She was a being in whom the best elements were mingled that she might well have been the worshipped idol of the n.o.blest of the other s.e.x. And yet have we seen this female, by one of those curious chances so common in real life, left alone almost in the world, steering her course across the ocean of adventurous deeds, unknown, and, apparently, unappreciated.

And is not thin oft-times the case? Do we not oft-times see in the world the most paltry portions of humanity, the most impudent and a.s.suming?

The moat common-place, the most vain, and the most unworthy, exacting the most homage? Nay, succeeding in life better than the good and virtuous?

Clara de Mowbray was one worthy of an emperor's love; a creature we do occasionally, but rarely, meet with in the world; a sort of descended angel amongst mortals, sent apparently as the pattern, the model, for the baser worldlings to "dress themselves by." The world, however, would perhaps be likely to censure Clara, and her virtues to stand her but as enemies--her innocence and her regardlessness of form and ceremony, her recklessness of paltry opinion, be considered unmaidenly and bold! and so might the world think and say, for Clara possessed a spirit as undaunted in the resolve to carry out her projects as she was pure in heart and beautiful in person. If she had a fault it was her unbended determination to go through with any thing she once undertook. She was the creature of romance too, and altogether would have been better suited for a more romantic age than that in which she lived. Albeit her own times gave some scope for the exercise of her peculiarities.

We have seen that from childhood she had loved Arderne; she had had so many opportunities of observing his excellence and worth, that spite of her better reason, and against hope, she had loved. It was one of those unselfish pa.s.sions which hopes all for the being beloved, and nothing for self. She knew that the object of her thoughts had been engaged elsewhere, that his affections were buried in the tomb of Charlotte Clopton, but that altered not her feelings towards him a jot. Whilst he lived, it was something to breathe in the same hemisphere; and to add to his happiness and prosperity, even by stealth, was her study.

Hence have we seen her in disguise seeking to deliver him from the horrors of captivity or starvation on a desolate sh.o.r.e. Herself enduring the extremity of mishap, and then rescued from captivity of the Spaniard. Hence have we seen her bequeathing, in the event of her own death, all she possessed upon the one so beloved, and hence have we seen her, and her extraordinary disposition revelled in such a situation, the disguised comrade, and then the guest of the wonderful man whose course of life it has been our task to follow. And hence we find her, up to the present period of our story, still bending all her energies to restore the fortunes and happiness of Walter Arderne.

In all things, however, Clara de Mowbray, as we have before hinted, chose to follow her own notions comparatively unknown, certainly she thought unloved by the object of her affections. She shrank from all idea of being recognised as the benefactor of Arderne, lest he should consider himself bound to tender her the devotion of the life she had sought to save. She pursued, therefore, an extremely cautious and erratic mode in all her proceeding. Even Shakespeare, the friend, the wonderful man who had saved her from the Spaniard, she feared entirely to place confidence in. The poet, however, had carefully studied the character of this beautiful female, resolved to thwart her ultimate intentions regarding herself, and if possible, to make her happy.

How strangely then flows the tide of human events. Clara de Mowbray alive, in health, and the real possessor of enormous wealth, was apparently dead to the world as to herself, her affections she thought unrequited. On the object of those affections she had conferred all her worldly goods, and herself she had intended to dedicate to Heaven.

She was a Catholic, and she meant, as soon an she saw all her schemes in a fair way of completion, to seclude herself from the world. She had arranged matters so as to retire to a convent in Navarre. With Arderne the case was as singular. This youth, so much thought of for his excellent disposition, albeit he mourned the beautiful Clara as one dead, adored her memory as a reality, and, had he suspected her of being in life, would have put a girdle round the earth to find her out.

"Love like a shadow flies, when substation love pursues, Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues."

And that such should be the case,--that the melancholy Walter should become enamoured of what seemed but a shadow, is not surprising in a man of his disposition. The splendid domains be had succeeded to, the romance of the situation altogether, his remembrance of the sometime heiress of these broad lands, at last caused him to be so enamoured of her bare memory that the subject of her beauty formed the entire subject of his thoughts. It seemed to him that she haunted each dell and glided about the stately halls of her forefathers, sighed in the winds which swept around the battlements of her ancestry; and, indeed, pervaded every spot around the woods and groves she had conferred upon him. The remembrance of his former love was by a newer object quite obliterated.

The good Walter, in short, became a sort of dreamy person. For hours together would he stand in the long gallery at Shottery, and contemplate the picture of Clara de Mowbray; and had not Grasp's machinations, by driving him from these thoughts and from possession of the domains, driven him from the haunts that engendered them, he would most probably have become a melancholy maniac or a misanthrope.

Clara de Mowbray had in her early youth, beside the unfortunate Charlotte Clopton, one other dear and valued friend, the unhappy Countess of Leicester. This beautiful woman, whom the dark Earl had become enamoured of whilst her first husband was alive, he was reported to have "played most foully for." He was said, indeed to have poisoned Walter, Earl of Ess.e.x, in order to gain her hand.

The sorrowful Countess, who had ample leisure to repent of her second marriage, had been greatly attached to Clara, and frequently when she could escape from the splendid cares, "the glistering grief," of her own home, had been wont to pour her sorrows into the ear of the heiress. She had consequently been the only person, except the eccentric Martin, who was the entire confident of Clara. She had known of her attachment, and also had been privy to her adventure in search of her lover; she also knew of her determination to retire from the world it she succeeded, and in common with the world, she imagined Clara had perished in the attempt; but as she had been sworn to secresy by her young friend, ere she departed, so she had faithfully kept counsel.

Now, however, but a few days before the Earl of Leicester's death, to her astonishment, in the disguised individual who sought her at Kenilworth, the Countess beheld her dearly-loved friend, accompanied by the long lost Martin. How they had escaped from shipwreck and all the "portance of their travelled history," the Countess had small time to learn, for soon after their arrival she herself was summoned to the sick Earl at Cornbury Park.

The Countess, however, had granted Clara the boon she asked,--a letter to the Queen in favour of Arderne; and this letter, together with the applications of Ess.e.x and Southampton, had procured Walter's release; after which, together with the faithful Martin, Clara again sought retirement at Kenilworth.

And, oh! if that splendid record of pride and power could have spoken, what tales of sorrow and suffering, as well as of grandeur, what proofs of unbridled power could it have told. Those magnificent buildings of Leicester, where such princely revels had been held--how could they have uttered forth a wailing lament over the wickedness of unchecked and headstrong will! Those gaudy and tapestried chambers, the last built, the first to go to decay--how well could they have divulged the whispered deceit of human nature, the cunning and the baseness of the _parvenu_ Earl who reared them!

For one hour those rooms had "blazed with light, and bray'd with minstrelsy," how many dark and melancholy weeks had they to tell of, whilst sorrow and whispered horror, and surmise that "dared not speak its fear," had reigned there! How had the very domestics feared the descending shadows in those vast rooms, and where the night-shriek "disturbed the curtain sleep!" Deeds of evil note had had their reign in those chambers. The wail of sorrow had been heard oft-times in the long winter's nights, in the dungeons of that castle; and, even to her who was the mistress there, that bright castle-lake, the fair scene without, all had been looked upon from those arched windows with eyes that marked not their beauty,--she, who was the wife of their possessor, slept there in fear.

Through the instrumentality of Ess.e.x and Southampton, on becoming better known to those chivalrous men, Arderne had been so much liked, that they had introduced him to the Queen; and Elizabeth was so struck with his handsome form and gallant bearing, that she had taken him into favour, and employed him in her service.

The national spirit of England had been so much, aroused by the Spanish invasion, that nothing less than some attempt at retaliation would satisfy the people. Don Anthonia, t.i.tular King of Portugal, was a suppliant at the English Court for a.s.sistance to establish him on the throne of his ancestors; and as Elizabeth rather relished the policy, albeit she liked not the cost of such a measure, she gave leave to her subjects to fit out an expedition for the liberation of Portugal from the Spanish yoke, always providing they did it at their own proper charge, she lending them ships of war.

This expedition the valiant Arderne resolved, at a hint from the Queen, to join; and, albeit he was forbidden to have anything to do with it by the doating Queen, the rash and headstrong Ess.e.x also resolved to play the knight-errant, and, escaping from the silken fetters of his courtly mistress, as a simple volunteer accompany the expedition.

Clara de Mowbray, meantime, was the guest of her early friend, Lettice, Countess of Leicester, at Kenilworth; the Countess, during the period of her mourning, being resident at the castle. Some three weeks had pa.s.sed away since the Earl's death, and even in that short s.p.a.ce, many events bad transpired. Arderne was released from all graver charges; Grasp, although discomfited, terrified and conscience-stricken, was still endeavouring to make a good fight for his client; and Shakespeare was returning to his wife and family. True to his resolve, after his own return to Stratford-upon-Avon, Grasp as soon as he recovered himself, had hastened to Charlecote with intelligence that the "sometime deer-stealer" was at length forthcoming, and would but Sir Thomas give fresh instructions, he, Grasp, would still pursue the delinquent, and bring him to condign punishment.

Sir Thomas had, however, entirely changed his opinion upon the subject of the offence, it appeared. He had also changed his opinion of Grasp, and summoning his head-falconer, old Hubert, he desired him to call together several of his followers, and toss Grasp in a blanket in the park--the knight watching the operations with infinite gusto from his window.

Such happiness, therefore, as usually falls to the share of mortals in this work-a-day world, may be supposed to have fallen to the share of many of tho individuals connected with our story.

In outward seeming, such was, indeed the case.

But perfect happiness is, in reality, beyond the reach of mortals. It is the green spot in the distance, and that on which we stand is ever but a sterile promontory.

"What we have not, still we strive to get, And what we have, _forget_."

It was one evening, about three weeks after Leicester's death, that the Countess and her interesting friend were seated in one of those magnificent apartments in the buildings to which the Earl had given his name.

Few, as we have before said, as they gaze upon this now ruined sh.e.l.l, can have an adequate notion of its former state and grandeur. The buildings reared by that proud Earl, almost for the sole purpose of offering to the Queen the most sumptuous entertainment ever given by subject to sovereign, seemed, indeed, reared but for that one scene of pomp and grandeur, and afterwards to have remained a sad memento of the mutability of human greatness, and then sank unnoted to decay. As they had added their sum of more to that before enormous pile, so had they, in their vastness, remained almost too s.p.a.cious for a subject's means.

For the castle altogether, with its numerous flanking towers, and the additions which had been made to it from time to time seemed capable of containing an army within the roundure of its walls.

As the Countess sat with her friend in one of the magnificent apartments of Leicester's Building, she listened to the recital Clara had to give of her own escape from death, when taken prisoner by the Spaniard.

'Twas a delicious evening. The October winds sighed upon the lake without, and scattered the dried leaves from the woodland on the opposite sh.o.r.e. The setting sun shone like gold upon the turrets of the castle, and tinged the ma.s.sive forest, as the Lady Clara glanced occasionally in the direction where lay Stratford-upon-Avon. The Countess marked that glance as she sat opposite to her friend and beneath the huge chimney, for the coldness of the season, and the size of the room, made the blazing fire upon the hearth anything but disagreeable.

"And after enduring so much," said the Countess, "you mean then, to retire for ever from the world--you will forsake him for whom you have adventured life, fortune, reputation."

"I forsake none," said Clara. "Who knows or cares for one so solitary in the world! I bequeath to him I most love, all my worldly goods--myself I dedicate to heaven."

"There is one other," said the Countess, "and whom I have heard you mention in terms of admiration and respect--will not his persuasion avail."

"He is indeed a man," said Clara, with enthusiasm, "one whose words might do much. But are you quite sure he would not rather approve than censure my resolve? He knows something of my story, but like yourself, he is bound by me to secresy whilst I remain in England."

"Listen," said the Countess, "to what this friend has to urge;" and taking from a sort of cabinet a small packet, she read the following:--

I.

"From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die.

But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But then, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's frame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel, Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak'st waste in n.i.g.g.arding, Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Then, being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy l.u.s.ty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou could'st answer--'This fair-child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'-- Proving his beauty by succession thine.

This were to be new made, when thou art old, And see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold."

There was a pause after the Countess had read these sonnets, and which she, in common with the entire Court circle, had been delighted with when they first appeared. The beauty of the poetry, like sweet music, placed a spell upon the pair; such verse in those lordly apartments had a double influence.

As Clara gazed around upon the arra.s.sed walls, and then glanced from the window upon the sweet scene without,--when she looked towards the home of the poet, the spirit of that man seemed to breath around. In some sort the Countess of Leicester felt this, for both these high-born ladies knew Shakespeare; his exquisite poetry had stolen over their hearts. They were of the few of their day who already appreciated him.

"Your story, Clara," said Lady Leicester, at length breaking silence, "convinces me this generous man carries with him the remembrance of some early grief--some secret sorrow never to be expressed. I feel as firmly convinced of it, as that you yourself are the excited cause of those sonnets I have just perused. The time of their production and circulation amongst us by Ess.e.x and Southampton--the circ.u.mstances under which you was rescued by this Shakespeare from the Spaniard--his discovery of your true s.e.x, and subsequent contemplation of your exquisite disposition, Clara, all confirm it. Heaven grant thou sweetest and best of women, that this poetic friend does not himself love, and whilst he has pleaded for license to inform his friend Arderne of your secret, has not indeed felt a pang sharp as the stilleto of the Italian."

Clara started at the words of the Countess, and a slight flush suffused her check. The thought was, for the moment, fraught with pleasant reminiscences, but then feelings of alarm pervaded her, lest there should be in reality some truth in the suspicion of her friend. That man, so immeasurably above all other mortals, to love her--that man, whose influence seemed always to pervade every spot around her, where aught n.o.ble, refined, or chivalrous breathed--that man, without whose society, even granting she were wedded to him she loved, she must now experience a void, a blank. For be it remembered that Clara de Mowbray had, from circ.u.mstances, been the intimate, the companion of Shakespeare, knew his sentiments, been with him in the hour when poetry flowed from lip as well as pen; and that whilst she had listened, his words had produced thoughts and imaginings belonging to the fabled ages of the early world, in Crete, in Sparta, and in Thessaly.

As the Countess remarked the effect her words had produced, she arose and walked to the window. How sad, she thought to herself, that the life of one so amiable should be an aimless one! How sad, that sorrow should inhabit that form where so much grace and beauty dwelt!

Her thoughts, however, were speedily withdrawn from her friend, for at that moment the Major Domo, or steward of the Castle, his white wand in his hand, announced the arrival of a messenger from London bearing dispatches.

"News," she said, as she took the several sealed packets and examined them. "News, Clara, and from my truant son."

"The messenger, an it so please ye," said the steward, "announces the Earl is on his road hitherward, and with a goodly company."

"'Tis even so," said Lady Leicester; "he writes me word he hath returned from Lisbon, where nothing but discomfort, sickness, and mortality attended the English army. Six out of eighteen thousand having already fallen victims to the climate."

"And have you news of others present in that ill-omened expedition?"