OLD FRIENDS.
Our story now draws towards conclusion, and we once more return to the
point from which we at first started. Clopton Hall, after so many years
of gloom, may now be said to have quite resumed that appearance of
hospitality and prosperity as when we first beheld it in the early
passages of our story, and ere disease, death, and misery, had so
prevailed there.
For the first time for many years its rooms and offices, its stalls,
kennels, and falconries, were all tenanted. After so many vicissitudes
and strange events, in which its inmates had been separated, and became
wanderers in the world, such of them as were in being were again
assembled within its old walls.
The coming Christmas, that season so ceremoniously observed at the
period, promised again to be the harbinger of festive scenes and old
world rites of hospitality.
The old knight, for the first time for many years, seemed really to hold
up his head, and glance around him with feelings of pride and
contentment. His dearly beloved nephew was again with him; he had just
come from over sea with Essex, and having left the Earl on the road
towards Kenilworth, had galloped forward to Clopton.
In addition to this, too, which seemed to give Sir Hugh as much content
as astonishment, that tried old friend, the trusty and shrewd Martin,
who had so long been mourned as dead there, had suddenly reappeared at
Clopton.
The old knight could scarce contain himself within bounds as he looked
upon the pair. 'Twas hardly to be thought of, so much of contentment,
after having so long been a lonesome mourner; for one way or other, Sir
Hugh had now been in trouble so many years, that his happiness almost
alarmed him, lest something should turn up to mar it afresh.
It was on the evening of the day on which we have introduced our readers
to the inmates of Kenilworth that Martin and Arderne, together with
others connected with our story, were seated beneath the hospitable roof
of Sir Hugh.
To describe the unmixed pleasure experienced by these good and amiable
friends on that evening exceeds the power of our pen; albeit we may
attempt to describe some portion of the conversation which took place.
Few things, we opine, are more gratifying than to glance upon a circle
of true friends, so bound together as the ones in question, and on this
occasion the party consisted of some half-dozen individuals, for,
besides those we have already named, the circle contained the worthy
Captain Fluellyn, and, "though last, not least," William Shakespeare sat
a guest beneath that old chimney.
'Twas indeed a goodly fellowship, and in which, though perhaps 'tis a
rare thing to say, where six mortals quaffed a loving cup together, not
a particle of envy, hatred, or uncharitableness, pervaded.
The divine expression of Shakespeare's face, as he sipped the ruby
liquor, the noble countenance of Arderne, as he glanced first at one and
then another of the friends around, the excitement of the old host, as
he pushed the cup about, the quaint look of the shrewd Martin, and the
bluff, jovial style of the sea captain, as he puffed away at his
capacious pipe, our readers must imagine. They sat in a circle round the
huge log upon the hearth, and each and all had something to relate or
something to listen to of stirring interest, for as each spoke of his
own adventures, 'twas as if some brother told the tale.
"Your story, good Martin," said Shakespeare, as Martin paused after
telling some portion of his adventure and escape from the Spaniard, "on
mine own authority I would hardly dare avouch. 'Tis like some of those
events in real life which scarce pass even in fiction."
"I dare be sworn on't," said Martin. "'Tis an over credulous and yet
unbelieving world this, an' I may so word it, a mad world, my masters,
and yet, ha, ha, 'tis a pleasant world, too. Aye, and this not
altogether so bad a way of passing the time in't. What says the song,
"'Tis merry in hall when beards wag all,
And welcome merry Christmas."
"I pr'ythee, good friend," said Arderne, "continue the narrative of this
tragedy; for I must needs call that a tragedy which comprehends the loss
of so exquisite a lady as Clara de Mowbray."
"Aye, truly so," said Martin; "that was a sigh, indeed, Master Walter.
Sighing, however, is of little avail when the object is beyond reach.
'Tis too true an evil; the Lady Clara is lost to us."
"Thou did'st, however, aid her escape from that burning carrick?" said
Fluellyn, "and in which, indeed, we all suffered with those we saw
suffer. 'Twas a fearful sight."
"I take some credit to say I did so," returned Martin, dallying with his
glass, and looking at the red flame of the fire through the ruby liquor.
"Ah, ah, methinks I see those overweening Dons grilling in their
treasure ship at this moment. I did aid in the lady's escape by the same
token, I myself caused the conflagration that aided our escape; I
myself, in my immaculate valour, destroyed the enemy, as Drake hath it,
I singed the Dons' whiskers with a vengeance. Ha, ha."
"Tell us the manner of the exploit," said Shakespeare, who, by the way,
had heard it from other lips.
"In few, then," said Martin, "and to continue from where I left. You are
to know that the commander of the carrick no sooner beheld us upon his
deck than he was about to cast us off again, and into the roaring sea.
As he seized, however, upon my companion in misfortune, lo! you, he
discovered he had prisoner of a female. The stately Don upon this
steadily regarded his prisoner, and became struck all on a heap with her
beauty. He then transferred his gaze to me, and (albeit he saw nothing
extremely feminine, or even beautiful in my outward form) he was pleased
to extend his clemency to us both. In few the blood of the Castillian
was inflamed at the sight of the exquisite Clara; and, whilst the two
ships lay glaring upon each other, we were both hurried down below,
there to remain till more leisure should enable the magnifico to pay
personal attention to us. My fate, doubtless, was to have been the sea.
My companion's, perhaps, even worse. Whatever fate, however, was in
store for us at the hands of the Don, we determined in no wise to submit
to it. The cabin in which we were confined had a window in roar of the
carrick. Without that window hung a boat. My companion got into that
boat, and after I myself had lighted a bonfire in the cabin, and placed
several barrels of gunpowder in very dangerous proximity thereto, I
managed to lower that boat after getting into it, and finally, to cut
her adrift. The blow-up of the barrels, and the gloom of the coming
night, effectually diverted attention from our frail craft, as we
mounted upon the crest of wave after wave. As we did so, we were
horrified spectators of the scene of terror we had caused. One moment
the burning ship was lifted on high, like some huge beacon, and the nest
lost in the deep valley of waters. Thus did we escape, for that time,
the death and dishonour that awaited us, and, weak and debile ministers,
destroyed our foes at one and the same time. But oh," continued Martin,
"conceive us, my masters all, wanderers upon that vast heaving world, in
a rotten carcase of a boat--no knowledge where to steer for, no
knowledge how to steer, if we knew where to steer--no expectation but
death. Do I not seem to ye like one sitting here telling of things
imagined in a dream? That heaving water, in which our boat could scarce
live--those roaring winds, which almost stopped our very breathing in
their violence--that lady, whose form every sea drenched, and who for
two long nights endured this extremity of dire distress."
"And died she so?" inquired Arderne.
"Not a whit," said Martin. "Her's was a miserable strait to be reduced
to; but her spirit was great. She had scarce time to die. She helped me
to bale out the waters, as they continually washed into our boat. She
shared my small portion of biscuit with me, and she drank from the
flasket I filched from the cabin when we escaped from the ship; and so
she lived, good sir, lived to be picked up in the dreary waste of
waters. For, look ye, we had constructed a sort of sail, when the wind
moderated, and that betrayed us to the companion of the carrick we had
burned. Yes, we were descried and picked up by another Don, commanded by
another courageous Captain of Compliments, and forthwith carried off to
the country of the Spaniard."
"And that lady," said Arderne. "Pr'ythee, good Martin, follow out your
story. Her fate I dread to ask, and yet would learn."
"Nay," said Martin, archly, "methinks mine own fate might in some sort
interest my hearers. But truly I seem not to command much attention in
this story of adventure: and yet I showed myself courageous, and aided
the weaker vessel too."
Shakespeare smiled, and a look passed between him and Martin. "'Tis the
duty of doublet and hose to show itself courageous to petticoat," he
said. "We are naturally given to pity the young and beautiful, rather
than the strong and sturdy. Besides, thou hast escaped, art here to
avouch it thyself."
"And so may that lady, for aught I know to the contrary," said Martin.
"How!" exclaimed Arderne. "Escaped! Methought she died, died in Spain."
"It may be so," said Martin, "but I never said it. When we arrived in
Spain, we were both clapped up as heretics between the walls of the
Inquisition, where, doubtless, I for one should have died upon the rack,
but that I was eventually made useful at the oar. My companion's fate I
cannot further avouch. I myself was rescued whilst helping against my
will, to invade my native land, amongst other galley slaves. The craft
we worked in was captured by one of Frobisher's vessels, and in that
vessel I was forthwith carried to the Indies after the fight, and in
that vessel have I returned; and here I am once more at Clopton."
"Nay then," said Arderne, "if such be the case, thou hast but momentarily
raised my hope and dashed it again, good Martin. Had that lady lived,
and were I of all kingdoms king, I would give all for but one scattered
smile of one so excellent."
The narration of Martin caused a sudden check to the previous hilarity
of the company, since it recalled to most there the loss of kindred or
relatives in former days.
Shakespeare, as he glanced around, remembered former scenes of mingled
grief and joy in that house; the melancholy of Arderne was a melancholy
of his own, the sundry contemplation of his mishaps and misfortunes,
founded, as he then thought, principally upon the loss of one, who when
alive, was unappreciated; whilst the captain and Martin also, in pure
melancholy and troubled brain puffed away at their pipes with double
vigour.
"Come," said Sir Hugh, who observed this gloomy fit stealing over his
party, "we trifle time when we sorrow for what is past and irrevocable.
It draws toward supper time. Remember, neighbours and friends, this is
the first time of our meeting together after long years and much misery.
Gloom shall not hold sovereign sway over Clopton again, an I can drive
it hence. Music ho!" he said, rising and clapping his hands. "'Fore
heaven, nephew, we will e'en be jovial to-night. Have we not Shakespeare
here, and can'st forget those scenes he furnished forth at the
Blackfriars? Come, let music play, and serve the supper, lads!"
The custom of the period permitted this in the halls of the great. Many
of the nobles and even gentry of condition kept up a sort of orchestra
or band composed of their own domestics or servitors, and which gave a
degree of enjoyment to their entertainment unknown to modern times. The
sweet tones of the instruments kept off that starched etiquette, that
awkward stiffness oft-times felt during the intervals of conversation,
that struggle for wit that came not when called for, it filled up the
evening, and the soft strains of melody engendered bright thoughts,
whilst they soothed the mind at the same time. Whatever of romance is in
our character is called forth at such a time by music.
And so the party sat around the festive board in their quaint costume,
old and young, poet and philosopher, whilst as the musicians puffed at
tho French horn, and drew forth dulcet sounds from those antiquated
stringed instruments, serving-men hastened about, trencher in hand, and
bearing liquor on their salvers. Topics of conversation were plentiful,
for still flowed the tide of interest concerning each other's separate
fortunes during their career, and the jest's propriety lay in the ears
of those who listened, whilst Shakespeare was the speaker.
Sir Hugh promised his friends a merry Christmas at Clopton; a Christmas
observed with all due observance of the time.
In Elizabeth's day, most people, even of the higher grade of society,
kept comparatively early hours. Those who dined at eleven and twelve,
necessarily supped at five or six. The supper too, was the most festive
meal, and most enjoyed; and when the season of the year, or old custom,
gave warranty, your old English host not unfrequently kept wassail all
night long.
On the present occasion the old Knight felt inclined to drink deep and
sit late. He seemed resolved for a carouse. Martin and Shakespeare
banded about their quaint sayings, and Sir Hugh seemed to revel in the
idea of a merry Christmas at Clopton, observed with all due observance
of the time; an observance, which in Warwickshire at that day was looked
upon by old and young, rich and poor, with a feeling of enjoyment and
love amounting to a passion. Every sport was got up with religious
fervour; every old-world custom regarded with a veneration unknown to
our own squalid days.
Christmas Day was at hand, and the old Knight talked of it like a child
talks of a new toy; but whilst he spoke of good cheer and wine and
wassail to set before his guests, a reeking post arrived, inviting
himself and all consorting him to a feast held during the Christmas week
at Kenilworth. The Countess of Leicester greeting her friend Sir Hugh,
bade him welcome to her poor house of Kenilworth, to come with hawk and
hound, kith, kindred and friends presently consorting him.
The Countess of Leicester was one in whom Sir Hugh had much interest.
She was the daughter of his old friend, Lettice, Lady Knolleys, sister
to Carey, Lord Hundsdon.
The Knight pitied her for her misfortune in marrying the evil-minded
Leicester, for he had indeed loved her with a paternal affection; albeit
the troublous current of his own life had lately hindered him from
seeing much of her.
Under these circumstances, Sir Hugh felt delighted with the invitation,
and resolved, if his party agreed, to accept it.
"How say ye, lads," he said, "shall we to this feast? Methinks I should
like hugely to visit Kenilworth, and my charming friend, after so many
years of absence. How say ye, Walter, shall we dine once more beneath
the towers of old John of Gaunt, and Geoffrey Clinton?"
The company, as a matter of course, left it to their entertainer to
accept or refuse, as he thought best.
"I am for a revel and a brawl any bow," said Martin, "now I have come
once more to a Christian land. Be it at Clopton or Kenilworth, all's one
to Martin."
And so the party resolved to join in the Christmas revels at
Kenilworth.