A CONSULTATION.
As those dulcet sounds reached the ears of the poet, he laid down his
pen and listened attentively. That voice, no rich in tone, so sweetly
modulated, seemed deeply to affect him; and, as the song ceased, he rose
and paced the apartment.
Again, he bears a short prelude upon the instrument, and pushing aside
the arras from the wall, he opened a sliding panel, leading into a
narrow passage; one of those passages so peculiar to old buildings, and
which communicate from chamber to chamber, oft-times along, one entire
wing of such edifice.
As he did so, the voice of the singer is again and again more plainly
heard. How sweetly it sounds in that house, and at that hour, for the
shadows are beginning to descend upon Old London.
The poet stands transfixed. His glorious countenance so softened by the
sorrowful notes of the musician, proclaim how powerfully the strains
affect him--"He is never merry when he hears sweet music."
Again the strains cease and all is silent, save the moaning of the wind
without, and which hums through the casement like an AEolian harp. After
a pause, the poet again withdrew the tapestry which hung before the
doorway, and, traversing the passage, knocks gently against a small door
which stood partially open at its extremity.
A sweet voice bids him enter, and the next moment he is in the presence
of a young and beautiful female. Traces of recent illness are to be
observed upon her cheek, as she sits, half inclined, upon a sort of
couch placed near the window of the apartment;--a small lamp, placed
upon a table near, giving better light for an attendant female, who is
occupied in knitting.
The lady half rises, as the poet enters and as she does so, he sinks
upon one knee, and respectfully kisses the hand she extends to him.
Nothing, indeed, can exceed the respectful attention with which the poet
stands in the presence of that female. He does not even take the chair,
placed near the couch on which she is seated, till she requires him to
do so. And well indeed might Shakespeare gaze with interest, and no less
admiration, upon that lady, as she again reclined upon the couch from
which she had half risen at his entrance.
The perfect proportions of her form and features, softened as they both
were in the subdued light of that antique apartment, rendered her in the
eyes of the poet even more beautiful. Her dark hair fell in wavy
ringlets upon her shoulders, and her large eyes beamed with an
expression of sweetness and regard upon him, which made them full of
peril to one so impassioned.
Frankly and gracefully she again stretched forth her hand. "My kind
preserver," she said, "my generous and noble friend; but that weakness
keeps me a prisoner to my couch, 'tis I who ought to kneel to thee."
"I heard the sweet tones, lady," said the poet, "which gave notice that
I might approach."
"Alas!" she replied, "how can I ever requite thy generosity? Had it been
my fortune to fall into other hands, I might, indeed, have been unhappy;
but thou, oh! thou art different from other mortals."
"Beauty, lady," said Shakespeare, "provoketh thieves even sooner than
gold. Nay, it is that beauty which has made fearful of trusting you in
this evil town, save whilst I can myself guard over you. The wild and
reckless spirits who dwell around us here, the desperate characters of
many who, in their outward seeming, are of the virtuous, render a
sojourn in this city unsafe, and therefore have I brought thee hither;
and therefore have I constituted myself thy sole guardian till recovered
strength shall enable you to take the journey you contemplate."
"You will forgive me, then," said the lady, "that although I have
related to you some portion of my story, I yet conceal my own, and the
name of those connected with the tale".
"I am in all thy friend and servant," said Shakespeare.
"And now that I have somewhat recovered," she continued, "recall to me
in how much I am indebted to you during my illness. The attendant you
have furnished me with hath partially informed me of your goodness, but
I would fain hear the recital from your own lips."
"Your disguise," said Shakespeare, "whilst we journeyed hitherward,
beguiled me, or I had never so far taxed your strength."
"Ah! but that journey," said the lady, "so travelled, can one mile of
it, think you, be forgotten?"
"Nay," said the poet, smiting, "still can I not forgive myself. Those
moonlight walks during our route have, I fear, wearied you."
"Could it be possible," said the lady, "for mortal to feel fatigue
amidst those scenes, I might have wearied."
Shakespeare again smiled. He felt gratified at the compliment paid him.
He was no perfect mortal, and to say that he could look coldly upon the
glorious creature before him, would be to belie his nature. He could no
more do so than he could have "held a fire in his hand by thinking of
the frosty Caucasus." His finer feelings, however, rendered that
unprotected female as safe whilst beneath his roof, as if she had been
guarded by a host. He seated himself again beside her, and an he calmly
and kindly regarded her exquisite form, whilst he again spoke, a bright
and pure beam of divine expression was on his bearded face, an
expression, which diffused a calm feeling of happiness and contentment
over the soul of her who beheld it.
The long crushed spirit of the lady felt the influence of his presence.
"That I had in my ignorance of your sex somewhat overtaxed your strength
during our journey," he said, "the result has shewn, since on our
reaching London, you was seized with an illness which nearly cost your
life."
"I remember nothing," said the lady, "after our arrival at the hotel of
the Globe."
"Unluckily," said the poet, "it happened that some seamen who
disembarked but a few days before had brought the plague into that
neighbourhood. That disease in London is usually so dire in its effect,
that, for mere suspicion, the inhabitants act as if for surety. Your
ship-boy's semblance, and your illness, gave the host of the tavern a
suspicion that you was infected, and he expelled us from his door. Nay,
such was the rapidity with which the alarm travelled, that I found it
impossible to procure a shelter for you in that neighbourhood; and it
was whilst conveying you, still insensible, to the water-side, that I
became suspicious of your sex. This discovery increased the difficulty
of our situation, till I recollected an asylum in which I could safely
carry you, and e'en procure the assistance of medicine. I remembered an
old poor man, one so needy, starved, and miserable, that I had oft-times
sought, and alleviated his condition. Nay, gratitude had prompted me so
to do, since, in my own need, and when, alone and friendless, I first
sought this town, he himself befriended me. To the habitation of this
man, who indeed, possesses considerable skill in leechcraft, I conveyed
you, and to his care, attention, and skill, for night and day did he
watch over you, are you indebted for your life."
"And whilst yourself also cared for me," said the lady, "still fearless
of the tyrant fever with which I was burnt up; nay, you have since
removed me hither, and so continued to guard over me. And all this in
favour of one alike hopeless and friendless."
"Such circumstances, lady," said the poet, "should in themselves alone
suffice to enlist me in your service. But come," he continued, "we will
no more of this. A letter I have just received from my sometime home, in
Warwickshire, gives much of news. I have unfolded to you so much of my
history, that I may now further inform you there is hope of once more
revisiting the friends I left whilst in trouble and disgrace."
"This is, indeed, pleasing intelligence," said his companion. "My own
destination is in that neighbourhood."
"To guard over you till I can safely convey you amongst those friends
you have hinted at," said Shakespeare, "is my wish; nay, our exertions,
and the generosity of a nobleman, my friend, has enabled me to complete
a purchase I had in contemplation--a share in the neighbouring theatre
here. I have also another play toward, and should it succeed in the
represental, I will then attend on you with all true duty."
"But your letter?" said the lady; "pardon my seeming curiosity. In
happier days I have owned friends in the neighbourhood of your home.
Speaks it of any resident around Stratford-upon-Avon?"
"It does," said Shakespeare. "It is from my father, and gives much
gossip of the locality. Amongst other matter it informs me of some
difficulties a gentleman, my friend, has fallen into."
"And his name," said the lady, "is Walter Arderne?"
"The same," returned Shakespeare.
The lady's face immediately became crimson, and then deadly pale. "And
how then hath Walter Arderne fallen into difficulties?" she inquired.
"Methought I heard from you, during our journey, that he had succeeded
to great wealth."
"It was even so," said Shakespeare, "but I fear I am again taxing your
strength. You look somewhat pale."
"'Tis nothing," said his fair companion. "Proceed, I beseech you, I am
most anxious to know of the welfare of this Arderne."
"The young man, then," continued Shakespeare, "it appears by the story,
after coming into possession of this fortune, and many parks, and walks,
and manors, in England, hath busied himself in various acts of goodness.
Amongst other things he hath built alms-houses, hospitals, for the use
of the afflicted."
"To such a one," said the lady, "fortune should ever belong; but to your
story. What more of this Arderne? Methinks I am overfond to hear of so
much generosity."
"There is little more to tell," said Shakespeare. "The sums he hath
bestowed and the various charities he hath endowed, have involved him in
difficulties. His virtues have served him but as enemies. Nay, he seems,
I am grieved to say, on the brink of ruin; for, in addition to all I
have enumerated, it appears he hath expended large sums during the
invasion of the Spaniard, both in fitting out numerous ships, and
enrolling and embodying men, all which vessels, through his desperate
valour in leading them into the hot encounter, have been either
destroyed or returned to port rent and beggared."
"Nay, but," said the lady, "I am still in ignorance how this could
possibly involve Walter Ardene in ruin. The fortune he inherited would
have borne all this, methinks, and much more, without endamagement."
"Truly so, lady," said Shakespeare; "but it hath suddenly transpired
that Walter Arderne is not the lawful heir. A caitiff wretch, named
Grasp, and whose ferrit eyes and evil spirit are always seeking
mischief, hath, by dint of searching over worm-eaten deeds and musty
parchments, hunting out tombstones, and manufacturing pedigrees, somehow
found a nearer relation; and all the sums Master Arderne hath expended
since the hour he came into possession, the law will enforce him to
refund. This, together with the suits he is involved in, will go nigh to
ruin both himself and his good uncle, Sir Hugh Clopton."
"And this nearer kinsman!" said the lady. "Does your information extend
so far as to name the person of such claimant?"
"'Tis one who is the friend of a powerful noble," said Shakespeare, "of
one whom it is dangerous to speak of in other terms but those of
respect."
"Methinks I can name him," said the lady. "It is one whose unbounded
stomach and high ambition long soared towards a crown by marriage; one
whose evil disposition would halt not to obtain power or riches,
magnificent as his fortune already is. The Earl with the dark
countenance and gloomy soul--he whom Sussex calls the Gipsey; the
dangerous Leicester."
"The same," said Shakespeare.
"Nay, then, an Walter Arderne hath that noble for an enemy, let him
beware the cup, as well as the law, for Leicester is sure to succeed by
fair means or foul. He is the most successful dealer in poison in the
kingdom."
"Would to Heaven," said Shakespeare, "some help might be found; for the
strait this generous man is like to be driven to sorely oppresses him!"
"Let it no longer do so," said the lady. "Continue to inform me of the
progress of events; I will be warranty for his safe extrication from all
his difficulties."
Shakespeare looked surprised; but he forbode remark; and soon after this
conversation retired to his own lodging.
After the interview, the poet reflected deeply upon the conversation
which had taken place, and as he did so, many things which had not
previously struck him forced themselves upon his mind regarding his
mysterious friend, and which now enabled him in some sort to pluck out
the heart of her mystery.
During the time he had watched over her during her illness, and the
delirium consequent upon it, she had uttered names which recalled former
passages of his life. She had called upon Charlotte Clopton, and bade
her leave the horrid charnel-house in which she had been entombed alive,
and even named localities familiar to him in his native county.
These things, whilst they contributed to elucidate her story, more
deeply interested him. He saw she could appreciate a true heart and bold
spirit in man, and could love with all the truth and innocence of a
Juliet. There was in her no false pride or prudery, but unconscious of
her own excellence, she was indeed one of those bright creatures so
often bestowed where they are unvalued. Had such a one fallen to his own
share, he thought, how would he have worshipped! But such was not to be.
He who was the gentlest, the noblest of mankind, was not to be so
companioned. His course was steered, at this period, alone. For him,
high birth and bright excellence should have been reserved, because he
so well could have appreciated them.
There was, however, to be observed in this singular female a sort of
character which even more interested him than her radiant beauty. With
all her amiability, she possessed a determination of purpose, which made
it impossible to control her designs. From what he could fathom of her
intentions and her story, she seemed only anxious to confer or secure
some important benefit to the individual she loved, and then to retire
from the world, to enter some convent abroad, "and be for aye in shady
cloister mew'd." And so, as the poet sat and thought over these matters,
he again seized his pen, and wrote.