"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 beauty Too 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 yet Was crimson on her lips and in her cheeks, And Death's pale flag was not advanced there."

CHAPTER XXII.

BEREAVEMENT.

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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociated 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 a.s.sured 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 fort.i.tude 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 bia.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance 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 should _not_ consider 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.