THE GARDEN.
It was one bright morning, a few days after the events we have recorded
that a gay and gallant-looking party rode into the grounds of Clopton
and approached the Hall.
The mansion, which had for some time remained shut up, now appeared to
be resuming something of its former state. Its latticed windows were
once more open, whilst servants were to be seen moving about the offices
and gardens, and even the bark and bay of dogs were heard in the kennel.
The good Sir Hugh had suddenly returned to his home from the Low
Countries. Time had gradually ameliorated his deep grief, and restored
the equilibrium of his mind. He felt tired of camps and military
service, and his thoughts turned to the green woods and sweet scenes of
his own home.
A feeling we suspect which almost all soldiers, however much ambition
and the love of profession may keep them in harness, more or less
experience. There is a period in the lives of all men in which the
occupations of a country life form a sort of recreation after the toils
and cares of the world. That which we disregard in youth, amidst the
gaieties and frivolities and ambitions of life, in age seems to come as
a natural repose. A wise provision of nature, and which in earlier
times was perhaps better exemplified. To youth, the bright weapon, the
helm, the shield, and the defence. To riper age, the plough, the hoe,
and the dibble.
Sir Hugh had returned to his sweet home, and, albeit a settled
melancholy was on his spirits, he could better enjoy that home now that
absence had rendered it less painful to him to look upon, and he
returned with renewed zest to his old employments. He was in his garden,
giving directions to his gardener about the different plants, and
flowers, and shrubs, and turning over in his mind the varieties which in
his daughter's time she had loved to cultivate--
"Daffodils
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty. Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength."
He was busied amongst his "somewhat o'erweeded garden," when an
attendant announced that Sir Thomas and Lady Lucy were advancing towards
the house, with the intention, no doubt, of paying him a formal visit on
his return. Upon which the good Sir Hugh set his dibble in the earth,
smoothed down the cuffs of his doublet, belted on the long rapier, which
he had laid aside upon the walk when he commenced work, and, adjusting
his short cloak and starched ruff, entered his house to receive these
distinguished guests.
Sir Thomas Lucy, in the kindness of his heart, had hastened to pay a
visit to his old friend the moment he heard of his arrival, and, well
knowing there would be many things to excite the feelings of Sir Hugh on
his return, he was resolved to carry him back to Charlecote.
"I will have no denial, Sir Hugh," he said, "I have come hither to bring
ye forth to Charlecote. We have wanted you long, and by my fay we cannot
away without ye."
"Nay, but," said Sir Hugh, "I am but now returned. Methinks in a few
days I should be more prepared to leave home again."
"Prepare me nothing," said Sir Thomas. "What the good-year, dost think
we will let thee sit down to a solitary meal here, when we have shot the
buck, and dressed the haunch on purpose for thee? Come, man, Lady Lucy
takes no denial; and, see, my daughters are here to fetch thee."
There was no resisting this, so Sir Hugh, sighing as he glanced upon the
lovely daughters of his neighbour, ordered out his steed at once.
It was a lovely morning, as the party rode through the grounds of
Clopton, and emerged upon the road to Stratford. Many matters were
discussed by the two friends after their long separation.
Sir Thomas rode, as was customary at the period, with his falcon on his
glove, his falconers being in attendance. Nay, even the ladies carried
their favourite hawks, which they petted, and even talked to as they
rode; a favourable opportunity for giving them wing being not altogether
neglected occasionally.
"We must have a day on't in the marshes, Sir Hugh," said the Knight of
Charlecote, "and you must away with me next week to the Cotswold Hills,
to the coursing, Sir Hugh. By 'ur Lady, I have a pup of old Snowball,
which, an I am not mistaken, will win the match. 'Tis a goodly cur, I
promise ye."
"I will see him run," said Sir Hugh.
"And that reminds me," said Sir Thomas, "to tell thee I have of late
been much molested by a knot of young fellows breaking my parks and
shooting my deer."
"Ah, the caitiffs," said Sir Hugh, "can'st not take them?"
"In sooth can I, and will trounce them too. One, especially, have I
marked for punishment; and my lawyer hath him in hand. A wild lad of the
town here, named Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare!" said Sir Hugh; "not young William Shakespeare, the eldest
son of the wool-comber?"
"The same," said Thomas. "I shall impound the knave ere many hours more
are over his head."
"Nay, I am truly sorry to hear this," said Sir Hugh, "for I have reason
to think well of that lad."
"'Tis more than any one else hath, then," said Sir Thomas. "He hath been
a bitter thorn in my side for some time."
"Truly, you surprise me; hath he then so altered since I left these
parts?"
"I know not that," said Sir Thomas; "but I well know he hath the
reputation of the wildest young fellow in the neighbourhood."
"Nay, then I am utterly astonished," said Sir Hugh. "We must talk
further of this matter; and I must see if I cannot get you to over-look,
in some sort, young Shakespeare's offence."
"I would do much to pleasure you," said the Knight of Charlecote; "but
my lawyer hath instruction to prosecute him with rigour. I was resolved
to make a Star Chamber matter o't. If he be, however, so much favoured
by thee, my good friend, we must look to't. But come, here we are at
Charlecote. Ha!" he continued, pulling up his steed suddenly; "what have
we nailed up against the gate? Dismount, Hubald!" he said to the
Falconer, "take it down, man, and read it, and see what 'tis."
The head Falconer dismounted, and approaching the gates, took down a
good sized placard written in large characters, a single glance at which
seemed to cover him with dismay.
"What is it, in the name of wonder?" said the Knight. "Read, man, read;
don't stand glaring like a driveller. Is my place placarded for sale?"
"An it so please ye," said the Falconer, "a gnat hath gotten into my
eye, and I cannot well make it out. 'Tis a verse, too, and I cannot read
a verse anyhow."
"Thou art a knave," said the Knight. "Read, I tell thee. I am curious to
know what such documents can have to do with my gates. Read, I say,
without more circumstance." And accordingly the Falconer, like one
affrighted at his own voice, and in doleful tones drawled out the
following couplet:--
"A parliament member, a justice of peace,
At home a poor scarecrow, in London an ass.
If Lucy is--"
"Ahem! 'If Lucy is--'" And the Falconer stopped.
"Proceed, sirrah," said Sir Thomas, with the calmness of concentrated
rage; "proceed, a God's name!" And again the Falconer read--
"If Lucy is lowsey as some folk miscall it,
Then lowsey is Lucy whatever befall it."
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.