"Were it not," he said, after a pause, and turning to his youthful friend, "were it not that I so entirely love thee, good William, were it not that even in our short acquaintance I so highly esteem thee, I should hesitate to bring one so superior to myself in contact with her I adore; and were it not that thy superiority is so great, I should scorn to own such a feeling to thee, William Shakespeare, lest I compromised my own station by such thoughts. 'Tis strange, but so it is; and to any one but thee, I should have shamed to give my thoughts tongue on such a subject."
Ardorne sighed as he said this, and again looked towards the object of his ardent affection. "She loves me not," he said, "'tis vain for me to suppose she does. Her manner, despite her willingness to oblige her father, and even to persuade herself she feels inclination to wed with me, too plainly shews I have little or no real interest in her heart. Had I but thy winning tongue and gift of speech, good William, I might do much. Nay, it were good that thou shouldst plead for me, and tell her of the violence of my passion; and thou shalt do it too."
"Nay," said his friend, "that would be somewhat out of the usual course of wooing. I pray you hold me excused in this Master Arderne."
"Not a whit," said Arderne, "the thought is a good one. Women oft-times are led to prize that which those they think well of value,—to open their eyes and see clearly the hugeness of an affection they have not before appreciated."
"But I know not how to woo a maid for myself," said his friend, "since I have never yet made suit to one, how, then, am I to play the suitor for so accomplished a cavalier; I who hath not ever seen the court?"
"Tush, tush, man," said Arderne, "there's ne'er a courtier of them all could match thee, I dare be sworn."
And thus did the boy poet—the lover under circumstances so peculiar, spend another day at Clopton Hall, and where all he saw gave him a second impression of life in a different sphere to that in which he had hitherto moved. True to the whimsical project which had suddenly seized him, Walter Arderne left his friend with a fair opportunity of pleading for him to the fair Charlotte.
"When thou art tired of examining those worm-eaten volumes," he said to Shakespeare, "I dare be sworn thou wilt find Mistress Charlotte in her favourite arbour in the garden. Sir Hugh and myself are promised forth this morning. Farewell, therefore, for the present."
Our readers will readily imagine that the renewal of acquaintance between this youthful pair would be likely to ripen the growing affection they felt for each other. Concealment, however, seemed to both a matter of necessity. Neither dared to own, even to themselves, that they loved. Pride came to the aid of each. In one it was the pride which fears even the shadow of suspicion; in the other it was the pride of birth. The pride of ancestry, however, is soonest subdued in such cases; that of conscience is more difficult for the blind god to overcome.
And the youthful poet and the exquisite Charlotte found themselves thrown together, where every scene of beauty around them was conducive to the growth of their passion.