"Let it suffice, their intentions are dangerous to the safety of the Queen, and they are secretly drawing into their conspiracy many Catholic gentlemen in this county who are discontented with the present government. Nay, five of them are sworn by the most binding oaths to sacrifice themselves to the service of taking the life of the Queen."
"Oh, the villains!" said Grasp, rubbing his hands with delight at the prospect of being accessory to the discovery of a conspiracy of so much magnitude. "Oh, the caitiffs! a plot to destroy our blessed Queen, and ruin the nation! now that's what I call worth living to hear of. I'm a made man, that's clear."
"Nay, but," said Neville, "we must go warily to work, good Grasp; and I must damp the exuberance of thy glee a trifle, inasmuch as this business is likely to implicate and deprive thee perhaps of a client of thine."
"Ah," said Grasp, his countenance falling a little, "that's rather bad, who is the man?"
"Sir Hugh Clopton."
"Thou hast taken my breath away," said Grasp, recoiling a pace or two. "Sir Hugh Clopton, whom men call the good Sir Hugh, engaged in such a bloodthirsty and jesuitical plot as this? Are you quite sure, honoured sir, of the correctness of what you utter?"
"I am quite sure that some of those engaged and deeply pledged to assassinate the Queen have been in hiding at Clopton Hall within the last two days. Nay, I shall be able to identify several of the best Catholic families in this county, as having been in correspondence with emissaries in Scotland, not only to assassinate Elizabeth, but to set the Queen of Scots at liberty, and place the crown upon her head."
"Nay, this is glorious," said Grasp; "the plot does indeed thicken, as the saying is. The fiend take the good Sir Hugh; I would sacrifice fifty such clients, and see them hanged, drawn, and quartered into the bargain, for such a chance as this. And now let us lay our heads together, and consult how to capture these bloody-minded conspirators with most advantage to our own proper selves. How shall we proceed, honoured sir? Shall we rouse the wholeposse comitatus, and attack the house in which these miscreants are engendering, and hatching, and concocting those horrors; or, shall we go incontinent, and give secret intelligence to Sir Thomas Lucy at Charlecote?"
"That I must leave to your discretion, good Grasp," said Neville. "Your part must be to secure them ere twenty-four hours have elapsed. Meantime, I must ride post haste to London, and give information to the Queen or her ministers of the whole affair."
"I would your worship would remain here, and capture the caitiffs, whilst I proceed up to town with information," said Grasp. "Methinks, as you are a man ofwar, and I am a man oflaw, that would be the most proper arrangement."
"By no means," said Neville. "Manage the matter as I have told thee. Do it well and effectually, and reward is sure to follow to us both. It is essential that I should myself gain favour by the discovery, and if I should succeed to the estates and title of Westmoreland, I shall not forget the service you have rendered. Be wary, and prosper. Farewell." So saying, the visitor hastily took his leave, and a few minutes afterwards was riding furiously towards Warwick, on his way to London.
"Now, there's a bloody-minded and dangerous Jesuit for you," said Grasp to himself. "He thinks I know not that he's a Catholic, I suppose, and that I cannot guess he has been as deep in this vile plot as the rest of them. But I do bear a brain, and I can perceive that the death of his relation hath completely turned his conscience, and now, in place of helping to murder the Queen, he's going to hang up all his associates, by turning evidence. A bad world, my masters, and bad folks in it! But then it's by the bad I gain and thrive; bickerings, quarrellings, evil-speaking, lying, and slander, plots, counterplots, conspiracies, hangings, and headings, are my especial good. So now to consider and contrive this matter. Let me see—I instantly hasten off to the high bailiff, get together a sufficient body of his men, and then, my masters, look to yourselves! A plot to kill the Queen, subvert the Government, and burn the whole kingdom in anauto-da-fé! By all that's good, the business will not be effected without blood-letting on both sides! Let me see, who have we of approved valour and conduct to aid us in this capture? There's Master John Shakespeare; he's a good man and a true one, that will thrust in, and smite hard. His grandsire did good service at Bosworth Field. Then there's Goodman Rivett, the armourer; he hath an arm of might, and a heart of steel,—him will I also look up, an we need special men. Then there's—Yet," continued Grasp, pausing, and considering the matter, "methinks, after all, it would be better to put the affair at once into the management of Sir Thomas Lucy. Yes, I will incontinently and instantaneously proceed to Charlecote, and do so. Let me see; 'tis now about one hour after noon. I shall catch the proud knight just before he takes his post-prandium ride."
So saying, Grasp donned his hat, and prepared for his visit to Charlecote.
When Shakespeare took leave of his newly-found friends at Clopton, he left a deep impression behind him.
There was a feeling amongst the trio, which two of them at least could not understand; so greatly had the youth's manners struck them, so forcible was the interest he had created; whilst the third and most interesting of the party found that the handsome lad had unconsciously robbed her of her heart.
"By 'r Lady," said the old knight, "yonder stripling is one of the most singular companions I ever met; without being in the least forward in manners, he somehow impresses one with a feeling of inferiority I cannot understand. He's an extraordinary youth, my masters; and, an he turn not out something beyond the common, I am not a Clopton."
"How well he talks on all subjects!" said Arderne; "and yet how modest doth he seem!"
"How beautiful were those verses he wrote this morning!" said Charlotte.
"If he did write them," said Martin, "lady mine;for mark ye, they may be the offspring of another brain."
"Ifhe wrote them! Martin," said Charlotte: "why, who else could have written them, think ye?"
"Why not another as well as he, lady mine?" said Martin, archly; "what one man can do, another might effect. Methinks one older and more learned must have indited those lines."
"Nay," said Charlotte, "I know not wherefore, but sure I feel that none but he could have penned that sonnet."
"Gramercy," said Martin, "this is to have an opinion of merit, indeed! Doth that stripling, that hero of the quarter-staff, seem to you, Master Walter," he continued, shrewdly glancing at Arderne, "to have so much merit that none other can come up to him?"
"I confess the lad hath made a singular impression upon me," said Arderne, "an impression I cannot shake off or understand. I never was in company with so amiable a youth before."
"Let us hear his verse again," said Sir Hugh. "Come, Martin, thou hast a voice, thou shalt read it."
"Ahem," said Martin. "I am no hand at a stanza; I shall mar the good verse, I fear me. Nevertheless, I will essay it."
THE SONNET.Who will believe my verse in time to come,If it were filled with your most high deserts?Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tombWhich hides your life, and shews not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers, number all your graces,The age to come would say, this poet lies,Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces,So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue;And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,And stretched metre of an antique song:But where some child of yours alive that time,You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme.
THE SONNET.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,If it were filled with your most high deserts?Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tombWhich hides your life, and shews not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers, number all your graces,The age to come would say, this poet lies,Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces,So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue;And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,And stretched metre of an antique song:But where some child of yours alive that time,You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme.
Sir Hugh was a man of parts. He was a man, too, of strong sense, and, for the age in which he lived, might have been esteemed and accounted a learned man withal.
Had he chosen to be more of a courtier, and his creed been different, he might have risen to some eminence as a statesman.
He felt considerable astonishment, and expressed no less admiration, at the beauty of the verses just recited.
"Now, by my fay, good Martin," said he, "I do somewhat lean to thy opinion in the matter, inasmuch as it seemeth scarce possible so young a lad could have penned such stanzas. Nay, by our Lady, I know not where to look amongst our old poets in order to find aught to equal those lines."
"Then where hath the lad gotten them from?" said Arderne. "Peradventure he hath fetched them from some recent book of songs and sonnets; they say young Spencer hath lately written."
"'Tis not in Spencer's vein," said Charlotte; "and since we have so far discussed the matter, I must needs say that I can almost vouch for his having written them."
"Ho! ho!" said Martin, with a shrewd look. "La! you there now. Come, tell us the when, the where, and the how, Lady Charlotte. Let us have the circumstances under which this sonnet was written, since yon confess to so much knowledge of the matter."
"Nay, Martin," said Charlotte, blushing; "it was by accident I discovered so much. Walter and myself had been walking under the shade of the tall trees at the end of the garden, when I observed the youth standing, with arms folded, and gazing upon us in the arbour at its extremity. As we leisurely approached him, I saw him tear a leaf from a small book he held in his hand, and write something in it. When we entered the arbour and joined him, in putting up his book, he dropped the stray leaf, upon which he had been writing, and I own I was wicked enough to let it lie, and secure it after he had left us."
"Well," said Sir Hugh, "the lad is certainly a youth of merit, and I feel bound to befriend him in what I can. We must bethink us, Walter, in what way we can serve him materially."
"He is at present, as he tells me," said Arderne, "a clerk or writer in the service of Lawyer Grasp; albeit he liketh not the drudgery and confinement of such a life."
"I wonder not thereat," said Sir Hugh; "since to sentence a lad of so much genius to be a scrivener's clerk, is like putting my best bred palfrey into a mill, or shutting up a soaring falcon in a thrush's cage. We must do something for him, Walter, for we owe much to him."
Such were the kind intentions of the good Sir Hugh towards one to whom he felt under considerable obligations, and doubtless he who had caused those grateful feelings would have felt the benefit of them from one so well off in the world. "Wishing well, however, hath not a body in it;" and our intents of to-day are oft-times marred by the events of to-morrow.
The promises of the powerful are oft-times a sort of "satire upon the softness of prosperity;" and in a few days the good Sir Hugh was himself involved in difficulties which made him oblivious of all, save honourable extrication from their labyrinth.
The conversation which had taken place regarding the sonnet, occurred on the day following that on which young Shakespeare had left the Hall: a day made more memorable to two of the inmates, from the circumstance of the unwelcome visit of Gilbert Parry, and which it is our purpose now again to refer to, in order to explain certain other matters appertaining.
It will doubtless be remembered by our readers that the shrewd Martin had played the spy upon the insane conspirator, and succeeded in making himself complete master of his horrid and perilous intentions. Intentions, the more dangerous to all who were in the slightest degree implicated, as the bloody designs and desperate projects which were suspected to be in existence against the Queen on all sides, had determined Elizabeth's council to make terrible examples of all whom they might discover. To the good Sir Hugh, however, the danger likely to accrue to his own person was the least consideration; and when the faithful Martin, accordingly, on the following morning, informed him of the intentions of the visitor and his own suspicions of his sanity, the good knight was struck with consternation. It was early morning when Martin told his tale to his patron, and when the old knight having just descended, was making the round of his kennel and falconry, and the relation at once filled him with terror, pity, and indignation.
"I will incontinently visit this dangerous caitiff," he said, "and if I find matters as bad as you say, I will take means to secure him and prevent mischief. If he be indeed mad, it is my duty, as a Christian man, to lay him under restraint; but if he be sane and resolved on such attempt, I swear to thee I will arrest him with my own hand, and deliver him over to justice."
"Beware!" said Martin, stopping him as he was hastening off in search of his visitor. "Beware, good master mine, how you introduce yourself alone into the den of a tiger. This fellow is dangerous in the extreme; and on the slightest hint of your knowledge and disapproval of his designs, will fly upon you and attempt your life. A madman I have heard say, in his furious fits, hath twice the strength of one in possession of reason."
"I value not his madness a maravedi," said Sir Hugh, whose anger was predominant at the moment. "A murderous caitiff and condemned felon thus to introduce himself into my house! By our Lady's grace, an he draw weapon or lift hand against me, I will smite him in the teeth with my dagger, and kill him like the reptile at my foot."
"At least, let me accompany you," said Martin, who saw that the angry spirit so seldom aroused was now predominant, and therefore the more resistless.
"Follow an ye list," said Sir Hugh, "but I tell thee I am quite able to cope with such a fellow, and equal to arrest him if I find his purpose treasonable;" so saying, and followed by the faithful Martin, Sir Hugh re-entered the house, and the pair, introducing themselves into the secret wing of the mansion, immediately ascended into the chamber in which Parry had been shewn the night before.
Sir Hugh was the first to enter, and, with the angry spot upon his brow, after hastily glancing round the small room advanced to the bed and pulled open the curtain with no very gentle hand.
The bed, however, was unoccupied, and the room tenantless, although the crumpled state of the coverlid of the couch and pillows shewed that the occupant had thrown himself upon it during some part of the night at least.
"There is the form," said Sir Hugh, "but the game is off."
"There is no saying where such a customer may have crept to," said Martin, peeping under the bed, then getting up on one of the chairs and looking out of the small window upon the roof. "The man I am sure is as mad as a March hare; let us descend and see if he is any where secreted in the small apartment below."
Sir Hugh accordingly descended, and (both together) searched in every closet and hiding hole with which the place was accommodated, but the bird had certainly flown, having, without doubt, passed into the garden by the small postern door which opened on the inside.
Proceeding into the garden they searched through its walks and alleys, but the object of their search was no where to be found, and the small door which opened in the thick high wall at its extremity, and admitted into the thick plantations beyond, being wide open, they naturally concluded their visitor had fairly decamped in his insane mood as unceremoniously as he had entered. Sir Hugh, however (although he could not but feel relieved at the absence of the dangerous intruder), felt considerable annoyance at the whole circumstance. He was oppressed with the knowledge of the maniac's treason, and which, notwithstanding the powerful letter brought to him from the Nuncio Campeggio, he was resolved to divulge to the Queen's council. At the same time he also determined to do nothing rashly. Father Eustace was expected in a few hours, and must be consulted, whilst Martin, meanwhile, undertook to endeavour to trace the madman and observe his motions if possible.
In such a case delays are dangerous, as the good Sir Hugh found, for Parry, whose vagaries had alarmed some of those connected with the dangerous plot, having been met with in Stratford, and then followed to Clopton, was lured into a secret appointment and put to silence with at least half a dozen wounds; and the whole affair in a few short hours after was in progress of being fully divulged. Of this, however, Sir Hugh was not likely to become acquainted, till the news reached him in an unpleasant shape. The circumstance of a man having been killed just without the town was by no means an uncommon event; and as Martin had failed in tracing Parry, and Father Eustace's return was delayed, except that there was a degree of mystery attached to the appearance and disappearance of the visitor, in a few days the circumstance was almost forgotten.
Meantime, whilst, with swift passage, events were hastening onwards, and which were to involve some of thedramatis personæof our story in the perils and miseries of life, how calmly and how treacherously flowed on the even tenor of their hours. Mischief, as we have seen, was afoot; a secret society, consisting of one or two dangerous fanatics, resident in the county of Warwick, an Irish gentleman of rank, and several other desperadoes, had met, as we have before hinted, at one of the low hostels in the town of Stratford, and which locality they had chosen for some reason best known to themselves.
These men, involved in a desperate enterprise, and sworn to devote themselves to death one by one, till they had achieved it, whilst they sought to increase the number of their associates, found danger even in the overzeal—the frenzied enthusiasm—of one of their own instruments, whilst another was about to prove false and betray them; nay, at the very moment when, like the alchemist of old, their toils were to be rewarded with progression, the vessel containing the elixir was to burst, and destroy all within its influence.
These emissaries were at work in various directions,—secretly, stealthily. They had friends in France, in Spain, in Italy, in Flanders even; the day and the hour at which the first attempt was to be made was fixed; the very hooftreads of the horse which carried the unscrupulous Neville towards his design, in imagination, were counted by them; whilst he who was then, as his associates supposed, hastening towards this purpose, from a sudden change having taken place in his before desperate fortunes, was indeed posting to London; not, as he had sworn, in order to make essay upon the life of Elizabeth, but to betray the whole plot to the council, to aggrandize himself, and give to the gibbet and the executioner's knife, his sometime friends.
And such are the inscrutable ways by which Providence works out His ends: such is the wisdom of the Great Director of events, and such are the vain designs of man. Ever driving headlong onwards, hastened by evil passions, obstinacy, wickedness, and pride, to inevitable destruction;—destroyed by their own villanous devices, thirsting for blood, grasping at riches, feeding absolutely on each other, the wicked perish miserably.
Those of our readers who have visited Stratford-upon-Avon, and looked upon the house in Henley Street, that house which has caused so great an interest in the world, will remember the lattice-windowed room in its upper floor, that room in which (as their eyes have glanced around its walls) their feelings have perhaps been excited almost unto the shedding of tears;—that room in which some portion of the early youth of him whose idea is enshrined in the hearts of all who speak our English tongue, was passed.
It is mid-day, and seated in that room are a mother and an elder son. The mother is employed in some sort of curious work, whilst her baby is cradled, and asleep at her side. Spinning perhaps, like "the spinsters and the knitters of the sun,"—
"Weaving her threads with bones,"
"Weaving her threads with bones,"
lace-making; and as she works, she chants some old ditty,—some song, "that dallies with the innocence of love, like the old age."
"Come away, come away, death,And in sad cypress let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath,I am slain by a fair cruel maid:My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O, prepare it—My part of death no one so trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower, sweet,On my black coffin let there be strewn;Not a friend, not a friend, greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;A thousand, thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O whereSad true lover ne'er find my grave,To weep there."[1]
"Come away, come away, death,And in sad cypress let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath,I am slain by a fair cruel maid:My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O, prepare it—My part of death no one so trueDid share it.
Not a flower, not a flower, sweet,On my black coffin let there be strewn;Not a friend, not a friend, greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;A thousand, thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O whereSad true lover ne'er find my grave,To weep there."[1]
And whilst she sings, the youth, her son, seated upon a stool at her feet, is deeply engaged in perusing the goodly-sized volume he holds upon his knees.
Such is the picture. The sun streams through the diamond panes of that ample window, and gives a glowing tint to the red curtains of the old square-topped bedstead, and other cumbrous articles of furniture; the high-backed chairs, and the heavy oaken table in the background. What would the illustrious of the world,—what would the most honoured in the world's esteem, of our own day, for arts, for arms, or for learning,—what would they give foroneglance into "the dark backward and abysm of time,"—butoneglance, so to see that mother and her son;—that mother who implanted grace in her child; that child whose high spirit had been tamed and cultivated by her influence? And what, indeed, should we all be, saith a great writer, but for the influence of women in our youth?
They give us life, and they also give us the life of the soul. How many things do we learn of them as sons, lovers, or friends?
The youthful Shakespeare loved to hold sweet converse with his handsome mother, and whom he loved so well. From her conversation, in his boyhood he had taken his first impressions of things: from her legendary stories, (so sweetly related,) he had gathered many facts of history. In winter's tedious nights, how oft had she pictured to him all she had heard from her own parents, of the York and Lancastrian wars, and the horrors to which England had been reduced—"Discord in every state, discord in every family!" From her's, and from his father's relations, over the winter's fire, were gathered the boy's first impressions of those fierce English, whose characteristics (according to their foes) were force of pride, and obstinacy—those doggedly resolute, those invincibly cool islanders, who, in all their splendour of their feudal pride, had so often walked through the vasty fields of France, as if in some harnessed masque, eating up the lands on all sides, and still fighting onwards in their own joyless way: burning, slaying, and destroying for so many centuries, till they made captive at Agincourt, not only of the French king, but the very realm.
'Twas thus the boy had learnt his first lesson in the history of his country, not either exactly as a lesson, but in the homely popular form of a winter night's tale, as the simple story, or faith of a mother.
And what we thus inbibe with the milk we suck, and with our growing blood, is a living thing as it were, and what the boy loved to listen to as a simple story, the youth loved to follow out as a study. He reads of the events his mother has told him of, and given him a taste for, in the chronicled history of the wars of the time; whilst the little of life and splendour he has already seen, in the brilliant era in which he lives, has given him, even now, an impression of the pride, pomp, and circumstance of the Norman period.
Yes, the mind of the boy had been moulded by his mother, and a great deal of his just appreciation of women, and his delineations of the exquisite females he has drawn, are derived from the impressions she has given him.
As he reads from the thick volume, in which he learnt more accurately the facts, and date, of the history of his own country, he occasionally pauses to listen to his mother's song, to gaze up in her face, and to question her upon some point he has arrived at, and which he remembers to have heard her relate before.
Music and singing were much more cultivated (even amongst the humble classes) than in our own times, in England, and where indeed they are now scarcely cultivated at all. The sweet old songs "of the old age," are for the most part lost to us, they have departed with the quainter dwellings in which they were warbled.
In those days the strains which floated through the halls of the great, and the notes which were heard in the low-roofed apartments of the citizen, were calculated to soothe and quiet the passions of man. In our own times they are meant to arouse and excite—they are a whirl, a discordant noise. The lullabys which the mother chanted as she worked, were scraps of songs, great favourites at the time, and afterwards adapted from the recollection of the hearer in some of his works:
"Take, oh, take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn,—And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn.But my kisses bring again,—bring again,Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,—seal'd in vain."[2]
"Take, oh, take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn,—And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn.But my kisses bring again,—bring again,Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,—seal'd in vain."[2]
Not only the history of his own land, and which all ranks at this period were lamentably ignorant in, did the youthful Shakespeare receive the rudiments of from his mother; but she loved to amuse him with those stories of romance she had learned from her own parents, and which had been handed down from the chivalric ages, when the female of high degree was the teacher of youth. The great lady—"of exalted rank and inaccessible,"—who cultivates the mind of the youthful page—a mother, a sister, a guardian angel, and yet of such high degree, that she seems (in the austerity of her counsels, and the difficulties to be overcome, ere her favour can be gained) too great even to receive the adoration of him whose service costs so many sighs. Till in the end, as the accomplished knight is produced, the incarnation of merit and grace all fades away before the powerful god.
The youth achieves greatness, and becomes lord of that beautiful lady, her dark castle, and her broad domain, "with shadowy forests, and with champions rich."
But three days had intervened since young Shakespeare's introduction to Clopton Hall, and again he was a visitor there.
Although his own desire for the society of its amiable inmates might reasonably have led the youth to repeat his visit, his better judgment would have hindered him from so soon returning to Clopton, had he not been led to do so by Walter Arderne.
That young man felt so great a desire to renew his acquaintance with the youthful poet, that he had sought him out on the day following his visit; and had, indeed, been with him every succeeding day in the interval.
To one so amiable in disposition and so generous in sentiment as Walter Arderne, the difference in station between himself and friend was no bar to intimacy. Indeed, he felt so much in every way his own inferiority, whilst in company with this singular new acquaintance, that it seemed when in his society as if the condescension was on the other side. At the same time the joyous spirit of the youthful Shakespeare, and a spice of reckless daring in his disposition, gave an additional charm to his companionship. So that intimacy, which (amongst many) has been the source of the deadliest enmity, in this case led to the firmest friendship.
"I know not wherefore, good William," said Arderne, as they slowly wended their way towards Clopton, "but towards thee my feelings of friendship and attachment are greater than is ordinarily experienced between men not connected by blood. I am by birth thy superior, my prospects in life are more brilliant than thine, I mix with the choice spirits of the country here, and yet (albeit I am looked on as a wit, a setter of exploits, a leader of diversions, a good blade, and a sportsman), yet, somehow, my genius seems rebuked when in thy presence; I feel myself as it were naught. Nay, despite thy sober suit of homely cut and fashion, there is a superiority in every look, tone, and movement of thine, which I feel and wonder at."
"Nay," said Shakespeare, "this is something too much, good sir. 'Tis your love and friendship which makes you think thus. Be assured, the gay and gallant Walter Arderne can never be outshone by so quiet, so unobtrusive a wight as myself."
"Ah, so thou say'st," returned Arderne; "but why is it that I feel this veneration on so short an acquaintance with a mere boy? Thy converse is different from that of men even of learning and great attainments. There is a force, a feeling in every word thou utterest, which makes its impression. Yes, there is a manner about thee, William Shakespeare, which is inexplicable; whilst thy slightest remark upon the most trivial flowret in the hedgerow seems to me worth all the uttered wisdom of the schools."
"Nay, then," said Shakespeare, laughing, "thou art but flouting me, good Master Walter."
"Truly, thou art an extraordinary youth, good William, and the way thou hast drawn out the different characters we have met with as we walked the streets even to-day, and made them display their peculiarities and their follies, is as singular as all else pertaining to thee."
Whilst they held converse thus, Walter Arderne and his new friend drew near to the garden and pleasure-grounds of the Hall. As they did so, the eyes of the lover detected his mistress in the distance. She was slowly pacing along one of the walks, and perusing some verses written upon a small scrap of paper. Arderne stopped as soon as he saw Charlotte Clopton, and as he watched her graceful form amidst the trees, he seemed for the moment wrapped in his own thoughts.
"Were it not," he said, after a pause, and turning to his youthful friend, "were it not that I so entirely love thee, good William, were it not that even in our short acquaintance I so highly esteem thee, I should hesitate to bring one so superior to myself in contact with her I adore; and were it not that thy superiority is so great, I should scorn to own such a feeling to thee, William Shakespeare, lest I compromised my own station by such thoughts. 'Tis strange, but so it is; and to any one but thee, I should have shamed to give my thoughts tongue on such a subject."
Ardorne sighed as he said this, and again looked towards the object of his ardent affection. "She loves me not," he said, "'tis vain for me to suppose she does. Her manner, despite her willingness to oblige her father, and even to persuade herself she feels inclination to wed with me, too plainly shews I have little or no real interest in her heart. Had I but thy winning tongue and gift of speech, good William, I might do much. Nay, it were good that thou shouldst plead for me, and tell her of the violence of my passion; and thou shalt do it too."
"Nay," said his friend, "that would be somewhat out of the usual course of wooing. I pray you hold me excused in this Master Arderne."
"Not a whit," said Arderne, "the thought is a good one. Women oft-times are led to prize that which those they think well of value,—to open their eyes and see clearly the hugeness of an affection they have not before appreciated."
"But I know not how to woo a maid for myself," said his friend, "since I have never yet made suit to one, how, then, am I to play the suitor for so accomplished a cavalier; I who hath not ever seen the court?"
"Tush, tush, man," said Arderne, "there's ne'er a courtier of them all could match thee, I dare be sworn."
And thus did the boy poet—the lover under circumstances so peculiar, spend another day at Clopton Hall, and where all he saw gave him a second impression of life in a different sphere to that in which he had hitherto moved. True to the whimsical project which had suddenly seized him, Walter Arderne left his friend with a fair opportunity of pleading for him to the fair Charlotte.
"When thou art tired of examining those worm-eaten volumes," he said to Shakespeare, "I dare be sworn thou wilt find Mistress Charlotte in her favourite arbour in the garden. Sir Hugh and myself are promised forth this morning. Farewell, therefore, for the present."
Our readers will readily imagine that the renewal of acquaintance between this youthful pair would be likely to ripen the growing affection they felt for each other. Concealment, however, seemed to both a matter of necessity. Neither dared to own, even to themselves, that they loved. Pride came to the aid of each. In one it was the pride which fears even the shadow of suspicion; in the other it was the pride of birth. The pride of ancestry, however, is soonest subdued in such cases; that of conscience is more difficult for the blind god to overcome.
And the youthful poet and the exquisite Charlotte found themselves thrown together, where every scene of beauty around them was conducive to the growth of their passion.
The locality has oft-times much to do with love.
The lady, in all her glowing beauty, seemed even more lovely amidst her own shadowy groves, with the time-honoured towers of her ancestors looking majestic in the distance. The perfume from the sweetly-scented shrubs and flowrets, the whisper of the soft breeze through the luxuriant trees, the cooing of the wood-pigeons in the distant plantation, the hum of the bees, and the plash of the fountain, each and all were felt by one who was so prone to feel.
And he himself who walked beside that beautiful girl, thus surrounded by all the appliances of rank and station, how did he appear in her eyes in his lowly suit? Had he nothing to recommend him, and did he seem unfitted for the companionship of one so much more elevated in station? Did he appear to feel himself out of place or abashed by all he saw? We think not. The lady looked upon that face of youthful beauty; the soft curly hair even then thin upon the high forehead, the features so beautifully formed and so expressive; that eye so soft, and yet at times so full of fire, and whose glance was like the lightning's flash; the small beautifully-formed and downy moustache upon the upper lip; and all this, added to a figure which for grace and symmetry might have vied with a Grecian statue. And as she looked and listened to his sweet and honied sentences, she felt that all around would darken down to naked waste without his society. The conversation of him who but a few days before she would have passed without perhaps deigning to look upon, seemed to have opened a new world to her. Such is love,—that most fantastic of passions, which is said to be but once felt, and once felt never forgotten.
The affections of women are perhaps easier won than those of men. They are commonly more disinterested, and "prize not quality of dirty lands." Seldom do we find that women display such open heartlessness, such acts of infidelity, as men.
"For however we do praise ourselves,Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,Than woman's are."
"For however we do praise ourselves,Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,Than woman's are."
That the fair Charlotte should, on better knowledge, more fully appreciate the merits of her companion, we of latter days, who imagine the man from his works alone, can hardly wonder at; and the peculiarities of the position of the lovers made her, falling desperately in love, the less extraordinary. Had the youth of inferior degree presumed upon the favourable impression he could not help seeing he had made, the pride of the lady might have better befriended her. But there was ever a certain reserve about him, when matters seemed verging towards their issue, which perplexed and somewhat piqued her.
The expression of his eyes, when occasionally she detected him gazing upon her, was hardly to be mistaken, but then his respectful reserve would as suddenly return.
This was, however, a state of things which could not last, and perhaps, of all men, the ardent, the impassioned Shakespeare, in his early youth, was the most unlikely person to withstand such a strife as he was exposed to, and come off victorious, however honour, and friendship, and pride, might come to his aid. The knowledge that he was beloved by the fair creature beside him, the locality, the opportunity afforded him of expressing his own feelings, altogether, even in this his second visit, nearly made shipwreck of all his good intentions, and once or twice he was about to seize the hand of the fair Charlotte, and after owning the ardour of his affection, fly from the spot for ever.
He, however, during this visit did manage to contain and conceal his passion; nay, he even performed the office of friendship which had been entrusted to him, and as he spoke of the fair lady's betrothed husband, he praised him for those good qualities he had already found him to possess, and spoke of him as one worthy the love and regard of any woman, however excellent and high in station. This was a theme, however, which he perceived was somewhat unwelcome, and the beauty grew wayward as he pursued it. With girlish tact she beat him from his theme, as often as he renewed it, and sought to lure him to other subjects more congenial to her thoughts whilst in his society. Nay, perhaps had he studied how best to advance his own suit to her he could not have hit upon a way more likely to succeed.
The fair Charlotte was piqued at what she considered his insensibility, and without considering what she did, she almost let him understand that it would have been much more grateful to her to have heard the speaker's own merits extolled than those of Master Arderne.
"And yet," she said, with a sigh, as she glanced archly from her fringed lids, whilst her eyes were cast down in mock solemnity, "and yet I should be ungrateful were I not to join in your praises towards my bold coz, for in good sooth I am indebted to him for many of the accomplishments I possess. He hath taught me to fly my hawk with e'er a cavalier in Warwickshire. Nay, I think I could even shoe my palfrey as well as ride him, if necessary. I am sure I could train a hound as well as himself, and, as for the treatment of the poor brutes in all their ailments, that I am confident I understand quite as much as old Hubert, the head huntsman, or any of his underlings. Now, all these matters I have been fairly taught and perfected in by my cousin, therefore see an I be not under obligation indeed."
"And is such, the praise that one so true of heart and hand deserves?" said Shakespeare. "Methinks, in this world, where so much silliness, selfishness, vanity, and falsehood exists, a perfect cavalier, without fault and honest, open and free too as he is brave and handsome, deserves more praise from the lips of beauty than for paltry knowledge you have ascribed to him."
"Paltry knowledge!" said Charlotte, laughing, "what call ye paltry? Why, these accomplishments I have enumerated to thee are the essentials of a country gentleman, as necessary for the woods and fields as dancing, dicing, and swearing are for the town. But methinks 'tis somewhat early for you to have taken note of the silliness and falsehood existing in the world; one so young can scarce have observed such matters, I should have thought."
"Pardon me, good lady," said Shakespeare, "what may be in the world at large I am, indeed, for the most part ignorant in. But our good town of Stratford hath in itself some fair specimens of the human mortal, which he who hath eyes to mark, and brains to consider, may easily profit by, and lay up in his memory."
"Methinks so shrewd an observer, and so keen withal, may chance to find us all fair mark for the shafts of his wit," returned Charlotte; "we shall learn to fear you, young sir, an ye prove so hard upon your neighbours."
"Nay, fair lady," said Shakespeare, "my observations hath only had to do with those in my own sphere of life. The little I have seen as yet in a higher grade, hath been glanced at during my boyhood at the Free School of my native town. Nay, if I may venture to judge, I should say that the same vices, the same ambitions, the same petty feelings, jealousies, and envious heart-burnings, are to be observed in the smaller circle of a charity-school and its rulers, as are to be observed in the great and universal theatre of the world. Amongst those who rule, we do not always find examples of unerring goodliness, grace, and virtue, but rather intolerance and pride, and in most others ill-will, conceit, envy, hatred, and uncharitableness; large promise; much of puritanism, but a plentiful lack of true merit."
During this visit, the fair Charlotte, who was all joyous anxiety to contribute to the amusement of her guest, made the round of the kennel and the falconry, in order to initiate him into the mysteries of the management of some of her pets.
In those days, as we have before hinted, men of all ranks took delight in out-door sports and diversions. Their amusements were, for the most part, in the open air, and the chase, and the terms of wood-craft were ever mixed up in their conversation. The veriest lout in his holiday excursion loved to see his mongrel cur hunt the meadows and marshes for game, or catch the cony in the extensive warrens which then existed around. The youthful Shakespeare, it may therefore be well imagined, was passionately fond of seeking the haunts of the game, abundant as it was in the neighbourhood of his native town. Under these circumstances the sporting establishment at Clopton was looked over with considerable interest by him, and as the fair Charlotte petted the favourite hawk which usually graced her wrist, she taught him the several terms of falconry, and even explained how the various grades of men in the old time were recognized by their hawks. "An eagle," she said, "is for an emperor; a gerfalcon is due to a king; a falcon-gentle and a tercel-gentle, these be for a prince; a falcon of the rook is for a duke; the falcon peregrine for a belted earl; your bustard is for a baron; a sacret for a knight, and a lanair is for a squire; and then," said Charlotte, as she continued to count up further varieties, "we have the goshawk for the yeoman, the spave hawk for Sir Priest, a muskyte for a holy-water clerk, and a kestrel for a knave or varlet."
Whilst thus situated and employed, how swift is the growth of love between two beings of disposition and character such as we have described. As the youthful poet watched the expressive face of the beautiful girl beside him, whilst she spoke so eloquently upon a subject of interest to her, and as she gave herself up to the management of her falcon, or played with and fondled her favourite dogs, he became more fascinated with her artlessness and beauty. He marked the natural grace of her movements, as, in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment, she entered into the excitement of the hour. He observed the nymph-like figure, the glowing face, the luxuriant tresses uncontrolled in the soft breeze, and he listened with delight to the joyous and ringing laugh; and as he beheld her thus, his admiration was touched with sadness, for he thought that all this elegance and beauty was far removed from his hopes. "One fading moment's mirth" perchance was bought "with twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights."
Attended by the head falconer and one or two of his men, as they followed the flight of Charlotte's hawk, they had extended their ramble to some considerable distance beyond the chace, and the mid-day sun was so oppressive, that they returned through the thick and shadowy woods, which on one side extended to within a short distance of the Hall. And here too—as the grasshopper uttered his peculiar chirp in the prickling gorse and thorn, and as the sweet scent of the fern pervaded the air—these unfrequented glades gave rise to thoughts only incident to fresh and stainless youth ere the blunter feelings of riper years rob us of their verdant freshness.
Images of vernal brightness floated before the poet's mind, and feelings of youth, and hope, and joy were blended with the thoughts of her he loved: images such as Shakespeare could alone have conceived. And she who was the object of that love, as she listened to the sportive gaiety of his words, during this ramble, and as he called forth the elves and fairies of his brilliant imagination, she felt as if wandering in a magic grove and breathing the sweet odours of an elfin bower: and then, again, he peopled the glades with bright forms, fresh and lusty as in the first ages of the world. And when he himself parted from his fair companion on reaching the Hall, and he returned again through the plantations of Clopton, he sought out each spot which Charlotte had seemed most interested in, and dwelt upon each look, and tone, and word, she had uttered. 'Twas indeed a midsummer day's dream, a situation in which he was carried from the reality of the present, to the realms of fancy, a dream that haunted him in after years. The thoughts and imaginings which pervaded the mind of the youthful Shakespeare, during these moments, were what perhaps he himself would have failed in describing.
Few of us can convey in words the heavenly images which float in celestial ether, as it were, through the brain. We feel in the feeble attempt the unsufficing medium of language. Words are but the clayed embodiment of the swift thought. The thought itself is the essence of the soul—poetry unspeakable. We cannot word that which is divine. Language has no power to render again the shadowy dream—the musing reverie.
Whilst under the influence of feelings such as these, the society and the haunts of men were uncongenial to the poetic youth, and he usually sought out the wildest scenes of his native country. Over park, over pale, he bounded, and the keepers, who caught sight of him occasionally in their forest walks, failed in arresting him in his rambles.
In a former chapter we have seen the sharp and sententious Lawyer Grasp, in the act of girding up his loins and preparing to set forth upon a somewhat important mission: a matter, indeed, not likely to be effected without some little danger to all concerned in its execution. The shrewd lawyer, however, to say the least of him, was not altogether devoid of courage, and, albeit his valour was modified by a certain degree of discretion, he loved to be first when anything was to be gained by leading the van.
In the present instance he thought he spied a good chance of promotion, both as regarding his instrumentality in apprehending or gaining notice of a dangerous plot, but he also hoped to make a profitable intimacy with the proud owner of Charlecote: and, as he spurred his palfry onwards, visions of suits, and testaments, and title deeds, and strong boxes, pertaining to the domain he was entering, floated through his brain in rapid succession.
Plots and complots, conspiracies, and secret meetings to kill a queen, were, indeed, in his eye, as nothing, unless pertaining to the advancement of one small person who wrote himself attorney in the town of Stratford: and who hoped, one day, to be the richest and greatest man there. The world around was nothing: the covering sky was nothing; England was nothing, except as pertaining to Master Pouncet Grasp; nay, so long as the small circle of air around his own proper person was wholesome and fit for the purposes of respiration, it would have been all the same to him if the atmosphere in general were infected with the plague. He was, indeed, without question, the most selfish little caitiff that ever drove a quill upon parchment.
Charlecote, the residence of Sir Thomas Lucy, was one of those vast, irregularly built, but picturesque looking mansions, which gives impression, at first sight, of the architectural style of the Tudors. Redolent of red brick picked out with white, full of large bay windows, beetling balconies, twisted chimneys, gable ends, and gate-houses. A magnificent structure looking like a brick-built palace, situate in the midst of the most luxuriant foliage; which partially concealed its multitudinous offices, its falconries, its dog-kennels, and its thick-walled gardens.
As Grasp, therefore, approached this curious building, he beheld its embattled towers and massive chimneys embosomed in ancient trees of vast size, and most soft and lovely foliage. Nothing, perhaps, could be more impressive than the whole scene. The vast park studded with mossed trees, and the herded deer couched in the fern, beneath the shade. The gigantic avenue, flourishing in all the grandeur of its undecayed age, and each particular tree throwing its deep shadow upon the grassy carpet beneath, with the lordly mansion only partially seen at its extremity.
As Grasp entered this gloomy, but majestic avenue, he drew bridle, and paused for a few moments to reassure himself, and consider matters over, and as he did so, he became impressed with the deep and solemn silence reigning around, a silence only occasionally interrupted by the baying howl from the kennel, an occasional winding note from the huntsman's bugle, or the clear ringing sound of the old clock from the tower of the red brick gate-house.
As the little lawyer gazed around, a sort of awe crept over his paltry soul, he became at each step more deeply impressed with the greatness of the man he was about to approach, and from the wealth he saw around him, he began to consider whether he himself was worthy of coming into the presence of one so mighty. For Grasp's idol was money, the only Providence he believed in or worshipped.
Added to this he knew from report the aristocratic and exclusive disposition of Sir Thomas, his haughty bearing towards his inferiors, and his dislike of intrusion, and he began to doubt whether the knight might take it well, that he had come thus in person to communicate with him, more especially as he himself had very lately been engaged in a suit against Sir Thomas, instituted by one of the tradesmen of Stratford, and in which Grasp, by trickery, had managed to get a verdict against the great man.
In short, as Grasp approached the house, he began to feel that he would almost rather have demanded an interview with Queen Elizabeth herself, than with the owner of the domain of Charlecote. He even began to doubt, whether (if Sir Thomas should happen to catch sight of him before an opportunity offered for introducing his important mission) the proud knight would not either order his attendants to whip him out of the park-gates, or perhaps even set his hounds upon him and hunt him through the grounds. These thoughts and apprehensions the more forcibly impressed themselves upon his mind, as the caitiff was well aware he fully deserved as much at Sir Thomas's hands.
However, the business he was upon at length outweighed all other considerations, and setting spurs to his sorry nag, he hastened onwards and neared the house.
As he did so he found that he had timed his visit exactly as he had anticipated, and that Sir Thomas and his family were about to take their afternoon excursion. For (amongst his other peculiarities) the old knight was exceedingly punctual and precise in all his doing, keeping the even tenor of his way, and timing his different movements as exactly as the clock in the tower of his gate-house was true to the dial in the pleasaunce. As Grasp therefore approached he beheld the palfreys and attendants of the family party, mustering in front of the mansion,—a goodly sight to look on, and which made Grasp open his eyes as he beheld it.
Sir Thomas, like most others in the country at this period, was one of those proud men who like to do every thing with circumstance and parade, and accordingly if he only rode across the park to shoot a buck, he usually was attended by a round dozen of his keepers and servants.
At the present time, as he was about to take his afternoon ride, and perhaps pay a formal visit to one or two of his immediate neighbours, his party, including his own family and the attendant serving-men, amounted to about a score. The sight was a gallant one,—such as in our own times we may behold represented upon the artist's canvass, or during the scenic hour, but never again with all its circumstance in real life. There were assembled the serving men and attendants, with the three white Lucys embroidered in silver upon their green hunting-frocks. The head falconer, clad in a sort of loose frock of scarlet cloth; the keepers carrying the hawks upon a stand, and several attendant grooms with the knight's favourite dogs in their charge. For, as with men of this sort the sports of the field was the chief occupation of life, so the companionship of their dogs and hounds seemed almost necessary to their enjoyment; they seldom made a journey without the favourite hawk or hound, and they as seldom rode to take the air on the most ordinary occasions, without being provided with the means of striking any game they might put up in their route. The hawk upon the wrist was as necessary also to the lady, as the spur upon the heel to the knight. The most interesting part of the present display, however, and that which struck the little lawyer with a sort of dread, was the sporting old knight himself, and his three daughters, as they came forth and mounted their steeds.
There was, indeed, something about Sir Thomas Lucy, that, to a man of Grasp's sort, seemed unapproachable, incomprehensible, and even awful. His tall gaunt figure, clad in his hunting-frock of scarlet cloth embroidered with gold, with all the tasselled appointments to match—the long leather gauntlets upon his hands—and the high russet boots upon his legs, were well matched by the grey hair and peaked beard, the aquiline features, and the pale complexion of the stern-looking old knight. In fact, there was a something inexpressibly noble in the appearance of that grey old man. He looked one of the Norman knights of the crusading times returned to his halls,—so pale, so wan, so antique, and yet withal so knightly in his bearing. The hand seemed formed for the rapier, the head for the helm, the heel for the spur. If the little lawyer felt at the moment somewhat impressed with the appearance of the old knight, now that he was about to approach him, he was no less struck with the grace and beauty of his daughters. They seemed to his eye, at that moment (and as he regarded them, seated upon their palfreys), creatures of a superior race to the generality of human mortals; celestial beings, with "beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear."
In fact, Grasp was so feelingly impressed with a sense of inferiority as he approached the presence of the Knight of Charlecote, that once or twice he was about to wheel his steed, and return as he had come.
Indeed he certainly had done so, had not the old knight suddenly caught sight of him, just as he came into the open space in which the party was assembled, and fixed him like a basilisk.
It happened unluckily for Grasp, that the avenue was not often made a thoroughfare for any but visitors to the Hall, and accordingly, the apparition of the meagre-looking lawyer, clad in a sad-coloured suit, carrying a little bag in his hand, and bowing to the pommel of his saddle every step he took, rather struck Sir Thomas Lucy with astonishment. The knight had just at that precise moment thrown his leg over his palfrey, and settled his gaunt person fairly in the demipique, or war-saddle, it was his usual wont to use, when he espied the lawyer; and the effect upon both was like the boa-constrictor suddenly coming in sight of its prey. The lawyer seemed transfixed for the moment, whilst the magnifico, with his movements arrested, regarded him with a stern and curious eye.
At length Sir Thomas signed to one of his attendants to approach, and, pointing to the lawyer, desired him to inquire into the meaning of the intrusion.
"Inquire me of yonder man," said the knight, "wherefore he hath approached the house on this side, and which it is our desire to keep secluded from public resort, and the eyes of the common and popular."
"He hath business of great import, and craves an immediate and private audience with your worship," said the serving-man, after communicating with Grasp.
"Hath he a name?" said Sir Thomas.
"He had rather your worship heard his business first and his name afterwards," said the serving-man, "so much did he inform me when I made inquiry; but I rather think it is Master Grasp, the lawyer of Stratford."
Sir Thomas winced. "And what doth Master Grasp, the lawyer of Statford require with Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote?" dryly he said. "Inquire me out his business; and if he tell it not, convey him round to the proper entrance for people of his sort; and, d'ye hear? wait on him out."
During this colloquy, the lawyer had gained somewhat of his self-sufficiency, and, dismounting, approached Sir Thomas, and ventured to accost him.
"Will your honourable worship," he said, "favour me with a hearing at this unseasonable moment, upon matters of high import, connected with the safety of our gracious Sovereign the Queen and the welfare of the whole realm?"
"If thy communication be of so much importance as that," said the knight, "it behoves me, as a true subject, to give attention to it. The body public and the safety of the realm demand so much of us."
"'Tis a matter of so much importance," said Grasp, "that it concerns all who wish not to be burned, racked, whipped, beaten, and otherwise tormented to death by the Spaniard. 'Tis no less a matter, Sir Thomas Lucy, than a discovery I have made of a nest of traitors, who are, at this moment, assembled together, at Stratford, for the purpose of contriving the murder of our Queen and the delivery of the kingdom into the hands of Philip of Spain."
Grasp delivered this piece of intelligence with so much eagerness and vehemence, that he had approached quite close to Sir Thomas, in his anxiety that his news should not be overheard, and the old knight was in something impressed with its importance. He, however, drew back from too close contact with the Stratford lawyer, warning him to remove a little further from his person.
"Your communication is doubtless of the utmost importance," he said coolly, as he prepared to dismount; "we will instantly hear all you have to say. Nevertheless, confine your eagerness to serve Her Majesty within proper bounds." So saying, Sir Thomas dismounted from his palfry, and coolly desiring his daughters to continue their ride, led the way into the house, and, followed by Grasp, entered his private study.
The loyalty of the man would not permit him to pause a moment, as soon as he fully comprehended the nature of the business. He took two turns up and down the apartment; and then ordered the head-keeper to be summoned into his presence. "I will arrest these miscreants with my own proper hand and with my own people," he said, "instantly, without a moment's delay. Meantime, I will send over to my good neighbour, Sir Hugh Clopton, and inform him of it, so that he may meet me at Stratford on my arrival there, and aid me in this capture. Not so much," he continued to himself, "that I require his assistance, as that he may partake with me in the honour of cutting the throats of such vile wretches, an they resist lawful authority."
"May it please your worship," said Grasp, "there is a thing, I omitted to say, and which I had said, only that I feared its knowledge would most heartily grieve, astonish, and dismay your worship."
"You have already both astonished and somewhat grieved us," said Sir Thomas, "in delivering the piece of intelligence you came here charged withal. In how far you may be further able to dismay us, we may be perhaps permitted to doubt: nevertheless, we would fain be made acquainted with the nature of this omitted circumstance."
"Sir Hugh Clopton," said Grasp, "your worship spoke of him as aiding and assisting in the capture of these bloody-minded conspirators."
"I did so," said Sir Thomas. "Said I not well, good Master Grasp?"
"Your worship hath the gift of saying well," returned Grasp, who found himself gaining ground, he thought, in Sir Thomas's good graces. "But I grieve to say that Sir Hugh lieth under the imputation of being deeply implicated in this plot."
"How!" said Sir Thomas, losing something of austerity in his surprise. "Sir Hugh Clopton implicated in such a hellish conspiracy as this you have named? Had any man holding rank equal or superior to mine own, said so much, Master Pouncet Grasp, he had lied under the imputation of a liar and a caitiff at my hands."
"Nay," said Grasp, "I ask your worship's pardon, I had it from him who gave me the clue to the whole matter,—the honourable gentleman I told you of,—the right honourable Master Walter Neville."
"Say, rather, the arch traitor—the doubly dishonourable villain Neville, who goeth about to purchase benefit for himself by the blood of his party. An such a man be your informant? Credit me, the information is incorrect. I listen not therefore to it, it is naught."
Meantime, whilst Sir Thomas held converse thus with Grasp, he had at the same time, in the most quiet and business-like way, been encasing himself in one or two pieces of defensive armour which had hung at hand, behind the great chair on which he usually sat. Taking down a richly inlaid breast-plate, and which he had worn in his youth in the wars of the Low Countries, he fitted it on with care and precision, as one to whom the business of arming was a habit of easiness. He then indued a cumbrous back-piece to match, buckled the shoulder-straps without assistance, and girded the whole tightly together with an embroidered belt round his waist. After which (laying aside the light rapier he usually wore), he adopted a stout, heavy-hilted, and somewhat ponderous blade, and thrusting a pair of enormous petronels and his dagger into his girdle, stept forth into the centre of the apartment completely equipped for the business on hand, and looking, what our readers of the present day would have termed, as perfect a specimen of Don Quixote de la Mancha as they could have wished to behold.
Those who looked upon his tall gaunt form and sinewy limbs, however, might see that, eccentric as was his appearance, he would be rather an awkward customer to engage with or offer an affront to; and so thought Grasp, when he beheld the knight's military toilette completed.
Nay, a sort of unpleasant feeling began to creep over him; a presentiment of hard knocks, bullets, and grievous wounds suddenly pervaded his mind, as he looked upon this military figure clattering about in his cuirass, and coolly selecting his ponderous weapons for the nonce. For Grasp, it must be remembered, (albeit he lived in stirring times,) was a man of peace, and whose whole life nearly had been passed in a small dark back office in the town of Warwick, where he had been brought up and initiated in all the tricks of his craft.
However, as he had been the exciting cause of Sir Thomas's taking the affair upon his hands, and as he knew the knight would be likely to make a clean business of it, he felt that now to hold back would be to lose all the advantage he had previously promised himself.
Could he but manage to be exceedingly prominent and useful in this capture, he felt certain that it would lead on to fortune.
"I have never yet fought," he said to himself, "except with my pen. Now I am going to wield a weapon which, if it be only half as deadly and destructive in my hands, I shall make unpleasant work withal. But, in good sooth, I feel as though I had ratherpreparethe writ thanserveit in the present case."
So eager was Sir Thomas to pursue the adventure, and make capture of the conspirators with his own hand, that he tarried not for any of the customary formalities.
He resolved to take all responsibility upon himself, and "standing to no repairs," swoop upon the culprits. Accordingly, having mustered the serving-men he had warned for this service, and seen to their efficiency in regard to weapons with a military eye, the whole party wheeled out of the gate-house of Charlecote and took their way towards Stratford.