CHARLOTTE CLOPTON.
Clopton Hall was situated in a sort of wild chase, or park, in which
hundreds of broad, short-stemmed oaks grew at distant intervals; and
through this chase a deep trench had been cut in former days by the
legions of Rome, the thick plantation which formed the belt immediately
around the house being just in rear of the Roman ditch.
The hawking party, on this morning, as they gradually assembled and
mounted their steeds in the court of the mansion, rode through the
gate-house, along the avenue and into the chase. Here they breathed
their coursers and careered about till Sir Hugh had mustered the
different servitors and attendants appertaining to a matter of so much
moment as his morning diversion, and was ready to go forth.
As they did so, the youth noticed the lady he had before seen, and whose
exquisite form had made some slight impression upon his imagination.
Nothing could be more skilful than the way in which she managed her
horse, he thought--nothing more lovely and graceful than she altogether
appeared. The steed she rode was a magnificent animal, and one which
none but a most perfect horsewoman could have backed; and as he plunged,
and "yerked out his heels," he shewed his delight at being in the free
air, and proved "the metal of his pasture."
It was a fair sight to behold one so delicately formed as that lady
restrain the ferocity, and, by her noble horsemanship, reduce to
subjection the wild spirit of that courser; and so thought the studious
boy in the gray jerkin.
Well, however, as she had hitherto managed the animal, now that it was
growing even more excited by the number of horses around, it seemed
every instant becoming more and more unruly. It was in vain that a tall
handsome cavalier, who had kept an anxious eye for some time upon the
movements of her horse, now spurred his own steed beside the lady, and
kept near her bridle-rein. The brute reared, and stood for a few
moments, striking wildly with his fore feet. After a while, however, and
whilst all sat in helpless alarm, the lady still keeping her seat, the
steed recovered himself, plunged forwards, and bolted from the party.
Few situations could be more perilous than that which Charlotte Clopton
now found herself in; few more distressing to the spectators to witness;
since to attempt aid is oft-times to hasten the catastrophe.
To follow a runaway steed, in the hope of overtaking it is, perhaps, one
of the worst plans that can be adopted, as the very companionship of the
pursuing horse is sure to urge on and accelerate the pace of the flyer.
Yet this course the tall dark cavalier (who seemed Charlotte Clopton's
principal esquire) unhappily adopted.
As he beheld the maddened horse tearing across the park, swerving
amongst the oak trees, and threatening every instant to dash out the
brains of the rider amongst the branches, he set spurs to his own
courser, and galloped after her. It was in vain that Sir Hugh shouted to
him to return. In vain he roared and railed, and called to him that he
would murder his child by such folly.
The lady, however, kept her seat. She managed even to guide her steed
into the more open part of the chase. For (like the mariner in the
storm) she well knew that whilst the tempest roars loudest, the open sea
gives the vessel the better chance.
The sound of the horse following, however, totally ruined her plan, and
rendered her own steed more determined. He flung aside, turned from the
direction his rider had coaxed him into, and galloped towards the spot
where our hero was standing amidst the trees. It was by no means
difficult to conjecture that destruction to the beautiful creature, thus
borne along as if on one of the "couriers of the air," was almost
inevitable.
The next minute, as the youth of the grey doublet, in a state of
breathless anxiety, stood and watched this race, himself concealed in
the thick foliage, the horse (like some wild deer seeking cover) plunged
headlong into the Roman ditch.
The entrenchment was of considerable depth, so that both steed and
rider, for the moment, disappeared below the grassy ridge. It was,
however, but for a moment: the next, the maddened steed sprung up the
opposite bank.
The rider was, however, no longer on his back: she had been cast
headlong from the saddle, and our hero saw, with terror, that her
riding-gear was entangled on the saddle, and that she was being dragged
along the ground by its side.
But few minutes of exposure to such a situation, and that sweet face had
been spurned out of the form of humanity, and her delicate limbs broken,
torn, and lacerated. But the youth (although he saw at once that it
would be vain to attempt to arrest the powerful brute by seizing the
bridle) in a moment resolved upon a bolder measure. As the horse neared
him, he rushed from his concealment and (ere it could swerve from his
reach), with the full swing of his heavy quarter-staff, struck the
animal full upon its forehead, and with the iron at the extremity of his
weapon, fractured its skull.
So truly and well was the blow delivered, that the steed fell as if
struck by a butcher's pole-axe, and the next instant was a quivering
carcase upon the grass.
In another moment the achiever of this deed had unsheathed the sharp
dagger he wore at his waist-belt, cut away the entangled garment of the
lady from the saddle, and was kneeling beside her insensible form. As he
did so, he felt that he could have spent hours in gazing upon those
lovely features.
Meanwhile, the cavalier who had followed (but who reined up his horse
when he observed the steed of the lady dash down the slope, and then
remained gazing on all that followed in a state of utter helplessness),
as soon as he beheld the extraordinary manner in which she had been
succoured, again set spurs to his horse.
Dashing recklessly across the Roman trench, he galloped to the spot, and
throwing himself from the saddle, snatched the lady from the supporting
arms of her rescuer.
There was a retiring diffidence, an innate modesty about the youth who
had aided the lady, which kept him from intrusion. Nevertheless, he felt
hurt at the manner in which the handsome cavalier had snatched her from
his arms. His indomitable spirit prompted him almost to thrust back that
officious friend, and like Valentine, exclaim--
"Thurio, give place, or else embrace thy death;
I dare thee but to look upon my love!"
The next moment, however, remembrance of his own condition, and the
station in life of her he had saved, flashed across his brain. He drew a
pace or two back, and recollected how far removed he was from her he had
so promptly succoured. As for the attendant cavalier, he seemed to see
nothing but the still insensible form he hung over. "Oh! thank heaven.
Oh! thank heaven, she breathes," he said wildly, "she is not dead--speak
to me, Charlotte--speak but one word to your poor cousin, if but to
assure him of your safety."
"I think she is recovering, fair sir," said the youth, again
approaching. "See, she opens her eyes."
"She does--she does!" said the cavalier, as he raised her in his arms.
"I would we had a few drops of water to sprinkle in her face; 'twould do
much towards hastening her recovery."
"That shall she soon have," said the youth; and darting off, he hastened
towards a rivulet, which, brawling along on the other side of the
plantation, ran through the marsh land beyond, and emptied itself into
the Avon.
Taking off his high-crowned hat, he dipped it in the stream, and
returned as speedily. As he did so he observed that Sir Hugh Clopton,
and such of his party as were mounted, had now reached the spot; whilst
the fair Charlotte, having regained her senses, was clasped in her fond
father's arms.
Handing the water to one of the attendants, he again drew back, and
leaning upon his quarter-staff, stood regarding the party unnoticed.
"Now praise be to heaven for this mercy," said Sir Hugh. "In my pride
and joy of thee, my Charlotte, I bred yonder steed for thy especial use.
I thought to see thee mounted as no other damsel in Warwickshire, and
see the result. Ha, by my halidame, I swear to thee, that had not the
brute perished in his own wilfulness I had killed him with this hand."
"Nay, blame not my poor Fairy," said the lady; "he did but follow the
bent of his joyous spirit, when he found himself in the fresh pasture.
'Twas thy timely succour, coz," she said, turning to the tall cavalier
beside her, "which I suspect saved me when I fell."
"By my troth then, nephew," said the old knight, grasping the youth's
hand, "'twas well done of thee, and thou hast redeemed thy first fault
in following the runaway horse."
"Alas, uncle," said the cavalier, "I fear me I have redeemed no fault,
neither deserve I any praise. I saw my fair cousin cast headlong to the
earth, and then dragged beneath the heels of yonder horse. No mortal
help, it appeared, could avail her. I felt the blood rush to my brain; I
was about to fall from my saddle, when lo, a lad stepped from beside the
trunk of yonder oak, I heard a heavy crashing blow, I saw Fairy fall as
if pierced by a bullet in the brain, and I found thee, Charlotte, saved.
And that reminds me," continued the cavalier, looking round, "he who did
this gallant deed was this moment by my side."
"Ha, say'st thou, Walter," said the burly knight, "where, then, be this
lad whom we have not even thanked for his service? Stand back, my
masters."
As Sir Hugh spoke the attendants fell back, and discovered the graceful
figure of the youth in the grey doublet, as he leant beside the tree.
The old knight immediately stepped up, and grasping the youth by the
hand, led him into the circle, whilst the young cavalier was more fully
describing to the lady the bold and instantaneous manner in which she
had been rescued.
The youth sank on one knee, and taking the lady's hand, pressed it to
his lips. "Believe me, lady," he said, "the delight I experience in
serving one so fair and exquisite, a thousand times o'erpays the duty."
"Why, gad a mercy," said the old knight, "thou art a high-flown
champion, methinks. Nevertheless, lad, we are indebted to thee in more
than we can either dilate on, or thou listen to with patience fasting.
Let us return to the house, my masters all.
"Come Sir Knight of the quarter-staff," he continued, "'fore gad, we'll
not part with thee till we have learnt how to do thee good service.
"Yet stay," he said, as he was preparing to mount, and whilst steadily
regarding the youth, "art not of the town here? Have I not seen thy
goodly visage somewhere in Stratford? Troth have I. Why man, thou art
the son of my respected neighbour, the wool-comber in Henley
Street--John Shakespeare."
"His eldest son, an it so please ye," said the youth, blushing.
"'Fore Heaven, and so thou art!" said Sir Hugh. "And what, good
Philip?--is not thy name Philip?"
"William," said the youth.
"And what good wind, then, good William Shakespeare, hath blown thee so
opportunely this morning to our neighbourhood?"
"Marry, the same wind, good Sir Hugh," said a tall, dark-looking man,
dressed in the habiliments of a forester, and accompanied by a companion
quite as ill-favoured as himself, and who at this moment thrust himself
into the circle: "the same ill wind, Sir Hugh, that makes him haunt
every wood and dell in the county."
This interruption somewhat startled the party. Sir Hugh turned and
looked at him with surprise, whilst the object of the remark of the
forester in an instant confronted the man. "Thou art an insolent
caitiff," he said, "thus to speak of one of whom thou knowest nothing."
"An I know nothing of thee," said the forester contemptuously, "'tis
more than my comrade here can testify. By the same token, thou has
stolen upon his forest-walk, 'will he, nill he,' and beaten him on his
own beat, as it were, and so put him to shame."
"And I am as like to do the same by thee with the like provocation,"
returned young Shakespeare. "Thy comrade laid hands upon me, and
dishonoured me by a blow. For the which," he continued, significantly,
"_I beat him._"
"And for which," returned the forester, "we have followed thee hither;
and, time and opportunity serving, will return the beating with
interest. Thou art warned, so look to thyself, and keep from our woods
in future."
"Gramercy," said Sir Hugh, now interrupting the dispute, "but what saucy
companions are these?"
"We are outlying keepers of Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, Sir Hugh,"
said the man, doffing his hat, and making a leg.
"Outlying, I think, by'r Lady," said Sir Hugh, "in every sense of the
word. Thou hast railed on thyself, Sir Ranger, in accusing this youth of
the offence of trespass, since thou art even now thyself trespassing
here, and putting an affront upon a youth whom it is our pleasure to
hold in good esteem. Begone, lest I give my people a hint to cudgel thee
for thy presumption."
"Nay, then our master shall hear of it," said the keeper; "an thou
encouragest those who lurch upon his grounds, the sword must settle it."
"'Tis with thy master I _will_ settle it, thou arrant knave," said Sir
Hugh; "I talk not with such caitiffs."
"And yet dost thou take up with yonder son of a trader in Stratford
town," said the fellow, with a sneer. "'Want of company,' saith the
proverb. Eh?"
"Hark ye, sirrah!" said young Shakespeare (like lightning seizing the
keeper by the green frock, and forcing him up to the dead horse),
"trader or noble, I warn thee to put no further affront upon me before
this fair company; for, by the hand that brained yon steed, I can as
easily teach thee as awful a lesson. Begone!" he continued. "I am alike
ready to meet thee on thine own or other grounds, singly or together,
with quarter-staff, or rapier and target."
The man looked cowed, he glanced towards his comrade, and both
disappeared.