Many of our readers, who have searched with curious eye through the various localities and peculiar points of interest at Stratford, will doubtless recollect a small antiquated-looking inn, situated on the Avon's bank,—a building whose outward favour and stout-timbered walls, together with its massive chimneys and general appearance, would proclaim it to have been a house of some mark in its day.
At the period of our story this building had degenerated from a goodly farm-house to a hostel called the Checquers, and was the house of entertainment generally used by the commoner sort of wayfarers. It was a house altogether of no very good repute, in which the brawl and the night-shriek might be occasionally heard by the more respectable dwellers in the town,—a house often visited too by the watch, and carefully looked after by the authorities.
It was a dwelling also often changing owners, and had been lately taken by a stranger, a dark, taciturn, evil-looking host, whose appearance nobody liked, consequently he was but ill supported.
In short, since the present landlord had been its occupant, save and except an occasional guest who appeared to have arrived from foreign parts, and departed as quickly and silently as he had come, the Checquers was almost without guests. So that, albeit its former dissolute repute might be said to have departed from it, the inn had now assumed a mysterious sort of note, and was as celebrated for closed doors and quietude, as it had before been for riot and open debauchery. Some said the landlord was a Jesuit; others, that he was an emissary of the Spaniard; whilst others again affirmed he was both the one and the other, and all agreed that he was an ill-favoured, unneighbourly, and exceedingly disagreeable person.
It was at this hostel, Master Neville and his associates had previously taken up their quarters, and here they had been frequently visited during the dark hours by certain cavaliers who hitherto had seldom remained till dawn.
Master Muddlework, the head constable of the town, had considered it consistent with his duty twice to visit the Checquers, in order to observe these suspicious-looking strangers, but each time he had done so he had failed in finding anything to fasten his suspicions upon; so that whether a good look-out was kept, and the major portion of the strangers had concealed themselves, or that they were really absent at the moment of his visit, the functionary had, as we have said, quite failed in observing anything unusual or particular; except it was the mysterious quietude and closed-up doors and shutters of the sometime rollicking hostel.
In short, nothing could exceed the degree of interest with which this inn and its occupants were at this moment regarded,—an interest which had become general throughout the town, all on a sudden apparently, and it was towards this hostel, as our readers doubtless are aware, that Sir Thomas Lucy and his party were now advancing.
To the suggestion of Grasp, that it would be better, he thought, to wait till the shadows of evening had descended before they approached the town, Sir Thomas gave a decided negative. All dark doings, he said, were foreign to his nature. He had proceeded by the shortest and most expeditious route towards his design, as in duty bound, the moment he heard of this vile assemblage, and, Heaven willing, he would proceed as straight to the capture of the caitiffs.
With military precision and precaution, however, he gave directions so as to ensure the more sure success of his undertaking, and halting for a few moments in the road, he divided his party in twain, sending one portion full trot forwards, with orders to make a slight detour, and enter the town on the further side, whilst he so timed his own movements as to come within hail of the suspicious hostel at the precise moment his other party approached it.
This done, according to previous concert, the two portions extending from the right and left, in a moment completed a very pretty cordon around the hostel; so that not a mouse could shew its nose outside the walls without being seen. Quickly as this movement had been executed, it had been as quickly seen by the inmates apparently; for the door in the rear, which had been open the moment before, was immediately closed and secured.
This proceeding convinced Sir Thomas in a moment that the inmates of the hostel kept a good look-out, and at the same time led him to suspect what he indeed quickly found, namely, a desperate resistance. Such indeed might reasonably be expected, for the vigilance of the Queen's council was at this time so keen, and the various plots of the day so continually being discovered by one chance or other, that there was small hope of success, unless the utmost secresy was maintained.
Ordering his party instantly to dismount, (whilst the horses were put in charge of a small reserve,) Sir Thomas drew back and desired Grasp to advance to the fore door of the Checquers, and demand admittance in form.
"An it so please your worship," said Grasp, "I had rather not take upon myself so much of the responsibility of the action as that would amount to. Your honour is a justice of the peace, and may therefore reasonably take the lead. I will follow and bear witness to the lawfulness of whatsoever it may please your valour to perform; but I had rather not strike the first blow."
"Or receive it either, I believe," said Sir Thomas,sotto voce. "'Tis well," he added aloud, and immediately setting spurs to his palfrey, he was, the next moment, beside the strong iron-studded front-door of the hostel, which he struck forcibly with the butt-end of his riding-whip.
As he expected, the door was fastened, and to his repeated summons no answer was returned. At length he uplifted his voice, and in a loud tone, demanded instant admittance in the Queen's name. Upon this the lattice-window was thrown open, and a man's head appeared at it,—a pale, cadaverous-looking wretch, with long lank hair, and glassy and excited eye.
"What seek you here?" he said. "There is death in the house, and the doors are closed against visitors to-day."
"Let them open to those who come in the Queen's name," said Sir Thomas. "I come to seize the persons of all within this house. Dead or alive, it matters not, I will arrest the bodies of all here consorting and assembling."
"Ah," said the man, "and who then art thou, thus commissioned, and from, whom hast thou such authority?"
"I am Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote," returned the knight, "and if I mistake not, thou art Ralph Somerville, of Warwick."
"And how if we refuse you admittance?" said Somerville. "How then, Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote?"
"Then I will make forcible entry," said Sir Thomas, "and those who oppose me must be content with the mishaps that attend such procedure."
"Of what are we accused, that we are thus molested in our retirement?" said Somerville.
"Of high treason, in conspiring to take the life of our blessed and gracious Queen Elizabeth," said Sir Thomas.
"Then receive the wages of your service, heretic," said Somerville, at the same moment discharging the contents of a petronel full in Sir Thomas's visage.
The weapon was thrust so near to the face of the knight that the powder blackened his features, but the ball, luckily, just missed his head, and passing downwards on his cuirass, glanced off harmless.
"'Tis well," he said, with his usual coolness, as Somerville immediately closed the window. "Forwards, men, and force the doors instantly."
The house had, apparently, been prepared in anticipation of such an assault; for, as the party advanced to the attack, several calivers were discharged from loop-holes, which had been made in the walls at the upper part, and two of Sir Thomas's men were shot dead ere they could reach the doors.
As the remainder, however, did so, they found the entrance so strongly barricaded that their efforts to get in were fruitless; whilst at the same time they were exposed to the bullets of those within during the attempt. Sir Thomas saw this in a moment, as he rode about superintending the affair, and indeed drawing several discharges from the besieged upon his own person.
With military quickness and decision he immediately dismounted, and rallying some half-a-dozen of his men who were bearing back from the hot fire of the besieged, he seized upon a ladder which he espied lying near a sort of outhouse in the rear. This he ordered his people to man on either side, and leading them on, sword in hand, they rushed with terrible force against the back door of the hostel, giving it such a shock, that door and lintels together were nearly unshipped.
"Another rush," cried Sir Thomas; "one more, and we have them!"
Accordingly on dashed the men with this novel battering-ram, and again and again they assailed the door. Any one who could have observed Grasp at this moment, would have doubtless considered that he had suddenly gone mad, since what between his anxiety to be amongst the first, and near Sir Thomas Lucy, and his mortal fear of the whistling balls, he cut a most ridiculous figure. One moment he rushed forward, with the party who were using the ladder as a battering-ram; the next, as the sharp report of a well-loaded caliver jarred his ears, he fairly bolted off, turning again when he had gained a few paces to the rear, flourishing his blue bag, and shouting at the assailants with all his might, to break in and take the rebels.
"Serve the warrant, take the body, seize the person!—Take them dead or alive!" he cried, as he jumped about. Meantime the ladder, being well and chivalrously managed, at about the fourth rush carried in the door, and Sir Thomas, with portentous strength, carried his body along with it into the kitchen of the inn, a petronel in one hand and his heavy rapier in the other, closely followed by his men. Contrary to his expectations, however, the apartment was empty; "Guard the entrance!" he cried, as he dashed into the next apartment. "The villains will escape us yet! Kill whoever attempts to get out!"
Rapidly, and followed by his men, Sir Thomas made search through the lower portion of the hostel, without, however, finding a soul, although it was evident they had but the moment before escaped, the rooms being filled with the smoke of their discharged fire-arms. Glancing round upon his followers, who were now for the most part within the hostel, he directed them instantly to search the upper flooring, whilst he kept guard below.
This was, however, more easily said than done. The staircase was found to be impracticable, being barricaded by a large quantity of faggots, which had been drawn up and jammed tightly together.
"Ah," said Grasp, whose ferret eyes were everywhere at once, "may I never draw an inference again, if I do not think the rogues have ascended by a ladder through yonder trap, and then drawn the ladder up after them."
At this moment, and whilst all paused to consider the next move, the barrels of several calivers were thrust through as many holes which had been perforated through the ceiling, and a very lively discharge was kept up upon Sir Thomas and his party, which killing one of the men, quickly sent Grasp and the rest out of the doors; Grasp, who in his hurry and agitation being the last, closing the door behind him, and actually shutting Sir Thomas up alone amongst his foes.
"Heaven bless and preserve us all from conspirators," said the lawyer, jumping about and wringing his hands, as he hastily glanced amongst the scared domestics, "they have shot, killed, and destroyed the knight of Charlecote, as sure as I am a sinner! Sir Thomas Lucy is certainly murdered outright by this nest of vipers, for I see him not amongst us here?"
Confusion and dismay, indeed, sufficiently pervaded the attacking party. They readily imagined their lord and master was slain, and to the horror of such a catastrophe was added their doubts as to what was next to be done; so that whilst some drew off from the near vicinity of tho house, others mounted their horses, and set off full cry to the town to get assistance.
In short, the assaulters felt the want of a second in command. They were struck with dread at the supposed death of their leader, and the head falconer being killed also, there was no one to lead them, to the recovery even of the old knight's body, if he was indeed shot, or his rescue, if only wounded.
Grasp, however, did all he could to exhort some half-a-dozen who remained to make another attempt, to gain the interior. But the men very wisely demurred.
"Who think ye is to enter yonder dark place, to be killed like a fox in a hole?" said one.
"Nay," said another, "the matter is now none of ours to meddle with. If our master be killed by these villains, some one else must take it up, we have no further warranty to go forward; all we can do is to wait till assistance comes from the town."
In the midst of this colloquy, (and which had hardly taken as many moments as words used,) to the astonishment of the speakers, the sound of firing again commenced within the dwelling,—quick, short, and rapid, sounded the shots; whilst the old inn, as the gazers regarded it, although it seemed convulsed with internal discord, remained closed up, and its exterior undisturbed as if nothing extraordinary was going on. At the same moment, too, shouts and sounds from the town proclaimed that the townsfolk were coming to the scene of action.
"Gad he here," said Grasp, "what may this portend? The miscreants surely cannot be contending against each other, and cutting their own throats from sheer disappointment at being discovered in their villany!"
At this moment, and in the midst of these speculations upon the matter, the door opened, and enveloped in a volume of smoke, which burst out with him, begrimed too with soot and dirt, appeared Sir Thomas himself, who instantly closing the door after him, and coughing violently from the effects of the fumigation he had endured, waved his sword for his people again to advance.
To account for this appearance we must return to the knight after he had been shut up within the hostel.
As he had never for a moment intended to give ground, he was in no wise daunted at being thus left alone, and as the closing of the door shut out the glare of light, it most probably was the means of saving his life, for could those above have distinctly seen and levelled their pieces at him, they would have shot him like a wolf in a trap. For the moment all was quiet, and casting his eyes round the gloomy kitchen Sir Thomas spied the remains of a fire in the grate, whilst fearful and hurried whispers, gradually growing louder and more vehement above his head, proclaimed that the conspirators were in earnest consultation.
Without a moment's delay, Sir Thomas (by aid of the fire on the hearth, and such combustibles as he could hastily collect) set to work with might and main, and lighted up a blazing bonfire in the very middle of the apartment.
The rushes with which the floor was partially strewed, materially assisted the blaze, and heaping chairs and other less cumbrous articles upon it, whilst the astonished conspirators fired at him through the loop-holes, he soon effected a very alarming conflagration.
It was lucky for the knight that the construction of such a measure of defence, as that of perforating an upper floor to fire through, necessarily precludes any precision in taking aim, as it is almost impossible in a small opening of the sort, to get a good sight whilst levelling downwards, and consequently, although a continued discharge took place, whilst the knight busied himself in getting up the conflagration, although the balls flew about his ears and buried themselves in the floor at his feet, not one struck him.
Under these circumstances, and whilst the conspirators were ignorant that the combustion which already became disagreeably apparent to them was being effected by one person, their persevering foe completed his arrangements, and jerking his powder flask into the flames, quickly opened the door, and as he could no longer remain safely within, coolly walked out.
Reassured by his appearance, those of his followers who were at hand hastened to the support of the knight, who instantly directed Grasp to proceed round to the door on the other side, with several of the men, and make instant capture of any of the conspirators who attempted to escape on that side.
"I have smoked the traitors in their den," said he, "and anon we shall have them swarming out. Make prisoners of all you can secure. Hurt none who yield, but suffer none to escape. If they resist, kill."
The anxiety of Grasp to see these mysterious plotters almost overcame his personal apprehensions. He therefore hastened round with the men under his charge, and in a few minutes the conflagration within forced the besieged to attempt a sortie. The door before which Sir Thomas had posted himself was thrown open, and (as smoke and flame gushed out) forth rushed half a dozen men so completely begrimed in soot that their features were scarcely distinguishable.
The conspirators evidently had made up their minds to a desperate effort at escape, for they dashed to the right and left sword in hand, cutting at all who opposed them.
"Yield thee, caitiff," cried Sir Thomas, flinging himself upon the foremost, and seizing him by the collar of his doublet with an iron grip, before he could strike a blow. "Yield thee, miscreant, in the Queen's name!"
The man accosted attempted to stab Sir Thomas with his dagger, but the knight dragged him headlong down, and stepping a pace or two back, at the same time absolutely flinging him to his men, rushed upon the next in the same manner, and, in this way, capturing three with his own hand, whilst his followers kept them in play.
The scene we have described fully exemplified the nature of a period in which deeds of violence and bloodshed, consequent upon the seditious and superstitious bigotry of both religions, were by no means uncommon, breaking out too, as they oft-times did, in the midst of apparent tranquility.
Close upon the doors, in rear of the hostel, and at which the conspirators made their principal efforts at escape, stood Sir Thomas himself backed up by several of his men, conspicuous from his tall form and his activity in cutting down all who refused to yield. Somewhat removed, and at a safer distance, were to be seen a crowd of the townsfolk, with a portion of the town guard and the head bailiff, who had hastened to the scene upon the alarm of the encounter, accompanied by a legion of old women and idle boys. These, as they learned the nature of the business in hand, became proportionably excited against the conspirators, whom they seemed inclined to tear in pieces so soon as they could fairly get at them with safety to themselves.
"Oh! the miserable sinners," said Dame Patch. "I thought no good was going on down yonder, with all their silence, secret meetings, and keeping us women from amongst them."
"I always said there was a plot hatching to blow up the town and kill every Protestant in it," cried Doubletongue. "God save Sir Thomas. See, there's the last of the rogues down and being bound hand and foot!"
Such was indeed the case, and, except Somerville and another of the conspirators who escaped Grasp and his party, the whole (amounting to seven individuals) were down or captured, and, being bound, were delivered into the hands of the bailiff for safe custody.
No sooner was the business done, and the capture fairly effected, than the eccentric character of the knight of Charlecote again displayed itself. He had borne himself manfully during the fight, and as one worthy of his crusading ancestors, but his hauteur and reserve immediately succeeded to the violence of action.
Drawing together his people, he gave directions for the removal of the wounded into the town, where their hurts could be looked to. After which he mounted his horse, and calling for a cup of wine, he lifted his hat, and drank to the health of the Queen, the discomfit of the Spaniards, and the confusion of all Jesuits. After which he turned his horse's head from the Checquers, now filled with the idle and the curious, who had managed to extinguish the fire, and rode off towards Charlecote.
"Nay, but how am I to dispose of these prisoners, Sir Thomas?" said the head bailiff, stopping him as he passed. "I should also like to learn the exact nature of the matter which hath led to this capture and the death of these people around us here."
"Of that you will better learn," said Sir Thomas, dryly, "by applying to your townsman there—Lawyer Grasp; and all further circumstances connected with them, I opine you will speedily be made acquainted with by the Queen's council, as I am myself led to believe by what Master Grasp hath informed me."
So saying, Sir Thomas bowed to the head bailiff, and rode away from the scene of his achievements.
On the night which followed the action we have described, and which the inhabitants of Stratford long afterwards called the fray of the Checquers, Sir Hugh Clopton held an old accustomed feast at his house. The entertainment was given in honour of his daughter's birthday, the maiden having just completed her seventeenth year; and on this interesting occasion most of the old knightly families of the county of Warwickshire graced the scene. There came the Astleys of Hill Moreton, the De la Wards of Newton, the Clintons of Badsley, the Walshes of Mereden, the Blenknaps of Knoll, the Wellesbourns of Hastang, the Comptons of Compton Winyate, the Sheldons of Beoley, the Attwoods, and many other nobles, whose names now, like those once owning them, in all the pride of ancestral honours, are obliterated from the muster-roll of the living, and long forgotten in the very domains which owned them as lords; and last, though by no means least, came the knight of Charlecote and his lady, and their two lovely daughters.
It was indeed a goodly assemblage of the rank, youth, and beauty of the county of Warwick of that period. The old folks stately in manner and formal in costume; the men, looking in their starch ruffs, short cloaks and trunks, quaint cut doublets and peaked beards; and the women, in their jewelled stomachers and farthingales, like so many old portraits stepping forth from their frames; whilst the youth of both sexes, in all the bravery of that age of brave attire, glittered in silks and satins, gold and embroidery, bright jewels and richly mounted weapons. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the gallant look of the cavaliers who trod a measure in the dance, except it were the loveliness of their bright partners. Those youthful and fresh female buds of England, so celebrated for their native beauty; fair, and blooming, and swan-like in their graceful carriage—"earth-treading stars, that make dark heaven bright."
The music rang out from a sort of a temporary orchestra, formed at one end of the hall, arched over and festooned with sweet flowers and green shrubs. It consisted mostly of stringed instruments, which gave forth a silver sound, accompanied by the deep tones of the bassoon and the occasional flourish of the horn, and whilst the dancers trod a measure, and the different guests, in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment, wandered about, how sweetly the strains floated through those oak-panelled rooms, reverberating in the long corridors and passages, and, mellowed by distance, thrummed in the upper rooms.
It mingled with the whispered softness of the lover's tongue, sounding doubly sweet by night. It added to the charm of beauty, as she listened to the flattering tale, till the coyness of the half-won maiden seemed to relax in music; and the glittering cavalier, with renewed hope, led her to the dance.
How inferior is the fussy and excited style of our own days compared with such a scene as this, where all was open-hearted gaiety and enjoyment, where, without effort, all was dignified, and brilliant, and picturesque.
The very serving-men and maids, ranged in a long row at the lower end of the hall, seemed to add to the effect of the picture. The men in their rich liveries with heraldic badge upon the sleeve; the maids, all in one sort of costume, fitting and becoming for their station in life; nay, the orchestra itself was a picture, composed as it was of respectable personages from the town of Stratford, grave-looking, bearded, and staid, working away at their different instruments, as if it was a matter of national pride and import,—the celebration of the fair Charlotte's natal day. Each in his quaint-cut doublet and scarlet hose. How they clutched at the bass-viol, those fat citizens, and glowed with the strains they produced; how the fiddlers jerked and worked at their bows, with heads going, and feet keeping time: how the puffed cheek of the horn-blowers seemed to grow distended to the degree of exploding; and how the eyes of the whole party seemed to roll about in agony, and follow the dancers as their strains excited them to fresh efforts; and how resolutely, ever and anon, they paused to take a long pull at the huge flagons placed within their reach; returning to their instruments with renewed vigour, and stamping to keep time, as if sitting still was almost too great an effort, and they longed to jump up, and fling out amongst the best there; urging one another to quicker movements and louder strains as the liquor mounted and the evening wore on.
Amongst that gay and brilliant throng there was one whose whole soul seemed wrapped in melody. The soft tones of the floating minstrelsy seemed to steal upon his heart. He stood apart from all: aloof in person as in mind, leaning against one of the quaint-cut ornaments of the room. As his eye wandered amongst the gay dancers, his countenance was at times lighted up by an expression which seemed divine. The greatness of his soul shone out in his glorious countenance, and yet, save by two persons, he was all unmarked.
It was the boy poet, the youthful Shakespeare.
Walter Arderne, who felt that no assemblage could be complete which wanted the presence of his friend, no hour enjoyed but in his company, had brought him again to Clopton, where he mingled in the scene, not so much a guest as a spectator. And yet unknown as unmarked, or, if regarded, perhaps but calling forth a passing remark upon his good looks, how greatly did that youth feel himself the superior of all there, elevated as some of them were in station. The fineness and acuteness of organic sensibility made him alive to all the mighty world of ear and eye. Nothing escaped him; and yet feeling this within himself, and in strength of mind a demigod, in profundity of view a prophet,[3]he moved amongst the throng, as if unconscious of being more than the most unassuming servitor in attendance. Gentle and open in manner as a child.
The good Sir Hugh welcomed him to his house, and presented him to two of his oldest friends, as one to whom he owed much. "A goodly lad," he said, "and of exceeding promise; a ripe and ready wit, sirs. By 'r Lady, but he hath the knack of making me laugh till my face is like a wet napkin. Nay, and he inditeth rhymes, too, it would do you good to hear. A poet, I'll assure ye, sirs, already, and a rare one, too. Go thy ways, lad; go thy ways. 'Fore Heaven we owe thee much, and hope to requite it."
"A young friend," said Arderne, to one of the ladies with whom he danced, and as he pointed the unconscious poet out to her, whilst standing at the lower end of the hall. "A young friend who, though in humble life, seems to me of somewhat extraordinary character, and in whom I am greatly interested. He unites in his genius the utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the most foreign, and even irreconcilable properties subsist in him together. I cannot describe to you the delight I experience in the companionship of that youth." The lady glanced her eye towards the part of the hall indicated by Walter Arderne, as he mentioned his friend. It was but a glance, and she observed the person indicated. The words humble life was, however, quite sufficient to destroy all interest in the bosom of the beauty, for Clara de Mowbray (albeit she was both lovely and amiable) partook, in some sort, of the pride of her race. Added to this, she was the victim of an unrequited passion, and save for the tall handsome form and expressive features of her partner, she had no eyes.
"I should have imagined, from all I have this night beheld," she said, "there was but one in this room, nay, in this world, who could take up even a moment of your care or thoughts, fair sir. This new-found friend must, indeed, be a rare specimen, if he can wean your eyes for a moment from Charlotte Clopton. But that, indeed," she added, with a sigh, "is as it should be; she is, I think, to-night more beautiful than ever!"
Walter sighed, and unconsciously his glance wandered in search of his betrothed. "You are a shrewd observer, lady," he said, looking full in her expressive face,—and indeed, except Charlotte Clopton, whose beauty was of a different character, Clara de Mowbray was one of the most beautiful women in the county. "You are a great observer, lady," he said, "and yet you have failed to observe how much your own beauty excites admiration from all present to-night. Nay, I am not blind myself, however much I may lie under the imputation with which you have charged me."
"To love is no such heavy sin, Sir Arderne," said the lady, "an if it were so, you would indeed require sufficing penance and absolution, since you are a very votary to the blind god."
"And she to whom my vows are given," he said, "is she not worthy of an emperor's love?"
"She is worthy of the love of him who seeks her hand," said Clara, somewhat sadly. "She is my dear and early friend, and I could not wish greater happiness to her than in that store. Unless the emperor were Walter Arderne, and the empire he inherited here in Warwickshire. I conclude Charlotte would scarce become an empress."
"You speak not this as you think," said Arderne, doubtfully, yet delighted at so much confirmation from one of the intimate friends of his beloved Charlotte.
"I speak as I feel," said Clara; "I know the worth of both, and how well both deserve; and yet methinks youth and valour should not altogether succumb to Cupid. Were I a man, I should seek for action and to be worthy indeed."
The youth gazed with increasing admiration upon the radiant face of the lady. He almost doubted whether its exceeding loveliness did not equal that of his betrothed.
"Ah," he said, gaily, turning towards his new friend, who at the moment approached, "give us assurance, gentle Shakespeare, we that are in love; and teach this lady to respect the passion."
Shakespeare looked full at the lady; he seemed struck with the beauty of her face and form. "Love, first learned in a lady's eyes," he said, gaily,
"Lives not alone immured in the brain;But with the motion of all elements,Courses as swift as thought in every power;And gives to every power a double power,Above their functions and their offices,Never durst poet touch a pen to write,Until his ink were temper'd with love's sighs."
"Lives not alone immured in the brain;But with the motion of all elements,Courses as swift as thought in every power;And gives to every power a double power,Above their functions and their offices,Never durst poet touch a pen to write,Until his ink were temper'd with love's sighs."
"That is indeed a singular being!" said the lady, gazing after the youth as he passed through the crowd and quitted the room. "Who and what is he?"
"'Tis him of whom I just now spoke," said Arderne; "but come, let us seek Charlotte Clopton; I thought I saw her leave the room but now to seek the purer air of the gardens. I will tell thee more of our acquaintance with this youth as we go."
It was a bright and lovely night, and, with all the freedom and licence of the age, many of the younger guests had sought the pleasure-grounds and gardens of the Hall, whilst their more staid guardians and parents held converse within doors.
Here and there was to be seen a group seated or reclined upon the velvet turf, whilst others paced up and down the terrace, or disappeared and were lost in the dark walks, till the joyous strains of the orchestra within again recalled them to the dance.
If the quick eyes of love had enabled the lady Clara to observe the object to which Walter Arderne's thoughts were that night fixed, the same observation had failed in shewing her on whom the affections of her rival was centred.
Indeed, although Charlotte Clopton, both from her beauty and her position as the heroine of the night, was necessarily the observed of all observers, and her hand sought for by every cavalier in the room, those who looked closely at her might have observed a tinge of melancholy in her countenance, and a restlessness about her which shewed she was not in the enjoyment of her own content. To herself hardly dared she own it, as her restless glance traversed the room, but she felt that one minute's conversation with her romantic friend,—nay, one word, or but an exchanged glance,—would be worth all the gallant speeches she endured from the gayer cavaliers by whom she was surrounded.
This new friend, however, had not once approached her on that night. He had studiously kept in the background, and although he had, unobserved, caught sight of her, he had even carefully avoided those parts of the room in which she was engaged with her various partners and friends. Nay, the pleasure he experienced in the gay and festive scene, like that of the fair Charlotte, was tinged with an occasional melancholy; a soft and dreamy sadness mingled with the brighter thoughts called into play by the sight of beauty and the strains of music.
With such feelings he quitted the house, and passed into the gardens of the Hall, those lovely grounds looking, as they did, so fair and soft, in the bright moonlight. And how often do we find it thus in life! How oft do we see the most worthy wending his way unnoticed, unobserved, unappreciated, and unknown, whilst the giddy, the frivolous, the vain, and even the vile, are sunning themselves in the smiles of patronage and favour, playing their fantastic tricks, and swollen with the success their cringing falsehood has attained, whilst patient merit, scorning the rout, passes on unsought.
The night, as Lorenzo words it, was but the daylight sick, "it looked a little paler." The youthful poet threw himself upon a grassy bank, shadowed by trees, and as the sounds of music crept upon his ears,
"Soft stillness, and the night,Became the touches of sweet harmony."
"Soft stillness, and the night,Became the touches of sweet harmony."
And what indeed were the thoughts and imaginings the scene and hour gave rise to?—Thoughts softened by the sweet breath of a summer's night, loaded with perfume, and bearing harmony from the distance. At such moment the mind reverts to days long past, or even revels in the fabled ages of the early world. In such a night as this,
"When the sweet wind did gently kiss the treesAnd they did make no noise; in such a night,Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan wallsAnd sighed his soul toward the Grecian tentsWhere Cressid lay."
"When the sweet wind did gently kiss the treesAnd they did make no noise; in such a night,Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan wallsAnd sighed his soul toward the Grecian tentsWhere Cressid lay."
And,
"In such a night,Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her loveTo come again to Carthage."
"In such a night,Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her loveTo come again to Carthage."
It was whilst Shakespeare remained thus sequestered and alone, and in the indulgence of the thoughts produced by such a situation, that the company had sought the gardens; and the walks, and alleys, the green slopes, and mossed banks, became suddenly peopled with bright forms, and which in a moment gave another and gayer aspect, and a totally different turn to the entire scene. The stillness, and the sweet touches of distant music, and which had so stolen upon his heart, was now changed to the sounds of laughter and loud conversation. In the shaded walks were now to be seen some tall form, clad in brave attire; his jewelled hat and gay plume bent down as he conversed with the lady at his side, and, in the open space before him, the different groups lent a lustre to the gardens which only gay costume and forms of beauty can give. As he remarked the scene before him, the joyous and sportive throng thus revelling in happiness,—the very heavens "thick inlaid with patinos of bright gold," he presently observed a dark and ominous cloud slowly and stealthily mounting, as it were, from the south. It seemed to emerge from the distant woods like a pall, and—as if emblematic of the short-lived days of mortals—gradually stole over one side of the heavens.
Yes, that flaunting throng was like the pleasures of the world. "Those clouds were like its coming cares." Whilst he watched their slow development, a light footstep approached, and Charlotte Clopton stood before him.
Was it his fancy, or was it that the silver brightness falling on the spot on which she stood, gave an ethereal appearance to the beautiful girl, a ghost-like and shadowy look, which, for the moment, struck him with a sort of awe? He arose from his recumbent posture, and, as he did so, he observed she was unusually pale. Nay, as he gazed upon that sweet face and form, he could not help seeing that it was with difficulty she kept herself from falling.
"I fear me, lady," he said, (struck with sudden alarm,) "you are not well?"
"A feeling of illness has indeed come over me," said Charlotte, "and which I cannot entirely shake off. I thought the air of the gardens would have taken it away, but it has not done so."
"Suffer me to lead you in," said Shakespeare, taking her hand, "perhaps some cordial will restore you?"
"Not so," said Charlotte; "I have sought this spot as I knew it was a favourite one with you. I felt you would be here, and that I must see you. I know not wherefore, but a presentiment of evil is upon me. I feel as if I spoke to thee this night for the last time."
There was a wildness in the manner of Charlotte Clopton, as she said this, which increased the anxiety of her admirer, and, as he saw that she was really suffering from some sudden feeling of illness, he again entreated her to seek the house. She, however, again refused. "I have sought this opportunity to speak to you," she said, "for I felt I must do so; nay, I feel as if I should die unless I unburthened myself to one I so highly esteem, one to whom I owe so much, one so noble and so good; nay, were it to any but to thee, (generous and sweet in disposition as thou art, William Shakespeare,) I should shame to say so much. But well I know that none can know thee and refrain from loving; can trust thee and repent."
To say that the youthful poet could hear this from a being so beautiful, and not forget all the resolutions he had previously made to subdue and conceal his passion, would be to describe one of those over-perfect mortals existing only in the imagination of the prudish.
William Shakespeare was no such perfection of a hero; he had sought to quench his love's hot fire,
"Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason."
"Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason."
The intense feelings of youth, however, and which in after-life led him so forcibly to pourtray the passion he felt, now completely overcame all his prudential resolves.
The being he had thought so much above him, and in secret loved, had confessed her feelings. He was instantly lost to every thing but his love for her. Its hopelessness, its seeming treachery towards his new and generous friend, all were forgotten as he gazed upon Charlotte and returned her vows. And yet, what was this love, so pure, so unselfish, so unlikely ever to meet with reward? It rather lacked, even at its commencement, the rapturous intoxication of hope, and seemed, even at the moment of its mutual confidence, to partake of the bitterness of certain disappointment.
Whilst the various groups had been enjoying themselves in the grounds, the heavens had become gradually overcast, till one entire portion was mantled with the darksome veil now rapidly extending; distant rumbling peals, too, like the sound of heavy ordnance from afar, and large heavy drops of rain, gave notice of the coming storm. This, together with the renewed sound of music, warned the revellers around again to seek the shelter of the Hall, and, as Charlotte Clopton heard her name called, the lovers too felt that they must part. Yet still they lingered, and had more to say.
The voice of Martin, however, calling upon Charlotte, who had now been suddenly missed from amongst the guests, and sought for in the house, recalled them to the necessity of separating. Their parting seemed a sad one, and although the feeling of illness Charlotte had previously felt had now partially left her, she still felt a sensation of langour and a weight upon her spirits she could not account for.
Her lover observed this, and that her cheek, ordinarily so full of bloom, was deadly pale, giving her dark brown tresses a still darker shade, and he parted from her with an ill divining soul.
In his present frame of mind Shakespeare felt no longer any desire to witness the gaieties within doors, and yet he found it impossible to tear himself away from the gardens. He loved to breathe the neighbouring air, and as he listened to the music, he tried to fancy her he loved still adding to the grace and beauty of the assemblage.
Whilst he thus remained lost in his own thoughts, the threatened storm suddenly burst forth. The thunder crashed over head, and the lightning darted along the walks and alleys of the gardens, and then came the rain, rushing upon the earth like a cataract, suddenly bursting bounds.
These sounds were mingled with the tread of horses' hoofs as they clattered into the stable-yard, and then came a short and rapid word of command. A few minutes more and the music ceased; rapid and hurried footsteps were heard, as of guests suddenly departing, coupled with lamentations and sounds of alarm. The mirth of the assemblage seemed suddenly to have been marred, and their good cheer spoiled, and such indeed was the case.
In the very midst of the revel, and whilst the festive cup was drained around to the health of Sir Hugh and his fair child, that child had again been seized with illness and fainted.
Attributing it to the heat and excitement she had undergone, Sir Hugh bore her to her couch, and as she soon recovered from her swoon he again sought his guests.
When he did so, he observed that during his absence the party had been increased by the addition of some half a dozen cavaliers completely armed, and as he entered the room the chief of the party stepped up to him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Sir Hugh Clopton, of Clopton," he said, in a loud voice, "I arrest thee of high treason, in the name of our most sovereign lady the Queen."
The swift passage of events, and which it has taken some little time to record, has necessarily obliged us to omit mention of several minor characters of our story, but who, nevertheless, have been playing their parts upon the stage as well as those of greater note and import. Amongst others, Master Dismal, whose cue it seemed to ferret out all sorts of disagreeables and who seemed to batton upon horrors, had not failed to follow up the hint promulgated at the Falcon regarding the sickness which had appeared in the town.
At the period of our story the plague was no uncommon visitor in the different towns in England, and awful were the consequences of such visitation when it appeared.
In cases of this sort when some dire disease breaks out amongst the poor and ignorant, they generally at first conceal it. Struck with dismay, they yet resolve to doubt the suspicious appearance till confirmation of its reality drives them to disclosure.
The plague was indeed so much dreaded at this time, that those first infected were looked upon with as much horror and dislike as if they were absolutely guilty of its production.
The very suspicion of its appearance was sufficient to frighten the town from its propriety. The inhabitants withdrew from the businesses and pleasures of life like snails within their shells. Each feared his neighbour, and all around was distrust and dread. It was this fear, together with the unclean state of the town, and most of the houses in it, which made the pestilence so quick and be fatal in its effects. Evils, it has been said, are more to be dreaded from the suddenness of their attack than from their magnitude or duration. In the storms of life those that are foreseen are half overcome.
This disease, however, was in general as formidable and as difficult to get rid of in a town, as its coining was sudden and unexpected. It was like the wind which sailors term the tiffoon, pouncing upon the vessel like an eagle upon the prey, and paralyzing the victim at once.
Master Dismal had received intelligence of this visitation by an anonymous communication, written upon a dirty scrap of paper, and which had been one night thrown in at his window.
The scrawl was in such strange hieroglyphics, and so vaguely worded, that any other person beside himself would have failed in hitting upon its hidden meaning; but the busy-body had a peculiar facility in deciphering and discovering horrors. Nay, his visitations amongst his neighbours and townsfolk were generally looked upon by them as a sure harbinger of evil in one shape or other. He was a sort of stormy petrel in the town, a forerunner of danger and despair. He even loved to watch the progress of misery and disease, contemplating the ills mankind are subject to, with a philosophic eye.
If a whole family were to be swept off, his visits continued as long as the disease lasted amongst them; and he made his entrance and took his leave with the doctor.
In fact, it was his recreation to study the maladies and miseries "the poor compounded clay, man, is heir to." Accidents and wounds, and indeed every sort of infliction his neighbours were subject to, it was his humour to watch curiously,—nay, he was even interested in the sight of a felon's ear, nailed to the cart wheel, whilst a knave set in the stocks, or a vagabond whipped through the town, was a matter of reflection, and a spectacle to be hunted after: and when Dame Patch was placed upon the cuckin stool, and then ducked in the Avon for lying and slander, he was observed next day to pay her a visit of condolence, whilst some affirmed that he had even remained a whole week in her dwelling to offer her consolation in her distress.
In addition to these peculiarities, we need hardly mention that the funeral bell was at any time a grateful sound to his ears, seldom failing to call him forth from his home, whatever his employment might happen to be.
Then again he loved to contemplate a batch of dirty urchins, in all the enjoyment of mud and mire, freedom and mischief, revelling in undisturbed possession of the kennel or the road, and to speculate upon the chances against one-third of them reaching maturity, or their probable fate if they did so.
Following the clue given him by the anonymous communication, and which he had received a few hours before he announced the news it contained at the Falcon, he had made a search through the locality hinted at. The note, which was vaguely and notoriously worded, had pointed to some house in the suburbs; and, after duly calling over the different persona whom he considered likely to have been the writer of the billet, he fixed it upon a crazy, half insane fellow, living in a lone house in Henley Street.
Accordingly, when the shadows of evening descended, he went prying about, and peeping into all the windows, and listening at all the doors on either side that street. "Wat Murdake," he said to himself, "is a maniac,—a dangerous fellow at times, having fits of violence quite awful to look on. He killed his wife with a shoemaker's awl, pierced her ear when she was asleep,—at least, so it is said, and he confesses it even now in his ravings,—but that's nought. Many an old host that I know would be glad to do the same, if they dared, for the women do drive men to desperate deeds with that unruly member, the tongue. Wat Murdake is a dangerous fellow at times, and exceedingly mad always, but then he is pretty cunning, and keepeth a sure eye upon his neighbour. An I cannot find these plague spots, I will seek him and make inquiry, for 'tis good I saw into the matter at once.
"Ah! what's that I hear? A scream? No, it's only a child squalling, and the mother singing it to sleep with a merry song. There's no misery there. So pass we on to the next. What's that, a groan? No, it's a fellow practising on the bass-viol. All right I trow there; where musicis, contentment rests, and no plague. What's this?" he continued, listening at the next house, "lamentations and words of woe? No, it's man and wife quarrelling. Ah! and there they go to blows. There is no real misery there, but what they make for themselves; they've plague enough, but not the plague I seek. Pass we on again. What's here? the bones rattling? Yes, dicing, drinking, and brawl. It's not there. Itmaycome to that, but they don't beginso. There'll be death, perhaps, in the house, but it will be by violence,not disease—to-night, to-morrow, perhaps; who knows? And so Master Dismal passed on from door to door, taking his cue of good or ill from the employment of the inmates of the different houses. At length he came to a lone, squalid-looking hut, the last but one in the street, standing in its own untrimmed and neglected garden; a ruin with walls so rent as to shew one-half of its heavy-beamed rooms in a skeleton state; the remainder being patched up to expel the wind and rain, and reclaimed, as it were, in a slovenly manner, from the general state of decay. The toad sat and croaked in the long damp grass, and the lizard crawled over the muddy pathway to the door, as Dismal stopped and listened.
"This looks like business," he said, "I quite forgot this house of ill-omen. Ah! what a dirty-mantled pond in the garden! Here we have it, sure enough! there's no mistaking these sounds! Let me see, this is the residence of Smite Drear and his family, the most drunken, ill-conducted, dirty, evil-minded lot in all Warwickshire—the man a vile caitiff, a puritan whose tongue is ruin; the woman a slanderer also, and a termagant; the children thieves, liars, and imps of ill.I'm sure it's here;I know it's here; itmustbe here; itoughtto be here; itishere. Yea, and here itis, sure enough! If I could only get a peep into the interior, I should know in a minute. Let me see; where's my pouncet-box? Ah! there's another groan, and the sob of a female! I hear some one praying too; rather unusualthat, I trow. I must go in.But no, I cannotgetin, the door is fastened; I'll knock."
It was some time before the summons of Master Dismal was answered. But at last the owner of the hovel removed a broken shutter from an upper window, and thrusting out his head, growled a malediction upon the person disturbing him.
"Pass on," he said, "and trouble us not."
"I would crave permission," said Dismal, "to pay a visit on matters——"
"Cravenothing here," said Drear, "Seeknothing here. Sickness and death are within our doors: we are accursed."
"I would fain offer consolation, and observe the nature of your illness," said Dismal. "I would inform the leech, or even summonotheraid in your need."
"Who is it speaks?" said Drear, thrusting his head further out. "All, I see! Hence, screech-owl—bird of ill; hence, wretch, lest I come down and beat thee! Hence, hound, whose bark never boded aught but death to the sick man. We wanted but thy visit to make us certain of our fate."
So saying, Drear violently put up his shutter and withdrew.
"Ah," said Dismal, "you may talk, my master, till you've tired yourself. But I know all about it now. If I cannot getin, by my troth I'll take care to put a sign which shall hinder you from gettingout. Plague or no plague, I'll cause them to look in upon you who have authority to do so." So saying. Master Dismal took a large lump of red ochre from his pocket, and with considerable care marked up a broad red cross upon the door. He then, as he knew it was about the hour the watch passed, quietly withdrew to the opposite side of the street, and ensconsing himself behind the buttress of a wall, waited the event.
In a short time the watch came up; they passed Master Dismal where he stood without discovering him and then proceeded to the very end of the street. According to their custom (in making the rounds at night) they then halted, ordered their pikes, trimmed their lights, and stood at ease for a few minutes, ere they returned down the other side of the street; examining each door they passed by holding up the light they carried.
At the first tenement they found nothing extraordinary, the fellow who carried the light, which was a sort of cresset at the end of a bar of iron, held it aloft, and as its lurid glare fell upon the house, it displayed its walls clear as in open daylight. "All right, pass," said the head constable, and so they passed on to the next.
Here the constable carrying the cresset was merely about to raise it and pass on, when, as he did so, the whole party were arrested in speechless alarm by a sign they knew too well from former visitation. "The plague!" said the first, in a voice modulated almost to a whisper. "The plague!" said the second, "why I heard not of it before." "The searcher's mark," said the second, "I knew not that he had been sent out." "Advance your light again, Diccon," said a third, "and observe if the house be padlocked up." "I see no fastening," said Diccon, "and yet, 'tis the searcher's mark, sure enough; pass on, in heaven's name, comrades;" and on passed the watch, no longer with measured tread, but with accelerated and fearful steps, to inform the headborough of what they had seen: Master Dismal stealing after them in a state of the most exuberant glee at his own conceit and its success.
The spread of the disease, as was usual at this period, was extremely rapid. Indeed, it had risen to some height in the town before the authorities would consent to believe it really existed. In such cases, and in former days, precautionary measures were seldom thought of. Men drove off all thought of the evil; when they found it was really amongst them, or what they feared, they kept to themselves. At first they turned sulky under the infliction, if we may so term it, barring up their doors and deserting the streets; they avoided each other as much as possible, seeking air and recreation and forgetfulness by taking to the wastes and commons around. Leaving their homes by the back doors, they almost deserted the streets in search of the necessaries of life. As it grew worse the town seemed depopulated, even before the disease had time to work, so empty were its streets.
But a few days had passed since all the out-door sports and diversions of the age and the season had been in full play. Those gay and jovial May-day games, in the quaint mazes of the wanton green; those rural fêtes and diversions—the wakes and revels—the May-pole dances—the parties of pleasure—into the shadowy desert unfrequented woods, and which the peasantry of old were so fond of, all had ceased as it were on the instant. The human mortals feared each other, a secret dread—however each member of a family kept the native colour of his cheek—was in the heart of each. The very air seemed infected, and tho aspect of the town took a ghastly hue. It smelt of death, men thought. Business stopped in it. No markets were attended. No strangers passed through it. It was a place infected, avoided, accursed.
Meanwhile, as misfortunes seldom come but in battalions, Sir Hugh Clopton (even before he had heard of the appearance of the disease) had been arrested of high treason, and carried off to London with several other gentlemen of condition in the county, and who had likewise been mixed up in the confession of Master Walter Neville.
It is indeed hardly possible to describe the dire confusion which ensued upon this unexpected event taking place on the night of the feast at Clopton Hall. Sir Hugh himself was the only person of his household and family who seemed to retain his self-command. Walter Arderne would, at first, have fain struck down the Queen's officer and expelled his men. The faithful Martin was almost distraught. The serving men and retainers were scared and indignant at the same time; and the guests in a state of astonishment and dismay.
"Heed it not, my masters all," said Sir Hugh, "'tis a mistake altogether. I a traitor to our blessed Queen! pah. I would she had but such traitors in all her foes; methinks I know where this matter originates, and shall set it right upon examination."
"I hope so," said the officer; "Nevertheless, there is one other I am to secure within your household, but my people have just learnt he hath fled on our approach."
"In the name of Heaven," said Sir Hugh, "who else lays under this strange misconception?"
"A priest but lately come from over sea, commonly called Father Eustace," said the officer.
"Eustace!" said Sir Hugh, "why he was here but now. Is he too accused?"
"He is," said the officer, "and must, if possible, be apprehended; some of my party have followed on his trail."
"Any more of my family, household, or personal friends implicated?" said Sir Hugh, somewhat bitterly. "I trust I shall set my accuser, whoever he be, before my rapier's point, when I promise him such mercy as it affordsno more."
"I feel sorry to put any force upon you, Sir Hugh," said the officer, "especially before this goodly company, but my orders are peremptory, and I must convey you to Warwick to-night; to-morrow with all speed towards London."
"Nay," said Sir Hugh, "good sir, you but express my own wishes in this matter. To the Tower with me at once. An there be any limb or member o' my body found guilty of this sin—torture it: an the Queen find that my head hath entertained a thought against her—off with it: an my heart hath conceived treason—tear it out. To horse then in God's name, and let us put on without delay."
And truly did the good Sir Hugh bespeak himself, whilst most of the guests standing in amaze around, and, with tears in their eyes, beheld him made prisoner, and conveyed from his own domain. Under the circumstances in which he found himself, it was a great relief to the good knight that his daughter was saved from the grief and misery of seeing and taking leave of him.
The coming of the officers and the arrest of her father it was hastily arranged should be carefully concealed, and her attendants were enjoined to say that a sudden summons from the Queen had obliged Sir Hugh instantly to depart.
Meantime the faithful Martin undertook to remain in watchful attendance upon her, whilst Arderne, whose feelings would not permit him to stay behind, accompanied the party in charge of the old knight, and whom he swore never to leave till he was again at liberty.
"I will gain audience of the Queen," he said, "instantly, and not leave the Court until I know the vile traducer who hath thus denounced thee, uncle. Thou a traitor, indeed! Thou soul of honour, loyalty and truth! Treason hath no existence—no place to hide in aught where thou abidest."
And thus (as is oft the case in life) the scene became on the sudden overcast. At the moment of its brightness—the gaiety, the splendour, and the happiness of the party were dashed; whilst those who had met together with light hearts and fantastic spirits, dispersed with evil foreboding and slow and heavy footsteps.
In a party of this sort, in Warwickshire, it was customary oft-times to keep up the revel till dawn, whilst every nook and corner of the dwelling was made available for those of the guests who chose to remain afterwards.
With the good old English hospitality which despised form, Sir Hugh had previously arranged for many of his most intimate friends to stay a few days at Clopton and partake in the sport his preserves afforded. The dogs and falcons were to have been put in requisition, and the heronry and the thick covers around beat for game.
Indeed two or three did remain at Clopton the next day; not for the purpose of recreating themselves with the old knight's hawks, but from their anxiety about the illness of the fair Charlotte, and in the hope of seeing her re-appear from her room with renewed health.
Such, however, was not to be the case, as she grew rapidly worse, and it was found necessary to summon the leech from Stratford. Soon after his arrival, the faithful Martin, with a face of alarm, took upon himself to dismiss the guests. His charge, he said, was extremely ill. Her complaint was pronounced by the leech to be both infectious and dangerous, and under such circumstances, it was advisable for them to shorten their visit. "Neither should I be acting rightly," he added, "if I concealed it, although the rumour may possibly be without foundation, but I have just heard the plague hath broken out in Stratford."
Thus were the halls of Clopton—and which but a few short hours before had displayed such a scene of gaiety and revelling,—as suddenly changed to gloom and melancholy.
The domestics seemed to glide about with noiseless step, hardly having heart to arrange the different rooms, so that many of them were left in the confusion and disarray they had been in when the mirth of the party was so suddenly interrupted; and, if the succeeding day was fraught with melancholy, the night was filled with terrors. Strange and awful sounds were heard in some of the rooms. Sounds which none could account for or discover the meaning of, although, at first attributing them to natural causes, the domestics made search through those parts of the house where they had been heard.
Coming thus at a time of grief and misfortune, and following sickness and the rumours of so dire a disease as the plague, these sounds had an ominous and awful appearance. The domestics, much as they loved their employers, and commiserated them in their present distress, were so much scared, that several fled from the Hall to their own homes; and, as the mysterious sounds continued night after night growing more violent, and even extending from the part of the house to which they had at first been confined; with the exception of two or three of the upper servants, the numerous domestics of the establish meat had almost all deserted it.
The faithful Martin was sorely troubled. Living in an age when men's minds were easily affected by superstitious terrors, and a general belief existed in supernatural agency, he however possessed an uncommon degree of firmness and mental energy. At first he tried to laugh at the terrors and complaints of the different servants, as they brought continued reports of dreadful sounds existing in the western wing of the Hall, and where the secret hiding-places existed. Then, as his own ears confirmed their reports, he shut himself up, well armed, for a whole night in the apartments where the spirit was said to be most troublesome.
On this night, which was the third after the departure of Sir Hugh, the sounds were most terrific and awful. As if the evil genius of the house of Clopton was either rejoicing over the present state of the family, or impatient for their utter destruction, it seemed inclined to drive the inmates to despair by its violence.
Martin, having thrown himself upon the bed in the apartment we have before seen tenanted by the maniac Parry, was reclining in a half-dozing state, a couple of huge petronels in his belt and a drawn rapier upon tho table, when he was suddenly conscious of some one entering the room, and sitting down beside the bed.
As he had carefully locked the door he was in something surprised at this visitation; but suspecting that some influence from without was at work, and distrusting the Jesuitical priest Eustace, after a while he quietly and cautiously rose, and then leaping suddenly from the bed, confronted the supposed visitant petronel in hand.
To his astonishment, however, no person was there,—"He looked but on a stool." The door, which had been violently burst in, was still wide open, but no one was in the room besides himself. This was the more extraordinary as Martin was confident he had distinctly heard the person enter, and with swift step passing into the apartment, seat itself by his bedside. Nay, so quick and sudden seemed the visit, that though a bold and determined man, Martin had felt paralyzed and unable to move for the first minute or two. His heart beat violently; he was certain some one was within a few inches of him as he lay, and yet he could not move a limb; till at length, shaking off the feeling, he rose to confront the intruder. Pistol in hand, he looked in every part of the small room, "searching impossible places" in his anxiety. He then descended the narrow staircase, and looked into every nook and corner of the apartment beneath, but found not even a cobweb amiss.
Returning to his couch he re-fastened the door, trimmed his lamp, placed it in the chair beside his bed, examined his petronel, and again lay down with the weapon firmly grasped in his hand. "If there be any deceit in this," he said to himself, "and which I feel inclined to believe is the case, I will make sure work of it with the practiser. A bullet through his heart or lungs, will lay his ghostship in the Red Sea."
There had never been much good feeling in existence between the shrewd Martin and the priest Eustace. At the present moment the former held the Jesuit in especial dislike. He had a suspicion that the difficulties in which Sir Hugh was now placed, arose from some intrigues of the priest, whom he knew to be of an unscrupulous and designing nature. The present noises he conceived to be some contrivance of this iron-hearted bigot, in order to scare the servants of the establishment from that wing of the building, and he accordingly resolved to make a severe example of whoever he detected. This idea nerved him to so great a degree, that the extraordinary sounds he heard at first failed in completely frightening him. The situation, however, was not altogether a pleasant one. The silence, the loneliness, the dangerous illness of his favourite Charlotte, the peril in which the old knight was placed, all crowded themselves upon his imagination as he lay and watched.
For some time nothing occurred to disturb his melancholy reflections, reflections which at length took him from the present horror of the time; and led on to other thoughts, till, at length, the heavy summons of sleep began to weigh upon his eyelids.
At this moment the clock from the old tower in the stabling struck two. Scarcely had it done so when a distant whirling sound was heard; it seemed at first like a rushing wind stirring the trees in the shrubbery without, and steadily advancing towards the house. It increased in sound as it did so, till it appeared to enter the house, and rushing up the staircase with fearful violence the door again was dashed open with a tremendous burst, the lamp was extinguished at the same moment, and the room seemed filled with some strange and unnatural visitants.
Starting up at the moment of the door being burst in, Martin discharged his pistol full at the entrance, and at the very instant the light was extinguished. He then jumped, sword in hand, into the middle of the room, whilst a rushing sound, as of persons moving about, was all around him.
The darkness, added to the horrors of his situation, almost unmanned the bold Martin, and spite of his determined character his heart now beat violently and his hair bristled on his head. Nay, so impressed was he with the idea that some spectral beings were in the apartment, and even in his own vicinity,—nay, perhaps, that the enemy of mankind was at his very elbow and about to clutch him, that, as he uttered a hasty prayer for the protection of Heaven, he executed several furious backstrokes round the apartment, cutting a huge gash in the bed furniture, demolishing the back of an elaborately carved oaken chair, and bringing down a cumbrous mirror, smashed into a dozen pieces with as many blows. Indeed, the natural sounds of this ruin in some measure did away with the awe the supernatural noises had created. There is always some relief in action in such cases. The coward, for instance, makes use of his legs, in the midst of apprehension, the brave man takes to his arms, and as the strange sounds gradually subsided, seeming to traverse through the rooms below in their progress, Martin ceased from his exertions.
He was, however, now completely converted to the opinion of the domestics that there was something most strange and most unnatural in this visitation. He felt awed and struck with dread, and, lowering the point of his weapon, he stood in the centre of the apartment listening attentively as the noise passed through the lower rooms. "There is surely something in all this," he said to himself, "which is beyond my comprehension. 'Tis a sound of warning. I fear me some dire misfortune is in store. Peradventure Sir Hugh is dead: great Heaven, perhaps executed on the scaffold! Alas, my poor Charlotte! But no, it cannot be so. Heaven help us in our need, for we seem a doomed people here."
A deep sigh sounded close to his ears as he finished his soliloquy, so heavy, so long drawn, and so startling, that his blood curdled in his veins. He felt that he could no longer remain in the apartment, and hastily leaving it he descended the stairs, and opening the sliding pannel, passed into the rooms usually habited when Sir Hugh was at home.
Here he felt in something reassured, and groping his way to the door which admitted to the garden, he threw it open and sought relief in the free air.
The night was dark and a drizzling rain descended; he stepped on to the grass-plat and looked up at the apartment of his sick charge. A light was in the room, a pale and sickly gleam, which seemed to speak of watching and woe at that dead hour. As he passed beneath the window he thought he perceived a figure gliding away, but the night was too dark for him to be quite certain; still he felt sure that he had seen the outline of a form which, gloomy as was the night, he recognized.
"'Tis he, I feel assured," said Martin. "I cannot mistake that form, even so indistinctly seen, for there is none other like him. Alas! alas! 'tis even so. He watches her window even in such a night as this. I saw they loved each other from the first. Well, we are in the hands of heaven, and 'tis wrong to murmur. If our ills are reparable, to complain is ungrateful; if irremediable, 'tis vain. Whatever happens must have first pleased God, and most pleased him; or it had not happened. There is no affliction which resignation cannot conquer or death cure."
As Martin resigned himself to this comfortable doctrine he turned and re-entered the house.
The dawn was now beginning to break, and he resolved to knock at the chamber door of the invalid and make some inquiry after her.