Grasp, however, heeded it not. He seemed still engrossed with the parchment before him. He held it back at arm's length; he drew it close to his nose; he uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and the word "codicil" escaped, as one of the domestics rushed into tho room to announce that the Earl was dying in fearful agony.

Without heeding the news, Grasp fled from the room, rushed to the stable, mounted his horse, and rode off for Oxford. With the will still in his hand, the excited lawyer dismounted from his steed, and strode into the tavern, where, heeding not the a.s.sembled guests, he threw himself into a vacant seat, with the air of one possessed by a demon.

And, again, with fearful eye, regarded the instrument he hold in his hand.

"Can such things be?" he said. "Can the dead return to life, or is it the evil one himself who thus palters with my sight and senses?"

The tavern was on this night tolerably well filled with guests. One of them, who was seated opposite to the lawyer, was a person of a most expressive and pleasant style of countenance. His conversation and wit had indeed been setting the whole a.s.semblage, gentle and simple, in roars, during the entire evening--the host and hostess of the tavern being not the least amused.

The advent of Grasp in his perturbed state, his extraordinary grimaces, his abstracted demeanour, and his travel-stained appearance altogether, called forth from this person so many curious remarks, that the laughter which had for the moment been interrupted by his entrance was renewed tenfold at Grasp's expense, till, as on unfixing his gaze from the basilisk he seemed to hold in his hand, he looked round upon the a.s.semblage, and then steadily regarded his tormentor, he beheld himself face to face with the old subject of his former enmity--Master William Shakespeare.

"There is no rest for the wicked," saith the old proverb; and the renewed roar which followed the expression of Grasp's countenance at this sudden recognition, was actually driving him from the room, when Doubletongue, who had followed his friend, suddenly entered, and whispered something in his ear.

"Poisoned say ye?" exclaimed Grasp, starting in surprise; "my Lord of Leicester deceased--dead--defunct, and thus suddenly? Poisoned, say ye?

Art sure 'tis the Countess you mean?"

"No, 'tis the Earl himself," said Doubletongue; "and your having been with him just before, together with your sudden departure, hath raised a suspicion among the household that----"

"'Fore heaven, what mean ye?" said Grasp. "They surely suspect not that I had ought to do with the poisoning of my Lord of Leicester? There must have been some dire mistake in the matter. 'Fore heaven, I shall be hanged through this mistake!" and Grasp immediately left the room, bribed the ostler to procure him a fresh horse, and set off with all speed towards Stratford-upon-Avon.

Scarce had he gained a dozen miles when he came up with a couple of riders progressing the same road as himself. Company was ever welcome in those days, and the hors.e.m.e.n gladly acceded to his request to be allowed to ride in their escort.

The habitual caution of the lawyer, however, caused him to cast certain searching glances at his companions as often as the moon's light gave him opportunity of doing so, and ere long he became almost confirmed in the belief that in one of the armed riders he was accompanying he had fallen in with the identical female in male apparel whom he had before been in search of. There was comfort, at all events, in this supposition, and as they emerged from the dark covert of a wood they had been progressing through, he managed to push his horse between them and gain a good look at their features. And here again Grasp apparently beheld that which renewed his former perturbation. The face of the rider he first encountered wore the actual expression of one he had reason to believe had long been dead, and as he turned his startled glance upon the other, he beheld the exact lineaments of Clara de Mowbray. Pale she looked, as if her features were of sculptured alabaster; but as she turned her countenance full upon him, he could not be mistaken in their ident.i.ty.

Conscience had already made a coward of Grasp--his clear spirit was puddled. The deep sea had apparently cast up the dead to discomfort him, and clapping spars to his steed, he fled onwards on his route towards Stratford-upon-Avon.

CHAPTER LXII.

OLD FRIENDS.

Our story now draws towards conclusion, and we once more return to the point from which we at first started. Clopton Hall, after so many years of gloom, may now be said to have quite resumed that appearance of hospitality and prosperity as when we first beheld it in the early pa.s.sages of our story, and ere disease, death, and misery, had so prevailed there.

For the first time for many years its rooms and offices, its stalls, kennels, and falconries, were all tenanted. After so many vicissitudes and strange events, in which its inmates had been separated, and became wanderers in the world, such of them as were in being were again a.s.sembled within its old walls.

The coming Christmas, that season so ceremoniously observed at the period, promised again to be the harbinger of festive scenes and old world rites of hospitality.

The old knight, for the first time for many years, seemed really to hold up his head, and glance around him with feelings of pride and contentment. His dearly beloved nephew was again with him; he had just come from over sea with Ess.e.x, and having left the Earl on the road towards Kenilworth, had galloped forward to Clopton.

In addition to this, too, which seemed to give Sir Hugh as much content as astonishment, that tried old friend, the trusty and shrewd Martin, who had so long been mourned as dead there, had suddenly reappeared at Clopton.

The old knight could scarce contain himself within bounds as he looked upon the pair. 'Twas hardly to be thought of, so much of contentment, after having so long been a lonesome mourner; for one way or other, Sir Hugh had now been in trouble so many years, that his happiness almost alarmed him, lest something should turn up to mar it afresh.

It was on the evening of the day on which we have introduced our readers to the inmates of Kenilworth that Martin and Arderne, together with others connected with our story, were seated beneath the hospitable roof of Sir Hugh.

To describe the unmixed pleasure experienced by these good and amiable friends on that evening exceeds the power of our pen; albeit we may attempt to describe some portion of the conversation which took place.

Few things, we opine, are more gratifying than to glance upon a circle of true friends, so bound together as the ones in question, and on this occasion the party consisted of some half-dozen individuals, for, besides those we have already named, the circle contained the worthy Captain Fluellyn, and, "though last, not least," William Shakespeare sat a guest beneath that old chimney.

'Twas indeed a goodly fellowship, and in which, though perhaps 'tis a rare thing to say, where six mortals quaffed a loving cup together, not a particle of envy, hatred, or uncharitableness, pervaded.

The divine expression of Shakespeare's face, as he sipped the ruby liquor, the n.o.ble countenance of Arderne, as he glanced first at one and then another of the friends around, the excitement of the old host, as he pushed the cup about, the quaint look of the shrewd Martin, and the bluff, jovial style of the sea captain, as he puffed away at his capacious pipe, our readers must imagine. They sat in a circle round the huge log upon the hearth, and each and all had something to relate or something to listen to of stirring interest, for as each spoke of his own adventures, 'twas as if some brother told the tale.

"Your story, good Martin," said Shakespeare, as Martin paused after telling some portion of his adventure and escape from the Spaniard, "on mine own authority I would hardly dare avouch. 'Tis like some of those events in real life which scarce pa.s.s even in fiction."

"I dare be sworn on't," said Martin. "'Tis an over credulous and yet unbelieving world this, an' I may so word it, a mad world, my masters, and yet, ha, ha, 'tis a pleasant world, too. Aye, and this not altogether so bad a way of pa.s.sing the time in't. What says the song,

"'Tis merry in hall when beards wag all, And welcome merry Christmas."

"I pr'ythee, good friend," said Arderne, "continue the narrative of this tragedy; for I must needs call that a tragedy which comprehends the loss of so exquisite a lady as Clara de Mowbray."

"Aye, truly so," said Martin; "that was a sigh, indeed, Master Walter.

Sighing, however, is of little avail when the object is beyond reach.

'Tis too true an evil; the Lady Clara is lost to us."

"Thou did'st, however, aid her escape from that burning carrick?" said Fluellyn, "and in which, indeed, we all suffered with those we saw suffer. 'Twas a fearful sight."

"I take some credit to say I did so," returned Martin, dallying with his gla.s.s, and looking at the red flame of the fire through the ruby liquor.

"Ah, ah, methinks I see those overweening Dons grilling in their treasure ship at this moment. I did aid in the lady's escape by the same token, I myself caused the conflagration that aided our escape; I myself, in my immaculate valour, destroyed the enemy, as Drake hath it, I singed the Dons' whiskers with a vengeance. Ha, ha."

"Tell us the manner of the exploit," said Shakespeare, who, by the way, had heard it from other lips.

"In few, then," said Martin, "and to continue from where I left. You are to know that the commander of the carrick no sooner beheld us upon his deck than he was about to cast us off again, and into the roaring sea.

As he seized, however, upon my companion in misfortune, lo! you, he discovered he had prisoner of a female. The stately Don upon this steadily regarded his prisoner, and became struck all on a heap with her beauty. He then transferred his gaze to me, and (albeit he saw nothing extremely feminine, or even beautiful in my outward form) he was pleased to extend his clemency to us both. In few the blood of the Castillian was inflamed at the sight of the exquisite Clara; and, whilst the two ships lay glaring upon each other, we were both hurried down below, there to remain till more leisure should enable the magnifico to pay personal attention to us. My fate, doubtless, was to have been the sea.

My companion's, perhaps, even worse. Whatever fate, however, was in store for us at the hands of the Don, we determined in no wise to submit to it. The cabin in which we were confined had a window in roar of the carrick. Without that window hung a boat. My companion got into that boat, and after I myself had lighted a bonfire in the cabin, and placed several barrels of gunpowder in very dangerous proximity thereto, I managed to lower that boat after getting into it, and finally, to cut her adrift. The blow-up of the barrels, and the gloom of the coming night, effectually diverted attention from our frail craft, as we mounted upon the crest of wave after wave. As we did so, we were horrified spectators of the scene of terror we had caused. One moment the burning ship was lifted on high, like some huge beacon, and the nest lost in the deep valley of waters. Thus did we escape, for that time, the death and dishonour that awaited us, and, weak and debile ministers, destroyed our foes at one and the same time. But oh," continued Martin, "conceive us, my masters all, wanderers upon that vast heaving world, in a rotten carcase of a boat--no knowledge where to steer for, no knowledge how to steer, if we knew where to steer--no expectation but death. Do I not seem to ye like one sitting here telling of things imagined in a dream? That heaving water, in which our boat could scarce live--those roaring winds, which almost stopped our very breathing in their violence--that lady, whose form every sea drenched, and who for two long nights endured this extremity of dire distress."

"And died she so?" inquired Arderne.

"Not a whit," said Martin. "Her's was a miserable strait to be reduced to; but her spirit was great. She had scarce time to die. She helped me to bale out the waters, as they continually washed into our boat. She shared my small portion of biscuit with me, and she drank from the flasket I filched from the cabin when we escaped from the ship; and so she lived, good sir, lived to be picked up in the dreary waste of waters. For, look ye, we had constructed a sort of sail, when the wind moderated, and that betrayed us to the companion of the carrick we had burned. Yes, we were descried and picked up by another Don, commanded by another courageous Captain of Compliments, and forthwith carried off to the country of the Spaniard."

"And that lady," said Arderne. "Pr'ythee, good Martin, follow out your story. Her fate I dread to ask, and yet would learn."

"Nay," said Martin, archly, "methinks mine own fate might in some sort interest my hearers. But truly I seem not to command much attention in this story of adventure: and yet I showed myself courageous, and aided the weaker vessel too."

Shakespeare smiled, and a look pa.s.sed between him and Martin. "'Tis the duty of doublet and hose to show itself courageous to petticoat," he said. "We are naturally given to pity the young and beautiful, rather than the strong and st.u.r.dy. Besides, thou hast escaped, art here to avouch it thyself."

"And so may that lady, for aught I know to the contrary," said Martin.

"How!" exclaimed Arderne. "Escaped! Methought she died, died in Spain."

"It may be so," said Martin, "but I never said it. When we arrived in Spain, we were both clapped up as heretics between the walls of the Inquisition, where, doubtless, I for one should have died upon the rack, but that I was eventually made useful at the oar. My companion's fate I cannot further avouch. I myself was rescued whilst helping against my will, to invade my native land, amongst other galley slaves. The craft we worked in was captured by one of Frobisher's vessels, and in that vessel I was forthwith carried to the Indies after the fight, and in that vessel have I returned; and here I am once more at Clopton."

"Nay then," said Arderne, "if such be the case, thou hast but momentarily raised my hope and dashed it again, good Martin. Had that lady lived, and were I of all kingdoms king, I would give all for but one scattered smile of one so excellent."

The narration of Martin caused a sudden check to the previous hilarity of the company, since it recalled to most there the loss of kindred or relatives in former days.

Shakespeare, as he glanced around, remembered former scenes of mingled grief and joy in that house; the melancholy of Arderne was a melancholy of his own, the sundry contemplation of his mishaps and misfortunes, founded, as he then thought, princ.i.p.ally upon the loss of one, who when alive, was unappreciated; whilst the captain and Martin also, in pure melancholy and troubled brain puffed away at their pipes with double vigour.