He was no perfect mortal, and to say that he could look coldly upon the glorious creature before him, would be to belie his nature. He could no more do so than he could have "held a fire in his hand by thinking of the frosty Caucasus." His finer feelings, however, rendered that unprotected female as safe whilst beneath his roof, as if she had been guarded by a host. He seated himself again beside her, and an he calmly and kindly regarded her exquisite form, whilst he again spoke, a bright and pure beam of divine expression was on his bearded face, an expression, which diffused a calm feeling of happiness and contentment over the soul of her who beheld it.

The long crushed spirit of the lady felt the influence of his presence.

"That I had in my ignorance of your s.e.x somewhat overtaxed your strength during our journey," he said, "the result has shewn, since on our reaching London, you was seized with an illness which nearly cost your life."

"I remember nothing," said the lady, "after our arrival at the hotel of the Globe."

"Unluckily," said the poet, "it happened that some seamen who disembarked but a few days before had brought the plague into that neighbourhood. That disease in London is usually so dire in its effect, that, for mere suspicion, the inhabitants act as if for surety. Your ship-boy's semblance, and your illness, gave the host of the tavern a suspicion that you was infected, and he expelled us from his door. Nay, such was the rapidity with which the alarm travelled, that I found it impossible to procure a shelter for you in that neighbourhood; and it was whilst conveying you, still insensible, to the water-side, that I became suspicious of your s.e.x. This discovery increased the difficulty of our situation, till I recollected an asylum in which I could safely carry you, and e'en procure the a.s.sistance of medicine. I remembered an old poor man, one so needy, starved, and miserable, that I had oft-times sought, and alleviated his condition. Nay, grat.i.tude had prompted me so to do, since, in my own need, and when, alone and friendless, I first sought this town, he himself befriended me. To the habitation of this man, who indeed, possesses considerable skill in leechcraft, I conveyed you, and to his care, attention, and skill, for night and day did he watch over you, are you indebted for your life."

"And whilst yourself also cared for me," said the lady, "still fearless of the tyrant fever with which I was burnt up; nay, you have since removed me hither, and so continued to guard over me. And all this in favour of one alike hopeless and friendless."

"Such circ.u.mstances, lady," said the poet, "should in themselves alone suffice to enlist me in your service. But come," he continued, "we will no more of this. A letter I have just received from my sometime home, in Warwickshire, gives much of news. I have unfolded to you so much of my history, that I may now further inform you there is hope of once more revisiting the friends I left whilst in trouble and disgrace."

"This is, indeed, pleasing intelligence," said his companion. "My own destination is in that neighbourhood."

"To guard over you till I can safely convey you amongst those friends you have hinted at," said Shakespeare, "is my wish; nay, our exertions, and the generosity of a n.o.bleman, my friend, has enabled me to complete a purchase I had in contemplation--a share in the neighbouring theatre here. I have also another play toward, and should it succeed in the represental, I will then attend on you with all true duty."

"But your letter?" said the lady; "pardon my seeming curiosity. In happier days I have owned friends in the neighbourhood of your home.

Speaks it of any resident around Stratford-upon-Avon?"

"It does," said Shakespeare. "It is from my father, and gives much gossip of the locality. Amongst other matter it informs me of some difficulties a gentleman, my friend, has fallen into."

"And his name," said the lady, "is Walter Arderne?"

"The same," returned Shakespeare.

The lady's face immediately became crimson, and then deadly pale. "And how then hath Walter Arderne fallen into difficulties?" she inquired.

"Methought I heard from you, during our journey, that he had succeeded to great wealth."

"It was even so," said Shakespeare, "but I fear I am again taxing your strength. You look somewhat pale."

"'Tis nothing," said his fair companion. "Proceed, I beseech you, I am most anxious to know of the welfare of this Arderne."

"The young man, then," continued Shakespeare, "it appears by the story, after coming into possession of this fortune, and many parks, and walks, and manors, in England, hath busied himself in various acts of goodness.

Amongst other things he hath built alms-houses, hospitals, for the use of the afflicted."

"To such a one," said the lady, "fortune should ever belong; but to your story. What more of this Arderne? Methinks I am overfond to hear of so much generosity."

"There is little more to tell," said Shakespeare. "The sums he hath bestowed and the various charities he hath endowed, have involved him in difficulties. His virtues have served him but as enemies. Nay, he seems, I am grieved to say, on the brink of ruin; for, in addition to all I have enumerated, it appears he hath expended large sums during the invasion of the Spaniard, both in fitting out numerous ships, and enrolling and embodying men, all which vessels, through his desperate valour in leading them into the hot encounter, have been either destroyed or returned to port rent and beggared."

"Nay, but," said the lady, "I am still in ignorance how this could possibly involve Walter Ardene in ruin. The fortune he inherited would have borne all this, methinks, and much more, without endamagement."

"Truly so, lady," said Shakespeare; "but it hath suddenly transpired that Walter Arderne is not the lawful heir. A caitiff wretch, named Grasp, and whose ferrit eyes and evil spirit are always seeking mischief, hath, by dint of searching over worm-eaten deeds and musty parchments, hunting out tombstones, and manufacturing pedigrees, somehow found a nearer relation; and all the sums Master Arderne hath expended since the hour he came into possession, the law will enforce him to refund. This, together with the suits he is involved in, will go nigh to ruin both himself and his good uncle, Sir Hugh Clopton."

"And this nearer kinsman!" said the lady. "Does your information extend so far as to name the person of such claimant?"

"'Tis one who is the friend of a powerful n.o.ble," said Shakespeare, "of one whom it is dangerous to speak of in other terms but those of respect."

"Methinks I can name him," said the lady. "It is one whose unbounded stomach and high ambition long soared towards a crown by marriage; one whose evil disposition would halt not to obtain power or riches, magnificent as his fortune already is. The Earl with the dark countenance and gloomy soul--he whom Suss.e.x calls the Gipsey; the dangerous Leicester."

"The same," said Shakespeare.

"Nay, then, an Walter Arderne hath that n.o.ble for an enemy, let him beware the cup, as well as the law, for Leicester is sure to succeed by fair means or foul. He is the most successful dealer in poison in the kingdom."

"Would to Heaven," said Shakespeare, "some help might be found; for the strait this generous man is like to be driven to sorely oppresses him!"

"Let it no longer do so," said the lady. "Continue to inform me of the progress of events; I will be warranty for his safe extrication from all his difficulties."

Shakespeare looked surprised; but he forbode remark; and soon after this conversation retired to his own lodging.

After the interview, the poet reflected deeply upon the conversation which had taken place, and as he did so, many things which had not previously struck him forced themselves upon his mind regarding his mysterious friend, and which now enabled him in some sort to pluck out the heart of her mystery.

During the time he had watched over her during her illness, and the delirium consequent upon it, she had uttered names which recalled former pa.s.sages of his life. She had called upon Charlotte Clopton, and bade her leave the horrid charnel-house in which she had been entombed alive, and even named localities familiar to him in his native county.

These things, whilst they contributed to elucidate her story, more deeply interested him. He saw she could appreciate a true heart and bold spirit in man, and could love with all the truth and innocence of a Juliet. There was in her no false pride or prudery, but unconscious of her own excellence, she was indeed one of those bright creatures so often bestowed where they are unvalued. Had such a one fallen to his own share, he thought, how would he have worshipped! But such was not to be.

He who was the gentlest, the n.o.blest of mankind, was not to be so companioned. His course was steered, at this period, alone. For him, high birth and bright excellence should have been reserved, because he so well could have appreciated them.

There was, however, to be observed in this singular female a sort of character which even more interested him than her radiant beauty. With all her amiability, she possessed a determination of purpose, which made it impossible to control her designs. From what he could fathom of her intentions and her story, she seemed only anxious to confer or secure some important benefit to the individual she loved, and then to retire from the world, to enter some convent abroad, "and be for aye in shady cloister mew'd." And so, as the poet sat and thought over these matters, he again seized his pen, and wrote.

CHAPTER LV.

ILL WEAVED AMBITION.

The machinations of Pouncet Grasp had not been without their due effect.

His evil disposition was as great as his industry, and his very face and form, twisted and contorted as both were, proclaimed the mind of the man as plainly as if he had carried a window in his breast.

Few specimens of the human countenance presented indeed less of the divine about it than did that of the Stratford lawyer. The term _ugly as sin_ might, in verity, have been applied to him, for, when he was hatching any particular piece of rascality, the working of his features gave him a diabolical look.

Not only had he succeeded in his design of weaving a web about Walter Arderne, and getting incarcerated within the walls of a prison for debt, but he even managed, by some strange underhand practice, to bring him under the suspicion of the Queen's council for treasonable matter. And yet, with all this malignancy of disposition, Grasp carried about him such an air of _bonhommie_ that, until he was found out, he was seldom distrusted. After he had, by the most careful approaches, (like a spider securing a victim in his web, who is too powerful to be openly attacked), fairly enmeshed Walter Arderne, he turned his thoughts upon his old Stratford enemy, William Shakespeare, and, whose whereabout he now had little difficulty in discovering, since after the successful performance of Romeo and Juliet, the author's name was in the mouths of many.

Sir Thomas Lucy had departed only few days before for Stratford, or Grasp would immediately have sought him out, and, as he himself was also on the eve of returning to Warwickshire, together with his new client, in order to take immediate possession of the inheritance succeeded to, he resolved to delay till his arrival the discovery he had made.

Meanwhile, the situation of Arderne was sufficiently disagreeable. He was arrested for an enormous sum, and-when Sir Hugh Clopton sought to clear him of the difficulty, by making some great sacrifices, that good old man found, to his further dismay, that some secret foe had denounced his nephew as a conspirator against the life of the Queen.

In Elizabeth's reign, those persons of condition who came under suspicion and were confined within the walls of a prison found it no easy matter to clear themselves, and some, even in the higher ranks of the n.o.bility, without any sustained charge but "for mere suspicion, were treated as if for surety," finding their graves in the dismal chambers of the Tower.

The news of the imprisonment of his early friend greatly troubled Shakespeare. He was just at this time contemplating a return to his native town, for now that he had so far achieved success, and felt within himself the power of future fame, the longing for home, added to the desire of once more embracing all he had dear there, he felt to be irresistible.

To leave London, however, without an effort to serve his early friend was impossible. He visited Arderne in his prison, and afterwards sought Lord Leicester in order to interest that n.o.ble in his favour.

The time was, however, somewhat out of joint for making a successful suit to Leicester at this moment. He was in one of those periodical fits of ill-temper which usually attacked him when his "high-reaching"

schemes failed. He was out of favour with the Queen too, somewhat on the sudden, and so wide was the breach that, albeit he was seeking by some underhand contrivances to regain a place in her good graces, all his attempts were futile.

To explain this to our readers, we must remind them that after the services of Leicester at Tilbury, Elizabeth had created for the favourite the office of Lord Lieutenant of England and Ireland; an office which would have invested him with greater power than any sovereign of this country had ever ventured to bestow on a subject. The patent for this unprecedented dignity was actually made out, and only awaited the royal signature, when Burleigh and Hatton, by their earnest remonstrances, deterred Her Majesty from investing him with such power.