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 passed 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 associated 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 assured 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 fortitude 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 biassed 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 assistance 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.
"From whom and whence?" said Sir Hugh. "Methinks I had rather defer matters of business till another opportunity. There be many sealed letters I have received the last two days now lying in the hall, and which I have no heart to open or peruse; for what have I to do with affairs of the world? what interest have I in life or its businesses?"
"Nevertheless," said Martin, "this commission must be read, inasmuch as it cometh from one whose behests are to be obeyed. 'Tis from the Queen; and if I mistake not, Her Majesty requires your instant employment in her service. There is work to be done with spur and rapier, and you must undertake it."
"Nay then," said the knight, whose ardour was in a moment aroused at the prospect of military duty, "there never yet was a Clopton found wanting when he should serve his sovereign in the field: mine eyes are somewhat dim, good Martin, peruse the letter, and give me the substance of its contents."
"In how long a time," said Martin, after glancing at the letter, the contents of which he well knew, "can you be ready to set forth from hence, good master mine?"
"As soon as steed is saddled and led forth, and weapon girded on, I am prepared to mount," said Sir Hugh, "what other preparation doth a soldier want, good Martin?" "Alas!" he continued, looking round, "I have now nothing here to take leave of; nothing to care for. In the world I am nothing, and unless Her Majesty's services require continuance of my life, 'twere better I were gathered to my forefathers." Thus then was Sir Hugh, through the instrumentality of Martin, dispatched forthwith to join the expedition under the Earl of Leicester against the Spaniards. He came up with the Earl just as he had sat down before Zutphen, where the circumstance of war and the bustle of the camp, in a great measure alleviated the sorrows of the good old man.
With Walter Arderne, however, Martin had a more difficult part to play. He thought it wise to separate the uncle and nephew, because the constant sight of each other only served to remind them of their loss.
He therefore, after the knight's departure, urged upon Walter the necessity there was for his not wearing out his youth in shapeless idleness. "There be many ways for a man to rise to distinction in the world at the present moment," said Martin, "and let ambition be now your mistress, good Walter."
"Alas!" said Arderne, "thou canst not feel for me, good friend, because thou hast never felt the desolation I feel. Ambition and all other passions are dead within me."
"Go to," said Martin. "Men that live in the world must be of the world. The health of the mind is of far more consequence to us than the health of the body. The Ardernes were never yet drivellers. Go forth, man, like your forefathers. I in some sort feel anguish of mind, as well as thou; but I give not way to it. Afflictions are sent by Providence. Let your head contrive and your hand execute, and you will forget your particular griefs in blows given and taken; nay, the time is coming when we shall all have to belt on the brand—that I foresee plainly enough. The Spaniard despises all other nations except the English; we have the honour of his hate because he cannot despise us; and we shall shortly feel the weight of his whole force against us. Of that you may rely."
"And whither, then, would you have me go?" said Arderne. "You objected to my accompanying my uncle; what course do you point out for me, so poor in spirit?"
"Why, look ye," said Martin, "there is an expedition now about to set sail for the purpose of attacking the Spaniards in the Indies. Men's mouths were full of it when I was near the Court. Two thousand three hundred volunteers, besides seamen, are enrolled under Sir Francis Drake. The success of the Spaniards and Portuguese in both Indies, and the wonders seen in these islands, have influenced the imagination of all men of spirit; an I were you, I would join this expedition,—see this new world and its strange inhabitants, and witness the matters said to exist there."
"And when would you have me to depart?" inquired Arderne.
"What time is better than the present?" said Martin. "How long doth the soldier require to get under arms, when he receives the order to fall in?"
"Methinks," said Arderne, "I have many places to visit and take leave of, ere I can quit them, perhaps for ever."
"Take no leave of them at all," said Martin. "When you return, they will be fresh and fairer in your eyes."
"I have one friend, amongst the many I care not to see again, whom I must see and take leave of," said Arderne; "one whom I would fain spend some time with ere we part."
"Know I him?" inquired Martin.
"You have seen him often," said Arderne, "but you know him not. She who is gone knew him and valued him. 'Tis of her I would speak with him."
"'Twere best not," said Martin; "but (sith I do know the friend you speak of,) I cannot object. There is a kind of character in him I never found in other men. To part with such a one without seeing again is, I grant ye, hard. I give ye one day to spend with your friend, and then you must promise to depart for London."
"I promise it," said Arderne, who already felt relief from being, as it were, driven into action,——"I promise it, good friend, and the day after to-morrow I will depart from Clopton,——depart, perhaps, never to return."
"Good!" said Martin; "well-resolved and resolutely! I expect great things of this expedition, and thy conduct in it. You are just the age to adventure. In youth, we are apt to trust ourselves overmuch; and others too little when old. At thy time of life thou art just between the two extremes. The proper season for action; ergo, thou wilt thrive."
It was evening when this conversation took place at Clopton, and gloom and melancholy still reigned supreme there. Perhaps the feelings of Martin and his young friend were even more depressed, inasmuch as they had a melancholy task to perform ere they left the place.
The good old servant, who we have before seen in attendance upon Charlotte, either from over-exertion or want of rest, had fallen sick just before her charge died. It was supposed at the time that she had taken the plague; such, however, was not the case, as she lingered on for some days after the young lady's death, and died at last, apparently of grief for the loss of her favourite mistress.
Before the death of this old domestic, she had requested of Martin that she might be buried in the vault with her beloved young mistress: and the request having been acceded to, this very evening was fixed on for the funeral. Arderne paced up and down the room (after the conversation we have just recorded) for some time in silence. He then turned to Martin. "I have been thinking deeply of what you just now urged to me," he said. "The force of it is so impressed upon my mind, that I am resolved at once to take my departure from Clopton. The place seems, since my resolve, to be hateful to me. To-night I will go forth; for since this matter has gone so far, I cannot bear again to sleep at Clopton."
"'Tis well," said Martin; "just as I would advise."
"And this friend?" said Arderne, "in whom I am so much interested. Thou likest him not, or I would bid thee tell him in how much I feel desirous of serving him; and that I commend him to thy especial favour."
"How know you I like not that youth?" said Martin. "I never said so, did I?"
"I surmised it from your manner," said Arderne. "You seemed to look askance upon him, as it were."
"Perhaps I had my own reasons for such seeming," said Martin; "and if I had so, those reasons are now naught. There is no farther cause for them. Believe me, he you call your friend, is one who, if I mistake not, will some day rise to great eminence. And he live to any age, the world will hear something of him, for he hath the brains of half a score of us common mortals, with all his modest look, and beardless cheek."
"Then to you I will intrust the task of saying farewell to him," said Arderne, "for, methinks, on reflection, it will but aggravate my feelings to see him again, since I am so suddenly to depart."
"Be it so," said Martin; "I accept the office."
"In one hour, then, we will say adieu, good friend," said Arderne, wringing Martin's hand. "This night I would fain dedicate to her we both loved; to-morrow shall find me far from Clopton."