William Shakespeare as he lived Part 21

"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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble-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 n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances 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 ingrat.i.tude." So saying, Martin saddled one of the steeds, and mounting himself, galloped into the town.

CHAPTER XXI.

DOMESTIC AFFLICTIONS.

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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed through a long pa.s.sage, 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 the _melange_ of the chase and the country gentleman's occupation, but of servants or inhabitants there was no sign. He pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstance he considered could lead to a happy result,--now, however, all was at an end.

"Ah," he said, "art _thou_ here? 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."