms of the shrewd Martin.
'Twas a pleasing picture, that old knight taking his evening nap in his oak pannelled room, so quiet and so retired, so undisturbed, except by the cooing of the wood-pigeon, or the distant bay of the hound in the kennel.
The evening breeze sighed drearily through the branches of the gigantic cedar-tree in the garden, and whispered softly through the luxuriant plants and shrubs which hung about the diamond-paned windows.
'Tis a sweet time that evening hour, in an old mansion far removed from the bustle of the world. The oak floor, too, in the centre of the apartment, was coloured faintly by the many tints reflected through the stained glass in the upper compartments of the windows, and where the arms and crest of the Cloptons were variously multiplied and emblazoned. The dark polished oak of the huge chimney-piece, as the shadows of evening descended, seemed framed of iron or ebony, the grotesque figures, here and there ornamenting the higher parts, with their demoniac faces and satyr-like bodies, seeming ready to pounce upon whoever came within their reach.
Whilst the old knight enjoyed his siesta, every now and then giving a sort of start in his deep sleep, or a prolonged snore, and then twitching his muscular face and changing his position, the door of the apartment was gently opened, and a tall shadowy figure, after hesitating for a few moments at the threshold, and looking round, entered cautiously, and approaching the sleeper stood and gazed long and fixedly at his countenance.
What a contrast might a looker-on have observed in those two faces!—the one round, ruddy, redolent of health, and shewing no traces of guilt or care; the other worn, pale, anxious, and cadaverous-looking. The broad brim of the stranger's hat was drawn down and pulled low over his forehead, his dark and grizzled hair looked thin and perished, matching well with the iron gray of his complexion, and his forked beard, presenting altogether a worn and haggard appearance, a man of dark passions, evil thoughts, and sinister disposition.
After gazing for some time at Sir Hugh, the stranger laid his heavy gauntlet upon his shoulder and suddenly awoke him.
The knight opened his eyes, stared at the dark countenance so suddenly presented to him for a few moments, and then starting up, stepped a pace or two back and laid his hand upon the hilt of his rapier.
The grim stranger smiled at the startled look of the old knight, "Fear me not, Sir Hugh," he said. "I come not with intent to do thee harm."
"Fear thee," said Sir Hugh contemptuously, "wherefore should I fear? But thou comest upon me in my secure hour here—and I know thee not. Stand off, lest I smite thee."
"That would be a poor reception for an old friend," said the other, smiling a grim smile.
"An old friend!" said Sir Hugh, in tones of surprise; "truly then thou art an old friend with a new face. May heaven protect me, if ever I looked upon that white-livered visage of thine before."
"Art thou quite sure of that, Sir Hugh Clopton?" said the stranger. "Look again; time and care and climate have written, I dare be sworn, strange defeatures in my face, but yet methinks twenty years ago the name of Parry was not altogether unknown at Clopton."
"Parry!" said Sir Hugh, starting; "art thou Gilbert Parry? and what doth the banished traitor Parry within my walls? Hence, sirrah; I wish for the companionship of no man polluted with crimes such as thine."
"Nay, soft, Sir Hugh," said the visitor, "I come with credentials from one thou darest not slight. Look ye, I am bearer of a letter from the Nuncio Campeggio, and I demand speech with Father Eustace, who dwells in thy house here."
Sir Hugh again started; he took the letter from the hand of his visitor, and read it attentively.
"Truly," he said, "the letter is as thou say'st. In it I find I am ordered to give thee shelter here for the space of one week; affording thee and those with whom thou consortest such secresy and seclusion as thou may'st desire. I dare not deny the hospitality so enjoined, but in good sooth I had as lief thou had'st sought it elsewhere, Gilbert Parry."
"'Tis well," said Parry, taking his riding-cloak from his shoulders; "Clopton hath secret chambers, I know, as well as that devoted servants of the Catholic Church dwell beneath its roof."
"May I not know," inquired Sir Hugh, "of the business which employs the talents of Gilbert Parry, and makes the Pope's Nuncio his introducer within my walls?"
"At more fitting opportunity perchance thou mayest," returned Parry, whose manner had become more assured after he observed the impression the letter he had delivered had made; "at the present moment I require rest and refreshment."
Sir Hugh said no more; he stepped to a concealed pannel beside the huge chimney-piece, and drawing it aside, ushered his guest into a small closet-like apartment, and then carefully closed the pannel again. A narrow winding staircase ascended from this small room into the chamber above, and which was only known or used by Sir Hugh himself, together with Martin and the priest, who occasionally visited at the Hall.
After entering, Sir Hugh signed to his guest to ascend the staircase.
"Thou wilt find every accommodation here in this chamber," he said, "and refreshment shall be served to thee by one I can trust. Father Eustace is at present absent from Clopton, but to-morrow I expect he will return."
"I would confer with him without delay," said Parry, "so soon as he returns."
"Be it so," said Sir Hugh, retiring from the apartment, and descending the stairs; seeming, as he did so, by his manner, not sorry to withdraw from the companionship of his new guest.
As soon as he had descended into the small apartment we have before described, he paused for a few moments, and then unlocked and opened a low postern door, which admitted into the garden, and, guided by the voices of his daughter and her party in the distance, immediately sought them.
It was by no means uncommon for the Catholics, during this reign, to hold secret intercourse with each other after the fashion we have just described, going from house to house with the utmost care; the more violent and remorseless making it their practice to seek refuge oft-times amongst the quieter gentry, and, under cover of their respectability, carrying on their designs with greater security.
In pursuance of such custom, Sir Hugh's new visitor had now sought shelter at Clopton. He had, on that same evening, arrived at Stratford in company with others, and immediately on dismounting from his horse, had walked across the meadows, entered the grounds, and being well acquainted with the localities, introduced himself into the house without being seen by any one.
When Sir Hugh joined his daughter and her party, there was a something of anxiety upon his brow which was not usual with him. But so deeply interested were Charlotte and Walter Arderne with the conversation of their new formed acquaintance, that they observed it not. The quick eye, however, of the shrewd Martin (who so well knew his old master's habits) saw at a glance that something had puddled the clear spirit of the knight; and advancing towards him, they walked apart and held converse together.
"Is there ill news toward?" said Martin. "Something I perceive hath disturbed you, and broken in upon your slumbers."
"I have had a visitor, Martin," said Sir Hugh; "one with whom I had long closed the accounts of acquaintanceship as a dangerous companion."
"Know I the man?" inquired Martin.
"Like myself you did so," returned Sir Hugh; "but evil courses drove him from the country some years back. You remember Gilbert Parry?"
"What," said Martin, "he who was condemned to death as a traitor some five years ago, and to whom the Queen graciously granted a free pardon?"
"The same. He hath been with me just now."
"He was ever a restless dangerous knave," said Martin; "his visit might well have been spared. I trust it was a short one."
"Nay," said Sir Hugh, "he hath claimed the hospitality of Clopton on matters of moment connected with holy mother Church, and hath shewn me letters from the Nuncio Campeggio, and from Ragazoni at Paris."
"He comes from abroad, then, I dare be sworn," said Martin, "and on no good errand depend on't, and he makes Clopton his place of residence on his first arrival, in order to be in security whilst he spies into the localities, and sounds his instruments; ah, and by my fay, 'tis a crafty and a dangerous companion, whose designs may get us into trouble. But an I dive not into his contrivances I would I might never taste hippocras again."
"I would have thee do so, Martin, if it be possible," said Sir Hugh, "for I like not such guests; albeit, their visits are sanctioned and enjoined by the mighty in our Church. Nay, it was but last week I had a visit from Ralph Somerville, of Warwick, who held me in dangerous converse a whole hour, upon the necessity of smiting all heretics and persecutors. His discourses on religious matters shewed a distempered brain. Troth, I was glad to be rid of him."
"'Tis strange," said Martin, "to behold the spirit which everywhere actuates those who profess more religion than their neighbours, both Protestants and Catholics. By my faith, men will dispute upon the subject, cut a throat for religion, indite most learned matter appertaining,—anything but live for it."
"'Tis even so, Martin," said Sir Hugh with a sigh, "and therefore doth it behove us, and all those who are not of this bigoted and intolerant spirit, to guard our hearths from the danger of such association. A presentiment of evil is upon my mind since this man's coming, which I cannot shake off. Be it thy business to look to his wants this evening. To-morrow Father Eustace returns, and we shall then know more about his designs."
"Ah, that Eustace!" muttered Martin to himself. "Hath he ever seen this man?" he inquired aloud.
"I think not," said Sir Hugh; "they have never met to my knowledge."
"Enough," said Martin; "leave him to me. Now break we off, and let us join our party. See where the lady Charlotte leads her two attendant swains toward the house yonder. This new-found friend, Sir Hugh," continued Martin, "this youth, whose merits seem so far beyond his fortunes, is he likely to remain long at Clopton?"
"He tarries here to-night, Martin," said Sir Hugh, "and shall be ever welcome. We are deeply his debtor."
"Humph," said Martin significantly, "I supposed as much, and I suppose it must even be so,—but——"
England, up to the period of Elizabeth's reign, at which our story has now arrived, had been blessed in the enjoyment of the most absolute security.
The scene, however, was now beginning to change, and multiplied dangers to threaten the maiden Queen from various quarters.
Scotland and its affairs gave Elizabeth continued uneasiness, and every new revolution amongst the wild and turbulent nobles of that rude land caused her fresh anxiety, because that country alone being not separated from England by sea, and bordering on all the Catholic and malcontent countries, afforded her enemies an easy mode of annoying her.
Nothing could be more romantic, wild, and extravagant than the stories which those of the English who had penetrated far north brought back of the state of the nation, and the manners and disposition of the inhabitants; and which, if they were to be believed, described the chieftains in the hill countries as living amidst their wild and savage retainers in a singular style of feudal grandeur and semi-barbarism.
Nay, such was, in reality, the nature of the rude Highlanders in the remoter districts of Scotland, that, for an Englishman to attempt to penetrate into their fastnesses, would have been attended with the same difficulty and danger as at the present time a journey into the centre of Africa is exposed to. So that to the generality of the English nation the interior of Scotland was aterra incognita; whilst the dark and ominous rumours continually floating about, pictured the very court itself of that distracted country in a most strange and unnatural light. Murders, conspiracies, rebellions, and every sort of consequence upon misrule and headstrong passion, seemed the every-day occurrence there.
In Ireland, too, (where the inhabitants were equally wild, reckless, and opposite to England,) every invader found ready auxiliaries.
Alienated by religious prejudices, that nation hated the English with a peculiar and deadly animosity; an animosity which has rankled in their breasts up to the present time, and caused the shedding of rivulets of blood.
The anxiety of the Queen, on account of the attempts of the English Catholics, never ceased during the course of her reign, and was at this period greater than ever: whilst the continued revolutions happening to all the neighbouring kingdoms were the source of her continued apprehension Plots after plots were concocted in all quarters against her life, and which were being as constantly brought to light by one extraordinary chance or another.
The Cloptons, as we have seen, were members of the Church of Rome, though they were of the milder sort of Catholics, steering clear of all those intrigues and conspiracies which the more bigoted of their persuasion were so continually engaged in.
They were, indeed, well thought of and regarded by the government and the queen, and the good Sir Hugh was beloved and respected by all parties. Still the iron rule of the Church of Rome was upon him and his household, and held him under subjection. Many, therefore, were the narrow escapes he had experienced from being drawn into the violent and bloody plots and conspiracies the more dangerous and bigoted members of his creed had already been engaged in.
In a former chapter our readers have seen a person of this latter sort arrive stealthily at the Hall, and fasten himself upon the secret hospitality of Sir Hugh, in virtue of the powerful letters he produced.
What the designs of this man might be it was impossible to fathom, and Sir Hugh well knew that from the circumstance of his being himself considered but a mild and luke-warm Catholic by the more zealous and violent party, (although he might be made use of,) he would scarcely be initiated by them into their secrets.
Under such circumstances, the faithful Martin, (whose devotion towards the family of his old friend and patron amounted to a species of worship,) in taking upon himself the office of attendant upon the unwelcome guest, resolved to play the spy upon him at the same time, and, if possible, pluck out the heart of his mystery. The absence of the priest (who frequently resided at the Hall) favoured this design; and (on leaving Sir Hugh) Martin ascended to the apartment usually occupied by Father Eustace, where he doffed his motley coat, and induing the garments of the priest, suddenly presented himself before Parry.
The talent for humour possessed by this singular being made his design peculiarly agreeable to him, for to play a part (even under dangerous circumstances) was quite in accordance with his disposition.
On entering he found the object of his visit seated upon the small truckle bed with which the room was accommodated, and which (except two chairs) was all the furniture in it—the bed standing in a recess.
The room itself was one of those small, curious chambers peculiar to the buildings of the Catholic gentry during this and the subsequent reign. It seemed evidently to have been contrived for purposes of seclusion and concealment, and was more like the cell of a monastery than a chamber in a private dwelling. Cribbed, as it seemed to have been, out of some corner of the edifice, where an apartment would never have been thought of; the only light by which this closet-like room was illuminated in the day-time being from a small concealed window, so contrived as not to be visible from the grounds without.
So deep in his own contemplations was the occupant of this chamber, that, at first, he did not observe the entrance of the disguised Martin. When he did so, however, he quickly started to his feet, and the riding cloak which he had unfastened slipping from his shoulders shewed that he was armed (as the phrase goes) to the very teeth. Rapier and dagger were by his side, a pair of the huge, ill-contrived, petronels of the period at his waist, and in place of a shirt it was evident that he wore a sort of hauberk of linked steel beneath his upper garments; in fact, a more dangerous-looking and dishevelled companion the shrewd Martin had seldom beheld.
"The peace of Heaven be upon thee, my son," said Martin, as the visitor confronted him.
"Such peace as Heaven wills," returned the other.
"Those who have to do the work are not permitted peace of mind or body in this world. Art thou him to whom I am secretly commended at Clopton, the good Father Eustace?"
"Such is the name men usually give the wearer of these garments of the Church, my son," returned Martin. "I would they clove to the body of a more worthy representative."
"The business I have with thee, good father," said Parry, "is of that dangerous and imminent nature that I may not trust to thy word alone. I must be furnished with proof of thy identity. Sir Hugh Clopton affirmed but now that Father Eustace was at present absent from the Hall."
"I have but now returned," said Martin, "and immediately have sought thee out by Sir Hugh's desire. What you have to communicate can either be withheld or given freely, I seek not to know the secret of others. Letters of import, as I learn, hath procured thee a secret asylum here, without which, as thou art aware, thou could'st not have been received, neither can I hold converse with thee, unless thou canst shew such documents or explain the reasons of thy coming hither."
"Enough said, father," returned Parry, thrown off his guard, "those documents thou shalt have; meantime hear the reasons which have moved me to this visit, and my intent in seeking thee."
"Proceed," said Martin, seating himself, whilst the other walked restlessly up and down the small room, apparently carried away by the violence of his own thoughts.
"Thou knowest my early history," he said, "and how that after being an undutiful son, a sabbath-breaker, and a blasphemer, the devil lured me to the commission of crimes by which my life was forfeited to the laws?"
"I have heard these things," said Martin, "and such part of the story needs no repetition. The Queen granted you a free pardon, for which you are doubtless grateful, and resolved in making amends?"
"I had resolved on doing so," said Parry, "and hoped for days of repentance and happiness, but none came, as you shall hear. The fiend still held possession. I wandered about in woods and solitary places, for the sight of my fellow creatures was horrible to me. Nay, I thought every one seemed happy but myself, and the evil one constantly whispered that there was no mercy for Gilbert Parry. Again, therefore, I sought society, gave the reins to my evil desires, and myself up to evil ways, and again conscience troubled me. I had rest neither by night nor day. I feared the night, lest the enemy should take me before morning. I tried to pray, but could not. I passed whole days as if my body had been pricked down irrecoverably, persuaded the fiend was in my apartment. Nay, my very body was in flames. To cry for help was vain, no relief came, and I was ever filled with evil thoughts. Such, holy father, were the torments I endured for five years. At length it appeared to me that this state of persecution arose from some cause in which I was called upon to exert myself. Then considered I of the persecuted state of our religion, and that I was called upon to strike a blow for its welfare. In short I resolved to do a deed which (by destroying the great enemy of our Church) should obtain for me the crown of martyrdom."
"Proceed, my son," said Martin, who, seated with his chin upon his doubled fists, was listening to and contemplating the excited Parry with the utmost attention. "Proceed, my son, wherefore dost thou stop?"
The narrator of his own troubled thoughts regarded Martin with a deep and searching look. "Methought I saw a devilish smile upon thy face," he said sternly. "Is the relation of such things subject of ridicule?"
"Rather of pity," said Martin; "I smiled to think that a whip and a dark room might have dispelled such phantoms. The most absurd doctrines are not without such evidence as martyrdom can produce."
"You think, then," said Parry, "that penance and flagellation were required?"
"Call it so, an if you will," said Martin, "fasting is good for digestion, and real pain for imaginary suffering. Doubtless you lived well whilst this frenzy lasted. You was, you say, leading a wild life, perhaps drunk one-half of the twenty-four hours, and mad the other. A bad state of the stomach produces fumes upon the brain. I would have exorcised the fiend by blood-letting, blisters, purgation, and purification. But proceed, you was about to say what this continued spiritual ague wrought you to."
"The cutting off of one who is the bitter enemy of our creed, the usurper of the throne of these realms," said Parry, "the putting to death of Elizabeth Tudor."
"Ah, ah," said Martin, "methought 'twould tend that way. She to whom you are indebted for a life, is to pay the forfeit of life for her clemency."
"And you disapprove of my project, then?" inquired Parry.
"Nay, I said not so much, did I?" returned the shrewd Martin.
"But you inferred so much, did you not?" again inquired Parry.
"Mayhap I did, mayhap I did not," said Martin, who saw by the eye of Parry that his own situation, thus shut up with such a man, and under false colours, was somewhat perilous, especially as Parry in his excited state begun to fumble with the poniard at his waist. Martin in short now saw that his companion was mad. Under such circumstances to shew fear or distrust is to perish.
"In trusting Father Eustace," said Parry, placing himself between Martin and the door, "I was led to expect I should find one ready in every way to forward and aid so great a design. Such was the assurance I received from Ragazoni. I brook no prevarication, priest; neither will I run the risk of betrayal." So saying, Parry drew his dagger from the sheath, looking at Martin at the same time with the ferocity of a tiger ready to spring.
"'Tis not often that ministers of the Holy Mother Church are threatened thus," said Martin coolly, and without altering his position.
"I will drive my dagger to the heart of every member of this household," said Parry, "rather than endanger the success of my project."
"That in itself would ruin the project, as far as you are its executor," returned Martin, "since you would be likely to be apprehended and suffer for your violence."
"Swear upon the hilt of my poniard not to divulge what I have just related," said Parry, becoming somewhat less excited, and thrusting his dagger close to the mouth of Martin. "Swear."
"I am ready to do so," said Martin, quietly moving the steel from its close proximity to his lips, "with one reservation however, that Sir Hugh Clopton is to be informed of it."
"Ah," said Parry, seeming to reflect, and as suddenly changing from his excited state to comparative calmness, "was I not told to take the advice of Father Eustace, as to the propriety of making Sir Hugh Clopton acquainted with this design? And you advise such measure, do you, father?"
"Most assuredly; for what other purpose have you sought his roof?"
"For the purpose," said Parry, "of being in the vicinity of others cognizant of my design in this country, and of conferring with yourself in security, since my steps and motions, until I took refuge in Warwickshire, have been closely watched."
"Good," returned Martin. "Now, wilt follow my advice since you have been sent to seek it?"
"I will," said Parry.
"Thus it is," said Martin; "dismiss all further thoughts connected with your design to-night: partake of the refreshments I have brought with me, and then seek the repose you so much need.To-morrowwe will talk further, taking Sir Hugh into our counsels; and so I take my leave." As he said this Martin rose, and was about to pass Parry, carefully making a circuit so as to get between him and the door, the latter following him as he did so with a doubtful eye.
"You are a different man from the person I was led to expect in Father Eustace," said Parry, still dallying with his drawn dagger.
"I am as you see me," said Martin, "true to my word and to the master I serve."
"And you swear not to divulge?" said Parry.
"Except to Sir Hugh—I swear," said Martin.
"Be it so," said Parry, sheathing his dagger and stepping aside. "Good night, father."
"To-morrow early I will again be with you," said Martin. "Good night", and the next moment he was outside the small apartment.
On the skirts of the county of Warwick (saith a modern author), situated on the low meadowy banks of a river, there is a little quiet country town, boasting nothing to attract the attention of the traveller but a fine church and one or two antique buildings with elaborately carved fronts of wood or stone, in the peaceful streets. There would seem to be little traffic in that place, and the passing traveller, ignorant of the locality, would scarcely cast a second look around. But whisper its name into his ear, and, hand in hand with his ignorance, his apathy will straightway depart. He will stop his horse; he will descend from the saddle; he will explore those quiet streets, he will enter more than one of the houses in that little town; he will visit that old church, he will pause reverentially before its monuments; he will carry away with him some notes—perhaps some sketches; and remember what he saw and what he felt that day to the very close of his life. Indeed you will seldom fail to see, even in that quiet little town, small groups of people on whose faces and in whose demeanour you will recognize the stranger stamp. There is something to see in those unfrequented streets; and they have come a long way to see it. What wonder! The town is Stratford-upon-Avon.
Such is indeed Stratford-upon-Avon at the present time. But in the sixteenth century it presented a somewhat different aspect.
The different towns in England, at this latter period, were just beginning to emerge from their state of primitive rudeness and irregularity, and the houses to be distinguished for a style of architectural beauty and comfort as dwellings, which has not since been improved or exceeded.
The various contentions and intestine jars which had, almost up to the reign of Elizabeth, drained the population, and kept men from all peaceful occupations and improvements, and in consequence of which the squalor of their dwellings and tenements were but one degree improved from the rudeness of the Norman period, was now to give place to a style which, if but one tenement remain to us in a town of the present age, we look at it with delight and admiration. Stratford-upon-Avon then, in the year 1584, might be said to partake largely of both these styles. In some parts were to be seen those irregular ill-built wooden tenements, little removed from the hut of the Norman citizen. These standing apart, and without regard to streets, formed the abode of the poorer sort of inhabitants, and chiefly constituted the suburbs; whilst several regular streets were to be found composed of handsome, strong-built, heavily-timbered, and substantial dwellings, having their shops encroaching into the streets; their beetling storeys above; their long passages running backwards, with ample yards and gardens in rear; and their low-roofed wide-chimneyed, secluded, and comfortable rooms, secured by massive iron-studded doors, and accommodated with heavy cumbrous articles of furniture.
Here and there too, in the midst, were to be seen the mouldering remains of some dark monastic building of a former day. The walls of edifices, built in the dark ages of monkish intolerance, whose grated windows and low-arched doors told of the Saxon and the Dane, when, save the splendour of religious architecture, there was nothing between the hut and the castle.
Nothing could be more rural and picturesque than Stratford-upon-Avon on a bright summer's day. Its streets, as we have before partially described, and (as was mostly the case in unwalled towns at this period) were, except in the very centre of the town, composed of houses detached at irregular intervals, many of the edifices being partially screened by the luxuriant trees which shadowed their fronts, and grew in the gardens in rear: added to this, in the suburban thoroughfares of this town, it was not uncommon to find a clump of tall elms or oaks growing in the very centre of the road, beneath whose boughs the rude bench, the horse-trough, and the creaking sign proclaimed the immediate vicinity of the smaller hostel.
If the traveller looked from the town, he beheld the high road he was to traverse on leaving it, o'ercanopied by the forest scene without, whilst on entering the suburbs, the sloping roof, gable ends, and heavy chimneys were only here and there to be caught sight of amongst the living verdure in which they were embosomed.
Besides this, as he proceeded, the picture was added to by the various signs of the several trades, which proclaimed the occupation of the indwellers, and before many of the houses were placed long benches on which, in fine weather, the townsfolk were to be found seated, conversing cozily together in their quaint-cut doublets and steeple-crowned hats. Large tubs of water also, by order of the chief magistrate, were placed beside each dwelling, as a precautionary preventative against the spread of fire amongst these stout-timbered edifices. The highways, however, even in the outskirts of the town, were by no means so well cared for as in our own times, and in foul weather, in place of a well-paved or Macadamized thoroughfare, the road was knee-deep in mud, and cut up fearfully with cart wheels and other traffic of the time.
In what would now be called a small and somewhat mean-looking dwelling, but which in the reign of Elizabeth constituted the habitation of a good substantial citizen, resided John Shakespeare, a dealer in wool in Stratford-upon-Avon. The house itself had nothing in its outward appearance to recommend it, except the strength of its build and the stoutness of its timbers.
It was neither "a goodly dwelling or a rich." Its rooms were both stinted to space and somewhat low in roof. But little did its inmates suspect that from the mere legend of one of its indwellers having first drawn breath beneath its roof, that house would create more interest in the world than the most magnificent palace the world contained, and that in after-ages the four corners of the earth would send forth votaries to see, to worship, and to offer adoration at its shrine. And still less did its occupants imagine that in the person of one of their own children they possessed a treasure, whose very name, unthought of and slightly regarded as he then was, would prove dearer than Pluto's mine, more rich than gold.
Let us for a moment take a glance at the interior of this hallowed residence, and view it at the precise period of time to which the minds of those who now visit it are wont to revert; and when he who was in after-times to throw so great an interest over every cupboard, corner, and cranny of its stout-timbered walls, was in life, and dwelling idly in its apartments.
In an inner apartment of the ground-floor was seated on a high-backed oaken chair, a female of some thirty years of age. If the reader has ever bestowed his attention upon the portrait Rubens has left us of his first wife, it will save much trouble in the description, since both in feature and figure this very handsome middle-aged female was the counterpart presentment of that portrait.
Opposite to her, and apparently engaged with books and accounts pertaining to his business, pen in hand, and inditing what, in the present day, would be called a cramped piece of penmanship, sits a very comely and respectable-looking man. Nay, if we look closely at him we shall pronounce him to be a splendid specimen of an Englishman, both in countenance and figure. His face is exceedingly handsome, the complexion of a rich brown, the features high and aquiline, hair of a dark auburn, slightly tinged with grey, whilst a close-clipped curly beard worn round the chin, and a thick moustachio on the upper lip, complete the picture of one of those true-born English yeomen whose ancestors drew their arrows to the ear in the fields of Cressey, Poietiers, and Agincourt. If our readers then look upon this pair they will behold the father and mother of England's pride and glory, John and Joan Shakespeare.
In the female there is a dignity of look and manner which seems somewhat out of keeping with so lowly a home as the one we find her in. She looks one whose presence would have better suited the hall than the cottage. One come of gentle blood, and born to fortune instead of being the wife of a tradesman in a country town, handsome and genteel-looking as nature hath made that husband.—Such is in truth the case, as John Shakespeare married one of the daughters and heirs of Arden of Wellingcote, in the county of Warwick.
This pair, however, were not the only occupants of the small inner apartment in which we have found them, as some half-a-dozen curly-headed varlets, male and female, of various ages, from three to ten, were sitting and sprawling about the floor, clambering upon chairs, exercising their lungs in concert, and ever and anon calling forth a short reproof or a caress from their handsome parents.
After a while, the wool-comber shuts up his books, places his pen in the inkstand, and folding his arms, remains wrapt in deep meditation.
There is something of care and anxiety in his countenance. His thoughts and cogitations, as he occasionally glances upon his good-looking spouse, and then watches the young fry upon the floor, become more troubled; and, apparently to hide the growing heaviness of his brow, he rises, walks into the shop in front, reaches down his steeple-crowned hat, and looks forth into the street,—the little curly brood breaking cover as he opens the door, and bounding joyously into the sunshine in the streets.
As they do so, they are met, caught up, and kissed, (at least the younger ones,) by their elder brother, just now returning to his home.
"Ah, Will, good Will," cries one, "where have you been tarrying so long?" "Naughty truant Willy," cries another, "you've been rambling over to Warwick with Dick, the tanner's wild son, duck-hunting, I dare be sworn." "Nay," cries a third, "I know he has been otter-hunting all night in the river; see his staff is red with blood. Yon have brought us some skins, good William, hast thou not?"
"Nay, in good sooth, you varlets," said the elder brother, entering the door with the whole fry clinging round him, "I have neither wild fowl from the marshes, nor otters from the river; for none have I been in search of. I come home empty-handed this afternoon, for which you must forgive me."
"And where, then, hast thou been, William?" said his father, somewhat gravely. "This idle wandering life of thine will, I fear me, lead to nothing. Master Pouncet Grasp has fairly given me warning that he will have no more to do with thee. He complains that you keep no regular hours; you heed no orders or directions he gives; that you set him at naught, in sooth, and make his other lads more idle than yourself. Nay, he says you spoil his parchments, spill his ink in waste, and that, in truth, he must either be ruined or be rid of thee."
"Out upon the miserable scrivener," returned William, laughing. "I did but pen a stanza in place of drawing a lease, and lo! he has never forgotten it. But, in good sooth, dear father," continued the youth, "I fear me I shall never thrive in the office of Pouncet Grasp. I find the dry work of a copying-clerk but an idle waste of the life Heaven hath blessed me with. I was not formed to draw leases, wills, and other tenures and tricks of lawcraft.