A CONSULTATION.
As those dulcet sounds reached the ears of the poet, he laid down his pen and listened attentively. That voice, no rich in tone, so sweetly modulated, seemed deeply to affect him; and, as the song ceased, he rose and paced the apartment.
Again, he bears a short prelude upon the instrument, and pushing aside the arras from the wall, he opened a sliding panel, leading into a narrow passage; one of those passages so peculiar to old buildings, and which communicate from chamber to chamber, oft-times along, one entire wing of such edifice.
As he did so, the voice of the singer is again and again more plainly heard. How sweetly it sounds in that house, and at that hour, for the shadows are beginning to descend upon Old London.
The poet stands transfixed. His glorious countenance so softened by the sorrowful notes of the musician, proclaim how powerfully the strains affect him—"He is never merry when he hears sweet music."
Again the strains cease and all is silent, save the moaning of the wind without, and which hums through the casement like an Æolian harp. After a pause, the poet again withdrew the tapestry which hung before the doorway, and, traversing the passage, knocks gently against a small door which stood partially open at its extremity.
A sweet voice bids him enter, and the next moment he is in the presence of a young and beautiful female. Traces of recent illness are to be observed upon her cheek, as she sits, half inclined, upon a sort of couch placed near the window of the apartment;—a small lamp, placed upon a table near, giving better light for an attendant female, who is occupied in knitting.
The lady half rises, as the poet enters and as she does so, he sinks upon one knee, and respectfully kisses the hand she extends to him.
Nothing, indeed, can exceed the respectful attention with which the poet stands in the presence of that female. He does not even take the chair, placed near the couch on which she is seated, till she requires him to do so. And well indeed might Shakespeare gaze with interest, and no less admiration, upon that lady, as she again reclined upon the couch from which she had half risen at his entrance.
The perfect proportions of her form and features, softened as they both were in the subdued light of that antique apartment, rendered her in the eyes of the poet even more beautiful. Her dark hair fell in wavy ringlets upon her shoulders, and her large eyes beamed with an expression of sweetness and regard upon him, which made them full of peril to one so impassioned.
Frankly and gracefully she again stretched forth her hand. "My kind preserver," she said, "my generous and noble friend; but that weakness keeps me a prisoner to my couch, 'tis I who ought to kneel to thee."
"I heard the sweet tones, lady," said the poet, "which gave notice that I might approach."
"Alas!" she replied, "how can I ever requite thy generosity? Had it been my fortune to fall into other hands, I might, indeed, have been unhappy; but thou, oh! thou art different from other mortals."
"Beauty, lady," said Shakespeare, "provoketh thieves even sooner than gold. Nay, it is that beauty which has made fearful of trusting you in this evil town, save whilst I can myself guard over you. The wild and reckless spirits who dwell around us here, the desperate characters of many who, in their outward seeming, are of the virtuous, render a sojourn in this city unsafe, and therefore have I brought thee hither; and therefore have I constituted myself thy sole guardian till recovered strength shall enable you to take the journey you contemplate."
"You will forgive me, then," said the lady, "that although I have related to you some portion of my story, I yet conceal my own, and the name of those connected with the tale".
"I am in all thy friend and servant," said Shakespeare.
"And now that I have somewhat recovered," she continued, "recall to me in how much I am indebted to you during my illness. The attendant you have furnished me with hath partially informed me of your goodness, but I would fain hear the recital from your own lips."
"Your disguise," said Shakespeare, "whilst we journeyed hitherward, beguiled me, or I had never so far taxed your strength."
"Ah! but that journey," said the lady, "so travelled, can one mile of it, think you, be forgotten?"
"Nay," said the poet, smiting, "still can I not forgive myself. Those moonlight walks during our route have, I fear, wearied you."
"Could it be possible," said the lady, "for mortal to feel fatigue amidst those scenes, I might have wearied."
Shakespeare again smiled. He felt gratified at the compliment paid him. 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 sex 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 sex. 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 assistance 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, gratitude 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 circumstances, 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 nobleman, 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 noble," 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 Sussex calls the Gipsey; the dangerous Leicester."
"The same," said Shakespeare.
"Nay, then, an Walter Arderne hath that noble 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 passages 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 noblest 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.