To paint the ire and astonishment of Sir Thomas would be difficult.
"Here's goodly stuff toward," he said, as the Falconer stopped after the four first lines, and stood looking as much scared as if he had himself been guilty of the composition. "This, then, Sir Hugh, is doubtless the production of thy witty friend. A pestilence strike such wit! say I. Here, hand me the paper. Now may the fiend take me, an I do not give him his full deserts for this insult." And cramming the placard into the bosom of his doublet, to be read carefully and at more leisure, Sir Thomas put spurs to his horse and rode into the courtyard of his mansion.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE FLIGHT TO LONDON.
A week has elapsed since Sir Hugh Clopton paid his visit to Charlecote. He has been a few days returned to his own home again, and is filled with pleasurable sensations on account of a letter just received from London, and announcing the arrival there of his nephew, Walter Arderne. The ship in which Walter has received a passage home is called the "Falcon," it is lying at Deptford; and the letter from the nephew to the uncle treats of strange matter; and promises, when they meet, still stranger news, connected with his escape, and safe return to England. A postscript adds, that as Walter has returned naked, as it were, to his native land, and has little to delay him preparatory to his returning to Clopton, his strong love for his uncle, "sharp as his spur," will help him on his road as fast as his horse can bring him. One only drawback is there to the contentment of Sir Hugh, and that is the account his nephew gives of the loss of the faithful Martin.
Still (although Sir Hugh felt more happy at this intelligence than he had been for some time) he did not let his feelings interfere with a project he had conceived after his return home, of going into Stratford in order to pay a visit to John Shakespeare, in Henley Street. The good Sir Hugh felt, that however much the son of the wool-comber might have disgraced himself, at any rate he himself was in duty bound to try and befriend him. "A deer-stealer," he said, as he mounted his horse and rode forth, "and given to all unluckiness in catching hares and rabbits too; and then that biting satire nailed against the park-gates, and stuck up all over the town: nay, 'twas too bad, and that is the truth on't. Here, too," he continued, (fumbling in the pocket of his doublet,) "is a vile ballad I bought of an old hag, who was bawling it through the streets of Stratford but yesterday. Let me see what saith the doggrel:
"Sir Thomas was too covetous
To covet so much deer,
When horns enough upon his head,
Most plainly did appear."
"By 'ur Lady, but 'tis sad stuff; and here be more—
"Had not his worship one deer left?
What then? he had a wife,
Took pains enough to find him horns
Should last him during life."