And what indeed were the thoughts and imaginings the scene and hour gave rise to?—Thoughts softened by the sweet breath of a summer's night, loaded with perfume, and bearing harmony from the distance. At such moment the mind reverts to days long past, or even revels in the fabled ages of the early world. In such a night as this,
"When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents
Where Cressid lay."
And,
"In such a night,
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage."
It was whilst Shakespeare remained thus sequestered and alone, and in the indulgence of the thoughts produced by such a situation, that the company had sought the gardens; and the walks, and alleys, the green slopes, and mossed banks, became suddenly peopled with bright forms, and which in a moment gave another and gayer aspect, and a totally different turn to the entire scene. The stillness, and the sweet touches of distant music, and which had so stolen upon his heart, was now changed to the sounds of laughter and loud conversation. In the shaded walks were now to be seen some tall form, clad in brave attire; his jewelled hat and gay plume bent down as he conversed with the lady at his side, and, in the open space before him, the different groups lent a lustre to the gardens which only gay costume and forms of beauty can give. As he remarked the scene before him, the joyous and sportive throng thus revelling in happiness,—the very heavens "thick inlaid with patinos of bright gold," he presently observed a dark and ominous cloud slowly and stealthily mounting, as it were, from the south. It seemed to emerge from the distant woods like a pall, and—as if emblematic of the short-lived days of mortals—gradually stole over one side of the heavens.
Yes, that flaunting throng was like the pleasures of the world. "Those clouds were like its coming cares." Whilst he watched their slow development, a light footstep approached, and Charlotte Clopton stood before him.
Was it his fancy, or was it that the silver brightness falling on the spot on which she stood, gave an ethereal appearance to the beautiful girl, a ghost-like and shadowy look, which, for the moment, struck him with a sort of awe? He arose from his recumbent posture, and, as he did so, he observed she was unusually pale. Nay, as he gazed upon that sweet face and form, he could not help seeing that it was with difficulty she kept herself from falling.
"I fear me, lady," he said, (struck with sudden alarm,) "you are not well?"
"A feeling of illness has indeed come over me," said Charlotte, "and which I cannot entirely shake off. I thought the air of the gardens would have taken it away, but it has not done so."
"Suffer me to lead you in," said Shakespeare, taking her hand, "perhaps some cordial will restore you?"