The first grey tint of morning began to render objects in the room visible as he passed through it. There stood the spinnet upon which Charlotte had so lately played, the music-book open. There was her lute lying beside the music, and where it had been laid on the night of the party, and beside that lay the hood and jesses of her favourite hawk.
Whilst Martin regarded these remembrances of one now unable to use or enjoy them, a pang of grief shot through his heart, that sorrowful feeling with which we look upon the relics of the dead, and whom we have loved dearly when in life; and with that feeling came the conviction that she who once played so sweetly on that instrument, and so bravely wore those trappings of her gallant bird,—she, the young, the beautiful, was already parted perhaps for ever from the pleasures of the earth,—sick, prostrate, dying,—nay, even at that moment perhaps dead.
With heavy heart and evil foreboding he ascended the great staircase and sought Charlotte's room. His step was heard by the nurse who attended on the invalid, and gently opening the door she came forth to meet him.
The nurse was one of the old servants of the family; she was pale as death Martin observed as he advanced along the corridor. "We have had a fearful night," she said.
"But your charge?" said Martin, "I trust in Heaven she is better."
"Worse, Martin, worse," she replied; "worse than I can bring myself to tell thee. She is now asleep, but hath been delirious all the night."
"Now the gods help us," said Martin.
"Amen," said the nurse; "she hath raved much and talked wildly. To thee, Martin, I will confess it, she hath spoken much of one she loves."
"I dare to say so," said Martin, musing.
"But not ofhimof whom she should so speak," said the nurse.
"Not of him our good old master would like to have heard her speak in such loving terms. Mayhap I should surprise you were I to say on whom her affections seem fixed."
"I think not," said Martin, significantly.
"You think not?" said the nurse, "and wherefore?"
"Because I know her secret as well as if she had told it me," said Martin. "I have seen it from the first."
"Hark!" said the nurse, "she is again in one of those fits. Hear you that name, and thus called on."
"I do," said Martin; "'tis as I thought. May I see her? Methinks I cannot be satisfied till I look upon her sweet face, if but for a moment."
"Remain here whilst I go in, and I will then summon you," said the nurse. "Ah me, 'tis very sad!" and the nurse passed into the room, closing the door behind her.
Martin seated himself on the bench beneath the window at the end of the corridor, and as he gazed upon the portraits of the Clopton family hanging on either hand, his reflections became even more saddened. In that array of beautiful females and noble-looking cavaliers, how many died early! Amongst those scowling and bearded men of middle age, arrayed in all the panoply of war, how many had perished in their harness! There was Hugo de Clopton, the crusader, the fiercest of a brave race, who had smote even a crowned king in Palestine rather than brook dishonour. There was the templar, who had died at the stake in France, true to his vow; and Blanch Clopton, whom the lascivious John had solicited in vain, and who had been celebrated at tilt and tourney throughout Christendom as "La belle des belles."
Each and all of these portraits, it seemed to him, had a curious history attached to them—a sad and stern tale in life's romance—and as he sat and regarded them he thought upon their descendant now lying sick in their close vicinity—her father accused of treason and a prisoner, at a time so inopportune.
"Strange," he thought to himself, "that this family, so noble in disposition, so high in their sense of honour, should seem thus marked out and pursued by fate.
"'Tis true the good Sir Hugh hath been called, by the clergy of his own persuasion, but a luke-warm member of the true Church; an irreligious man.
"Nay, Eustace hath upbraided him with leaning towards heresy; and the Protestant churchmen at Stratford, again, hath accused him of being neither of the one religion or the other—altogether a heathen.
"These churchmen are both men, however, who wrangle and fight so much about religion, vice and virtue, that they have no time to practice either the one or the other; whilst the good Sir Hugh hath, during life, been so fully engaged in acts of benevolence, that saving the hours he hath spent amongst his horses and dogs, he hath indeed little leisure to think about such controversies."
Whilst Martin sat thus chewing the cud of bitter fancy, the old attendant returned to him. "She again sleeps," she said, weeping, and you may look upon her sweet face once more. "But oh, Martin, I fear me we are indeed in trouble; you will scarce behold that countenance, even yet so beautiful, without terror."
"Is she already so changed?" said Martin. "In the name of Heaven, what can be her complaint?"
"No noise," said the attendant, "but go in, and judge for yourself."
In a few moments Martin returned. Horror was in his countenance. "Her face is filled with livid spots!" he said. "We are indeed unhappy; she has caught——"
"The plague," said the nurse, as Martin hesitated, apparently unable to repeat the words. "The plague; 'tis even so, and she will not outlive this day."
"I will hasten to Stratford, and bid the leech again visit her instantly," said Martin.
"'Twere best," said the attendant, "be quick; but I fear me it is of little avail." And Martin, with fearful and hasty steps, left the corridor, and descended to the stabling of the Hall.
Besides Martin and the attending nurse, there was one other who watched with anxiety over the fate of the poor invalid, and who, albeit circumstances made it unpleasing to him openly to display the interest he felt, yet who sought in every way to gather some tidings of her state of health.
Amidst the general trouble in which the town was now involved, private griefs were less thought of, and consequently, although the inhabitants of the Hall were, by the good folks of Stratford-upon-Avon, known to be in some strait, whilst everybody was in apprehension for himself, commiseration there was little of, and intercourse there was none. Nay, the small remaining portion of domestics at Clopton had become so greatly alarmed by the visitation of the previous night, that they neglected their duties on this day, and remaining huddled together in the servants' hall, meditated altogether deserting the locality.
In addition to the supernatural sounds, they were now scared by a suspicion of the nature of the disease which had seized their young lady.
It was under such circumstances that, when Martin descended to the stables in order to dispatch a messenger for the doctor, he could at first find no one willing to undertake the message.
"I would willingly do anything I could to benefit the young lady," said one, "but I am about to leave the Hall."
"I cannot go into the town," said another, "for it is said that death is rife in its streets; and the folks are stricken as they walk. It would be a tempting of the disease an I were to run into it."
"Nay! we have had warning enough here," said another; "and albeit I respect Sir Hugh, I fear to remain, after what we have heard last night. Besides, if the truth must out, I believe the sickness hath come to Clopton; and folks must look to themselves. I have friends at Kenilworth, and I must seek them. They say too, that Sir Hugh hath been found guilty of a conspiracy against the life of the Queen, and I like it not."
"Hounds!" said Martin—"unworthy even to tend upon the generous animals you are hired to feed. Begone! pack—seek another roof, where you can batten on cold bits, and return kindness with base ingratitude." So saying, Martin saddled one of the steeds, and mounting himself, galloped into the town.
It is evening—damp, dreary, and heavy, like the day which has preceded it.
An unwholesome closeness pervades the air; a heavy drizzling rain descends from the clouds upon the earth, enveloping all around in a dense mist, which hides the surrounding scenery.
Leaving his home, the youthful Shakespeare takes his way across the meadows, in which our readers may remember to have first seen him in the opening chapter of this story. His step, however, is less buoyant, and his heart is heavier than on that occasion. The clouds, which drive steadily on, are not less gloomy than his presentiments. Sickness and misery are amongst the neighbours he leaves; sickness and sorrow are amongst those he seeks.
Yet still as that youth wends onwards, now crossing through the fern (laden and heavy with moisture,) now diving into the thick plantations which lead into the chase of Clopton, nothing escapes his notice. The crow, "as it wings to the rocky wood," in the thickening light,—the coney, as it flashes into the cover,—the darting lizard, as it disappears in the thick fern,—the stoat and weasel, as they pounce upon their prey in the brake, all are noted by him.
His mind was oppressed and desponding, but it was a mind which no circumstances could entirely destroy the elasticity of, even for a moment. "There is a pleasure in the pathless woods," it hath been said by a modern poet; and there is society where none intrudes. But perhaps the feeling of pleasure experienced amidst solitude and sylvan scenery is only really and intensely felt by men of extraordinary parts and poetical imagination.
The fairest glade, and the wildest haunts of the untamed denizens of the woods, it was young Shakespeare's great delight to seek out and ponder amidst.
At the present moment he felt that no locality would soothe the sadness of his thoughts so well as the leafy covert he was in.
Even whilst the heavy rain was pattering amidst the foliage, and dropping from the surcharged boughs; the air misty and moist; and the darksome glade rendered more gloomy by the murky atmosphere, there was indeed to his eye and mind, something fresh to be remarked around in the changeful hue of the herbs, plants, and thick foliage, as the driving clouds constantly varied them; nay (as we have said,) the gloomy and dull aspect of the wood at that moment better suited his troubled thoughts than a more bright and splendid scene.
Some slight intimation of the troubles of his friends at the Hall had reached him; he had received a hint of the arrest of Sir Hugh, and the absence of his friend Arderne. He also knew that the fair Charlotte was unwell; and naturally attributing her illness to the shock she had received at the arrest of her father, he hoped that a few days would restore her to health. Still a presentiment of evil, and which he conceived was consequent upon the unhappy state of the town in which he had lived, pervaded his mind.
He had occasionally visited the neighbourhood of the Hall, and made some inquiry after the inmates; but in the absence of the good knight, and his friend Arderne, he had not considered it consistent with propriety to introduce himself into the house, coming as he did from a place infected with the plague.
On this evening, however, he resolved to gain some more assured tidings of those he felt so much interested in; and after pondering upon the matter, he resolved to approach the hall.
There was a solitude and silence about the house, as he gazed at it from the belt of plantation by which he approached, that he could not account for. No smoke ascended, from those huge twisted chimneys; no sound (save an occasional dismal and long-drawn howl) came from the kennel. No person was to be seen, as of yore, flitting about, engaged in the numerous avocations of their daily duties. All looked dull and deserted.
He entered the court in rear, and proceeded to the stabling. The stables were for the most part empty, the steeds had been turned into the chase, and deserted by their attendants. He looked into the falconry; the hawks were upon the perch, and apparently well fed and attended to, for at that period a falconer would have as soon deserted his children as his hawks, but the attendants were at the moment absent; they had fled from the Hall, and located themselves in some out-buildings in the woods. As he entered the house, the same appearance of desertion struck his eye. He passed through a long passage, and gained the hall. There hung the old tattered banners, the unscoured armour, and the antlered heads of several large stags,—stags of ten,—all spoke of recent occupation and use. The cross-bow lay where it had been thrown a few days before; the thick hawking gauntlets and the dog-couples were mingled with whips and spurs, bits and bridles, and all themélangeof the chase and the country gentleman's occupation, but of servants or inhabitants there was no sign. He passed into the oak-pannelled room where he had first enjoyed the society of the family, and learned to love them for their worth. All looked desolate. The solitude and silence around made his presence seem an intrusion. The innate modesty of his disposition overcame his anxiety to hear tidings of the invalid. He felt as if prying into the secret sorrows of the owner of the mansion, and was about to withdraw, when the door opened, and Martin entered the room.
Martin started as he recognised the visitor, and a slight frown seemed to cross his brow. He was a curious compound, that man. He half disliked the youth for the virtues he at the same time admired in him, and which he saw had also won the love of the daughter of his patron, and which under no circumstance he considered could lead to a happy result,—now, however, all was at an end.
"Ah," he said, "artthouhere? Art thou come to Clopton when all else desert it?"
"My anxiety to learn tidings of the family hath made me an intruder on your privacy," said Shakespeare. "I hope——"
"We have no hope," said Martin; "and you are not wise in coming hither. Yon have surely heard of our misery. Charlotte Clopton is dying. Dying of the plague. The nurse has just caught it of her and sickens too. All have fled from the Hall."
A few moments more, and Shakespeare had sprung up the great staircase, and sought the chamber of the invalid, Martin hastening after him, and in vain urging him not to enter her room. "The disease is of the most malignant character," he said. "The leech hath left the house unable to do us any good. 'Tis but a tempting of Providence to enter the room. I pr'ythee have thought upon your own safety."
"Perish all thoughts of self and safety!" said Shakespeare, dashing his hat upon the floor as he entered the chamber. "O fairest flower," he said, "cut down and blighted in thy budding beauty, do I indeed behold thee again thus—so soon to part with thee for ever?"
He knelt down beside her bed, took her hand, and carried it to his lips.
Her long luxuriant tresses, which had escaped from the ribbon that bound them, covered the white pillow like a cloud, and half-concealed her face. She raised herself as she recognised the voice, and, parting her hair, gazes eagerly in his face. "Thou art come then," she said; "once more come? Oh, blessings on thee for it. I have wished for thee; dreamt of thee; called for thee; and thou art come at last to set mine eye. What happiness to look upon thy face once more—even in death! And yet," she said, as she held him from her, "there is danger in your being here, I heard them whisper to each other of the plague."
"Oh, believe it not!" said Shakespeare; "there is no sign of such disease about thee. Thou wilt live, dearest lady. Cast but from your mind these sad thoughts, and you will yet recover."
"Not so," said Charlotte; "I feel as if I had not many moments on earth, and yet I know I shall not harm thee, for I have beheld the story of thy life in my troubled dreams. I have seen thee unknown, unthought of, unhonoured in the world. And then I saw thee enshrined in such a blaze of glory as no mortal ever before attained on earth:—the wonder of ages to come. Thy very name alone, whispered in thy lowly home, William Shakespeare, will make bearded men weep. Yes," she continued, vehemently, "I beheld thy figure standing upon an eminence so high above thy fellow-mortals, that, though all were striving to ascend towards thee, none could come beyond the plain on which that mountain stood."
The tears fell from the youth's eyes as he buried his face upon the coverlid of the couch, and listened to what he considered the prophetic ravings of delirium; and then he again raised his head and gazed upon her. There were no traces of disease to be observed in that bright form as he did so. The subdued light of the chamber gave her the appearance of a marble monument. In the abandonment of her grief, she had raised herself on one arm, and her beauty seemed even more dazzling.
"'Twas beautyToo rich for use, for earth too dear."
"'Twas beautyToo rich for use, for earth too dear."
The livid spots, which had so alarmed the nurse and Martin, had disappeared from her face. Her rounded shoulder and bosom were like the sculptured alabaster—rendered yet more white and polished by the soft, dark tresses, by which they were partially covered.
"I would have lived for thee," she said, "to have but served thee; to have made the paltry riches I own, available to thy genius."
As she uttered this, she sank down sobbing upon the couch. Shakespeare, in an agony of grief, tried to raise and recover her, but she sank quickly into insensibility: and when he laid her down again upon her pillow, as he looked upon her, he saw she was dead!
Dead! but without the ghastly appearance which the grisly tyrant stamps upon his prey.
"Death, that had sucked the honey of her breath,Had yet no power upon her beauty.Beauty's ensign yetWas crimson on her lips and in her cheeks,And Death's pale flag was not advanced there."
"Death, that had sucked the honey of her breath,Had yet no power upon her beauty.Beauty's ensign yetWas crimson on her lips and in her cheeks,And Death's pale flag was not advanced there."
One week has elapsed since the events narrated in the last chapter. The house of Clopton is shut up, empty, deserted. The good Sir Hugh is again at liberty; but the seas flow between him and Britain. After having been examined by Lord Hunsden, Sir Christopher Hatton, and Sir Francis Walsingham, three members of the Privy Council, he was released from confinement. The conspirators, all excepting the priest Eustace, who had escaped, and through whose intrigues the good knight had become an object of suspicion to the Council, were condemned to death and executed in Old Palace Yard two days after. With eager haste, and tarrying at each post but to obtain fresh horses, Sir Hugh and Walter Arderne had (immediately on the release of the former) galloped as hard as spur and bridle could urge on their steeds towards Clopton. Unluckily they passed Martin in the night on the road near Oxford, as he was hastening towards London with the intention of breaking the news of Charlotte's death to them.
One letter had, in a measure, prepared the good knight to find his daughter dangerously ill; but as in those days, both the inditing and conveying a packet was a matter of considerable time and toil, letters were by no means so sure of coming to hand, or so speedily delivered as in latter times.
So that the unhappy knight arrived at the Hall to find desolation where he had left plenty. His house was shut up——his daughter dead. She had died of the plague, it was said; and with fearful haste, by order of the authorities of the neighbouring town, had been buried.
It far exceeds the descriptive power of our pen to paint the grief, horror, and despair of the good Sir Hugh and his nephew. For the moment they seemed stupified with excess of misery. They then threw themselves into each other's arms, and wept in their desolation, till the very violence of their grief in some sort relieved them.
'Tis extraordinary how the human mind, after a time, accommodates itself to the dispensations of Providence, however hard to bear. It was greatly in favour of the mourners that they had in each other subjects of anxiety. Each felt the hard lot of the other; and as each watched the deep sorrow of his companion, the very feelings and disposition to afford comfort, and urge patience and resignation, in some sort took from them the poignancy of their own feelings.
The old knight, after wandering about the house in a state of bewilderment for the first twenty-four hours after his arrival, became calmer, and seemed inclined to force himself to take an interest in his old occupations.
He visited, on the evening of the second day, the kennel and the falconry, accompanied by Arderne, and made the rounds of the different buildings and offices. Neither of them spoke much to each other, except an occasional word as they came upon some object of deep interest in connexion with her who was gone. "Look!" said Sir Hugh, as with quivering lips and tears rolling down his muscular cheeks and grey beard, he pointed to Charlotte's favourite hawk—a gallant bird, which sat and plumed itself upon its perch, "look!" said he, in tremulous accents——he could say no more; but in the utterance of that word what an agony of grief was expressed. Arderne, too, felt his chest heave, and the tears course each other down his cheeks, as he regarded the hawk. But the sight of the brave old knight struggling to master his grief for his sake, relieved the poignancy of his own sorrow. "Come, uncle," said he, "we must to the stables. Tarry not here. There is much to be looked after, and which wants your care. The attendants seem to have deserted their charge, and the stalls are for the most part empty;" and so they pursued their search around. When they came to the stable, if objects were wanting to produce the sharp pang of grief, here again they were to be found—objects peculiarly adapted to give the most intense feelings of sorrow, as they were associated with those accomplishments in his daughter, which the knight had held in the most estimation. There hung the gay trappings of her favourite steed, and there stood the steed itself, which the falconer had kept in its stall—a milk-white and perfect courser; and in the stable beside the manger, lay Charlotte's favourite hound—the dog, in her absence having apparently sought consolation in the companionship of the horse he had so often accompanied to the field.
The horse turned and neighed inquiringly, it appeared, to the old knight; and the dog shook himself clear of the straw, and bounding out of the stall, put his fore-legs upon Sir Hugh's breast, and seemed to ask for his mistress, and then it stood down, as if conscious of the fruitlessness of the query; and throwing up its great head, uttered a long melancholy howl.
The good knight regarded the dog for a moment in silence. He stepped up to the white steed; and as it put its nose affectionately in his face, he kissed it again and again. He then sought for his own saddle; and saddling and bridling the horse, he led it forth into the yard, followed by the hound.
As Walter observed the knight's movements, he quietly saddled his own steed, and they both set out together, and without a word took the road to Stratford. There was no necessity for Walter to inquire of his uncle their destination. He felt assured that the knight was about to visit his daughter's grave.
Although Sir Hugh had however endeavoured to resign himself to the decrees of Providence, and bear with fortitude the dire affliction which had visited his house, he found it impossible to pursue the usual tenor of his former life; the charm of existence seemed fled for ever—"life was as tedious as a twice-told tale." It seemed to him, that in the listless way in which he was pursuing his daily avocations, he was beginning over again. He rode forth without purpose, and pursued his route as chance or his steed directed.
Luckily this had been foreseen by a true industrious friend, one who, since the return of Sir Hugh to Clopton, had been sorely missed in his need by the good knight.
The faithful Martin, on his arrival in London, on finding that Sir Hugh had been liberated, and had returned to Clopton, was struck with dismay, inasmuch as he immediately surmised the shock the knight would be likely to receive on so immediately returning to his desolate home.
Sudden and quick in all his resolves, he sought out a friend at Court, and one who was under some little obligation to him for former services rendered. This was no less a person than Sir Christopher Hatton, a distinguished personal favourite of the Queen; a gentleman who owed his rise absolutely to his exceeding good gifts in the elegant accomplishment of dancing, and who walking into favour by a corranto, gradually gained ground in her Majesty's further affections by his activity in the galliard, capering higher and higher into the Royal estimation at each subsequent demivolt, till he successively attained the posts of Gentleman Pensioner, Captain of the Guard, Vice-Chamberlain, and Lord Chancellor. This gentleman, who (notwithstanding the oddness of his rise) was in reality a man of most amiable disposition, possessed a mind less biassed by the prejudices of his age than most of his contemporaries; and this most estimable man the faithful Martin sought out.
"Sir Hugh Clopton," said Martin, "hath been badly used in this matter; and inasmuch as his arrest and absence hath in some measure, by removing him from the government of his house at a time of sickness and distress, caused him much misery, the which his presence and management might have possibly obviated. I think the Queen is bound to shew him some sort of assistance in his great grief."
"Doubtless," said Sir Christopher, who was at that moment engaged in arranging a quick measure for the viol-de-gamba, and which he meant to adapt some exceeding curious steps to at the masque given by the Templars to Her Majesty on that very night, "doubtless, good Martin. Only shew me in what way I can serve the good knight Sir Hugh, and look upon it as done."
"Why look ye," said Martin, "Sir Hugh is a man having as great excellence is his arms as you, Sir Christopher, are so celebrated for in the legs. Now if you could intercede for him with Her Majesty, so that the good knight might be appointed to some command in the Low Countries, the violence of action might do away with the poignancy of his grief, and force him from his home."
"I fear me this is rather a delicate matter to broach unto Her Majesty," said Sir Christopher.
"And yet," said Martin, "consider the miserable condition of this poor gentleman: make it your own case. Think, Sir Christopher, if you was to be bereft of all—of favour, fortune, influence at Court."
"Sir Hugh hath lost nothing of all this," interrupted Sir Christopher. "He hath lost no fortune and favour and influence at Court: he never had or sought for either the one or the other."
"But he hath lost his child," said Martin, "which is all these to him."
"In my case," said Sir Christopher, "I shouldnotconsider myself so utterly miserable were I to lose all you have mentioned. As long as I am lord of this presence," he continued, looking at the reflection of his exceeding handsome face in the mirror, and then regarding his well-turned leg and small foot, "I should not lack advancement. There are other Courts besides the Court of Elizabeth—other lands besides Britain—where a man's good gifts might be properly estimated;" and as Sir Christopher said this, he threw out his right foot, and pointed his toe with grace and effect.
"And there it is," said Martin; "bereft of favour and fortune, you would still have something to fall back upon, Sir Christopher. But how if a sudden twist were to dislocate that slim ancle, and the joint were ever after to be like the callous hock of a foundered steed? How then would you push your fortune?"
"Nay, then I should be utterly discomfited," said Sir Christopher, laughing; "foundered in good earnest—toe and heel—hip and thigh."
"And such is the condition of Sir Hugh," said Martin, "unless we can give a fresh fillip to his depressed spirits, and teach him to forget his griefs; he will despair, and despairing, die."
"I see the urgency of the matter," said Sir Christopher; "Her Majesty may lose a good blade in the stout knight, were he to die of grief. He hath received wrong, but he shall have speedy redress. Come to me to-morrow, good Martin—early, good Martin—my life upon it, I will in some sort content you."
Accordingly, a few days after Sir Hugh had returned to his desolate home, and when he was beginning, even more than at first, to feel the sense of his utter loneliness, and the heaviness of his irreparable loss, Martin unexpectedly returned, and, full of apparent haste and the urgency and importance of his business, presented a sealed commission from Sir Christopher Hatton.
The good knight was seated in the old oak-panelled room, where we have first introduced him to our readers. His viol-de-gamba was in his hand, and he was listlessly executing an air which was a favourite with his daughter.
Those who have heard the tones of this obsolete instrument will readily remember its silver sweetness—tones which seemed peculiar to the age, floating with a delicious softness through those old apartments, and seeming, as they filled hall and corridor, to die away in echoing vibration; so soothing and so melancholy; so well adapted to soften the poignancy of the old man's grief, that, as he finished the measure, the tears coursed one another down his cheeks. Martin (who had stopped to listen to the strains for a moment) as the old knight laid down his bow, immediately stepped up to him and presented his packet.
The first meeting of the friends, as Martin had surmised, caused considerable emotion to both; but Martin concealed his own feelings under an affectation of despatch, and dashing the tear from his eye, bade the knight peruse the packet with which he had been entrusted, without delay.
"From whom and whence?" said Sir Hugh. "Methinks I had rather defer matters of business till another opportunity. There be many sealed letters I have received the last two days now lying in the hall, and which I have no heart to open or peruse; for what have I to do with affairs of the world? what interest have I in life or its businesses?"
"Nevertheless," said Martin, "this commission must be read, inasmuch as it cometh from one whose behests are to be obeyed. 'Tis from the Queen; and if I mistake not, Her Majesty requires your instant employment in her service. There is work to be done with spur and rapier, and you must undertake it."
"Nay then," said the knight, whose ardour was in a moment aroused at the prospect of military duty, "there never yet was a Clopton found wanting when he should serve his sovereign in the field: mine eyes are somewhat dim, good Martin, peruse the letter, and give me the substance of its contents."
"In how long a time," said Martin, after glancing at the letter, the contents of which he well knew, "can you be ready to set forth from hence, good master mine?"
"As soon as steed is saddled and led forth, and weapon girded on, I am prepared to mount," said Sir Hugh, "what other preparation doth a soldier want, good Martin?" "Alas!" he continued, looking round, "I have now nothing here to take leave of; nothing to care for. In the world I am nothing, and unless Her Majesty's services require continuance of my life, 'twere better I were gathered to my forefathers." Thus then was Sir Hugh, through the instrumentality of Martin, dispatched forthwith to join the expedition under the Earl of Leicester against the Spaniards. He came up with the Earl just as he had sat down before Zutphen, where the circumstance of war and the bustle of the camp, in a great measure alleviated the sorrows of the good old man.
With Walter Arderne, however, Martin had a more difficult part to play. He thought it wise to separate the uncle and nephew, because the constant sight of each other only served to remind them of their loss.
He therefore, after the knight's departure, urged upon Walter the necessity there was for his not wearing out his youth in shapeless idleness. "There be many ways for a man to rise to distinction in the world at the present moment," said Martin, "and let ambition be now your mistress, good Walter."
"Alas!" said Arderne, "thou canst not feel for me, good friend, because thou hast never felt the desolation I feel. Ambition and all other passions are dead within me."
"Go to," said Martin. "Men that liveinthe world must beofthe world. The health of the mind is of far more consequence to us than the health of the body. The Ardernes were never yet drivellers. Go forth, man, like your forefathers. I in some sort feel anguish of mind, as well as thou; but I give not way to it. Afflictions are sent by Providence. Let your head contrive and your hand execute, and you will forget your particular griefs in blows given and taken; nay, the time is coming when we shall all have to belt on the brand—that I foresee plainly enough. The Spaniard despises all other nations except the English; we have the honour of his hate because he cannot despise us; and we shall shortly feel the weight of his whole force against us. Of that you may rely."
"And whither, then, would you have me go?" said Arderne. "You objected to my accompanying my uncle; what course do you point out for me, so poor in spirit?"
"Why, look ye," said Martin, "there is an expedition now about to set sail for the purpose of attacking the Spaniards in the Indies. Men's mouths were full of it when I was near the Court. Two thousand three hundred volunteers, besides seamen, are enrolled under Sir Francis Drake. The success of the Spaniards and Portuguese in both Indies, and the wonders seen in these islands, have influenced the imagination of all men of spirit; an I were you, I would join this expedition,—see this new world and its strange inhabitants, and witness the matters said to exist there."
"And when would you have me to depart?" inquired Arderne.
"What time is better than the present?" said Martin. "How long doth the soldier require to get under arms, when he receives the order to fall in?"
"Methinks," said Arderne, "I have many places to visit and take leave of, ere I can quit them, perhaps for ever."
"Take no leave of them at all," said Martin. "When you return, they will be fresh and fairer in your eyes."
"I have one friend, amongst the many I care not to see again, whom I must see and take leave of," said Arderne; "one whom I would fain spend some time with ere we part."
"Know I him?" inquired Martin.
"You have seen him often," said Arderne, "but you know him not. She who is gone knew him and valued him. 'Tis of her I would speak with him."
"'Twere best not," said Martin; "but (sith I do know the friend you speak of,) I cannot object. There is a kind of character in him I never found in other men. To part with such a one without seeing again is, I grant ye, hard. I give ye one day to spend with your friend, and then you must promise to depart for London."
"I promise it," said Arderne, who already felt relief from being, as it were, driven into action,——"I promise it, good friend, and the day after to-morrow I will depart from Clopton,——depart, perhaps, never to return."
"Good!" said Martin; "well-resolved and resolutely! I expect great things of this expedition, and thy conduct in it. You are just the age to adventure. In youth, we are apt to trust ourselves overmuch; and others too little when old. At thy time of life thou art just between the two extremes. The proper season for action;ergo, thou wilt thrive."
It was evening when this conversation took place at Clopton, and gloom and melancholy still reigned supreme there. Perhaps the feelings of Martin and his young friend were even more depressed, inasmuch as they had a melancholy task to perform ere they left the place.
The good old servant, who we have before seen in attendance upon Charlotte, either from over-exertion or want of rest, had fallen sick just before her charge died. It was supposed at the time that she had taken the plague; such, however, was not the case, as she lingered on for some days after the young lady's death, and died at last, apparently of grief for the loss of her favourite mistress.
Before the death of this old domestic, she had requested of Martin that she might be buried in the vault with her beloved young mistress: and the request having been acceded to, this very evening was fixed on for the funeral. Arderne paced up and down the room (after the conversation we have just recorded) for some time in silence. He then turned to Martin. "I have been thinking deeply of what you just now urged to me," he said. "The force of it is so impressed upon my mind, that I am resolved at once to take my departure from Clopton. The place seems, since my resolve, to be hateful to me. To-night I will go forth; for since this matter has gone so far, I cannot bear again to sleep at Clopton."
"'Tis well," said Martin; "just as I would advise."
"And this friend?" said Arderne, "in whom I am so much interested. Thou likest him not, or I would bid thee tell him in how much I feel desirous of serving him; and that I commend him to thy especial favour."
"How know you I like not that youth?" said Martin. "I never said so, did I?"
"I surmised it from your manner," said Arderne. "You seemed to look askance upon him, as it were."
"Perhaps I had my own reasons for such seeming," said Martin; "and if I had so, those reasons are now naught. There is no farther cause for them. Believe me, he you call your friend, is one who, if I mistake not, will some day rise to great eminence. And he live to any age, the world will hear something of him, for he hath the brains of half a score of us common mortals, with all his modest look, and beardless cheek."
"Then to you I will intrust the task of saying farewell to him," said Arderne, "for, methinks, on reflection, it will but aggravate my feelings to see him again, since I am so suddenly to depart."
"Be it so," said Martin; "I accept the office."
"In one hour, then, we will say adieu, good friend," said Arderne, wringing Martin's hand. "This night I would fain dedicate to her we both loved; to-morrow shall find me far from Clopton."
It is night, and the moon sheds a pale and sickly light over the silent streets of Stratford-upon-Avon, and the surrounding meadows and woodlands.
Is it that the idea of pestilence and death being rife in that silent town gives its streets so sickly and melancholy a look—a sort of unnatural and unwholesome glare—or is the surrounding air, impregnated as it seems with disease, of a more rarified and peculiar character?
The square, thick-ribbed, and embattled tower of the guild of the Holy Cross, with its Norman windows and grotesque ornaments, alone looks dark in shadow. The streets and windows of the various houses seem to glance white and spectral. The tower of the distant church hath a ghastly look, and the very tombstones of the dead seem also more white and ghostly; whilst a thick mist from the river rises like a cloud in the background.
Silence reigns supreme. Not a breath of wind stirs the foliage of the trees upon the margin of the river, or bends the long dank grass growing amongst the graves.
Suddenly the distant sound of a horse's hoof-tread disturbs the deep silence, and a solitary horseman, riding through the deserted streets of the town, approached the churchyard, and dismounting, after fastening his steed, entered it.
He takes his way slowly and with measured tread towards a vault attached to the church. His cheek is pale and haggard, and the large round tears course one another down it. It is Walter Arderne; he has come to spend the last hours he intends remaining in the vicinity of Stratford, beside the vault containing the remains of his beloved Charlotte.
The plague which raged in Stratford this year was now at its height. Already one-fifth of the inhabitants had fallen victims; and it was the custom, as much as possible, to bury the dead unobserved at night.
The remains of the domestic who had died at Clopton Hall were to be buried on this night after midnight; and as Walter Arderne knew the hour, he had preceded the corpse, intending to descend into the vault and gaze upon the remains of her he had so loved in life.
His feelings were, indeed, at the moment, wrought to a pitch of intensity. He felt that he could scarcely wait with patience for the coming of the body and the opening of the vault, so eager was he to descend.
"O Time," he said, as with folded arms, he stood gazing at the dark grating of the vault, "thy wings are of lightning in our pleasures; but thou creepest with feet of lead to the sorrowful and weary. And yet thou, who dost constantly move onwards, overcoming all things in thy flight, wilt at last conquer even death itself; thou, most subtle and insatiable of depredators, wilt at last take all."
A heavy rumbling sound interrupted the meditation of the mourner. It was the vehicle containing the body of the domestic from Clopton, and which, in its progress, had gathered up other bodies in the town on that night to be interred.
The ceremony was performed without the usual formalities, and in all haste. Walter drew aside as the buriers, preceded by the sexton, approached and opened the vault. They ignited their torches previous to descending the flight of steps, and when they did so a cry of horror and alarm proceeded from the sexton, who had first entered the vault, and he rushed out, whilst those who had followed seemed equally horror-stricken. They threw down the corpse, after a glance at the interior, and fled.
Walter, who had quietly followed, was struck with dread. He stopped, and taking up one of the torches, descended into the vault; when a dreadful sight presented itself,—a sight which, as long as memory held a seat in his brain, remained there.
The vault was situate deep below the surface. On hastening down the steps Walter held his torch on high, and when about half-way its rays fell upon a figure, which, like some sheeted ghost, leant against the damp walls.
Arderne was brave as the steel he wore, but at first he stopped and hesitated, whilst the door of the vault closing behind him added to the horror of the situation.
As he continued to regard this startling object, the light becoming more steady, he recognised the features of the figure.
"Oh!" he said, "do I behold aright, or do mine eyes play false?"
With horror in his features he approached nearer, and became confirmed in his first suspicion. It was Charlotte Clopton. She was dressed in her grave-clothes, as she had been consigned to the tomb. She appeared to have been but a short time dead, and in the agonies of despair, hunger, or, perhaps, madness, consequent upon the dreadful situation, she had bitten a large piece from her round white shoulder.
When the buriers of the dead returned, somewhat reassured by collecting all their number together, they found Walter in a swoon, with the body of Charlotte fast locked in his embrace. Separating them, they replaced the body in the coffin, and conveying Walter to upper air, closed up the vault for ever.
As the day broke, a tall cavalier rode slowly out of Stratford. The raven plumes of his hat almost shadowed his pale face, and his ample riding-cloak completely enveloped his form.
He reined up his steed as soon as he had cleared the suburbs, and gazed long and fixedly for some time at the handsome spire of the church. He then turned his steed, dashed the spurs into its flanks, and galloped like a madman along the Warwick road.
It is extraordinary how speedily the human mind recovers its elasticity after being bent down to the earth, as it were, with the weight of care.
Let the reader glide over some four or five months from the date of the transactions we have first narrated, and again look upon Stratford-upon-Avon. No trace remains of the deadly scourge which had so recently raged in the town; nay, even but small remembrance is to be observed in the visages or trappings and suite of the surviving citizens (now again mixing in the business of life and the pleasures of the world) of those relations and friendsput to bed with a shovel. The fact was, that the plague was a constant visitor at this period, and fear of infection the bugbear of the time.[4]The visitation, however, being over, the inhabitants came forth again with renewed zest. They fluttered about like "summer flies i' the shambles," and sunned themselves in the anticipation of brighter days to come. It seemed quite a delight to walk the streets, where all looked so happy and contented. And yet how small indeed is the portion of life really and truly enjoyed by the poor compounded clay, man! Youth refuses to be happy in the present moment, and looks forward to future joys, never perhaps to be realized. Old age, again, takes a backward glance, and sighs over what has passed; whilst manhood (which appears to be occupied with the present moment) in reality is oft-times forming vague determinations for happiness at some future period when time shall serve.
Master Dismal had experienced a perfect state of contemplative contentment during the recent visitation; he might now sit himself down and retire for a space, he thought; his researches had been most incessant, and his attendance upon his neighbours most praiseworthy; he could almost have written a treatise upon all he had beheld and studied; he had seen out no less than three sapient doctors during the progress of the plague, and could indeed, from his gathered experience, have himself practised the healing art as well as the remaining one. Now, however, that his vocation was over, for the present at least, and the inhabitants full of enjoyment, he determined to enjoy himself amongst them. It was exactly the twelfth day after Christmas-day that the thread of our story is resumed. A sort of village festival was held at the hamlet of Shottery, about a mile distant from Stratford-upon-Avon, and as several of Master Dismal's neighbours were hieing thither with light hearts and joyous spirits, thither he bent his steps also. "Who knows what sports may be toward?" he said, as he called for Lawyer Grasp and Master Doubletongue, on his way. "Peradventure I may be of some service; for albeit I do not wish to anticipate accidents or offences, the last wake I was present at, which was at the shearing-feast at Kenilworth Green, there were more heads broken by the lads of Coventry and Warwick than I can tell you. Nay, Dick, the smith, got such a fall at the wrestling, that he never joyed after. Yes, he, died in three weeks. Aye, and Ralph Roughhead had his spine wrenched by the back trick."
In Elizabeth's day, when the bold peasantry of England did recreate themselves, their sports and pastimes were most joyous. Except in such a case as we have just described, and in which the hand of sickness bore them hard, their hearths were for the most part free from the withering cares of our own improving times. Light-hearted and jovial, they kept up the old world sports and pastimes which had been handed down from their forefathers. Those quaint games and rural diversions so frequently carried on in the green fields and bosky woods. Those cozy fire-side diversions which extended alike from the cottage ingle neuk to the manorial hall and the castle court.
Many of the popular customs then in use had their origin in remote antiquity. The well-known custom of making presents upon New-Year's-day in England is as old, for instance, as the period in which the Romans sojourned in Britain, and by whom it was introduced amongst us. Amongst the Saxons the first of the new year was observed with great ceremony and hilarity, and in the reign of Alfred a law was made that the twelve days following Christmas-day should be kept as festivals. This is the original of our twelfth-day feast, and which, in Elizabeth's reign, and long afterwards, was kept with something more of jovial circumstance than is now customary. For what says Herrick—