KENILWORTH.
Our readers, we doubt not, have for some time entertained a shrewd
suspicion regarding the somewhat indistinct character latterly flitting
about amongst the _dramatis personae_ of our story. The Lady Clara de
Mowbray, in her own proper person, has of late been but little seen in
the twisted and ravelled skein of this history.
The fortunes of him who is enshrined in all hearts, has of necessity
thrown all minor characters into the shade.
Nevertheless, the doings of so exquisite a creature as Clara de Mowbray,
are worthy of the contemplation of our readers, for both in station and
disposition she was considerably elevated above the ordinary fragments
of the world.
She was a being in whom the best elements were mingled that she might
well have been the worshipped idol of the noblest of the other sex. And
yet have we seen this female, by one of those curious chances so common
in real life, left alone almost in the world, steering her course across
the ocean of adventurous deeds, unknown, and, apparently, unappreciated.
And is not thin oft-times the case? Do we not oft-times see in the world
the most paltry portions of humanity, the most impudent and assuming?
The moat common-place, the most vain, and the most unworthy, exacting
the most homage? Nay, succeeding in life better than the good and
virtuous?
Clara de Mowbray was one worthy of an emperor's love; a creature we do
occasionally, but rarely, meet with in the world; a sort of descended
angel amongst mortals, sent apparently as the pattern, the model, for
the baser worldlings to "dress themselves by." The world, however, would
perhaps be likely to censure Clara, and her virtues to stand her but as
enemies--her innocence and her regardlessness of form and ceremony, her
recklessness of paltry opinion, be considered unmaidenly and bold! and
so might the world think and say, for Clara possessed a spirit as
undaunted in the resolve to carry out her projects as she was pure in
heart and beautiful in person. If she had a fault it was her unbended
determination to go through with any thing she once undertook. She was
the creature of romance too, and altogether would have been better
suited for a more romantic age than that in which she lived. Albeit her
own times gave some scope for the exercise of her peculiarities.
We have seen that from childhood she had loved Arderne; she had had so
many opportunities of observing his excellence and worth, that spite of
her better reason, and against hope, she had loved. It was one of those
unselfish passions which hopes all for the being beloved, and nothing
for self. She knew that the object of her thoughts had been engaged
elsewhere, that his affections were buried in the tomb of Charlotte
Clopton, but that altered not her feelings towards him a jot. Whilst he
lived, it was something to breathe in the same hemisphere; and to add to
his happiness and prosperity, even by stealth, was her study.
Hence have we seen her in disguise seeking to deliver him from the
horrors of captivity or starvation on a desolate shore. Herself enduring
the extremity of mishap, and then rescued from captivity of the
Spaniard. Hence have we seen her bequeathing, in the event of her own
death, all she possessed upon the one so beloved, and hence have we
seen her, and her extraordinary disposition revelled in such a
situation, the disguised comrade, and then the guest of the wonderful
man whose course of life it has been our task to follow. And hence we
find her, up to the present period of our story, still bending all her
energies to restore the fortunes and happiness of Walter Arderne.
In all things, however, Clara de Mowbray, as we have before hinted,
chose to follow her own notions comparatively unknown, certainly she
thought unloved by the object of her affections. She shrank from all
idea of being recognised as the benefactor of Arderne, lest he should
consider himself bound to tender her the devotion of the life she had
sought to save. She pursued, therefore, an extremely cautious and
erratic mode in all her proceeding. Even Shakespeare, the friend, the
wonderful man who had saved her from the Spaniard, she feared entirely
to place confidence in. The poet, however, had carefully studied the
character of this beautiful female, resolved to thwart her ultimate
intentions regarding herself, and if possible, to make her happy.
How strangely then flows the tide of human events. Clara de Mowbray
alive, in health, and the real possessor of enormous wealth, was
apparently dead to the world as to herself, her affections she thought
unrequited. On the object of those affections she had conferred all her
worldly goods, and herself she had intended to dedicate to Heaven.
She was a Catholic, and she meant, as soon an she saw all her schemes in
a fair way of completion, to seclude herself from the world. She had
arranged matters so as to retire to a convent in Navarre. With Arderne
the case was as singular. This youth, so much thought of for his
excellent disposition, albeit he mourned the beautiful Clara as one
dead, adored her memory as a reality, and, had he suspected her of being
in life, would have put a girdle round the earth to find her out.
"Love like a shadow flies, when substation love pursues,
Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues."
And that such should be the case,--that the melancholy Walter should
become enamoured of what seemed but a shadow, is not surprising in a man
of his disposition. The splendid domains be had succeeded to, the
romance of the situation altogether, his remembrance of the sometime
heiress of these broad lands, at last caused him to be so enamoured of
her bare memory that the subject of her beauty formed the entire subject
of his thoughts. It seemed to him that she haunted each dell and glided
about the stately halls of her forefathers, sighed in the winds which
swept around the battlements of her ancestry; and, indeed, pervaded
every spot around the woods and groves she had conferred upon him. The
remembrance of his former love was by a newer object quite obliterated.
The good Walter, in short, became a sort of dreamy person. For hours
together would he stand in the long gallery at Shottery, and
contemplate the picture of Clara de Mowbray; and had not Grasp's
machinations, by driving him from these thoughts and from possession of
the domains, driven him from the haunts that engendered them, he would
most probably have become a melancholy maniac or a misanthrope.
Clara de Mowbray had in her early youth, beside the unfortunate
Charlotte Clopton, one other dear and valued friend, the unhappy
Countess of Leicester. This beautiful woman, whom the dark Earl had
become enamoured of whilst her first husband was alive, he was reported
to have "played most foully for." He was said, indeed to have poisoned
Walter, Earl of Essex, in order to gain her hand.
The sorrowful Countess, who had ample leisure to repent of her second
marriage, had been greatly attached to Clara, and frequently when she
could escape from the splendid cares, "the glistering grief," of her own
home, had been wont to pour her sorrows into the ear of the heiress. She
had consequently been the only person, except the eccentric Martin, who
was the entire confident of Clara. She had known of her attachment, and
also had been privy to her adventure in search of her lover; she also
knew of her determination to retire from the world it she succeeded, and
in common with the world, she imagined Clara had perished in the
attempt; but as she had been sworn to secresy by her young friend, ere
she departed, so she had faithfully kept counsel.
Now, however, but a few days before the Earl of Leicester's death, to
her astonishment, in the disguised individual who sought her at
Kenilworth, the Countess beheld her dearly-loved friend, accompanied by
the long lost Martin. How they had escaped from shipwreck and all the
"portance of their travelled history," the Countess had small time to
learn, for soon after their arrival she herself was summoned to the sick
Earl at Cornbury Park.
The Countess, however, had granted Clara the boon she asked,--a letter
to the Queen in favour of Arderne; and this letter, together with the
applications of Essex and Southampton, had procured Walter's release;
after which, together with the faithful Martin, Clara again sought
retirement at Kenilworth.
And, oh! if that splendid record of pride and power could have spoken,
what tales of sorrow and suffering, as well as of grandeur, what proofs
of unbridled power could it have told. Those magnificent buildings of
Leicester, where such princely revels had been held--how could they have
uttered forth a wailing lament over the wickedness of unchecked and
headstrong will! Those gaudy and tapestried chambers, the last built,
the first to go to decay--how well could they have divulged the
whispered deceit of human nature, the cunning and the baseness of the
_parvenu_ Earl who reared them!
For one hour those rooms had "blazed with light, and bray'd with
minstrelsy," how many dark and melancholy weeks had they to tell of,
whilst sorrow and whispered horror, and surmise that "dared not speak
its fear," had reigned there! How had the very domestics feared the
descending shadows in those vast rooms, and where the night-shriek
"disturbed the curtain sleep!" Deeds of evil note had had their reign in
those chambers. The wail of sorrow had been heard oft-times in the long
winter's nights, in the dungeons of that castle; and, even to her who
was the mistress there, that bright castle-lake, the fair scene without,
all had been looked upon from those arched windows with eyes that marked
not their beauty,--she, who was the wife of their possessor, slept there
in fear.
Through the instrumentality of Essex and Southampton, on becoming better
known to those chivalrous men, Arderne had been so much liked, that they
had introduced him to the Queen; and Elizabeth was so struck with his
handsome form and gallant bearing, that she had taken him into favour,
and employed him in her service.
The national spirit of England had been so much, aroused by the Spanish
invasion, that nothing less than some attempt at retaliation would
satisfy the people. Don Anthonia, titular King of Portugal, was a
suppliant at the English Court for assistance to establish him on the
throne of his ancestors; and as Elizabeth rather relished the policy,
albeit she liked not the cost of such a measure, she gave leave to her
subjects to fit out an expedition for the liberation of Portugal from
the Spanish yoke, always providing they did it at their own proper
charge, she lending them ships of war.
This expedition the valiant Arderne resolved, at a hint from the Queen,
to join; and, albeit he was forbidden to have anything to do with it by
the doating Queen, the rash and headstrong Essex also resolved to play
the knight-errant, and, escaping from the silken fetters of his courtly
mistress, as a simple volunteer accompany the expedition.
Clara de Mowbray, meantime, was the guest of her early friend, Lettice,
Countess of Leicester, at Kenilworth; the Countess, during the period of
her mourning, being resident at the castle. Some three weeks had passed
away since the Earl's death, and even in that short space, many events
bad transpired. Arderne was released from all graver charges; Grasp,
although discomfited, terrified and conscience-stricken, was still
endeavouring to make a good fight for his client; and Shakespeare was
returning to his wife and family. True to his resolve, after his own
return to Stratford-upon-Avon, Grasp as soon as he recovered himself,
had hastened to Charlecote with intelligence that the "sometime
deer-stealer" was at length forthcoming, and would but Sir Thomas give
fresh instructions, he, Grasp, would still pursue the delinquent, and
bring him to condign punishment.
Sir Thomas had, however, entirely changed his opinion upon the subject
of the offence, it appeared. He had also changed his opinion of Grasp,
and summoning his head-falconer, old Hubert, he desired him to call
together several of his followers, and toss Grasp in a blanket in the
park--the knight watching the operations with infinite gusto from his
window.
Such happiness, therefore, as usually falls to the share of mortals in
this work-a-day world, may be supposed to have fallen to the share of
many of tho individuals connected with our story.
In outward seeming, such was, indeed the case.
But perfect happiness is, in reality, beyond the reach of mortals. It is
the green spot in the distance, and that on which we stand is ever but a
sterile promontory.
"What we have not, still we strive to get,
And what we have, _forget_."
It was one evening, about three weeks after Leicester's death, that the
Countess and her interesting friend were seated in one of those
magnificent apartments in the buildings to which the Earl had given his
name.
Few, as we have before said, as they gaze upon this now ruined shell,
can have an adequate notion of its former state and grandeur. The
buildings reared by that proud Earl, almost for the sole purpose of
offering to the Queen the most sumptuous entertainment ever given by
subject to sovereign, seemed, indeed, reared but for that one scene of
pomp and grandeur, and afterwards to have remained a sad memento of the
mutability of human greatness, and then sank unnoted to decay. As they
had added their sum of more to that before enormous pile, so had they,
in their vastness, remained almost too spacious for a subject's means.
For the castle altogether, with its numerous flanking towers, and the
additions which had been made to it from time to time seemed capable of
containing an army within the roundure of its walls.
As the Countess sat with her friend in one of the magnificent apartments
of Leicester's Building, she listened to the recital Clara had to give
of her own escape from death, when taken prisoner by the Spaniard.
'Twas a delicious evening. The October winds sighed upon the lake
without, and scattered the dried leaves from the woodland on the
opposite shore. The setting sun shone like gold upon the turrets of the
castle, and tinged the massive forest, as the Lady Clara glanced
occasionally in the direction where lay Stratford-upon-Avon. The
Countess marked that glance as she sat opposite to her friend and
beneath the huge chimney, for the coldness of the season, and the size
of the room, made the blazing fire upon the hearth anything but
disagreeable.
"And after enduring so much," said the Countess, "you mean then, to
retire for ever from the world--you will forsake him for whom you have
adventured life, fortune, reputation."
"I forsake none," said Clara. "Who knows or cares for one so solitary in
the world! I bequeath to him I most love, all my worldly goods--myself I
dedicate to heaven."
"There is one other," said the Countess, "and whom I have heard you
mention in terms of admiration and respect--will not his persuasion
avail."
"He is indeed a man," said Clara, with enthusiasm, "one whose words
might do much. But are you quite sure he would not rather approve than
censure my resolve? He knows something of my story, but like yourself,
he is bound by me to secresy whilst I remain in England."
"Listen," said the Countess, "to what this friend has to urge;" and
taking from a sort of cabinet a small packet, she read the following:--
I.
"From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die.
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But then, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's frame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel,
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
II.
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then, being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou could'st answer--'This fair-child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'--
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made, when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold."
There was a pause after the Countess had read these sonnets, and which
she, in common with the entire Court circle, had been delighted with
when they first appeared. The beauty of the poetry, like sweet music,
placed a spell upon the pair; such verse in those lordly apartments had
a double influence.
As Clara gazed around upon the arrassed walls, and then glanced from the
window upon the sweet scene without,--when she looked towards the home
of the poet, the spirit of that man seemed to breath around. In some
sort the Countess of Leicester felt this, for both these high-born
ladies knew Shakespeare; his exquisite poetry had stolen over their
hearts. They were of the few of their day who already appreciated him.
"Your story, Clara," said Lady Leicester, at length breaking silence,
"convinces me this generous man carries with him the remembrance of some
early grief--some secret sorrow never to be expressed. I feel as firmly
convinced of it, as that you yourself are the excited cause of those
sonnets I have just perused. The time of their production and
circulation amongst us by Essex and Southampton--the circumstances under
which you was rescued by this Shakespeare from the Spaniard--his
discovery of your true sex, and subsequent contemplation of your
exquisite disposition, Clara, all confirm it. Heaven grant thou sweetest
and best of women, that this poetic friend does not himself love, and
whilst he has pleaded for license to inform his friend Arderne of your
secret, has not indeed felt a pang sharp as the stilleto of the
Italian."
Clara started at the words of the Countess, and a slight flush suffused
her check. The thought was, for the moment, fraught with pleasant
reminiscences, but then feelings of alarm pervaded her, lest there
should be in reality some truth in the suspicion of her friend. That
man, so immeasurably above all other mortals, to love her--that man,
whose influence seemed always to pervade every spot around her, where
aught noble, refined, or chivalrous breathed--that man, without whose
society, even granting she were wedded to him she loved, she must now
experience a void, a blank. For be it remembered that Clara de Mowbray
had, from circumstances, been the intimate, the companion of
Shakespeare, knew his sentiments, been with him in the hour when poetry
flowed from lip as well as pen; and that whilst she had listened, his
words had produced thoughts and imaginings belonging to the fabled ages
of the early world, in Crete, in Sparta, and in Thessaly.
As the Countess remarked the effect her words had produced, she arose
and walked to the window. How sad, she thought to herself, that the life
of one so amiable should be an aimless one! How sad, that sorrow should
inhabit that form where so much grace and beauty dwelt!
Her thoughts, however, were speedily withdrawn from her friend, for at
that moment the Major Domo, or steward of the Castle, his white wand in
his hand, announced the arrival of a messenger from London bearing
dispatches.
"News," she said, as she took the several sealed packets and examined
them. "News, Clara, and from my truant son."
"The messenger, an it so please ye," said the steward, "announces the
Earl is on his road hitherward, and with a goodly company."
"'Tis even so," said Lady Leicester; "he writes me word he hath returned
from Lisbon, where nothing but discomfort, sickness, and mortality
attended the English army. Six out of eighteen thousand having already
fallen victims to the climate."
"And have you news of others present in that ill-omened expedition?"
inquired Clara.
"Nothing save that some of his companions of the expedition are with
him. The Queen, I find, by another packet," said Lady Leicester, "is
much blamed for permitting this expedition to be undertaken at all since
it has thus failed. Nay, she hath been rated by Burleigh. The royal
lioness is, therefore, chafed in spirit."
"Ah! and here is another letter," continued the Countess, as she perused
a somewhat curious document, as curiously worded, and after a fashion
not uncommon at a period when, "in speaking of dangerous majesty," it
was necessary to be guarded. The letter was brief and secret, partly in
figures, and the Countess read it aloud to her friend:
"Let not 1500[27] gain sight of 1000 till anger subdueth, or the hot
blood of 1000 will chafe at what may peradventure follow; 1500 is
wrathful, and the enemies of 1000 have worked during absence; keep,
therefore, valour and worth employed till matters cool. Not only hath
the disobedience of 1000 offended in the expedition, but 1500 hath seen
a printed volume[28] of _t--t's_, title to _a--a_, a device, doubtless,
of some crafty knave and enemy; 50 hath been committed this day to the
tower."
[Footnote 27: Elizabeth was expressed in those letters by the figures
1500; Essex by 1000; _a--a_ was the crown.]
[Footnote 28: A seditious Catholic publication, dedicated to Essex, to
ruin him.]
"I understand it not," said Clara. "Albeit it is plain enough to the
eye, the sense is mysterious."
"It speaks to me of danger to my gallant son," said the Countess with a
sigh, "and is from a dear and true industrious friend. It means that the
Queen is angry with my son, and we must, therefore, hold him here if
possible. You must aid me in this Clara, and we must endeavour to make
Kenilworth a pleasing prison to him for a brief space."
"Thou knowest," said Clara, "that I am thy guest under promise of strict
incognito; thou knowest, dear Lettice, that I am strict in my resolve to
remain unknown."
"I know thou art proud in spirit, Clara, as becomes one of the princely
line of Plantagenet. But 'tis a mother who asks thee to aid her in
keeping her darling son from danger. Heaven knows I have little heart
for revelling just now, but something we must invent to detain Essex at
Kenilworth till the danger blows over."