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00I, LECTION
OF
B R IT IS H AUTH () R. S.
TAU CHNITZ EDITION,
WOL. 2296.
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE BY WILLIAM BLACK.
IN TWO WOL UMES.
VOL. I.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
A. DAUGHTER OF HETH. . . . . . . . . .
IN. SILK ATTIRE . . . . . . . . . . .
ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON . . . . . . .
A PRINCESS OF THULE . . . . . . . . .
KILMENY . . . . . . . . . . . . .
THE MAID OF KILLEENA . . . . . . . .
THREE FEATEIERS . . . . . . . . . .
LADY SILVERDALE’s SweETHEART . . . . .
MADCAP WIOLET . . . . . . . . . . .
GREEN PASTURES AND PICCAT)ILLY . . . . .
MACLEOD OF DARE . . . . . . . . . .
WHITE WINGS . . . . . . . . . . . .
SUNRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
TELE BEAUTIFUL WRETCH . . . tº gº tº º
MR. PISISTRATUS BROWN, M.P., IN THE HIGHLANDS
SHANDON BELLS (witH PORTRAIT) . . . . . .
2 vols.
2 vols.
2 vols.
2 vols.
1 Vol.
1 Vol.
2 vols.
1 Vol.
2 vols.
2 vols.
2 vols.
2 vols.
2 vols.
1 Vol.
1 Vol.
2 vols.
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
A R O M A N CE.
BY
WILLIAM BLACK,
AUTHOR OF “A PRINCEss of THULE,” “sh ANDoN BELLs,”
ETC. ETC.
COAE PA /GATT AC/D/7”/OAZ.
I N T W O V O L U M E S.
VOL. I.
L E I P Z I G
B E R N H A R D T A U C H N IT Z.
1884.
The Right of Translation is reserved.
*
ſ a
CHAPTER I.
- II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
TX.
-
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
CONTENTS
O F v O L U M E I.
-
An Assignation.
Signior Crab-Apple
The Planting of the Charm .
A Pageant
In a wooded Lane.
Within-doors
A. F arewell º
A. Quarrel
Through the Meadows
A Playhouse
A Remonstrance
Divided Ways
A Herald Mercury
A Tirewoman
... • * -- . . . tº tº ,” “ **
* } . . . .
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Page
24
33
50
57.
72
88
IOI
I 17
I36
I 52
I66
. 183
2O5
CONTENTS OF WOLUME I.
CHAPTER XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
*-i-
A first Performance
By the River.
Wild Words .
A Conjecture
Page
217
233
m=s
255
266
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
*-*-*
CHA PTE R I.
AN ASSIGNATION.
It was a fair, clear, and shining morning, in the
Sweet May-time of the year, when a young English
damsel went forth from the town of Stratford-upon-
Avon to walk in the fields. As she passed along by
the Guild Chapel and the Grammar School, this one
and the other that met her gave her a kindly greet-
ing; for nearly every one knew her, and she was a
favourite; and she returned those salutations with a
frankness which betokened rather the self-possession
of a young woman than the timidity of a girl. In-
deed, she was no longer in the first sensitive dawn
of maidenhood—having, in fact, but recently passed
her five-and-twentieth birthday; but nevertheless
there was the radiance of youth in the rose-leaf tint
of her cheeks, and in the bright cheerfulness of her
eyes. Those eyes were large, clear, and gray, with
dark pupils and dark lashes; and these are of a
dangerous kind; for they can look demure and art-
less and innocent when there is nothing in the mind
8 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
of the owner of them but a secret mirth; and also
—and alas!—they can effect another kind of Con-
cealment, and when the heart within is inclined to
soft pity and yielding, they can refuse to confess to
any such surrender, and can maintain, at the bidding
of a wilful coquetry, an outward and obstinate cold-
ness and indifference. For the rest, her hair, which
was somewhat short and curly, was of a light and
glossy brown, with a touch of Sunshine in it; she
had a good figure, for she came of a quite notedly
handsome family; she walked with a light step and
a gracious carriage; and there were certain touches
of style and colour about her costume which showed
that she did not in the least undervalue her appear-
ance. And so it was “Good-morrow to you, Sweet
1Mistress Judith,” from this one and the other; and
“Good-morrow, friend So-and-so,” she would answer;
and always she had the brightest of Smiles for them
as they passed.
Well, she went along by the church, and over
the foot-bridge spanning the Avon, and so into the
meadows lying adjacent to the stream. To all ap-
pearance she was bent on nothing but deliberate
idleness, for she strayed this way and that, Stooping
to pick up a few wild flowers, and humming to her-
self as she went. On this fresh and clear morning
the air seemed to be filled with sweet perfumes
after the close atmosphere of the town; and if it
was merely to gather daisies and cuckoo-flowers and
buttercups that she had come, she was obviously in
no hurry about it. The sun was warm on the rich
green grass; the Swallows were dipping and flashing
AN ASSIGNATION. • 9
over the river; great bumble-bees went booming by;
and far away somewhere in the silver-clear heavens
a lark was singing. And she also was singing, as
she strayed along by the side of the stream, picking
here and there a speed-well, and here and there a
bit of self-heal, or white dead-nettle; if, indeed, that
could be termed singing that was but a careless and
unconscious recalling of Snatches of old songs and
madrigals. At one moment it was— º
“Why, say you so? Oh no. no, no;
Young maids must never a-wooing go.”
And again it was—
“Come, blow thy horn, hunter!
Come, blow thy horn, hunter!
Come, blow thy horn, jolly hunter!”
And again it was—
“For a morn in spring is the sweetest thing
Cometh in all the year!”
And in truth she could not have lit upon a sweeter
morning than this was; just as a chance passer-by
might have said to himself that he had never seen
a pleasanter sight than this young English maiden
presented as she went idly along the river-side,
gathering wild flowers the while.
But in course of time, when she came to a part
of the Avon from which the bank rose sharp and
steep, and when she began to make her way along
a narrow and winding footpath that ascended through
the wilderness of trees and bushes hanging on this
steep bank, she became more circumspect. There
was no longer any humming of Songs; the gathering
of flowers was abandoned, though here she might
IO JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
have added a wild hyacinth or two to her nosegay;
she advanced cautiously, and yet with an affectation
of carelessness; and she was examining, while pre-
tending not to examine, the various avenues and
open spaces in the dense mass of foliage before her.
Apparently, however, this world of Sunlight and
green leaves and cool shadow was quite untenanted;
there was no sound but that of the blackbird and
the thrush; she wandered on without meeting any
one. And then, as she had now arrived at a little
dell or chasm in the wood, she left the footpath,
climbed up the bank, gained the Summit, and finally,
passing from among the bushes, she found herself
in the open, at the corner of a field of young corn.
Now if any one had noticed the quick and
searching look that she flashed all around on the
moment of her emerging from the brushwood—the
swiftness of lightning was in that rapid scrutiny—
he might have had some suspicion as to the errand
that had brought her hither; but in an instant her
eyes had recovered their ordinary look of calm and
indifferent observation. She turned to regard the
wide landscape spread out below her; and the
stranger, if he had missed that quick and eager
glance, would have naturally supposed that she had
climbed up through the wood to this open space
merely to have a better view. And, indeed, this
stretch of English-looking country was well worth
the trouble, especially at such a time of the year,
when it was clothed in the fresh and tender colours
of the spring-time; and it was with much seeming
content that this young English maiden stood there
AN ASSIGNATION. II
and looked abroad over the prospect—at the placid
river winding through the lush meadows; at the
wooden spire of the church rising above the young
foliage of the elms; at here and there in the town a
red-tiled house visible among the thatched roofs and
gray walls and orchards—these being all pale and
ethereal and dream-like in the still sunshine of this
quiet morning. It was a peaceful, English-looking
picture, that ought to have interested her, however
familiar it may have been; and perhaps it was only
to look at it once more that she had made her way
up hither; and also to breathe the cool sweet air of
the open, and to listen to the singing of the birds,
that seemed to fill the white wide spaces of the sky
as far as ever she could hear.
Suddenly she became aware that some one was
behind her and near her, and, instantly turning, she
found before her an elderly man with a voluminous
gray beard, who appeared to affect some kind of
concealment by the way he wore his hat and his
long cloak. - .
“God save you, sweet lady!” he had said, almost
before she turned.
But if the stranger imagined that by his un-
looked-for approach and sudden address he was
likely to startle this young damsel out of her self-
possession, he knew very little with whom he had to
deal.
“Give ye good-morrow, good Master Wizard,”
said she, with perfect calmness, and she regarded
him from head to foot with nothing beyond a mild
curiosity. Indeed, it was rather he who was embar-
I 2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
rassed. He looked at her with a kind of wonder—
and admiration also; and if she had been sufficiently
heedful and watchful she might have observed that
his eyes, which were singularly dark, had a good
deal of animation in them for one of his years. It
was only after a second or so of this bewildered and
admiring contemplation of her that he managed to
Say, in a grave and formal voice, Something in praise
of her Courage in thus keeping the appointment he
had sought.
“Nay, good sir,” said she, with much com-
placency, “trouble not yourself about me. There is
no harm in going out to gather a few flowers in the
field, Surely. If there be any danger it is rather
you that have to fear it, for there is the pillory for
them that go about the Country divining for gold
and silver.” -
“It is for no such vain and idle purposes that I
use my art,” said he; and he regarded her with such
an intensity of interest that sometimes he stumbled
forgetfully in his speech, as if he were repeating a
lesson but ill prepared. “It is for the revelation of
the future to them that are born under fortunate
planets. And you are one of these, sweet lady, or
I would not have summoned you to a meeting that
might have seemed perilous to one of less courage
and good heart. If it please you to listen, I can
forecast that that will befall you——”
“Nay, good sir,” said she, with a smile, “I have
heard it frequently, though perhaps never from one
so skilled. 'Tis but a question between dark and
fair, with plenty of money and lands thrown in. For
AN ASSIGNATION. I 3
that matter I might set up in the trade myself. But
if you could tell me now——” -
“If I were to tell you—if by my art I could
show you,” said he, with a solemnity that was at
least meant to be impressive (though this young
maid, with her lips inclining to a smile, and her in-
scrutable eyes, did not seem much awe-stricken)—
“if I could convince you, sweet lady, that you shall
marry neither dark nor fair among any of those that
would now fain win you—and rumour says there be
several of those—what then?” -
“Rumour?” she repeated, with the colour swiftly
mantling in her face. But she was startled, and
she said quickly, “What do you say, good wizard?
Not any one that I know? What surety have you
of that? Is it true? Can you show it to me? Can
you assure me of it? Is your skill so great that
you can prove to me that your prophecy is aught
but idle guessing? No one that I have seen as yet,
say you? Why,” she added, half to herself, “but
that were good news for my gossip Prue.”
“My daughter,” said this elderly person, in slow
and measured tones, “it is not to all that the stars
have been so propitious at their birth.”
“Good sir,” said she, with some eagerness, “I
beseech you forgive me if I attend you not; but—
but this is the truth now as to how I came in an-
Swer to your message to me. I will speak plain.
Perchance rumour hath not quite belied herself,
There may be one or two who think too well of me,
and would have me choose him or him to be my
lover; and—and—do you see now?—if there were
I4. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
One of those that I would fain have turn aside from
idle thoughts of me and show more favour to my
dear Cousin and gossip Prudence Shawe-nay, but
to tell the truth, good wizard, I came here to seek
of your skill whether it could afford some charm
and magic that would direct his heart to her. I
have heard of such things——”
And here she stopped abruptly, in some con-
fusion, for she had in her eagerness admitted a
half-belief in the possible power of his witchcraft
which she had been careful to conceal before. She
had professed incredulity by her very manner; she
had almost laughed at his pretensions; she had
intimated that she had come hither only out of
Curiosity; but now she had blundered into the con-
fession that she had cherished some vague hope of
obtaining a love-philtre, or Some such thing, to
transfer away from herself to her friend the affections
of one of those suitors whose existence seemed to
be so well known to the wizard. However, he soon
relieved her from her embarrassment by assuring
her that this that she demanded was far away
beyond the scope of his art, which was strictly
limited to the discovery and revelation of such
secrets as still lay within the future.
“And if so, good sir,” said she, after a moment's
reflection, “that were enough, or nearly enough, so
that you can convince us of it.”
“To you yourself alone, gracious lady,” said he,
“can I reveal that which will happen to you. Nay,
more, so fortunate is the conjunction of the planets
that reigned at your birth—the ultimum supplicium
AN ASSIGNATION. - I5
auri might almost have been declared to you—that
I can summon from the ends of the earth, be he
where he may, the man that you shall hereafter
marry, or soon or late I know not: if you will, you
can behold him at such and such a time, at such
and such a place, as the stars shall appoint.”
She looked puzzled, half-incredulous and per-
plexed, inclined to smile, blushing somewhat, and
all uncertain. -
“It is a temptation—I were no woman else,”
said she, with a laugh. “Nay, but if I can see
him, why may not others? And if I can show them
him who is to be my worshipful lord and master,
why, then, my gossip Prue may have the better
chance of reaching the goal where I doubt not her
heart is fixed. Come, then, to prove your skill,
good sir. Where shall I see him, and when? Must
I use charms? Will he speak, think you, or pass
as a ghost? But if he be not a proper man, good
wizard, by my life I will have none of him, nor of
your magic either.”
She was laughing now, and rather counterfeiting
a kind of scorn; but she was curious; and she
watched him with a lively interest as he took forth
from a small leather bag a little folded piece of
paper, which he carefully opened. -
“I cannot answer all your questions, my daughter,”
said he; “I can but proceed according to my art.
Whether the person you will see may be visible to
others I know not, nor can I tell you aught of his
name or condition. Pray Heaven he be worthy of
such beauty and gentleness; for I had heard of you,
I6 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
gracious lady, but rumour had but poor words to
describe such a rarity and a prize.” -
“Nay,” said she, in tones of reproof (but the
colour had mounted to a face that certainly showed
no sign of displeasure), “you speak like one of the
courtiers now.”
“This charm,” said he, dropping his eyes, and
returning to his grave and formal tones, “is worth
naught without a sprig of rosemary; that must you
get, and you must place it within the paper in a
threefold manner—thus; and then, when Sol and
Luna are both in the descendent—but I forget me,
the terms of my art are unknown to you; I must
speak in the vulgar tongue; and meanwhile you
shall see the charm, that there is nothing wicked
or dangerous in it, but only the wherewithal to
bring about a true lovers’ meeting.” ... •
He handed her the open piece of paper; but
she, having glanced at the writing, gave it him back
again. g - * *
“I pray you read it to me,” she said.
He regarded her for a second with some slight
Surprise; but he took the paper, and read aloud,
slowly, the lines written thereon— …
“Dare you haunt our hallowed green?
None but fairies here are seen.
Down and sleep,
Wake and weep,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
That seeks to steal a lover true.
When you come to hear us sing,
Or to tread our fairy ring,
".
AN ASSIGNATION. I 7
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue—
Oh, thus our nails shall handle you!”
“Why, 'tis like what my father wrote about Herne
the Hunter,” said she, with a touch of indifference;
perhaps she had expected to hear something more
weird and unholy.
“Please you, forget not the rosemary; nothing
will come of it else,” he continued. “Then this
you must take in your hand secretly, and when no
One has knowledge of your outgoing; and when
Luna—nay, but I mean when the moon has risen
to-night So that, standing in the churchyard, you
shall see it over the roof of the church, then must
you go to the yew-tree that is in the middle of the
churchyard, and there you shall scrape away a little
of the earth from near the foot of the tree, and
bury this paper, and put the earth firmly down on
it again, saying thrice, Hieronymo/ Hieronymo/ Hie-
ronymo! You follow me, sweet lady?”
“'Tis simple enough,” said she, “but that on
these fine evenings the people are everywhere about;
and if one were to be seen conjuring in the church-
yard——”
“You must watch your opportunity, my daughter,”
Said he, speaking with an increased assumption of
authority. “One minute will serve you; and this is
all that needs be done.”
“Truly? Is this all?” said she, and she laughed
lightly. “Then will my gallant, my pride o’ the
world, my lord and master, forthwith spring out of
the solid ground? God mend me, but that were a
924d2th Shakes?eaze. Z. 2.
I8 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
fearful meeting—in a churchyard! Gentle wizard,
I pray you——”
“Not so,” he answered, interrupting her. “The
charm will work there; you must let it rest; the
night dews shall nourish it; the slow hours shall
pass over it; and the spirits that haunt these pre-
cincts must know of it, that they may prepare the
meeting. To-night, then, Sweet lady, you shall place
this charm in the churchyard at the foot of the
yew-tree, and to-morrow at twelve of the clock——”
“By your leave, not to-morrow,” said she, pe-
remptorily. “Not to-morrow, good wizard; for my
father comes home to-morrow; and, by my life, I
would not miss the going forth to meet him for all
the lovers between here and London town l’’
“Your father comes home to-morrow, Mistress
Judith?’” said he, in somewhat startled accents.
“In truth he does; and Master Tyler also, and
Julius Shawe-there will be a goodly company, I
warrant you, come riding to-morrow through Ship-
ston and Tredington and Alderminster; and by your
leave, reverend sir, the magic must wait.” -
“That were easily done,” he answered, after a
moment’s thought, “by the alteration of a sign, if
the day following might find you at liberty. Will it
So, gracious lady?”
“The day after? At what time of the day?” she
asked.
“The alteration of the sign will make it but an
hour earlier, if I mistake not; that is to say, at
eleven of the forenoon you must be at the appointed
place——” -
AN ASSIGNATION. IQ
“Where, good wizard?” said she-‘where am I
to see the wraith, the ghost, the phantom husband
that is to own me?”
“That know I not myself as yet; but my aids
and familiars will try to discover it for me,” he an-
Swered, taking a small Sun-dial out of his pocket,
and adjusting it as he spoke.
“And with haste, so please you, good sir,” said
she, “for I would not that any chance comer had a
tale of this meeting to carry back to the gossips.”
He stooped down and placed the sun-dial care-
fully on the ground, at a spot where the young corn
was but scant enough on the dry red soil, and then
with his forefinger he traced two or three lines and
a semicircle on the crumbling earth.
“South by west,” said he, and he muttered some
words to himself. Then he looked up. “Know you
the road to Bidford, sweet lady?”
“As well as I know my own ten fingers,” she
answered.
“For myself, I know it not, but if my art is not
misleading there should be, about a mile or more
along that road, another road at right angles with it,
bearing to the right, and there at the junction
should stand a cross of stone. Is it so?”
“”Tis the lane that leads to Shottery; well I
know it,” she said. *
“So it has been appointed, then,” said he, “if
the stars continue their protection over you. The
day after to-morrow, at eleven of the forenoon, if
you be within stone's throw of the cross at the junc-
tion of the roads, there shall you see, or my art is
2
2*
2O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Strangely mistaken, the man or gentleman—nay, I
know not whether he be parson or layman, Soldier
or merchant, knight of the shire or plain goodman
Dick—I say there shall you see him that is to win
you and wear you; but at what time you shall be-
come his wife, and where, and in what circum-
stances, I cannot reveal to you. I have done my
last endeavour.”
“Nay, do not hold me ungrateful,” she said,
though there was a smile on her lips, “but Surely,
good sir, what your skill has done that it can also
undo. If it have power to raise a ghost, Surely it
has power to lay him. And truly, if he be a ghost,
I will not have him. And if he be a man, and have
a red beard, I will not have him. And if he be a
slape-face, I will have none of him. And if he
have thin legs, he may walk his ways for me.
Good wizard, if I like him not, you must undo the
charm.”
“My daughter, you have a light heart,” said he,
gravely. “May the favouring planets grant it lead
you not into mischief; there be unseen powers that
are revengeful. And now I must take my leave,
gracious lady. I have given you the result of much
study and labour, of much solitary communion with
the heavenly bodies; take it, and use it with heed,
and so fare you well.”
He was going, but she detained him.
“Good sir, I am your debtor,” said she, with the
red blood mantling in her forehead, for all through
this interview she had clearly recognised that she
was not dealing with any ordinary mendicant for-
AN ASSIGNATION. 2 I
tune-teller. “So much labour and skill I cannot ac-
cept from you without becoming a beggar. I pray
you——”
He put up his hand. -
“Not so,” said he, with a certain grave dignity.
“To have set eyes on the fairest maid in Warwick-
shire—as I have heard you named—were surely
sufficient recompense for any trouble; and to have
had speech of you, sweet lady, is what many a one
would venture much for. But I would humbly kiss
your hand; and so again fare you well.”
“God shield you, most courteous wizard, and
good-day,” said she, as he left; and for a second
she stood looking after him in a kind of wonder,
for this extraordinary courtesy and dignity of
manner were certainly not what she had expected
to find in a vagabond purveyor of magic. But now
he was gone, and she held the charm in her hand,
and so without further ado she set out for home
again, getting down through the brushwood to the
winding path.
She walked quickly, for she had heard that
Master Bushell’s daughter, who was to be married
that day, meant to beg a general holiday for the
schoolboys; and she knew that if this were granted
these sharp-eyed young imps would soon be here,
there, and everywhere, and certain to spy out the
wizard if he were in the neighbourhood. But when
she had got clear of this hanging Copse, that is
known as the Wier Brake, and had reached the
open meadows, so that from any part around she
could be seen to be alone, she had nothing further
22 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
to fear, and she returned to her leisurely straying in
quest of flowers. The sun was hotter on the grass
now; but the Swallows were busy as ever over the
stream; and the great bees hummed loud as they
went past; and here and there a white butterfly
fluttered from petal to petal; and, far away, she
could hear the sound of children’s voices in the
stillness. She was in a gay mood. The interview
she had just had with one in league with the occult
powers of magic and witchery did not seem in the
least to have overawed her. Perhaps, indeed, she
had not yet made up her mind to try the potent
charm that she had obtained; at all events the ques-
tion did not weigh heavily on her. For now it was—
“Oh, mistress mine, where are you roaming?”
and again it was—
“For a morn in spring is the sweetest thing
Cometh in all the year!”
and always another touch of colour added to the
daintily-arranged nosegay in her hand. And then,
of a sudden, as she chanced to look ahead, she ob-
served a number of the Schoolboys come swarming
down to the foot-bridge; and she knew right well
that one of them—to wit, young Willie Hart—would
think a holiday quite thrown away and wasted if he
did not manage to seek out and secure the Com-
pany of his pretty cousin Judith.
“Ah! there, now,” she was saying to herself, as
she watched the schoolboys come over the bridge
one by one and two by two, “there, now, is my
sweetheart of Sweethearts; there is my prince of
AN ASSIGNATION, 23
lovers! If ever I have lover as faithful and kind as
he, it will go well. “Nay, Susan,’ says he, “I love
you not; you kiss me hard, and speak to me as if I
were still a child; I love Judith better.” And how
Cruel of my father to put him in the play, and to
slay him so soon; but perchance he will call him to
life again—nay, it is a favourite way with him to
do that; and pray Heaven he brings home with him
to-morrow the rest of the story, that Prue may read
it to me. And so are you there, among the unruly
imps, you young Prince Mamillius? Have you caught
sight of me yet, sweetheart blue-eyes? Why, come,
then; you will outstrip them all, I know, when you
get sight of Cousin Judith; for as far off as you are,
you will reach me first, that I am sure of; and then,
by my life, sweetheart Willie, you shall have a kiss
as soft as a dove's breast!”
And so she went on to meet them, arranging the
colours of her straggling blossoms the while with
now and again a snatch of careless Song—
“Come, blow thy horn, hunter!
Come, blow thy horn, hunter!
Come, blow thy horn—jolly hunter!”
24 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
CHA PTER II.
SIGNIOR CRAB-APPLE.
THERE was much ado in the house all that day,
in view of the home-coming on the morrow, and it
was not till pretty late in the evening that Judith
was free to steal out for a gossip with her friend
and chief companion, Prudence Shawe. She had
not far to go—but a couple of doors off, in fact;
and her coming was observed by Prudence herself,
who happened to be sitting at the casemented
window for the better prosecution of her needle-
work, there being still a clear glow of twilight in the
sky. A minute or so thereafter the two friends
were in Prudence’s own chamber, which was on the
first floor, and looking out to the back over barns
and orchards; and they had gone to the window, to
the bench there, to have their secrets together.
This Prudence Shawe was some two years Judith’s
junior—though she really played the part of elder
sister to her; she was of a pale complexion, with
light straw-coloured hair; not very pretty, perhaps,
but she had a restful kind of face that invited
friendliness and sympathy, of which she had a large
abundance to give in return. Her costume was of a
Puritanical plainness and primness, both in the
fashion of it and in its severe avoidance of colour;
SIGNIOR CRAB-APPLE, 25
and that was not the only point on which she
formed a marked contrast to this dear cousin and
wilful gossip of hers, who had a way of pleasing
herself (more especially if she thought she might
thereby catch her father's eye) in apparel as in
most other things. And on this occasion—at the
outset at all events—Judith would not have a word
said about the assignation of the morning. The
wizard was dismissed from her mind altogether. It
was about the home-coming of the next day that
she was all eagerness and excitement; and her chief
prayer and entreaty was that her friend Prudence
should go with her to welcome the travellers home.
“Nay, but you must and shall, dear Prue; sweet
mouse, I beg it of you!” she was urging. “Every
one at New Place is so busy that they have fixed
upon Signior Crab-apple to ride with me; and you
know I cannot suffer him; and I shall not have a
word of my father all the way back, not a word;
there will be nothing but a discourse about fools,
and idle jests, and wiseman Matthew the hero of
the day——”
“Dear Judith, I cannot understand how you dis-
like the old man so,” her companion said, in that
smooth voice of hers. “I see no garden that is
better tended than yours.”
“I would I could let slip the mastiff at his un-
mannerly throat!” was the quick reply—and indeed
for a second she looked as if she would fain have
seen that wish fulfilled. “The vanity of him!—the
puffed-up pride of him!—he thinks there be none
in Warwickshire but himself wise enough to talk to
26 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE,
my father; and the way he dogs his steps if he be
walking in the garden—no one else may have a
word with him—sure my father is sufficiently driven
forth by the preachers and the psalm-singing within-
doors, that out-of-doors, in his own garden, he
might have some freedom of speech with his own
daughter——” -
“Judith, Judith,” her friend said, and she put
her hand on her arm, “you have such wilful thoughts,
and wild words, too. I am sure your father is free
of speech with every one—gentle and simple, old
and young, it matters not who it is that approaches
him.”
“This Signior Crab-apple truly!” the other ex-
claimed, in the impetuosity of her scorn. “If his
heart be as big as a crab-apple, I greatly doubt;
but that it is of like quality I’ll be sworn. And the
bitterness of his railing tongue! All women are
fools—vools he calls them, rather—first and fore-
most; and most men are fools; but of all fools there
be none like the fools of Warwickshire—that is, be-
cause my worshipful goodman gardener comes all
the way from Bewdley. 'Tis meat and drink to
him, he says, to discover a fool, though how he
should have any difficulty in the discovering, seeing
that we are all of us fools, passes my understanding.
Nay, but I know what set him after that quarry;
'twas one day in the garden, and my father was
just come home from London, and he was talking
to my uncle Gilbert, and was laughing at what his
friend Benjamin Jonson had said, or had written, I
know not which. ‘Of all beasts in the world,’ says
SIGNIOR CRAB-APPLE. 27
he, “I love most the serious ass.’ Then up steps
goodman Matthew. “There be plenty of 'em about
'ere, Zur,’ says he, with a grin on his face like that
On a cat when a dog has her by the tail. And my
father, who will talk to any one, as you say truly,
and about anything, and always with the same at-
tention, must needs begin to challenge goodman
Crab-apple to declare the greatest fools that ever
he had met with; and from that day to this the
ancient sour-face hath been on the watch—and it
Suits well with his opinion of other people and his
opinion of himself as the only wise man in the
world—I say ever since he hath been on the watch
for fools; and the greater the fool the greater his
wisdom, I reckon, that can find him out. A pur-
veyor of fools!—a goodly trade! I doubt not but
that it likes him better than the tending of apricots
when he has the free range of the ale-houses to
work on. He will bring a couple of them into the
garden when my father is in the summer-house.
‘’Ere, zur, please you come out and look 'ere, Zur;
'ere be a brace of rare vools.” And the poor clowns
are proud of it; they stand and look at each other
and laugh. ‘We be, zur-we be.’ And then my
father will say no, and will talk with them, and
cheer them with assurance of their wisdom; then
must they have spiced bread and ale ere they de-
part; and this is a triumph for Master Matthew—
the withered, shrivelled, dried-up, cankered nutshell
that he is l’’
“Dear Judith, pray have patience—indeed, you
are merely jealous.”
28 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Jealous!” she exclaimed, as if her scorn of
this ill-conditioned old man put that well out of the
question.
“You think he has too much of your father's
Company, and you like it not; but consider of it,
Judith, he being in the garden, and your father in
the summer-house, and when your father is tired
for the moment of his occupation, whatever that
may be, then can he step out and speak to this
goodman Matthew, that amuses him with his biting
tongue, and with the self-sufficiency of his wisdom
—nay, I suspect your father holds him to be a
greater fool than any he makes sport of, and that
he loves to lead him on.”
“And why should my father have to be in the
Summer-house but that in-doors the wool-spinning
is hardly more constant than the lecturing and the
singing of psalms and hymns?”
“Judith] Judith!” said her gentle friend, with
real trouble on her face, “you grieve me when you
talk like that—indeed you do, sweetheart! There is
not a morning nor a night passes that I do not pray
the Lord that your heart may be softened and led
to our ways—nay, far from that, but to the Lord’s
Own ways; and the answer will come; I have faith;
I know it—and God send it speedily, for you are
like an own sister to me, and my heart yearns over
you.” -
The other sat silent for a second. She could
not fail to be touched by the obvious sincerity, the
longing kindness of her friend, but she would not
Confess as much in words.
SIGNIOR CRAB-APPi.E. 20
“As yet, sweet Prue,” said she, lightly, “I Sup-
pose I am of the unregenerate, and if it is wicked
to cherish evil thoughts of your neighbour, then am
I not of the elect, for I heartily wish that Tom
Quiney and some of the youths would give Matthew
gardener a Sound ducking in a horse-pond to tame
his arrogance withal. But no matter. What say
you, dear Prue? Will you go with me to-morrow,
so that we may have the lad Tookey in charge of
us, and Signior Crab-apple be left to his weeding
and graffing and railing at human kind? Do,
now——”
“The maids are busy, Judith,” said she, doubt-
fully.
“But a single day, sweetheart!” she urged. “And
if we go early we may get as far as Shipston and
await them there. Have you no desire to meet your
brother, Prudence—to be the first of all to welcome
him home? Nay, that is because you can have him
in your company as often as you wish; there is no
goodman-wiseman-fool to come between you.”
“Dear heart,” said Prudence Shawe, with a smile,
“I know not what is the witchery of you, but there
is none I wot of that can say you nay.”
“You will, then?” said the other, joyfully. “Ah,
look now, the long ride home we shall have with
my father, and all the news I shall have to tell him!
And all good news, Prue; scarcely a whit or bit
that is not good news: the roan that he bought at
Evesham is well of her lameness—good; and the
King's mulberry is thriving bravely (I wonder that
wiseman Matthew has not done it a mischief in the
3O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
night-time, for the King, being above him in station,
must needs have nothing from him but sour and
envious words); and then the twenty acres that my
father so set his heart upon he is to have—I hear
that the Combes have said as much, and my father
will be right well pleased; and the vicar is talking
no longer of building the new piggery over against
the garden—at least for the present there is nothing
to be done: all good news; but there is better still,
as you know; for what will he say when he discovers
that I have taught Bess Hall to ride the mastiff’”
“Pray you have a care, dear Judith,” said her
friend, with some apprehension on her face. “’Tis
a dangerous-looking beast.”
“A lamb, a very lamb!” was the confident an-
swer. “Well, now, and as we are riding home he
will tell me of all the things he has brought from
London; and you know he has always something
pretty for you, Sweet Puritan, though you regard
such adornments as Snares and pitfalls. And this
time I hope it will be a silver brooch for you, that
so you must needs wear it and show it, or he will
mark its absence; and for the others let us guess;
let us see. There may be some more of that strange-
fashioned Murana glass for Susan, for as difficult as
it is to carry; and some silk hangings or the like
for my mother, or store of napery, perchance, which
she prizeth more; and be sure there is the newest
book of sermons from Paul’s Churchyard for the
Doctor; a grey-hound, should he hear of a famous
one on the way, for Thomas Combe; toys for the
little Harts, that is certain; for my aunt Joan—
SIGNIOR CRAB-APPLE. 3 I
what?—a silver-topped jug, or some perfumes of
musk and civet?—and what else—and for whom
else—well——”
“But what for yourself, dear Judith?” her friend
said, with a smile. “Will he forget you? Has Mat-
thew gardener driven you out even from his re-
collection? Will he not have for you a pretty pair
of rose shoe-strings, or one of the new tasselled
French hoods they are speaking of, or something of
the kind, that will turn the heads of all the lads in
Stratford twice further round? You are a temptress
surely, sweetheart; I half forget that such vanities
should displease me when I see the way you wear
them; and that I think you must take from your
father, Judith; for no matter how plain his apparel
is—and it is plain indeed for one that owns the
New Place—he wears it with such an ease and with
such a grace and simplicity that you would say a
prince should wear it even so.”
“You put me off, Prue,” her friend said, with a
sort of good-natured impatience. “Why, I was
showing you what nicelings and delicates my father
was bringing, and what I had thought to say was
this: that he may have this for One, and that for the
other, and many a one proud to be remembered (as
I shall be if he thinks of me), but this that I know
he is bringing for little Bess Hall is something worth
all of these, for it is nothing less than the whole
love of his heart. Nay, but I swear it; there is not
a human creature in the world to compare with her
in his eyes; she is the pearl that he wears in his
heart of hearts. If it were London town she wanted,
32 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and he could give it to her, that is what he would
bring for her.”
“What! are you jealous of her too?” said Pru-
dence, with her placid smile.
“By yea and nay, sweet Puritan, if that will con-
tent you, I declare it is not so,” was the quick an-
swer. “Why, Bess is my ally | We are in league, I
tell you; we will have a tussle with the enemy ere
long; and, by my life, I think I know that that will
put goodman-wiseman’s nose awry!”
At this moment the secret confabulation of these
two friends was suddenly and unexpectedly broken
in upon by a message from without. Something
white came fluttering through the open casement,
and fell, not quite into Judith’s lap, which was
probably its intended destination, but down toward
her feet. She stooped and picked it up; it was a
letter, addressed to her, and tied round with a bit
of rose-red silk ribbon that was neatly formed into
a true lover's knot.
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 33
f
CHA PT E R III.
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM.
THE embarrassment that ensued—on her part
only, for the pale and gentle face of her friend be-
trayed not even so much as surprise—was due to
several causes. Judith could neither read nor write.
In her earlier years she had been a somewhat deli-
cate child, and had consequently been excused from
the ordinary tuition, slight as that usually was in
the case of girls; but when, later on, she grew into
quite firm and robust health, in her wilfulness and
pride and petulance she refused to re-transform her-
self into a child and submit to be taught children’s
lessons. Moreover, she had an acute and alert
brain; and she had a hundred reasons ready to
show that what was in reality a mere waywardness
on her part was the most wise and natural thing in
the world; while her father, who had a great and
habitual tolerance for everything and everybody that
came within his reach, laughed with her rather than
at her, and said she should do very well without
book-learning so long as those pink roses shone in
her cheeks. But she had One reason that was not
merely an excuse. Most of the printed matter that
reached the house was brought thither by this or
that curate, or by this or that famous preacher, who,
Şudith Shakesfeare. Z. 3
34. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
in going through the Country, was sure of an eager
and respectful welcome at New Place; and perhaps
it was not kindly nor civilly done of them—though
it may have been regarded as a matter of Con-
science—that they should carry thither and read
aloud, amongst other things, the fierce denunciations
of stage-plays and stage-players which were common
in the polemical and puritanical literature of the
day. Right or wrong, Judith resented this with a
vehement indignation; and she put a ban upon all
books, judging by what she had heard read out of
some; nay, one day she had come into the house
and found her elder sister, who was not then married,
greatly distressed, and even in the bitterness of
tears; and when she discovered that the cause of
this was a pamphlet that had been given to Susanna,
in which not only were the heinous wickednesses of
plays and players denounced, but also her own
father named by his proper name, Judith, with hot
cheeks and flashing eyes, snatched the pamphlet
from her sister's hand and forthwith sent it flying
through the open window into the mud without,
notwithstanding that books and pamphlets were
scarce and valuable things, and that this one had
been lent. And when she discovered that this
piece of writing had been brought to the house by
the pious and learned Walter Blaise—a youthful
divine he was who had a small living some few
miles from Stratford, but who lived in the town, and
was one of the most eager and disputatious of the
Puritanical preachers there—it in no way mitigated
her wrath that this worthy Master Blaise was re-
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 35
garded by many, and even openly spoken of, as a
suitor for her own hand.
“God mend me,” said she, in her anger (and
greatly to the distress of the mild-spoken Prudence),
“but ’tis a strange way of paying court to a young
woman to bring into the house abuse of her own
father! Sir Parson may go hang for me!” And for
many a day she would have nothing to say to him;
and steeled and hardened her heart not only against
him, but against the doctrines and ways of conduct
that he so zealously advocated; and she would not
Come in to evening prayers when he happened to
be present; and wild horses would not have dragged
her to the parish church on the Sunday afternoon
that it was his turn to deliver the fortnightly lecture
there. However, these things abated in time.
Master Walter Blaise was a civil-spoken and an
earnest and sincere young man, and Prudence
Shawe was the gentle intermediary. Judith suffered
his presence, and that was about all as yet; but she
would not look the way of printed books. And when
Prudence tried to entice her into a study of the
mere rudiments of reading and writing, she would
refuse peremptorily, and say, with a laugh, that,
could she read, the first thing she should read
would be plays, which, as sweet cousin Prue was
aware, were full of tribulation and anguish, and fit
only for the foolish Galatians of the world, the
children of darkness and the devil. But this ob-
stinacy did not prevent her overcoming her dear
cousin Prue's scruples, and getting her to read aloud
to her in the privacy of their secret haunts this or
3 *
36 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
the other fragment of a play, when that she had
adroitly purloined a manuscript from the Summer-
house in New Place; and in this surreptitious manner
she had acquired a knowledge of what was going on
at the Globe and the Blackfriars theatres in London,
which, had they but guessed of it, would have con-
siderably astounded her mother, her sister, and good
Parson Blaise as well.
In more delicate matters still, Prudence was her
confidante, her intermediary, and amanuensis; and
ordinarily this caused her no embarrassment, for
she wished for no secrets with any of human kind.
But in one direction she had formed certain suspi-
cions; and so it was that on this occasion, when she
stooped down and picked up the letter that had
been so deftly thrown in at the casement, her face
flushed somewhat.
“I know from whom it comes,” said she, and she
seemed inclined to put it into the little wallet of
blue satin that hung at her side.
Then she glanced at Prudence's eyes. There
was nothing there in the least approaching dis-
pleasure or pique, only a quiet amusement.
“It was cleverly done,” said Prudence, and she
raised her head cautiously and peeped through One
of the Small panes of pale green glass. But the
twilight had sunk into dusk, and any one outside
could easily have made his escape unperceived
through the labyrinth of barns and out-houses.
Judith glanced at the handwriting again, and
said, with an affectation of carelessness—
“There be those who have plenty of time, Surely,
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 37
for showing the wonders of their skill. Look at the
twisting and turning and lattice-work of it—truly he
is a most notable clerk; I would he spent the day-
light to better purpose. Read it for me, sweet
Prue.”
She would have handed the letter—with much
studied indifference of look and manner—to her
friend, but that Prudence gently refused it.
“'Tis you must undo the string; you know not
what may be inside.”
So Judith herself opened the letter, which con-
tained merely a sprig of rosemary, along with some
lines written in a most ornate caligraphy.
“What does he say?” she asked, but without
any apparent interest, as she gave the open letter
to her Companion.
Prudence took the letter and read aloud—
“‘Rosemary is for remembrance
Between us day and night;
Wishing that I might always have
You present in my sight.”
This from your true well-wisher and one that would be your
loving Servant unto death, T. Q.”
“The idle boy!” she said, and again she directed
a quick and penetrating look of inquiry to her
friend’s face; but Prudence was merely regarding
the elaborate handwriting. There was no trace of
wounded pride or anything of the kind in her eyes;
nay, she looked up and said, with a smile—
“For one that can wrestle so well, and play at
football, and throw the sledge as they say he can, he
is master of a most delicate handwriting.”
3 8 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“But the rosemary, Prue,” Judith exclaimed
suddenly, and she groped about at her feet until
she had found it. “Why, now, look you, was ever
anything so fortunate? Truly I had forgotten all
about rosemary, and my reverend wizard, and the
charm that is to be buried to-night; and you know
not a word of the story. Shall I tell you, Sweet
mouse? Is there time before the moon appears
over the roof of the church?—for there I am sum-
moned to fearful deeds. Why, Prue, you look as
frightened as if a ghost had come into the room—
you yourself are like a ghost now in the dusk—Or
is it the coming moonlight that is making you So
pale?”
“I had thought that better counsels would have
prevailed with you, Judith,” she said, anxiously.
“I knew not you had gone to see the man, and I
reproach myself that I have been an agent in the
matter.”
“A mouthpiece only, sweet Prue!—a mere harm-
less, innocent whistle that had nothing to do with
the tune. And the business was not so dreadful
either; there was no cauldron nor playing with
Snakes and newts, no, nor whining for money, which
I expected most; but a most civil and courteous
wizard, a most town-bred wizard as ever the Sun
set eye on, that called me ‘gracious lady” every
other moment, and would not take a penny for his
pains. Marry, if all the powers of evil be as well-
behaved, I shall have less fear of them; for a more
civil-spoken gentleman I have never encountered;
and ‘Sweet lady’ it was, and ‘gracious lady,’ and a
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 39
voice like the voice of my lord bishop; and the
assurance that the planets and the stars were hold-
ing me in their kindest protection; and a promise
of a ghost husband that is to appear that I may
judge whether I like him or like him not; and all
this and more—and he would kiss my hand, and
So farewell, and the reverend magician makes his
obeisance and vanishes, and I am not a penny the
poorer, but only the richer because of my charm!
There, I will show it to you, cousin.”
After a little search she found the tiny docu-
ment; and Prudence Shawe glanced over it.
“Judith ! Judith !” said she, almost in despair,
“I know not whither your wilfulness will carry you.
But tell me what happened. How came you by
this paper? And what ghost husband do you speak
Of P”
Then Judith related, with much circumstantiality,
what had occurred that morning; not toning it
down in the least, but rather exaggerating here and
there; for she was merry-hearted, and she liked to
see the sweet Puritan face grow more and more
Concerned. Moreover, the dull gray light outside,
instead of deepening into dark, appeared to be be-
coming a trifle clearer, so that doubtless the moon
was declaring itself somewhere; and she was look-
ing forward, when the time came, to securing Pru-
dence's Company as far as the churchyard, if her
powers of persuasion were equal to that.
“But you will not go—surely you will not go,
darling Judith,” said Prudence, in accents of quite
pathetic entreaty. “You know the sin of dealing
4O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
with such ungodly practices—nay, and the danger,
too, for you would of your own free will go and
seek a meeting with unholy things, whereas I have
been told that not so long ago they used in places
to carry a pan of frankincense round the house each
night to keep away witchcraft from them as they
slept. I beseech you, dearest Judith, give me the
paper, and I will burn it!”
“Nay, nay, it is but an idle tale, a jest; I trust
it not,” said her friend to reassure her. “Be not
afraid, sweet Prue. Those people who go about
compelling the planets and summoning spirits and
the like have lesser power than the village folk
imagine, else would their own affairs thrive better
than they seem to do.”
“Then give me the paper; let me burn it,
Judith!”
“Nay, nay, mouse,” said she, withholding it;
and then she added, with a sort of grave merriment
or mischief in her face: “Whether the thing be
aught or naught, Sure I cannot treat so ill my
courteous wizard? He was no goose-herd, I tell
you, but a most proper and learned man; and he
must have the chance of working the wonders he
foretold. Come now, think of it with reason, dear
Prue. If there be no power in the charm if I go
to Shottery for my morning walk and find no one
in the lane, who is harmed? Why, no one; and
Grandmother Hathaway is pleased, and will show
me how her garden is growing. Then, on the other
hand, should the charm work, should there be
Some one there, what evil if I regard him as I pass
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 4. I
from the other side of the way? Is it such a
wonder that one should meet a stranger on the Bid-
ford road? And what more? Man or ghost, he
cannot make me marry him if I will not. He can-
not make me speak to him if I will not. And if
he would put a hand on me, I reckon Roderigo
would speedily have him by the throat, as I hope
he may some day have goodman Matthew.”
“But, Judith, such things are unlawful and for-
bidden——”
“To you, Sweet saint—to you,” said the other,
with much good humour. “But I have not learned
to put aside childish things as yet; and this is only
a jest, good Prue; and you, that are so faithful to
your word, even in the smallest trifle, would not
have me break my promise to my gentle wizard?
‘Gracious lady,’ he says, and “sweet lady, as if I
were a dame of the court; it were unmannerly of
me not to grant him this small demand——”
“I wish I had misread the letter,” said Pru-
dence, so occupied with her own fears that she
Scarcely knew what to do.
“What!” exclaimed her friend, in tones of rail-
lery; “you would have deceived me? Is this your
honesty, your singleness of heart, sweet Puritan?
You would have sent me on some fool's errand,
would you?”
“And if it were to be known you had gone out
to meet this conjurer, Judith, what would your
mother and sister say?—and your father?”
“My mother and sister—hum!” was the demure
reply. “If he had but come in the garb of a
42 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
preacher, with a Bible under one arm and a prayer-
book under the other, I doubt not that he would
have been welcome enough at New Place—ay, and
everything in the house set before him, and a
Flanders jug full of Quiney’s best claret withal to
cheer the good man. But when you speak of my
father, dear Prue, there you are wide of the mark
—wide, wide of the mark; for the wizard is just
Such an one as he would be anxious to know and
see for himself. Indeed, if my mother and Susan
would have the house filled with preachers, my
father would rather seek his company from any
Strange kind of Vragrant cattle you could find on
the road—ballad-singers, strolling players, peddlers,
and the like; and you should see him when Some
ancient harper in his coat of green comes near the
town—nay, the constable shall not interfere with
him, license or no license; my father must needs
entertain him in the garden; and he will sit and
talk to the old man; and the best in the house
must be brought out for him; and whether he try
his palsied fingers on the strings, or perchance at-
tempt a verse of ‘Pastime with good company,’ with
his quavering old voice—that is according to his
own good will and pleasure; nothing is demanded
of him, but that he have good cheer, and plenty of
it, and go on his way the merrier, with a groat or
two in his pouch. Nay, I mind me, when Susan
was remonstrating with my father about such things,
and bidding him have some regard for the family
name—“What?’ says he, laughing; “set you up, Ma-
dam Pride! Know you not, then, whence Comes
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 43
Our name? And yet ’tis plain enough. Shacks,
these are but vagrant, idle, useless fellows; and
then we come to pere, that is, an equal and Com-
panion. There you have it complete—Shackspere,
the companion of strollers and vagabonds, of worth-
less and idle fellows. What say you, Madam Pride?’
And, indeed, poor Susan was Sorely displeased, in-
somuch that I said, “But the spear in the coat of
arms, father—how came we by that?”—“Why, there,
now,” says he, “you see how regardless the heralds
are of the King’s English. I warrant me they would
give a ship to Shipston and a hen to Enstone.’
Indeed, he will jest you out of anything. When
your brother would have left the Town Council,
Prue——”
But here she seemed suddenly to recollect her-
self. She rose quickly, thrust open the casement
still wider, and put out her head to discover where-
abouts the moon was; and when she withdrew her
head again there was mischief and a spice of ex-
citement in her face.
“No more talking and gossip now, Prue; the
time has arrived for fearful deeds.”
Prudence put her small white hand on her friend’s
a.IIſl.
“Stay, Judith. Be guided—for the love of me
be guided, sweetheart! You know not what you do.
The profaning of sacred places will bring a punish-
ment.”
“Profaning, say you, Sweet mouse? Is it anything
worse than the children playing tick round the
44 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
grave-stones; or even, when no one is looking, hav-
ing a game of “King by your leave’?”
“It is late, Judith. It must be nine o’clock.
It is not seemly that a young maiden should be out-
of-doors alone at such an hour of the night.”
“Marry, that say I,” was the light answer.
“And the better reason that you should come with
me, Prue.”
“I?” said Prudence, in affright.
“Wherefore not, then? Nay, but you shall suffer
no harm through the witchery, good cousin; I ask
your company no farther than the little Swing gate.
One minute there, and I shall be back with you.
Come now, for your friend’s sake; get your hood and
your muffler, dear Prue, and no one shall know
either of us from the witch of Endor, so quickly
shall we be there and back.”
Still she hesitated.
“If your mother were to know, Judith——
“To know what, sweetheart? That you walked
with me as far as the church and back again? Why,
on such a fine and summer-like night I dare be
sworn now that half the good folk of Stratford are
abroad; and it is no such journey into a far Country
that we should take one of the maids with us. Nay,
come, sweet Prue? We shall have a merry ride to-
morrow; to-night, for your friendship's sake, you
must do me this small service.”
Prudence did not answer; but somewhat thought-
fully, and even reluctantly, she went to a small cup-
board of boxes that stood in the corner of the
apartment, and brought forth some articles of attire
5
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 45
which (although she might not have confessed it)
were mostly for the better disguising of herself, see-
ing that the night was fine and warm; and then
Judith, having also drawn a muffler loosely round
her neck and the lower half of her face, was ready
to go—and was gone, in fact, as far as the door,
when she suddenly said:
“Why, now, I had nearly forgot the rosemary,
and without that the charm is naught. Did I leave
it on the window-shelf?”
She went back and found it, and this time she
took the precaution of folding it within the piece of
paper that she was to bury in the churchyard.
“Is it fair, dear Judith?” Prudence said, re-
proachfully, before she opened the door—“is it
right that you should take the bit of rosemary sent
you by One lover and use it as a charm to bring
another?”
“Nay, why should you concern yourself, good
Cousin P” said Judith, with a quick glance; but in-
deed, at this end of the room, it was too dark for
her to see anything. “My lover, say you? Let that
be as the future may show. In the meantime I am
pledged to no one, nor anxious that I should be so.
And a scrap of rosemary, now, what is it? But listen
to this, dear Prue: if it help to show me the man
I shall marry—if there be aught in this magic—will
it not be better for him that sent the rosemary that
we should be aware of what is in store for us?”
“I know not—I scarcely ever know—whether
you are in jest or in earnest, Judith,” her friend
Said.
46 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Why, then, I am partly in starched cambric,
good mouse, if you must know, and partly in damask,
and partly in taffeta of popinjay blue. But come
now, let us be going; the awful hour approaches,
Prue. Do you not tremble, like Faustus in the cell?
What was’t he said?—
‘It strikes; it strikes. Now, body, turn to air!”
Come along, sweet Prue.”
But she was silent as they left. Indeed, they
went down the dark little staircase and out at the
front door with as little noise as might be. Judith
had not been mistaken: the fine, clear, warm even-
ing had brought out many people; and they were
either quietly walking home or standing in dusky
little groups at the street corners talking to each
other; whilst here and there came a laugh from a
ruddy-windowed ale-house; and here and there a
hushed sound of singing, where a casement had
been left a bit open, told that the family within
were at their devotional exercises for the night.
The half-moon was now clear and silvery in the
heavens. As they passed under the massive structure
of the Guild Chapel the upper portions of the tall
windows had a pale greenish glow shining through
them that made the surrounding shadows look all
the more solemn. Whether it was that their mufflers
effectually prevented their being recognised, or
whether it was that none of their friends happened
to be abroad, they passed along without attracting
notice from any one; nor was a word spoken be-
tween themselves for some time.
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 47
But when they drew near to the church, the
vast bulk of which, towering above the trees around,
seemed almost black against the palely clear sky,
the faithful Prudence made bold to put in a final
word of remonstrance and dissuasion.
“It is wickedness and folly, Judith. Naught can
come of such work,” she said.
“Then let naught come of it, and what harm is
done?” her companion said gaily. “Dear mouse,
are you so timorous? Nay, but you shall not come
within the little gate; you shall remain without.
And if the spirits come and snatch me, as they
snatched off Doctor Faustus, you shall see all the
pageant, and not a penny to pay. What was it in
the paper?—
‘Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
That seeks to steal a lover true,”
Did it not run so? But they cannot pinch you, dear
Prue; SO stand here now, and hush!—pray you do
not scream if you see them whip me off in a cloud
of fire—and I shall be with you again in a minute.”
She passed through the little Swinging gate and
entered the churchyard, casting therewith a quick
glance around. Apparently no one was within sight
of her, either among the gray stones or under the
black-stemmed elms by the river; but there were
people not far off, for she could hear their voices—
doubtless they were going home through the meadows
on the other side of the stream. She looked but
Once in that direction. The open country was lying
pale and clear in the white light; and under the
48 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
wide branches of the elms one or two bats were
silently darting to and fro; but she could not see
the people, and she took it for granted that no one
could now observe what she was about. So she left
the path, made her way through the noiseless grass,
and reached the Small yew-tree standing there among
the grave-stones. The light was clear enough to
allow her to open the package and make sure that
the sprig of rosemary was within; then she rapidly,
with her bare hand, Stooped down and scooped a
little of the earth away; she embedded the packet
there, repeating meanwhile the magic words; she
replaced the earth and brushed the long grass over
it, so that, indeed, as well as she could make out,
the spot looked as if it had not been disturbed in
any manner. And then, with a quick look toward
the roof of the church to satisfy herself that all the
conditions had been fulfilled, she got swiftly back
to the path again, and so to the little gate, passing
through the churchyard like a ghost.
“The deed is done, good Prue,” said she gaily, but
in a tragic whisper, as she linked her arm within the
arm of her friend and set out homeward. “Now are the
dark powers of the earth at league to raise me up
—what think you, Sweetheart?—such a gallant as
the world ne'er saw Ah! now, when you see him
come riding in from Shottery, will not the town
stare? None of your logget-playing, tavern-jesting,
come-kiss-me-Moll lovers, but a true-sworn knight
on his white war steed, in Shining mail, with a
golden casque on his head and Ostrich feathers,
and on his silver shield ‘St. George and England!’”
THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM. 49
“You are light-hearted, Judith,” said the timid
and gentle-voiced Puritan by her side; “and in truth
there is nothing that you fear. Well, I know not,
but it will be in my prayers that no harm come of
this night.”
Şudith Shakespeare, Z. 4
50 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
C H A PTER IV.
A. PAGEANT.
ON the morning after the arrival of Judith’s
father he was out and abroad with his bailiff at an
early hour, So that she had no chance of Speaking
to him; and when he returned to New Place he
went into the Summer-house in the Orchard, where
it was the general habit and custom to leave him
undisturbed. And yet she only wished to ask per-
mission to take the mastiff with her as far as Shot-
tery; and so, when she had performed her share of
the domestic duties, and got herself ready, she went
out and through the back court and into the garden,
thinking that he would not mind so brief an inter-
ruption.
It was a fresh and pleasant morning, for there
had been Some rain in the night, and now there
was a slight breeze blowing from the South, and the
air was sweet with the scent of the lilac bushes.
The sun lay warm on the pink and white blossoms
of the apple-trees and on the creamy masses of the
cherry; martins were skimming and shooting this
way and that, with now and again a rapid flight to
the eaves of the barn; the bees hummed from flower
to flower, and everywhere there was a chirping, and
twittering, and clear singing of birds. The world
A PAGEANT. 5 I
seemed full of light and colour, of youth, and sweet
things, and gladness: on such a morning she had
no fear of a refusal, nor was she much afraid to go
near the summer-house that the family were accus-
tomed to hold sacred from intrusion.
But when she passed into the orchard, and came
in sight of it, there was a sudden flash of anger in
her eyes. She might have guessed—she might have
known. There, blocking up the doorway of the lat-
ticed and green-painted tenement, was the figure of
goodman Matthew; and the little bandy-legged
pippin-faced gardener was coolly resting on his spade
while he addressed his master within. Was there
ever (she asked herself) such hardihood, such auda-
city and impertinence? And then she rapidly be-
thought her that now was a rare opportunity for
putting in practice a scheme of revenge that she
had carefully planned. It is true that she might
have gone forward and laid her fingers on Matthew’s
arm (he was rather deaf), and so have motioned
him away. But she was too proud to do that. She
would dispossess and rout him in another fashion.
So she turned and went quickly again into the house.
Now at this time Dr. Hall was making a round
of professional visits at some distance away in the
Country; and on such occasions Susanna Hall and
her little daughter generally came to lodge at New
Place, where Judith was found to be an eager and
assiduous, if somewhat impatient and unreasoning,
nurse, playmate, and music-mistress. In fact, the
young mother had to remonstrate with her sister,
and to point out that, although baby Elizabeth was
4*
52 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
a wonder of intelligence and cleverness—indeed,
such a wonder as had never hitherto been beheld
in the world—still, a child of two years and three
months or so could not be expected to learn every-
thing all at Once; and that it was just as reasonable
to ask her to play on the lute as to imagine that
she could sit on the back of Don the mastiff without
being held. However, Judith was fond of the child;
and that incomparable and astute Small person had
a great liking for her aunt (in consequence of bene-
fits received), and a trust in her which the wisdom
of maturer years might have modified; and So,
whenever she chose, Judith found no difficulty in
obtaining possession of this precious charge, even
the young mother showing no anxiety when she
saw the two go away together.
So it was on this particular morning that Judith
went and got hold of little Bess Hall, and quickly
smartened up her costume, and Carried her out into
the garden. Then she went to the barn, outside of
which was the dog’s kennel; she unclasped the chain
and set free the huge, slow-stepping, dun-coloured
beast, that seemed to know as well as any one what
was going forward; she affixed to his collar two
pieces of silk ribbon that did very well for reins;
and then she placed little Bess Hall on Don Rode-
rigo's back, and gave her the reins to hold, and So
they set out for the summer-house.
On that May morning the wide and gracious
realm of England—which to some minds, and espe-
cially at that particular season of the year, seems
the most beautiful country of any in the world—
A PAGEANT, 53
this rich and variegated England lay basking in the
sunlight, with all its lush meadows, and woods, and
hedges in the full and fresh luxuriance of the spring;
and the small quiet hamlets were busy in a drowsy
and easy-going kind of fashion; and far away around
the white coasts the blue sea was idly murmuring
in; but it may be doubted whether in all the length
and breadth of that fair land there was any fairer
sight than this that the wit of a young woman had
devised. She herself was pleasant enough to look
on (and she was always particularly attentive about
her attire when her father was at home), and now
she was half laughing as she thought of her forth-
coming revenge; she had dressed her little niece in
her prettiest costume of pink and white, and pink
was the colour of the silken reins; while the great
slow-footed Don bore his part in the pageant with
a noble majesty, Sometimes looking up at Judith as
if to ask whether he were going in the right direc-
tion. And so the procession passed on between the
white-laden cherry-trees and the redder masses of
the apple-blossom; and the miniature Ariadne, sit-
ting sideways on the back of the great beast, be-
trayed no fear whatsoever; while her aunt Judith
held her, walking by her, and scolding her for that
she would not sing.
“Tant sing, Aunt Judith,” said she.
“You can sing well enough, you little goose, if
you try,” said her aunt, with the unreasoning im-
patience of an unmarried young woman. “What is
the use of your going hunting without a hunting
song? Come along now:
54 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
‘The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well-nigh day.”
Try it, Bess!” -
“Hunt is up, hunt is up,” said the small rider;
but she was occupied with the reins, and clearly did
not want to be bothered.
“No, no, that is not singing, little goose. Why,
sing it like this now:
‘The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well-nigh day;
And Harry our king is gone hunting
To bring his deer to bay!’”
However, the music lesson came to an abrupt
end. They had by this time almost reached the
Summer-house. Saturnine Matthew gardener, who
still stood there, blocking up the doorway, had not
heard them approach, but his master within had.
The next instant goodman Matthew suddenly found
himself discarded, dismissed, and treated, indeed,
as if he were simply non-existent in the world; for
Judith’s father, having paused for a moment to
regard from the doorway the pretty pageant that had
been arranged for him (and his face lit up, as it
were, with pleasure at the sight), was the next minute
down beside his little granddaughter, with one knee
on the ground, so that he was just on a level with
her outstretched hands.
“What, Bess?” he said, as he caught her by
both hands and feet. “You imp, you inch, you elfin
queen, you!—would you go a-hunting, then?”
“Send away Don—me want to ride the high
A PAGEANT. 55
horse,” said the small Bess, who had her own ideas
as to what was most comfortable and also Secure.
“And so you shall, you sprite, you Ariel, you
moonlight wonder!” he exclaimed, as he perched
her on his shoulder, and rose to his feet again.
“The high horse, truly; indeed, you shall ride the
high horse! Come now, we will go see how the
King's mulberry thrives; that is the only tree we
have that is younger than yourself, you ancient, you
beldame, you witch of Endor, you!”
“Father,” said Judith, seeing that he was going
away perfectly regardless of anybody or anything
except his granddaughter, “may I take the Don with
me for an hour or so?”
“Whither away, wench—whither?” he asked,
turning for a moment.
“To Shottery, father.”
“Well, well,” said he, and he turned again and
went Off.
- - “Come, Bess, you world’s jewel, you, you shall
ride with me to London some day, and tell the King
how his mulberry thrives; that shall you, you fairy,
you princess, you velvet-footed maidiekin! To Lon-
don, Bess—to London!”
Judith did not stay to regard them further; but
she could not help casting a look before she left at
goodman Matthew, who stood there discomfited, dis-
possessed, unheeded, annihilated, as it were. And
then, calling the dog after her, she went in by the
back court and through the house again (for Chapel
Lane was in a sad condition after the rain of the
night, and was not a pleasant pathway even in the
56 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
best of times). And she was laughing to herself at
Matthew’s discomfiture, and she was singing to her-
self as she went out by the front door—
“There’s never a maid in all the town,
But well she knows that malt’s come down.”
And in the street it was “Good-morrow to you,
Master Jelleyman; the rain will do good, will it not?”
and again, “Give ye good-morrow, Neighbour Pike;
do you know that my father is come home?” and
again, “Get you within the doorway, little Parsons,
else the waggon-wheels will be over thee.” And
then, when she was in the freedom of the fields,
she would talk blithely to Don Roderigo, or snatch
a buttercup here or three from among the long,
lush, warm grass, or return to her careless singing:
“For malt's come down, and malt's come down—
O well she knows that malt’s come down!”
IN A WOODED TLANE, 57
C H A P T E R V.
IN A WOODED LANE.
Now it would be extremely difficult to say with
what measure of faith or scepticism, of expectation
or mere curiosity, she was now proceeding through
these meadows to the spot indicated to her by the
wizard. Probably she could not have told herself;
for what was really uppermost in her mind was a
kind of malicious desire to frighten her timid Puritan
friend with the wildness of such an adventure. And
then she was pretty safe. Ostensibly she was going
to Shottery to pay a visit to her grandmother; to
look at the pansies, the wall-flowers, the forget-me-
nots in the little garden, and see how the currants
and raspberries were getting on. She could hardly
expect a ghost to rise from the ground in broad
daylight. And if any mere strangers happened to
be coming along the lane leading in from the Bid-
ford road, Don Roderigo was a sufficient guardian.
On the other hand, if there was anything real and
of verity in this witchcraft—which had sought her,
and not she it—was it not possible that the wizard
might on one point have been mistaken? If her
future husband were indeed to appear, would it not
be much more likely to be Parson Blaise, or Tom
Quiney, or young Jelleyman, or one or other of them
58 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
that she knew in everyday life? But yet she said
to herself—and there was no doubt about her ab-
solute conviction and certainty on this point—that,
even if she were to meet one of those coming in
from Evesham, not all the magic and mystery and
wizardry in the world would drive her to marry him
but of her own free good will and choice.
When she had passed through the meadows,
and got near to the scattered cottages and barns
and Orchards of the little hamlet, instead of going
forward to these, she bore away to the left, and
eventually found herself in a wide and wooded lane.
She was less light of heart now; she wished the
place were not so very still and lonely. It was a
pretty lane this; the ruddy-gray road that wound
between luxuriant hedges and tall elms was barred
across by alternate sunlight and shadow; and every
now and again she had glimpses of the rich and
fertile country lying around, with distant hills show-
ing an Outline Serrated by trees along the pale,
summer-like sky. But there was not a human being
visible anywhere, nor a sound to be heard but the
soft repeated note of the cuckoo. She wished that
there were some farm people near at hand, or a
shepherd lad, or anybody. She spoke to Roderigo,
and her voice sounded strange—it Sounded as if
she were afraid that some one was listening. Nay,
she began, quite unreasonably, to be angry with the
wizard. What business had he to interfere with her
affairs, and to drive her on to such foolish enter-
prises? What right had he to challenge her to show
that she was not afraid? She was not afraid, she
IN A WOODED LANE. 59
assured herself. She had as good a title to walk
along this lane as any maid in Warwickshire. Only
she thought that as soon as she had got as far as
the cross at the meeting of the roads (this was all
that had been demanded of her) she would go back
to Stratford by the public highway rather than re-
turn by this solitary lane, for on the public high-
way there would be farm servants, and laden wains,
and carriers, and Such-like comfortable and Com-
panionable objects.
The next minute—she had almost reached the
cross—her heart bounded with an unreasoning tremor
of fear: she had suddenly become aware that a
stranger was entering the lane from the wide high-
way beyond. She had only one glimpse of him, for
instantly and resolutely she bent her eyes on Don
Roderigo, and was determined to keep them there
until this person should have passed; and yet that
one lightning-like glimpse had told her somewhat.
The Stranger was young, and of a distinguished
bearing and presence; and it certainly was a singular
and unusual thing that a gentleman (as he seemed
to be, although his travelling cloak concealed most
of his attire) should be going afoot and unattended.
But her only concern was to let him pass. Ghost or
man as he might be, she kept her eyes on the Don.
And then, to her increased alarm, she found that
the stranger was approaching her. -
“I beseech your pardon, lady,” said he, in a
most respectful voice, “but know you one in this
town of the name of Master Shakespeare?”
She certainly was startled, and even inwardly
6o JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
aghast; but she had a brave will. She was deter-
mined that nothing would drive her either to scream
or to run away. And indeed, when she looked up
and said, rather breathlessly, “There be several of
the name, sir,” she was quickly assured that this
was no ghost at all, but a substantial and living and
breathing young man, tall and dark, of a pleasant
expression of face, though in truth there was no-
thing in those singularly black eyes of his but the
most Ordinary and matter-of-fact inquiry.
“One Master William Shakespeare,” said he in
answer to her, “that is widely known.”
“It is my father, sir, you speak of,” said she,
hastily, and in fact somewhat ashamed of her fright.
At this news he removed his hat and made her
a gracious obeisance, yet simply, and with not too
elaborate a courtesy.
“Since I am so fortunate,” said he, “may I beg
you to direct me how I shall find the house when I
get to the town? I have a letter for him as you
may see.”
He took out a letter and held it so that, if she
liked, she might read the superscription—“To my
Zoving good friend Master William Shakespeare:
Deliver these.” But Judith merely glanced at the
writing.
“'Tis from Master Ben Jonson—that you know
of doubtless, madam—commending me to your father.
But perhaps,” he added, directing toward her a
curious timid look of inquiry, “it were as well that
I did not deliver it?” -
“How so, sir?” she asked.
IN A WOODED LANE. 6 I
“I am one that is in misfortune,” said he simply;
“nay, in peril.”
“Truly I am sorry for that, sir,” said she, re-
garding him with frank eyes of sympathy; for in-
deed there was a kind of sadness in his air, that
otherwise was distinguished enough, and even noble.
And then she added: “But surely that is the greater
reason you should seek my father.”
“If I dared—if I knew,” he said, apparently to
himself. And then he addressed her: “If I make
So bold, Sweet lady, as to ask you if your father be
of the ancient faith—or well disposed toward that,
even if he do not openly profess it—I pray you set
it down to my need and hard circumstances.”
She did not seem to understand.
“I would ask if he be not at heart with the
Catholic gentlemen that are looking for better times,
—for indeed I have heard it stated of him.”
“Oh no, sir—Surely not,” said Judith in some
alarm, for she knew quite enough about the penal
laws against priests and recusants, and would not
have her father associated in any way with these,
especially as she was talking with a stranger.
“Nay, then, it were better I did not deliver the
letter,” said the young man, with just a touch of
hopelessness in his tone. “Under the protection of
your father I might have had somewhat more of
liberty perchance; but I am content to remain as I
am until I can get proofs that will convince them in
authority of my innocence; Or, mayhap, I may get
away from the Country altogether and to my friends
in Flanders. If they would but set my good friend
62 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Walter Raleigh free from the Tower that also were
well, for he and I might make a home for Ourselves
in another land. I crave your pardon for detaining
you, madam, and so bid you farewell.”
He raised his hat, and made her a most respect-
ful obeisance, and was about to withdraw.
“Stay, sir,” said she, scarcely knowing what she
said, but with trouble and anxiety in her gentle
eyes.
Indeed, she was somewhat bewildered. So
sudden had been the shock of surprise that she
had forgotten, or very nearly forgotten, all about
ghosts and wizards, about possible lovers or hus-
bands, and only knew that here, in actual fact, was
a stranger—and a modest young Stranger, too—that
was in great trouble, and yet was afraid to seek
shelter and aid from her father. That he had no
reason to be thus afraid she was certain enough;
and yet she dared not assume—she had no reason.
for believing—that her father was secretly inclined
to favour those that were still hoping for the re-
establishment of the Catholic faith. The fact was
that her father scarcely ever spoke of such matters.
He would listen, if he happened to be in the house,
to any theological discussion that might be going
on, and he would regard this or that minister or
preacher calmly, as if trying to understand the good
man and his opinions; but he would take no part
in the talk; and when the discussion became dis-
putatious, as sometimes happened, and the Com-
batants grew warm, and took to making hot asser-
tions, he would rise and go out idly into the garden,
IN A WOODED LANE. -- 63
and look at the young apple-trees, or talk to Don
Roderigo. Indeed, at this precise moment, Judith
was quite incapable of deciding for herself which
party her father would most likely be in Sympathy
with—the Puritans, who were sore at heart because
of the failure of the Hampton Court Conference, or
the Catholics, who were no less bitter on account of
the severity of the penal laws—and a kind of vague
wish arose in her heart that she could ask Prudence
Shawe (who paid more attention to such matters,
and was, in fact, wrapped up in them) before send-
ing this young man away with his letter of Com-
mendation unopened.
“Your brother-in-law, madam, Dr. Hall,” said he,
seeing that she did not wish him to leave on the
instant, “is well esteemed by the Catholic gentry, as
I hear.”
Judith did not answer that; she had been ra-
pidly considering what she could do for one in dis-
treSS.
“By your leave, sir, I would not have you go
away without making further inquiry,” said she. “I
will myself get to know how my father is inclined,
for indeed he never speaks of such matters to us;
and Sure I am that, whatever be his opinion, no
harm could come to you through seeking his friend-
ship. That I am sure of. If you are in distress,
that is enough; he will not ask you whence you
come; nor has he censure for anyone; and that is
a marvel in One that is so good a man himself that
he hath never a word of blame for any one, neither
for the highwayman that was taken red-handed, as
64 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
it were, last Sunday near to Oxford—"Why, says
my father, “if he take not life, and be a civil gentle-
man, I grudge him not a purse or two’—nor for a
lesser criminal, my cousin Willie Hart, that but
yesterday let the Portuguese singing-bird escape
from its cage. ‘Well, well,’ says my father, “So much
the better, if only it can find food for itself.’ In-
deed, you need fear naught but kindness aud gentle-
ness; and sure I am that he would be but ill pleased
to know that one coming from his friend Benjamin
Jonson had been in the neighbourhood and gone
away without having speech of him.”
“But this is no matter of courtesy, sweet lady,”
said he. “It is of a more dangerous cast; and I
must be wary. If, now, you were inclined to do as
you say—to make Some discreet inquiry as to your
good father’s sentiments——”
“Not from himself,” said she, quickly, and with
some colour mounting to her cheeks—“for he would
but laugh at my speaking of such things—but from
my gossip and neighbour I think I could gain
sufficient assurance that would set your fears at rest.”
“And how should I come to know?” he said,
with some hesitation—for this looked much like
asking for another meeting.
But Judith was frank enough. If she meant to
Confer a kindness, she did not stay to be too scru-
pulous about the manner of doing it.
“If it were convenient that you could be here
this evening,” said she, after a moment's thought,
“Willie Hart and myself often walk over to Shottery
after supper. Then could I let you know.”
IN A WOODED LANE. 65
“But how am I to thank you for such a favour?”
said he. - s
“Nay, it is but little,” she answered, “to do for
one that comes from my father's friend.”
“Rare Ben, as they call him,” said he, more
brightly. “And now I bethink me, kind lady, that
it ill becomes me to have spoken of nothing but my
own poor affairs on my first having the honour of
meeting with you. Perchance you would like to hear
Something of Master Jonson, and how he does? May I
accompany you on your homeward way for a space,
if you are returning to the town? The road here is
quiet enough for one that is in hiding, as well as
for pleasant walking; and you are well escorted,
too,” he added, looking at the grave and indifferent
Don. “With such a master as your father, and such
a sweet mistress, I should not wonder if he became
as famous as Sir John Harrington’s Bungey that the
Prince asked about. You have not heard of him?—
the marvellous dog that Sir John would intrust with
messages all the way to the court at Greenwich, and
he would bring back the answer without more ado.
I wonder not that Prince Henry should have asked
for an account of all his feats and doings.”
Now insensibly she had turned and begun to
walk toward Shottery (for she would not ask this
unhappy young man to court the light of the open
highway), and as he respectfully accompanied her
his talk became more and more cheerful, so that
one would scarcely have remembered that he was
in hiding, and in peril of his life perchance. And
Şudith Shakespeare. I. - 5
66 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
he quickly found that she was most interested in
Jonson as being her father's friend and intimate.
“Indeed, I should not much marvel to hear of
his being soon in this very town of Stratford,” said
he, “for he has been talking of late—nay, he has
been talking this many a day of it, but who knows
when the adventure will take place?—of travelling
all the way to Scotland on foot, and writing an ac-
count of his discoveries on the road. And then he
has a mind to get to the lake of Lomond, to make
it the scene of a fisher and pastoral play, he says;
and his friend Drummond will go with him; and
they speak of getting still farther to the north, and
being the guests of the new Scotch lord, Mackenzie
of Kintail, that was made a peer last winter. Nay,
friend Ben, though at times he gibes at the Scots,
at other times he will boast of his Scotch blood—for
his grandfather, as I have heard, came from Annan-
dale—and you will often hear him say that whereas
the late Queen was a niggard and close-fisted, this
Scotch King is lavish and a generous patron. If he
go to Scotland, as is his purpose, Surely he will
come by way of Stratford.”
“It were ill done of him else,” said Judith. But
truly this young gentleman was so bent on entertain-
ing her with tales of his acquaintance in London,
and with descriptions of the court shows and
pageants, that she had not to trouble herself much
to join in the conversation. -
“A lavish patron the King has been to him truly,”
he continued, stooping to pat the Don's head, as if
he would make friends with him too, “what with the
IN A WOODED LANE. 67
masks, and revels, and so forth. Their last tiltings
at Prince Henry's barriers exceeded everything that
had gone before, as I think—and I marvel not that
Ben was found at his best, seeing how the King
had been instructing him. Nay, but it was a happy
conceit to have our young Lord of the Isles ad-
dressed by the Lady of the Lake, and have King
Arthur hand him his armour out of the clouds——”
“But where was it, good sir?” said she (to show
that she was interested). And now he seemed so
cheerful and friendly that she ventured to steal a
look at him. In truth, there was nothing very dole-
ful or tragic in his appearance. He was a hand-
SOmely-made young man, of about eight-and-twenty
or So, with fine features, a somewhat pale and sallow
complexion (that distinguished him markedly from
the rustic red and white and sun-brown she was
familiar with), and eyes of a singular blackness and
fire that were exceedingly respectful, but that could,
as any one might see, easily break into mirth. He
was well habited too, for now he had partly thrown
his travelling cloak aside, and his slashed doublet
and hose and shoes were Smart and clearly of a
town fashion. He wore no sword; in his belt there
was only a small dagger, of Venetian Silver-work on
the handle, and with a sheath of stamped Crimson
velvet.
“Dear lady, you must have heard of them,” he
continued, lightly—“I mean of the great doings in
the banqueting house at Whitehall, when Prince
Henry challenged so many noble lords. 'Twas a
brave sight, I assure you; the King and Queen were
5*
68 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
there, and the ambassadors from Spain and Venice,
and a great and splendid assemblage. And then,
when Ben's speeches came to be spoken, there was
Cyril Davy, that is said to have the best woman’s
voice in London, as the Lady of the Lake, and he
came forward and said— .
“Lest any yet should doubt, or might mistake
What nymph I am, behold the ample lake
Of which I’m styled, and near it Merlin’s tomb;’
and then King Arthur appeared, and our young
Lord of the Isles had a magic shield handed to
him. Oh, 'twas a noble sight, I warrant you! And
I heard that the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of
Arundel and Southampton and all of them were
but of one mind, that friend Ben had never done
better.” -
Indeed, the young man, as they loitered along
the pretty wooded lane in the hush of the warm
still noon (there was scarce enough wind to make a
rustle in the great branching elms), and as he talked
of all manner of things for the entertainment of this
charming Companion whom a happy chance had
thrown in his way, seemed to be well acquainted
with the court and its doings, and all the busy life
of London. If she gathered rightly, he had himself
been present when the King and the nobles went
in the December of the previous year to Deptford
to witness the launching of the great ship of the
East India Company—the Trade's Encrease, it was
called—for he described the magnificent banquet in
the chief cabin, and how the King gave to Sir
Thomas Smith, the Governor, a fine chain of gold,
IN A WOODED LANE. 69
with his portrait set in a jewel, and how angry his
Majesty became when they found that the ship
could not be launched on account of the state of
the tide. But when he again brought in the name
of Jonson, and said how highly the King thought of
his writings, and what his Majesty had said of this
or the other device or masque that had been com-
manded of him, Judith grew at length to be not so
pleased; and she said, with some asperity: “But the
Ring holds my father in honour also, for he wrote
him a letter with his own hand.”
“I heard not of that,” said he, but of course
without appearing to doubt her word.
“Nay, but I saw it,” said she. “I saw the letter;
and I did not think it well that my father should
give it to Julius Shawe, for there be some others
that would have valued it as much as he—yes, and
been more proud of it, too.” .
“His own daughter, perchance?” he said, gently.
Judith did not speak. It was a sore subject with
her; indeed, she had cried in secret, and bitterly,
when she learned that the letter had been casually
given away, for her father seemed to put no great
store by it. However, that had nothing to do with
this unhappy young gentleman that was in hiding.
And Soon she had dismissed it from her mind, and
was engaged in fixing the exact time at which, as
she hoped, she would be able to bring him that as-
Surance or that caution in the evening.
“I think it must be the province of women to
be kind to the unfortunate,” said he, as they came
in sight of the cottages; and he seemed to linger
7o JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and hesitate in his walk, as if he were afraid of go-
ing farther. - - -
“It is but a small kindness,” said she; “and I
hope it will bring you and my father together. He
is but just returned from London, and you will not
have much news to give him from his friend; but
you will be none the less welcome, for all are wel-
come to him, but especially those whom he can
aid.”
“If I were to judge of the father by the daughter,
I should indeed expect a friendly treatment,” said
he, with much Courtesy.
“Nay, but it is so simple a matter,” said she.
“Then fare you well, Mistress Judith,” said he;
“if I may make so bold as to guess at a name that
I have heard named in London.”
“Oh no, sir?” said she, glancing up with some
inquiry. : -
“But indeed, indeed,” said he, gallantly. “And
who can wonder?' 'Twas friend Ben that I heard
speak of you; I marvel not that he carried your
praises so far. But now, Sweet lady, that I see you
would go—and I wish not to venture nearer the
village there—may I beseech of you at parting a
further grace and favour? It is that you would not
reveal to any one, no matter what trust you may
put in them, that you have seen me or spoken with
me. You know not my name, it is true, though I
would willingly confide it to you; — indeed it is
Leofric Hope, madam; but if it were merely known
that you had met with a stranger, Curious eyes
might be on the alert.” -
IN A WOODED LANE. . 7 I.
“Fear not, sir,” said she, looking at him in her
frank way—and there was a kind of friendliness,
too, and sympathy in her regard. “Your secret is
Surely safe in my keeping. I can promise you that
none shall know through me that you are in the
neighbourhood. Farewell, good sir. I hope your
fortunes will mend speedily.” -
“God keep you, sweet Mistress Judith,” said he,
raising his hat and bowing low, and not even ask-
ing to be allowed to take her hand. “If my ill
fortune should carry it so that I see you not again,
at least I will treasure in my memory a vision of
kindness and beauty that I trust will remain for ever
there. Farewell, gentle lady; I am your debtor.”
And so they parted; and he stood looking after
her and the great dog as they passed through the
meadows; and she was making all the haste she
might, for although, when Judith’s father was at
home, the dinner hour was at twelve instead of at
eleven, still it would take her all the time to be
punctual, and she was scrupulous not to offend. He
stood looking after her as long as she was in sight,
and then he turned away, saying to himself:
“Why, our Ben did not tell us a tithe of the
truth!—for why?—because it was with his tongue,
and not with his pen that he described her. By
heaven, she is a marvell—and I dare be sworn, now,
that half the clowns in Stratford imagine themselves
in love with her.”
72 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
C H A PTER VI.
WITHIN-DOORS.
WHEN in the afternoon Judith sought out her
gentle gossip, and with much cautious tact and dis-
cretion began to unfold her perplexities to her, Pru-
dence was not only glad enough to hear nothing
further of the wizard—who seemed to have been
driven out of Judith’s mind altogether by the actual
occurrences of the morning—but also she became
possessed with a secret wonder and joy; for she
thought that at last her dearest and closest friend
was awakening to a sense of the importance of
spiritual things, and that henceforth there would be
a bond of confidence between them far more true
and abiding than any that had been before. But
Soon she discovered that politics had a good deal
to do with these hesitating inquiries; and at length
the bewildered Prudence found the conversation
narrowing and narrowing itself to this definite ques-
tion: Whether, supposing there were a young man
charged with complicity in a Catholic plot, or per-
haps having been compromised in some former
affair of the kind, and supposing him to appeal to
her father, would he, Judith’s father, probably be
inclined to shelter him and conceal him, and give
him what aid was possible until he might get away
from the country?
WITHIN-DOORS. 73
“But what do you mean, Judith?’” said Prudence,
in dismay. “Have you seen any one? What is't
you mean? Have you seen one of the desperate
men that were concerned with Catesby P”
Indeed, it was not likely that either of these two
Warwickshire maidens had already forgotten the
terrible tidings that rang Lillough the land but a
few years before, when the Gunpowder Treason was
discovered; nor how the conspirators fled into this
very County; nor yet how, in the following January,
On a bitterly cold and snowy day, there was brought
into the town the news of the executions in St.
Paul’s Churchyard and at Westminster. And, in
truth, when Prudence Shawe mentioned Catesby’s
name Judith’s cheek turned pale. It was but for an
instant. She banished the ungenerous thought the
moment that it occurred to her. No, she was sure
that the unhappy young man who had appealed to
her compassion could not have been concerned in
any such bloody enterprise. His speech was too
gentle for that. Had he not declared that he only
wanted time to prove his innocence? It is true, he
had said something about his friends in Flanders,
and often enough had she heard the Puritan divines
denouncing Flanders as the very hotbed of the
machinations of the Jesuits; but that this young man
might have friends amongst the Jesuits did not ap-
pear to her as being in itself a criminal thing, any
more than the possibility of his being a Catholic
was sufficient of itself to deprive him of her frank
and generous sympathy.
“I may not answer you yea nor nay, Sweet
74 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
mouse,” said she; “but assure yourself that I am
not in league with any desperate villain. I but put
a case. We live in quiet times now, do we not,
good Prue? and I take it that those who like not
the country are free to leave it. But tell me, if my
father were to speak openly, which of the parties
would he most affect? And how stands he with the
king? Nay, the King himself, of what religion is
he at heart, think you?”
“These be questions!” said Prudence, staring
aghast at Such ignorance. -
“I but use my ears,” said Judith indifferently,
“and the winds are not more variable than the
opinions that one listens to. Well you know it,
Prue. Here is one that says the King is in con-
Science a papist, as his mother was; and that he
gave a guarantee to the Catholic gentry ere he
came to the throne; and that soon or late we shall
have mass again; and then comes another with the
story that the Pope is hot and angry because the
King misuseth him in his speech, calling him Anti-
christ and the like; and that he has complained to
the French King on the matter, and that there is
even talk of excommunication. What can one be-
lieve? How is one to know? Indeed, good mouse,
you would have me more anxious about such things,
but why should one add to one’s difficulties? I am
content to be like my father, and stand aside from
the quarrel.” .
“Your wit is too great for me, dear Judith,” her
friend said, rather sadly; “and I will not argue with
you. But well I know there may be a calmness
WITHIN-DOORS. 75
that is of ignorance and indifference, and that is
slothful and sinful; and there may be a calmness
that is of assured wisdom and knowledge of the
truth, and that I trust your father has attained to.
That he should keep aside from disputes I can well
understand.”
“But touching the King, dear cousin,” said
Judith, who had her own ends in view. “How
stands my father with the King and his religon?
Nay, but I know, and every one knows, that in all
other matters they are friends; for your brother has
the King's letter——”
“That I wish you had yourself, Judith, since
your heart is set upon it,” said her companion,
gently.
Judith did not answer that.
“But as regards religion, sweet Prue, what think
you my father would most favour, were there , a
movement any way?—a change to the ancient faith,
perchance?” -
She threw out the question with a kind of studied
carelessness, as if it were a mere matter of specula-
tion; but there was a touch of warmth in Prudence’s
2.1].SWCI :
“What, then, Judith? You think he would dis-
turb the peace of the land, and give us Over again
to the priests and their idol worship? I trow not.”
Then something seemed to occur to her suddenly.
“But if you have any doubt, Judith, I can set your
mind at rest—of a Surety I can.”
“How, then, gossip?”
“I will tell you the manner of it. No longer
*>
76 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
ago than yesterday evening I was seated at the win-
dow reading—it was the volume that Dr. Hall
brought me from Worcester, and that I value more
and more the longer I read it—and your father
came into the house asking for Julius. So I put the
book on the table, with the face downward, and
away I went to seek for my brother. Well, then,
when I came back to the room, there was your
father standing at the window reading the book that
I had left, and I would not disturb him; and when
he had finished the page, he turned, saying, ‘Good
bishop! good bishop !’ and putting down the book
on the table just as he had found it. Dear Judith,
I hope you will think it no harm and no idle curiosity
that made me take up the book as soon as my
brother was come in, and examine the passage, and
mark it——”
“Harm!—bless thee, sweetheart!” Judith ex-
claimed. And she added eagerly: “But have you
the book? Will you read it to me? Is it about the
King? Do, dear cousin, read to me what it was
that my father approved. Beshrew me! but I shall
have to take to school lessons, after all, lest I out-
live even your gentle patience.”
Straightway Prudence had gone to a small cup-
board of boxes in which she kept all her most valued
possessions, and from thence she brought a stout
little volume, which, as Judith perceived, had a tiny
book-mark of satin projecting from the red-edged
leaves.
“Much comfort, indeed, have I found in these
‘Comfortable Notes,’” said she. “I wish, Judith,
&
WITHIN-DOORS. 77
you, that can think of everything, would tell me how
I am to show to Dr. Hall that I am more and more
grateful to him for his goodness. What can I do?
—words are such poor things!”
“But the passage, good Prue—what was’t he
read? I pray you let me hear,” said Judith, eagerly;
“for here, indeed, might be a key to many mys-
teries.”
“Listen, then,” said her companion, opening the
book. “The Bishop, you understand, Judith, is
Speaking of the sacrifices the Jews made to the
Lord, and he goes on to say:
“‘Thus had this people their peace-offerings;
that is, duties of thankfulness to their God for the
peace and prosperity vouchsafed unto them. And
most fit it was that He should often be thanked for
Such favours. The like mercies and goodness re-
main to us at this day: are we either freed from
the duty or left without means to perform it? No,
no; but as they had oxen and kine, and sheep and
goats, then appointed and allowed, so have we the
Calves of our lips and the sacrifice of thanksgiving
still remaining for us, and as strictly required of us
as these (in those days) were of them. Offer them
up, then, with a free heart and with a feeling Soul.
Our peace is great; our prosperity comfortable; our
God most sweet and kind; and shall we not offer?
The public is sweet, the private is sweet, and forget
you to offer? We lay us down and take our rest,
and this our God maketh us dwell in safety. Oh,
where is your offering? We rise again and go to
our labour, and a dog is not heard to move his
78 - JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
tongue among us: Owe we no offering? O Lord, O
Lord, make us thankful to Thee for these mercies;
the whole state we live in, for the common and our
several Souls, for several mercies now many years
enjoyed. O touch us; O turn us from our fearful
dulness, and abusing of this So Sweet, So long, and
so happy peace! Continue thy sacred servant’—
Surely you know, Judith, whom he means—‘the
chiefest means under Thee of this our comfort, and
ever still furnish him with wise helps, truly fearing
Thee, and truly loving him. Let Our heads go to
the grave in this peace, if it may be Thy blessed
pleasure, and our eyes never see the change of SO
happy an estate. Make us thankful and full of
peace-offerings; be Thou still ours, and ever merci-
ful. Amen! Amen!’”
“And what said he, sweet Prue—what said my
father?” Judith asked, though her eyes were distant
and thoughtful.
“‘Good bishop! good bishop !’ said he, as if he
were right well pleased, and he put down the book
on the table. Nay, you may be certain, Judith, that
your father would have naught to do with the de-
Sperate men that would fain upset the country, and
bring wars among us, and hand us Over to the Pope
again. I have heard of such; I have heard that
many of the great families have but a lip loyalty,
and have malice at their heart, and would willingly
plunge the land in blood if they could put the
priests in power over us again. Be sure your father
is not of that mind.” -
“But if one were in distress, Prudence,” said the
WITHIN-DOORS. 79
other, absently, “perchance with a false charge hang-
ing Over him that could be disproved—say that one
were in hiding—and only anxious to prove his in-
nocence, or to get away from the country, is my
father likely to look coldly on such a one in mis-
fortune? No, no, surely!’
“But of whom do you speak, Judith?” exclaimed
her friend, regarding her with renewed alarm. “It
cannot be that you know of such a one? Judith, I
beseech you speak plainly! You have met with
Some stranger that is unknown to your Own people?
You said you had but put a case, but now you
speak as if you knew the man. I beseech you, for
the love between us, speak plainly to me, Judith !”
“I may not,” said the other, rising. And then
she added, more lightly, “Nay, have no fear, dear
Prue; if there be any danger it is not I that run it,
and soon there will be no occasion for my withhold-
ing the secret from you, if secret there be.”
“I cannot understand you, Judith,” said her
friend, with the pale, gentle face full of a tender
wistfulness and anxiety.
“Such timid eyes!” said Judith, laughing good-
naturedly. “Indeed, Prudence, I have seen no ghost,
and goodman Wizard has failed me utterly; nor
sprite nor phantom has been near me. In Sooth I
have buried poor Tom’s bit of rosemary to little
purpose. And now I must get me home, for Master
Parson comes this afternoon, and I will but wait the
preaching to hear Susan sing: 'tis worth the pen-
ance. Farewell, Sweet mouse; get you rid of your
alarm. The sky will clear all in good time.”
8O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
So they kissed each other, and she left; still in
much perplexity, it is true, but nevertheless resolved
to tell the young man honestly and plainly the re-
Sult of her inquiries. - -
As it turned out, she was to hear something
more about the King and politics and religion that
afternoon, for when she got home to New Place
Master Blaise was already there, and he was eagerly
discussing with Judith’s mother and her sister the
last news that had been brought from London; Or
rather he was expounding it, with emphatic asser-
tions and denunciations that the women folk re-
ceived for the most part with a mute but quite ap-
parent sympathy. He was a young man of about
six-and-twenty, rather inclined to be stout, but with
strongly lined features, fair complexion and hair,
an intellectual forehead, and sharp and keen gray
eyes. The one point that recommended him to
Judith’s favour—which he openly and frankly, but
with perfect independence, sought—was the un-
compromising manner in which he professed his
opinions. These frequently, angered her, and even
at times roused her to passionate indignation; and
yet, Oddly enough, she had a kind of lurking ad-
miration for the very honesty that scorned to curry
favour with her by means of any suppression or
evasion. It may be that there was a trace of the
wisdom of the serpent in this attitude of the young
parson, who was shrewd-headed as well as clear-
eyed, and was as quick as any to read the fearless
quality of Judith’s character. At all events, he would
not yield to any of her prejudices; he would not
WITHIN-DOORS. 81
Stoop to flatter her; he would not abate one jot of
his protests against the vanity and pride, the
heathenish show and extravagance, of women; the
heinousness and peril of indifferentism in matters of
doctrine; and the sinfulness of the life of them that
Countenanced stage plays and such like devilish
iniquities. It was this last that was the real stum-
bling block and contention between them. Some-
times Judith’s eyes burned. Once she rose and got
Out of the room. “If I were a man, Master Parson,”
she was saying to herself, with shut teeth, “by the
life of me I would whip you from Stratford town to
Warwick!” And indeed there was ordinarily a kind
of armed truce between these two, so that no stranger
or acquaintance could very easily decide what their
precise relations were; although every one knew that
Judith’s mother and sister held the young divine in
great favour, and would fain have had him of the
family. -
At the moment of Judith’s entrance he was much
exercised, as has been said, on account of the news
that was but just come from London—how that the
King was driving at still further impositions because
of the Commons begrudging him Supplies; and
naturally Master Blaise warmly approved of the
Commons, that had been for granting the liberties
to the Puritans which the King had refused. And
not only was this the expression of a general opinion
on the subject, but he maintained as an individual
—and as a very emphatic individual, too—that the
prerogatives of the crown, the wardships and pur-
veyances and what not, were monstrous and abomin-
924d2% Shakespeare. I. 6
82 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
able, and a way of escape from the just restraint of
Parliament, and he declared with a sudden vehe-
mence that he would rather perish at the stake than
contribute a single benevolence to the royal purse.
Judith’s mother, a tall, slight, silver-haired woman,
with eyes that had once been of extraordinary
beauty, but now were grown somewhat sad and
worn, and her daughter Susanna Hall, who was
darker than her sister Judith as regarded hair and
eyebrows, but who had blue-gray eyes of a singular
clearness and quickness and intelligence, listened
and acquiesced; but perhaps they were better
pleased when they found the young parson Come
out of that vehement mood; though still he was
sharp of tongue and sarcastic, saying as an excuse
for the King that now he was revenging himself on
the English Puritans for the treatment he had re-
ceived at the hands of the Scotch Presbyterians,
who had harried him not a little. He had not a
word for Judith; he addressed his discourse entirely
to the other two. And she was content to sit aside,
for indeed this dissatisfaction with the crown on the
part of the Puritans was nothing strange or novel to
her, and did not in the least help to solve her pre-
sent perplexity.
And now the maids (for Judith’s father would
have no Serving-men, nor stablemen, nor husband-
men of any grade whatever come within doors; the
work of the house was done entirely by women folk)
entered to prepare the long oaken table for Supper,
seeing which Master Blaise suggested that before
that meal it might be as well to devote a space to
WITHIN-DOORS. 83
divine worship. So the maids were bidden to stay
their preparations, and to remain, seating themselves
dutifully on a bench brought crosswise, and the
others sat at the table in their usual chairs, while
the preacher opened the large Bible that had been
fetched for him, and proceeded to read the second
chapter of the Book of Jeremiah, expounding as he
went along. This running Commentary was, in fact,
a sermon applied to all the evils of the day, as the
various verses happened to offer texts; and the un-
godliness and the vanity and the turning away from
the Lord that Jeremiah lamented were attributed in
no unsparing fashion to the town of Stratford and
the inhabitants thereof: “Hear ye the word of the
Lord, O house of Jacob, and all the families of the
house of Israel: thus saith the Lord, What iniquity
have your fathers found in me, that they are gone
far from me, and have walked after vanity, and are
become vain?” Nor did he spare himself and his
own calling: “The priests said not, Where is the
Lord? and they that should minister the law knew
me not: the pastors also offended against me, and
the prophets prophesied in Baal, and went after
things that did not profit.” And there were bold
paraphrases and inductions, too: “What hast thou
now to do in the way of Egypt, to drink the waters
of Nilus? Or what makest thou in the way of Asshur,
to drink the waters of the river?” Was not that the
seeking of strange objects—of baubles, and jewels,
and silks, and other instruments of vanity—from
abroad, from the papist land of France, to lure the
eye and deceive the senses, and turn away the mind
6*
84 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
from the dwelling on holy things? “Can a maid
forget her ornament, or a bride her attire? yet my
people have forgotten me days without number.”
This was, indeed, a fruitful text, and there is no
doubt that Judith was indirectly admonished to
regard the extreme simplicity of her mother’s
and sister's attire; so that there can be no ex-
cuse whatever for her having in her mind at this
very moment some vague fancy that as Soon as
supper was over she would go to her own chamber
and take out a certain beaver hat. She did not
often wear it, for it was a present that her father
had once brought her from London, and it was
ranked among her most precious treasures; but
surely on this evening (she was saying to herself) it
was fitting that she should wear it, not from any
personal vanity, but to the end that this young
gentleman, who seemed to know several of her
father's acquaintances in London, should understand
that the daughter of the owner of New Place was
no mere country wench, ignorant of what was in the
fashion. It is grievous that she should have been
concerned with such frivolous thoughts. However,
the chapter came to an end in due time.
Then good Master Blaise said they would sing
the One hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm; and
this was truly what Judith had been waiting for.
She herself was but an indifferent singer. She could
do little more than hum such snatches of old
songs as occurred to her during her careless rambles,
and that only for her private ear; but her sister
Susanna had a most noble, pure and clear contralto
WITHIN-DOORS. 85
voice that could at any time bring tears to Judith’s
eyes, and that, when she joined in the choral parts
of the Service in church, made many a young man’s
heart to tremble strangely. In former days she
used to sing to the accompaniment of her lute; but
that was given over now. Once or twice Judith had
brought the discarded instrument to her, and said:
“Susan, sweet Susan, for once—for once only—
sing to me ‘The rose is from my garden gone.’”
“Why, then—to make you cry, silly one?” the
elder sister would answer. “What profit those idle
tears, child, that are but a luxury and a sinful in-
dulgence?” -
“Susan, but once!” Judith would plead (with
the tears almost already in her eyes)—“once only,
‘The rose is from my garden gone.’ There is none
can sing it like you.”
But the elder sister was obdurate, as she con-
sidered was right; and Judith, as she walked through
the meadows in the evening, would sometimes try
the song for herself, thinking, or endeavouring to
think, that she could hear in it the pathetic vibra-
tion of her sister’s voice. Indeed, at this moment
the Small congregation assembled around the table
would doubtless have been deeply shocked had they
known with what a purely secular delight Judith
was now listening to the words of the psalm. There
was but one Bible in the house, so that Master
Blaise read out the two first lines (lest any of the
maids might have a lax memory)—
“When as we sat in Babylon
The rivers round about”—
86 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and that they sang; then they proceeded in like
Iſla []]].621 *- - - -
“And in remembrance of Sion,
The tears for grief burst out;
We hanged our harps and instruments
The willow trees upon;
For in that place men for their use
Had planted many a one.”
It is probable, indeed, that Judith was so wrapped
up in her sister's singing that it did not occur to
her to ask herself whether this psalm, too, had not
been chosen with some regard to the good preacher's
discontent with those in power. At all events, he
read out, and they sang, no farther than these two
VerSeS—.
“Then they to whom we prisoners were
Said to us tauntingly:
Now let us hear your Hebrew songs
And pleasant melody.
Alas! (said we) who can once frame
His sorrowful heart to sing
The praises of our loving God
Thus Tºnder a strange king?
Tut vet if T Jerusalem
Out of my heart let slide,
Then let my fingers quite forget
The warbling harp to guide;
And let my tongue within my mouth
Be tied for ever fast,
If that I joy before I see
Thy full deliverance past.”
Then there was a short and earnest prayer; and,
that over, the maids set to work to get forward the
supper; and young Willie Hart was called in from
WITHIN-T)OORS.. . . . 87
the garden—Judith’s father being away at Wilnecote
On Some important business there. In due course
of time, Supper being finished, and a devout thanks-
giving said, Judith was free; and instantly she fled
away to her own chamber to don her bravery. It
was not vanity (she again said to herself); it was
that her father's daughter should show that she knew
what was due to him and his standing in the town;
and, indeed, as she now regarded herself in the
little mirror—she wore a half-circle farthingale, and
had on one of her smartest ruffs—and when she
set on her head of short brown curls this exceed-
ingly pretty hat (it was of gray beaver above, and
underneath it was lined with black satin, and all
around the rim was a row of hollow brass beads
that tinkled like small bells) she was quite well
Satisfied with her appearance, and that she was
fairly entitled to be. Then she went down and
summoned her sweetheart Willie to act as her com-
panion and protector and ally; and together these
two passed forth from the house—into the golden
clear evening.
88 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
CH. A. PTER VII.
A FAREWELL.
ALWAYS, when she got out into the open air,
her spirits rose into a pure content; and now, as
they were walking westward through the peaceful
meadows, the light of the sunset was on her face;
and there was a kind of radiance there, and care-
less happiness, that little Willie Hart scarce dared
look upon, so abject and wistful was the worship
that the small lad laid at his pretty cousin's feet.
He was a sensitive and imaginative boy; and the
joy and crown of his life was to be allowed to walk
out with his cousin Judith, her hand holding his;
and it did not matter to him whether she spoke to
him, or whether she was busy with her private
thinking, and left him to his own pleasure and
fancies. He had many of these; for he had heard
of all kinds of great and noble persons—princesses
and empresses and queens; but to him his cousin
Judith was the Queen of queens; he could not be-
lieve that any one ever was more beautiful—or more
gentle and lovable, in a magical and mystical way
—than she was; and in church, on the quiet Sun-
day mornings, when the choir was singing, and all
else silence, and when dreams were busy in certain
small brains, if there were any faraway pictures of
A FAREWELL, 89
angels in white and shining robes, coming towards
one through rose-red celestial gardens, be sure they
had Judith’s eyes and the light and witchery of
these; and that, when they spoke (if such won-
derful creatures vouchsafed to speak) it was with
the softness of Judith’s voice. So it is not to be con-
ceived that Judith, who knew something of this mute
and secret adoration, had any malice in her heart
when, on this particular evening, she began to
question the boy as to the kind of sweetheart he
would choose when he was grown up: the fact being,
that she spoke from idleness—and a wish to be
friendly and companionable—her thoughts being
really occupied elswhere.
“Come now, Willie, tell me,” said she, “what
sort of one you will choose, some fifteen or twenty
years hence, when you are grown up to be a man,
and will be going abroad from place to place. In
Coventry, perchance, you may find her, or over at
Evesham, or in Warwick, or Worcester, or as far
away as Oxford: in all of them are plenty of pretty
maidens to be had for the asking, so you be civil-
spoken enough, and bear yourself well. Now tell
me your fancy, sweetheart: what shall her height
be?”
“Why, you know, Judith,” said he, rather shame-
facedly, “Just your height.”
“My height?” she said, carelessly. “Why that
is neither the one way nor the other. My father
says I am just as high as his heart; and with that I
am content. Well, now, her hair—what colour of
hair shall she have?”
90 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Like yours, Judith; and it must come round
about her ears like yours,” said he, glancing up for
a moment.
“Eyes: must they be black, or gray, or brown,
or blue; nay, you shall have your choice, sweetheart
Willie; there be all sorts, if you go far enough
afield and look around you. What eyes do you like,
now?”
“You know well, Judith, that no one has such
pretty eyes as you; these are the ones I like, and
no others.”
“Bless the boy!—would you have her to be like
me?” o
“Just like you, Judith—altogether,” said he,
promptly; and he added more shyly, “For you know
there is none as pretty, and they all of them say
that.”
“Marry, now!” said she, with a laugh. “Here
be news. What? When you go choosing your sweet-
heart, would you pick out one that had as large
hands as these?”
She held forth her hands, and regarded them;
and yet with some complacency, for she had put on
a pair of scented gloves which her father had
brought her from London, and these were beauti-
fully embroidered with silver, for he knew her tastes,
and that she was not afraid to wear finery, what-
ever the preachers might say.
“Why, you know, Judith,” said he, “that there is
none has such pretty hands as you, nor So white,
nor so soft.” t
“Heaven save us, am I perfection, then?” she
A FAREWELL. . QI
cried (but she was pleased). “Must she be altogether
like me?”
“Just so, cousin Judith; altogether like you; and
She must wear pretty things like you, and walk as
you walk, and speak like you, else I shall not love
her nor go near her, though she were the Queen
herself.”
“Well said, sweetheart Willie!—you shall to the
Court Some day, if you can speak so fair! And
shall I tell you, now, how you must woo and win
such an one?” she continued, lightly. “It may be
you shall find her here or there—in a farmhouse,
perchance; or she may be a great lady with her
coach; or a wench in an ale-house; but if she be as
you figure her, this is how you shall do: you must
not grow up to be too nice and fine and delicate-
handed; you must not bend too low for her favour;
but be her lord and governor; ....J you must be
ready to fight for her, if need there be—yes, yo!,
shall not suffer a word to be said in dispraise of
her; and for slanderers you must have a cidgel and
a stout arm withal; and yet you must be gentle
with her, because she is a woman; and yet not too
gentle, for you are a man; and you must be no
slape-face, with whining through the nose that we
are all devilish and wicked and the children of sin;
and you must be no tavern-seeker, with oaths and
drunken jests and the like; and when you find her
you must be the master of her—and yet a gentle
master; marry, I cannot tell you more; but, as I
hope for Heaven, sweet Willie, you will do well and
fairly if she love thee half as much as I do!”
92 - JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
And she patted the boy's head. What sudden
pang was it that went through his heart?
“They say you are going to marry Parson Blaise,
Judith,” said he, looking up at her.
“Do they, now!” said she, with a touch of
Colour in her face. “They are too kind that would
take from me the business of choosing for myself.”
“Is it true, Judith?’” -
“It is but idle talk; heed it not, sweetheart,”
said she, rather sharply. “I would they were as
busy with their fingers as with their tongues; there
would be more wool spun in Warwickshire!”
But here she remembered that she had no
quarrel with the lad, who had but innocently re-
peated the gossip he had heard; and so she spoke
to him in a more gentle fashion; and, as they were
now Come to a parting of the ways, she said that
she had a message to deliver, and bade him go on
by himself to the cottage, and have some flowers
gathered for her from out of the garden by the
time she should arrive. He was a biddable boy;
and went on without further question. Then she
turned off to the left, and in a few minutes was in
the wide and wooded lane where she was to meet
the young gentleman that had appealed to her
friendliness.
And there, sure enough, he was; and as he
came forward, hat in hand, to greet her, those
eloquent black eyes of his expressed so much plea-
Sure (and admiration of a respectful kind) that
Judith became for a moment a trifle self-conscious,
and remembered that she was in unusually brave
A FAREWELL. 93
attire. There may have been something else: Some
quick remembrance of the surprise and alarm of
the morning; and also-in spite of her determina-
tion to banish such unworthy fancies—some fright-
ened doubt as to whether, after all, there might not
be a subtle connection between her meeting with
this young gentleman and the forecasts of the
wizard. This was but for a moment; but it con-
fused her in what she had intended to say (for, in
crossing the meadows, she had been planning Out
certain speeches as well as talking idly to Willie
Hart), and she was about to make some stumbling
confession to the effect that she had obtained no
clear intelligence from her gossip Prudence Shawe
when the young gentleman himself absolved her
from all further difficulty.
“I beseech your pardon, sweet lady,” said he,
“that I have caused you so much trouble, and that
to no end; for I am of a mind now not to carry the
letter to your father, whatever hopes there might be
of his sympathy and friendship.”
She stared in surprise.
“Nay, but, good sir,” said she, “since you have
the letter, and are so near to Stratford, that is so
great a distance from London, Surely it were a
world of pities you did not see my father. Not
that I can honestly gather that he would have any
favour for a desperate enterprise upsetting the peace
of the land——” -
“I am in none such, Mistress Judith, believe
me,” said he, quickly. “But it behoves me to be
cautious; and I have heard that within the last few
94. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
hours which summons me away. If I were inclined
to run the risk, there is no time, at this present;
and what I can do now is to try to thank you for
the kindness you have shown to one that has no
habit of forgetting.”
“You are going away forthwith?” said she.
There was no particular reason why she should
be sorry at his departure from the neighbourhood,
except that he was an extraordinarily gentle-spoken
young man, and of a courteous breeding, whom her
father, as she thought, would have been pleased to
welcome as being commended from his friend Ben
Jonson. Few visitors came to New Place; the
faces to be met with there were grown familiar year
after year. It seemed a pity that this stranger—
and So fair-spoken a stranger, moreover—should be
close at hand, without making her father's acquaint-
2.1] Cé. -
“Yes, sweet lady,” said he, in the same respect-
ful way, “it is true that I must quit my present
lodging for a time; but I doubt whether I could
find anywhere a quieter or securer place—nay, I
have no reason to fear you, I will tell you freely
that it is Bassfield Farm, that is on the left before
you go down the hill to Bidford; and it is like
enough I may come back thither when that I see
how matters stand with me in London.”
And then he glanced at her, with a certain dif-
fidence.
“Perchance I am too daring,” said he, “and yet
your courtesy makes me bold. Were I to com-
municate with you when I return—” . . . . .
A FAREWELL. 95
He paused; and his hesitation well became him;
it was more eloquent in its modesty than many
words. -
“That were easily done,” said Judith, at Once,
and with her usual frankness; “but I must tell you,
good sir, that any written message you might send
me I should have to show to my friend and gossip,
Prudence Shawe, that reads and writes for me,
being so skilled in that; and when you said that to
no one was the knowledge to be given that you
were in this neighbourhood——”
“Sweet lady,” said he, instantly, with much
gratitude visible in those handsome dark eyes, “if I
may so far trespass on your goodness, I would leave
that also within your discretion. One that you have
chosen to be your friend must needs be trustworthy;
nay, I am sure of that.”
“But my father, too, good sir——’
“Nay, not so,” said he, with some touch of
entreaty in his voice. “Take it not ill of me, but
one that is in peril must use precautions for his
safety, even though they savour of ill manners and
suspicion.”
“As you will, sir, as you will; I know little of
such matters,” Judith said. “But yet I know that
you do wrong to mistrust my father——”
“Nay, dearest lady,” he said, quickly, “it is you
that do me wrong to use such words. I mistrust
him not; but indeed I dare not disclose to him the
charge that is brought against me until I have
clearer proofs of my innocence; and these I hope to
have in time, when I may present myself to your
5
96 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
father without fear. Meanwhile, sweet Mistress
Judith, I can but ill express my thanks to you that
you have vouchsafed to lighten the tedium of my
hiding through these few words that have passed
between us; did you but know the dulness of the
days at the farm—for sad thoughts are but sorry
companions—you would understand my gratitude
towards you——”
“Nay, nothing, good sir, nothing,” said she; and
then she paused, in some difficulty. She did not
like to bid him farewell without any reference what-
soever to the future; for in truth she wished to hear
more of him, and how his fortunes prospered. And
yet she hesitated about betraying so much interest
—of however distant and ordinary a kind—in the
affairs of a stranger. Her usual frank sympathy con-
quered: besides, was not this unhappy young man
the friend of her father’s friend?
“Is it to the farm that you return when you
have been to London?” she asked.
“I trust so: better sectrifv I could not easily
find elsewhere; and my well-wishers have means of
Communication with me, so that I can get the news
there. Pray Heaven I may soon be quit of this
skulking in corners; I like it not; it is not the life
of a free man.”
“I hope your fortunes will mend, sir; and
Speedily,” said she; and there was an obvious sin-
cerity in her voice.
“Why,” said he, with a laugh—for, indeed, this
young man, to be one in peril of his life, bore him-
Self with a singularly free and undaunted de-
A FAREWELL. 97
meanour; and he was not looking around him in a
furtive manner, as if he feared to be observed; but
was allowing his eyes to rest on Judith’s eyes, and
on the details of her costume (which he seemed to
approve) in a quite easy and unconcerned manner
—“the birds and beasts we hunt are allowed to
rest at times; but a man in hiding has no peace
nor freedom from week’s end to week’s end—no,
nor at any moment of the day or night. And if
the good people that shelter him are not entirely of
his own station; and if he cares to have but little
speech with them; and if the only book in the house
be the family Bible, then the days are like to pass
slowly with him. Can you wonder, sweet Mistress
Judith,” he continued, turning his eyes to the ground,
in a modest manner, “that I shall carry away the
memory of this meeting with you as a treasure, and
dwell on it, and recall the kindness of each word
you have spoken?”
“In truth, no, good sir,” said she, with a touch
of Colour in her cheeks—that caught the warm
golden light shining over from the west. “I would
not have you think them of any importance, except
the hope that matters may go well with you.”
“And if they should,” said he; “or if they
should go ill, and if I were to presume to think
that you cared to know, then, when I return to
Bassfield I might make so bold as to send you
Some brief tidings through your friend Mistress
Prudence Shawe, that I am sure must be discreet,
since she has won your confidence. But why should
I do so?” he added after a second. “Why should
924d2.Éh. Shakespeare. A. 7
98 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
I trouble you with news of one whose good or evil
fortune cannot concern you?”
“Nay, sir, I wish you well,” said she, simply;
“and would fain hear better tidings of your condi-
tion. If you may not come at present to New
Place, where you would have better counsel than I
can give you, at least you may remember that there
is one in the household there that will be glad when
she hears of your welfare, and better pleased still
when she learns that you are free to make her
father's friendship.” .
This was clearly a dismissal; and after a few
more words of gratitude on his part (he seemed al-
most unable to take away his eyes from her face,
or to say all that he would fain say of thanks for
her gracious intervention and sympathy) they parted;
and forthwith Judith—now with a much lighter
heart, for this interview had cost her not a little
embarrassment and anxiety—hastened away back
through the lane in the direction of the barns and
gardens of Shottery. All these occurrences of the
day had happened so rapidly that she had had but
little time to reflect over them; but now she was
clearly glad that she should be able to talk over
the whole affair with Prudence Shawe. There
would be comfort in that and also safety; for, if the
truth must be told, that wild and bewildering fancy
that perchance the wizard had prophesied truly
would force itself on her mind in a disquieting
manner. But she strove to reason herself and laugh
herself out of such imaginings. She had plenty of
courage and a strong will; from the first she had
A FAREWELL. 99
made light of the wizard’s pretensions; she was not
going to alarm herself about the possible future
Consequences of this accidental meeting. And in-
deed, when she recalled the particulars of that
meeting, she came to think that the circumstances
of the young man could not be so very desperate.
He did not speak nor look like one in imminent
peril; his gay description of the masques and enter-
tainments of the Court was not the talk of a man
seriously and really in danger of his life. Perhaps
he had been in some thoughtless escapade; and
was waiting for the bruit of it to blow over; per-
haps he was unused to confinement, and may have
exaggerated (for this also occurred to her) some-
what in order to win her sympathy. But anyhow,
he was in some kind of misfortune or trouble; and
she was sorry for him; and she thought that if
Prudence Shawe could see him, and observe how
well-bred, and civil-spoken, and courteous a young
gentleman he seemed to be—she, too, would pity
the dulness of the life he must be leading at the
farm, and be glad to do anything to relieve such a
tedium. In truth, by the time Judith was drawing
near her grandmother's cottage, she had convinced
herself that there was no very dark mystery con-
nected with this young man; that she had not been
holding converse with any dangerous villain or con-
spirator; and that soon everything would be cleared
up, and perhaps he himself present himself at New
Place, with Ben Jonson’s letter in his hand. So
she was in a cheerful enough frame of mind when
she arrived at the cottage, -
7"
IOO JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
This was a picturesque little building of brick
and timber, with a substantial roof of thatch, and
irregularly-placed small windows; and it was prettily
Set in front of a wild and variegated garden; and
of Course all the golden glow of the west was now
flooding the place with its beautiful light, and caus-
ing the little rectangular panes in the open case-
ments to gleam like jewels. And here, at the
wooden gate of the garden, was Willie Hart, who
seemed to have been using the time profitably; for he
had a most diverse and sweet-scented gathering of
flowers and herbs of a humble and familiar kind—
forget-me-nots, and pansies, and wallflower, and
mint, and Sweet-brier, and the like—to present to
his pretty cousin.
- “Well done, sweetheart, and are all these for
me?” said she, as she passed within the little gate,
and stood for a moment, arranging and regarding
them. “What, then, what is this?—what mean you
by it, cousin Willie?”
“By what, cousin Judith?” said the small boy,
looking up with his wondering and wistful eyes.
“Why,” said she, gaily, “this pansy that you have
put fair in the front—know you not the name of it?”
“Indeed, I know it not, cousin Judith.”
“Ah, you cunning one: well you know it, I’ll be
sworn: why, 'tis one of the chiefest favourites every-
where—did you never hear it called “Kiss-me-at-
the-gate?' Marry, 'tis an excellent name; and if I
take you at your word, little sweetheart?”
And so they went into the cottage together; and
she had her arm lying lightly round his neck.
A QUARREL. IOI
C H A PTE R V III.
A QUARREL.
BUT instantly her manner changed. Just within
the doorway of the passage that cut the rambling
Cottage into two halves, and attached to a string
that was tied to the handle of the door, lay a small
Spaniel-gentle, peacefully snoozing; and well Judith
knew that the owner of the dog (which she had
heard, indeed, was meant to be presented to her-
self) was inside. However, there was no retreat
possible, if retreat she would have preferred; for
here was the aged grandmother—a little old woman,
with fresh pink cheeks, silver-white hair, and keen
eyes—come out to see if it were Judith’s footsteps
she had heard; and she was kindly in her welcome
of the girl; though usually she grumbled a good
deal about her, and would maintain that it was
pure pride and wilfulness that kept her from getting
married.
“Here be finery!” said she, stepping back as if
to gain a fairer view. “God a mercy, wench, have
you come to your senses at last?—be you seeking a
husband?—would you win one of them?—they have
waited a goodly time for the bating of your pride;
but you must after them at last—ay, ay, I thought
'twould come to that.”
I O2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Good grandmother, you give me no friendly
welcome,” said Judith. “And Willie here; have you
no word for him, that he is come to see how
you do?”
“Nay, come in, then, sweetings both; come in
and sit ye down; little Willie has been in the garden
long enough, though you know I grudge you not the
flowers, wench. Ay, ay, there is one within, Judith,
that would fain be a nearer neighbour, as I hear, if
you would but say yea; and bethink ye, wench, an
apple may hang too long on the bough—your bravery
may be put on to catch the eye when it is over
late——”
“I pray you, good grandmother, forbear,” said
Judith, with some asperity. “I have my own mind
about such things.”
“All’s well, wench, all’s well,” said the old dame,
as she led the way into the main room of the cot-
tage. It was a wide and spacious apartment, with
heavy black beams overhead; a mighty fireplace;
here or there a window cut in the walls just as it
seemed to have been wanted; and in the middle of
the floor a plain oak table, on which were placed a
jug and two or three horn tumblers.
Of course Judith knew whom she had to expect:
the presence of the little spaniel-gentle at the door
had told her that. This young fellow that now
quickly rose from his chair and came forward to
meet her—“Good even to you, Judith,” said he, in
a humble way, and his eyes seemed to beseech her
favour—was as yet but in his two-and-twentieth year,
but his tall and lithe and muscular figure had al-
A QUARREL. IO3
ready the firm set of manhood on it. He was spare
of form, and square-shouldered; his head smallish,
his brown hair short; his features were regular, and
the forehead, if not high, was square and firm; the
general look of him was suggestive of a Sculptured
Greek or Roman wrestler, but that this deprecating
glance of the eyes was not quite Consistent. And
to tell the truth, wrestling and his firm-sinewed figure
had something to do with his extreme humility on
this occasion. He was afraid that Judith had heard
Something. To have broken the head of a tapster
was not a noble performance, no matter how the
quarrel was forced on him; and this was but the
most recent of several squabbles; for the champion-
ship in the athletic sports of a country neighbour-
hood is productive of rivals who may take many
ways of provoking anger. “Good even to you,
Judith,” said he, as if he really would have said,
“Pray you, believe not all the ill you hear of me!”
Judith, however, did not betray anything by her
manner, which was friendly enough in a kind of
formal way, and distinctly reserved. She sate down,
and asked her grandmother what news she had of
the various members of the family, that now were
widely scattered throughout Warwickshire. She de-
clined the cup of merry-go-down that the young
man civilly offered to her. She had a store of things
to tell about her father; and about the presents he
had brought; and about the two pieces of Song-
music that Master Robert Johnson had sent, that
her father would have Susan try over on the lute;
and the other twenty acres that were to be added;
IO4 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and the talk there had been of turning the house
opposite New Place, at the corner of Chapel Street
and Scholars Lane, into a tavern; and how that had
happily been abandoned—for her father wanted no
tavern-revelry within hearing; and so forth; but all
this was addressed to the grandmother. The young
man got scarce a word; though now and again he
would interpose gently, and, as it were, begging
her to look his way. She was far kinder to Willie
Hart, who was standing by her side; for sometimes
she would put her hand on his shoulder or stroke
his long yellow-brown hair.
“Willie says he will have just such another as I,
grandmother,” said she, when these topics were ex-
hausted, “to be his sweetheart when he grows up;
so you see there be some that value me.”
“Look to it that you be not yourself unmarried
then, Judith,” said the old dame, who was never
done grumbling on this account. “I should not
marvel; they that refuse when they are sought come
in time to wonder that there are none to seek—nay,
'tis So, I warrant you. You are hanging late on the
bough, wench; see you be not forgotten——”
“But, good grandmother,” said Judith, with some
colour in her cheeks (for this was an awkward topic
in the presence of this youth,) “would you have me
break from the rule of the family? My mother was
six-and-twenty when she married, and Susan four-
and-twenty; and indeed there might come one of
us who did not perceive the necessity of marrying
at all.”
“In God’s name, if that be your mind, wench,
A QUARREL. - IO5
hold to it! Hold to it, I say!” And then the old
dame glanced with her sharp eyes at the pretty
costume of her visitor. “But I had other thoughts
when I saw such a fine young madam at the door;
in truth, they befit you well, these braveries; indeed
they do; though 'tis a pity to have them decking
out one that is above the marrying trade. But take
heed, wench, take heed lest you change your mind
when it is too late; the young men may hold you
to your word; and you find yourself forsaken when
you least expected it.” -
“Give ye thanks for your good comfort, grand-
mother,” said Judith, indifferently. And then she
rose. “Come, Willie, ’tis about time we were going
through the fields to the town. What message have
you, grandmother, for my father? He is busy from
morning till night since his coming home; but I
know he will be over to visit you soon. The flowers,
Willie—did you leave them on the bench outside?”
But she was not allowed to depart in this fashion.
The old dame's discontents with her pretty grand-
daughter—that was now grown into so fair and
blithe a young woman—were never of a lasting
nature; and now she would have both Judith and
little Willie taste of some ginger-bread of her own
baking, and then Judith had again to refuse a sup
of the ale that stood on the table, preferring a little
water instead. Moreover, when they had got out
into the garden, behold! this young man would come
also, to convoy them home on their way across the
fields. It was a gracious evening, Sweet and cool;
there was a clear twilight shining over the land; the
Ioé JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
elms were dark against the palely luminous sky.
And then, as the three of them went across the
meadows towards Stratford town, little Willie Hart
was entrusted with the care of the spaniel-gentle—
that was young and wayward, and possessed with a
mad purpose of hunting sparrows—and as the dog
kept him running this way and that, he was mostly
at Some little distance from these other two, and
Judith’s companion, young Quiney, had every op-
portunity of speaking with her.
“I sent you a message, Judith,” said he, rather
timidly, but anxiously watching the expression of
her face all the time, “a token of remembrance—
I trust it did not displease you?”
“You should have considered through whose
hands it would come,” said she, but without regard-
ing him. +
“How so?” he asked, in some surprise.
“Why, you knew that Prudence would have to
read it.” -
“And why not, Judith? Why should she not?
She is your friend; and I care not who is made
aware that—that—well, you know what I mean,
dear Judith, but I fear to anger you by saying it.
You were not always so hard to please.”
There was a touch of reproach in this that she
did not like. Besides, was it fair? Of course, she
had been kinder to him when he was a mere strip-
ling—when they were boy and girl together; but
now he had put forth other pretensions; and they
stood on a quite different footing; and in his per-
tinacity he would not understand why she was al-
A QUARREL. Io?
ways speaking to him of Prudence Shawe, and ex-
tolling her gentleness and Sweet calm wisdom and
goodness. “The idle boy,” she would say to her-
self, “why did God give him such a foolish head
that he must needs come fancying me?” And some-
times she was angry because of his dulness and
that he would not see; though, indeed, she could
not speak quite plainly.
“You should think,” said she, on this occasion,
with some sharpness, “that these idle verses that
you send me are read by Prudence. Well, doubt-
less, she may not heed that——”
“Why should she heed, Judith?” said he. “”Tis
but an innocent part she takes in the matter—a
kindness, merely.”
She dared not say more; and she was vexed
with him for putting this restraint upon her. She
turned upon him with a glance of Sudden and rather
unfriendly scrutiny.
“What is this now that I hear of you?” said
she. “Another brawl! A tavern brawl! I marvel you
have escaped so long with a whole skin l’
“I know not who carries tales of me to you, Ju-
dith,” said he, somewhat warmly, “but if you your-
self were more friendly you would take care to
choose a more friendly messenger. It is always the
worst that you hear. If there was a brawl, it was
none of my Seeking. And if my skin is whole, I
thank God I can look after that for myself; I am
not one that will be smitten on one cheek and turn
the other—like your parson friend.”
This did not mend matters much.
I O8 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“My parson friend?” said she, with some swift
colour in her cheeks. “My parson friend is one
that has respect for his office, and has a care for
his reputation, and lives a peaceable, holy life;
would you have him frequent ale-houses and fight
with drawers and tapsters? Marry and amen; but I
find no fault with the parson’s life.”
“Nay, that is true, indeed,” said he, bitterly;
“you can find no fault in the parson—as every one
says. But there be others who see with other eyes
and would tell you in what he might amend——”
“I care not to know,” said she.
“It were not amiss,” said he, for he was de-
termined to speak, “it were not amiss if Sir Parson
showed a little more honesty in his daily walk—that
were not amiss, for one thing.”
“In what is he dishonest, then?” said she, in-
stantly, and she turned and faced him with in-
dignant eyes.
Well, he did not quail. His blood was up. This
championship of the parson, that he had scarce ex-
pected of her, only fired anew certain secret suspi-
cions of his; and he had no mind to spare his rival,
whether he were absent or no.
“Why, then, does he miscall the King, and eat
the King's bread?” said he, somewhat hotly. “Is it
honest to conform in public, and revile in private?
I say, let him go forth, as others have been driven
forth, if the state of affairs content him not. I say,
that they who speak against the King—marry, it
were well done to chop the rogues' ears off!—I say
they should be ashamed to eat the King's bread!”
A QUARREL. IOg
“He eats no King's bread!” said Judith—and
alas! her eyes had a look in them that pierced him
to the heart: it was not the glance he would fain
have met with there. “He eats the bread of the
Church, that has been despoiled of its possessions
again and again by the Crown and the lords; and
why should he go forth? He is a minister; is there
harm that he should wish to see the services re-
formed? He is at his post; would you have him de-
Sert it, or else keep silent? No, he is no such
coward, I warrant you. He will speak his mind; it
were ill done of him else!”
“Nay, he can do no harm at all—in your judg-
ment,” said he, somewhat sullenly, “if all be true
that they say.”
“And who is it, then, that should speak of idle
tales and the believing of them?” said she, with in-
dignant reproach. “You say I welcome evil stories
about you? And you? Are you so quick to put away
the idle gossip they bring you about me? Would you
not rather believe it? I trow you would as lief be-
lieve it as not That it is to have friends! That it
is to have those who should defend you in your ab-
sence, but would rather listen to slander against you!
But when they speak about women’s idle tongues
they know little; it is men who are the readiest to
listen and to carry evil report and lying!”
“I meant not to anger you, Judith,” said he,
more humbly.
“Yes, but you have angered me,” said she (with
her lips becoming tremulous, but only for a second).
“What concern have I with Parson Blaise? I would
I IO JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
they that speak against him were as good men and
honest as he——” -
“Indeed, they speak no ill of him, Judith,” said
he (for he was grieved that they were fallen out so,
and there was nothing he would not have retracted
that so he might win back to her favour again, in
however small a degree), “except that he is disputa-
tious, and would lead matters no one knows whither.
'Tis but a few minutes ago that your grandmother
there was saying that we should never have peace
and quiet in church affairs till the old faith was
restored——” --
Here, indeed, she pricked up her ears; but she
would say no more; she had not forgiven him yet;
and she was proud and silent.
“And though I do not hold with that—for there
would be a bloody struggle before the Pope could
be master in England again—nevertheless, I would
have the ministers men of peace, as they profess to
be, and loyal to the King, who is at the head of the
Church as well as of the realm. However, let it
pass. I wish to have no quarrel with you, Ju-
dith——”
“How does your business?” said she, abruptly
changing the Subject.
“Well, excellently well; it is not in that direction
that I have any anxiety about the future——”
“Do you give it your time?—you were best take
heed, for else it is like to slip away from you,” she
said; and he thought she spoke rather coldly, and
as if her warning were meant to convey something
more than appeared. -
A QUARREL. I I I
And then she added:
“You were at Wilnecote on Tuesday?”
“You must have heard why, Judith,” he said;
“old Pike was married again that day, and they
would have me over to the wedding.”
“And on the Wednesday what was there at Bid-
ford, then, that you must needs be gone when my
mother sent to you?”
“At Bidford?” said he (and he was sorely
puzzled as to whether he should rejoice at these
questions as betraying a friendly interest in his
affairs, or rather regard them as conveying covert
reproof and expressing her dissatisfaction with him
and distrust of him). “At Bidford, Judith—well,
there was business as well as pleasure there. For
you must know that Daniel Hutt is come home for
a space from the new settlements in Virginia, and is
for taking back with him a number of labourers
that are all in due time to make their fortunes
there: marry, 'tis a good chance for some of them,
for broken men are as welcome as any, and there
are no questions asked as to their having been in-
timate with the constable and the justice. So there
was a kind of merry-meeting of Daniel’s old friends
that was held at the Falcon at Bidford—and the
host is a good customer of mine, so it was prudent
of me to go thither; and right pleasant was it to
hear Daniel Hutt tell of his adventures by sea and
shore; and he gave us some of the tobacco that he
had brought with him; and to any that will go back
with him to Jamestown he promises allotments of
land, though at first there will be tough labour, as
I I2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
he says honestly. Oh, a worthy man is this Daniel
Hutt, though as yet his own fortune seems not so
secure.”
“With such junketings,” said she, with ever so
slight a touch of Coldness, “’tis no wonder you
could not spare the time to come and see my father
On the evening of his getting home.”
“There now, Judith!” he exclaimed. “Would
you have me break in upon him at such a busy
season when even you yourselves are careful to re-
frain? It had been ill-mannered of me to do such a
thing; but ’twas no heedlessness that led to my
keeping away, as you may well imagine.” -
“It is difficult to know the reasons when friends
hold aloof,” said she. “You have not been near the
house for two or three weeks, as I reckon.”
And here again he would have given much to
know whether her speech—which was curiously re-
served in tone—meant that she had marked these
things out of regard for him or that she wished to
reprove him.
“I can give you the reasons for that, Judith,”
said this tall and straight young fellow, who, from
time to time, regarded his companion's face with
some solicitude, as if he fain would have found
Some greater measure of friendliness there. “I have
not been often to New Place of late because of one
I thought I might meet there who would be no
better pleased to see me than I him; and—and—
perhaps because of another—that I did not know
whether she might be the better pleased to have me
there or find me stay away——”
A QUARREL. II 3
“Your reasons are too fine,” said she, “I scarce
understand them.”
“That is because you won’t understand; I think
I have spoken plain enough ere now, Judith, I make
bold to say.”
She flushed somewhat at this; but it was no
longer in anger. She seemed willing to be on good
terms with him, but always in that measured and
distant way.
“Willie!” she called. “Come hither, sweetheart!”
With some difficulty her small cousin made his
way back to her, dragging the reluctant spaniel SO
that its head seemed to be in jeopardy.
“He will go after the birds, cousin Judith; you
will never teach him to follow you.”
“I?” she said.
“Willie knows I want you to have the little dog,
Judith,” her companion said quickly. “I got him
for you when I was at Gloucester; 'tis a good breed
—true Maltese, I can warrant him; and the fashion-
able ladies will scarce stir abroad without one to
follow them, or to carry with them in their coaches
when they ride. Will you take him, Judith?’”
She was a little embarrassed.
“'Tis a pretty present,” said she, “but you have
not chosen the right one to give it to.”
“What mean you?” said he.
“Nay, now, have not I the Don?” she said, with
greater courage. “He is a sufficient companion if I
wish to walk abroad. Why should you not give this
little spaniel to one that has no such companion—I
mean to Prudence Shawe P”
9ted:# Shakespeare. Z. 8
I I4. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“To Prudence!” said he, regarding her; for this
second introduction of Judith’s friend seemed strange,
as well as the notion that he should transfer this
prized gift to her. -
“There, now, is one so gentle and kind to every
one and everything that she would tend the little
creature with care,” she continued. “It would be
more fitting for her than for me.”
“You could be kind enough, Judith—if you
chose,” said he, under his breath, for Willie Hart
was standing by.
“Nay, I have the Don,” said she, “that is large,
and worldly, and serious, and clumsy withal. Give
this little playfellow to Prudence, who is small and
neat and gentle like itself; surely that were fitter.”
“I had hoped you would have accepted the
little spaniel from me, Judith,” said he, with very
obvious disappointment. -
“Moreover,” said she, lightly, “two of a trade
would never agree; we should have this one and the
Don continually quarrelling; and sooner or later the
small one would lose its head in the Don's great
jaws.”
“Why, the mastiff is always chained, and at the
barn-gate, Judith,” said he. “This one would be
within-doors, as your playfellow. But I care not to
press a gift.”
“Nay, now, be not displeased,” said she, gently
enough. “I am not unthankful; I think well of your
kindness; but it were still better done if you were
to change your intention and give the Spaniel to
one that would have a gentler charge over it, and
A QUARREL. II 5
think none the less of it, as I can vouch for. Pray
you, give it to Prudence.” -
“A discarded gift is not worth the passing on,”
said he; and as they were now come quite near to
the town, where there was a dividing of ways, he
stopped as though he would shake hands and de-
part. y - -
“Will you not go on to the house? You have
not seen my father since his coming home,” she
said.
“No, not to-night, Judith,” he said. “Doubtless
he is still busy; and I have affairs elsewhere.”
She glanced at him with one of those swift keen
looks of hers.
“Where go you to spend the evening, if I may
make so bold?” she said.
“Not at the ale-house, as you seem to suspect,”
he answered, with just a trifle of bitterness; and then
he took the string to lead away the Spaniel; and
bade her farewell—in a kind of half-hearted and
disappointed and downcast way—and left.
She looked after him for a second or so, as she
fastened a glove button that had got loose. And
then she sighed as she turned away.
“Sweetheart Willie,” said she, putting her hand
softly on the boy’s shoulder, as he walked beside
her, “I think you said you loved me?” -
“Why, you know I do, cousin Judith,” said he.
“What a pity it is, then,” said she, absently,
“that you cannot remain always as you are—and
keep your ten years for ever and a day—so that we
should always be friends as we are now?”
8 *
I 16 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
He did not quite know what she meant; but he
was sufficiently well pleased and contented when
he was thus close by her side; and when her hand
was on his shoulder or on his neck it was to him no
burden but a delight. And so walking together,
and with some gay and careless prattle between
them, they went on and into the town.
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. II 7
CH A PTER IX.
THROUGH THE MEADOWS.
SOME two or three days after that, and towards
the evening, Prudence Shawe was in the church-
yard; and she was alone, save that now and again
Some one might pass along the gravelled pathway;
and these did not stay to interrupt her. She had
with her a basket, partly filled with flowers; also, a
Small rake and a pair of gardener’s shears; and she
was engaged in going from grave to grave, here
putting a few fresh blossoms to replace the withered
ones, and there removing weeds, or cutting the grass
Smooth, and generally tending those last resting-
places with a patient and loving care. It was a
favourite employment with her when she had a spare
afternoon; nor did she limit her attention to the
graves of those whom she had known in life; her
charge was a general one; and when they who had
friends or relatives buried there came to the church
of a Sunday morning, and perhaps from Some dis-
tance, and when they saw that some gentle hand
had been employed there in the interval, they knew
right well that that hand was the hand of Prudence
Shawe. It was a strange fancy on the part of one
who was so averse from all Ornament or decoration
in ordinary life that nothing was too beautiful for a
II 8 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
grave. She herself would not wear a flower; but
her best—and the best she could beg or borrow
anywhere—she freely gave to those that were gone
away; she seemed to have some vague imagination
that Our poor human nature was not worthy of this
beautifying care until it had become sanctified by
the sad mystery of death.
It was a calm, golden-white evening, peaceful
and silent; the rooks were cawing in the dark elms
above her; the swallows dipping and darting under
the boughs; the smooth-flowing yellow river was like
glass, save that now and again the perfect surface
was broken by the rising of a fish. Over there in
the wide meadows beyond the stream a number of
boys were playing at rounders or prisoner's base or
Some such noisy game; but the sound of their shout-
ing was softened by the distance; SO quiet was it
here, as she continued at her pious task, that she
might almost have heard herself breathing. And
Once or twice she looked up, and glanced towards
the little gate as if expecting some one.
It was Judith, of course, that she was expecting;
and at this moment Judith was coming along to the
churchyard to seek her out. What a contrast there
was between these two—this one pale and gentle
and Sad-eyed, stooping over the mute graves in the
shadow of the elms; that other coming along through
the warm evening light, with all her usual audacity
of gait, the peach-bloom of health on her cheek,
carelessness and content in her clear-shining eyes,
and the tune of “Green Sleeves” ringing through a
perfectly idle brain. Indeed, what part of her brain
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. I IQ
may not have been perfectly idle was bent solely
on mischief. Prudence had been away for two or
three days, staying with an ailing sister. All that
story of the adventure with the unfortunate young
gentleman had still to be related to her. And again
and again Judith had pictured to herself Prudence’s
alarm and the look of her timid eyes when she
should hear of such doings, and had resolved that
the tale should lose nothing in the telling. Here,
indeed, was something for two country maidens to
talk about. The even current of their lives was
broken but by few surprises; but here was some-
thing more than a surprise—something with Sug-
gestions of mystery and even danger behind it.
This was no mere going out to meet a wizard. Any
farm-wench might have an experience of that kind;
any ploughboy deluded by the hope of digging up
silver in one of his master's fields. But a gentle-
man in hiding—one that had been at Court—one
that had seen the King sitting in his chair of state,
while Ben Jonson's masque was opened out before
the great and noble assemblage—this was one to
Speak about, truly; one whose fortunes and circum-
stances were like to prove a matter of endless
Speculation and curiosity.
But when Judith drew near to the little gate of
the churchyard, and saw how Prudence was occu-
pied, her heart smote her.
“Green-sleeves was all my joy,
Green-sleeves was my delight,”
went clean out of her head. There was a kind of
I 2G) JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
shame on her face; and when she went along to her
friend she could not help exclaiming—
“How good you are, Prue!”
“I?” said the other, with some touch of wonder
in the upturned face. “I fear that cannot be said
of any of us, Judith.” -
“I would I were like you, sweetheart,” was the
answer—with a bit of a sigh.
“Like me, Judith?’” said Prudence, returning to
her task (which was nearly ended now, for she had
but few more flowers left). “Nay, what makes you
think that? I wish I were far other than I am.”
“Look now,” Judith said, “how you are occupied
at this moment. Is there another in Stratford that
has such a general kindness? How many would
think of employing their time so—how many would
come away from their own affairs——?”
“It may be that I have more idle time than
many,” said Prudence, with a slight flush. “But I
commend not myself for this work; in truth, no; ’tis
but a pastime; ’tis for my own pleasure.”
“Indeed, then, good Prue, you are mistaken;
and that I know well,” said the other, peremptorily.
“Your own pleasure? Is it no pleasure, then, think
you, for them that come from time to time, and are
right glad to see that some one has been tending
the graves of their friends or kinsmen? And do
you think, now, it is no pleasure to the poor people
themselves—I mean them that are gone—to look at
you as you are engaged so, and to think that they
are not quite forgotten? Surely it must be a plea-
sure to them. Surely they cannot have lost all their
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. I 2 I
interest in what happens here—in Stratford—where
they lived; and Surely they must be grateful to you
for thinking of them, and doing them this kindness?
I say it were ill done of them else. I say they
ought to be thankful to you. And no doubt they
are, could we but learn.”
“Judith, Judith, you have such a bold way of
regarding what is all a mystery to us,” said her
gentle-eyed friend. “Sometimes you frighten me.”
“I would I knew now,” said the other, looking
absently across the river to the boys that were play-
ing there, “whether my little brother Hamnet—had
you known him you would have loved him as I did,
Prudence—I say I wish I knew whether he is quite
happy and content where he is, or whether he would
not rather be over there now with the other boys.
If he looks down and sees them, may it not make
him sad sometimes?—to be so far away from us.
I always think of him as being alone there; and he
was never alone here. I suppose he thinks of us
sometimes. Whenever I hear the boys shouting
like that at their play I think of him; but indeed
he was never noisy and unruly; my father used to
call him the girl-boy: but he was fonder of him than
of all us others; he once came all the way from
London when he heard that Hamnet was lying sick
of a fever.”
She turned to see how Prudence was getting on
with her work; but she was in no hurry; and Pru-
dence was patient and scrupulously careful; and the
dead, had they been able to speak, would not have
I 2.2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE. .
bade her cease and go away, for a gentler hand
never touched a grave. . .
“I suppose it is Grandmother Hathaway who
will go next,” Judith continued, in the same absent
kind of way; “but indeed she says she is right well
Content either to go or to stay; for now, as she says,
she has about as many kinsfolk there as here, and
she will not be going among strangers. And well I
know she will make for Hamnet as soon as she is
there; for like my father's love for Bess Hall was
her love for the boy while he was with us. Tell
me, Prudence, has he grown up to be of my age?
You know we were twins. Is he a man now, so that
we should see him as some one different? Or is he
still our little Hamnet, just as we used to know
|him?”
“How can I tell you, Judith?” the other said,
almost in pain. “You ask such bold questions; and
all these things are hidden from us and behind a
veil.”
“But these are what One would like to know,”
said Judith, with a sigh. “Nay, if you could but
tell me of such things, then you might persuade me
to have a greater regard for the preachers; but when
you come and ask about such real things they say
it is all a mystery; they cannot tell; and would have
you be anxious about schemes of doctrine, which
are but strings of words. My father, too: when I
go to him—nay, but it is many a day since I tried
—he would look at me and say, ‘What is in your
brain now? To your needle, wench, to your needle!”
“And naturally, Judith] such things are merci-
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. I23
fully hidden from us now; but they will be revealed
when it is fitting for us to know them. How could
our Ordinary life be possible if we knew what was
going on in the other world? We should have no
interest in the things around us; the greater interest
would be so great.”
“Well, well, well,” said Judith, coming with more
practical eyes to the present moment, “are you
finished, sweet mouse, and will you come away?
What, not satisfied yet? I wonder if they know the
care you take. I wonder if one will say to the
other, ‘Come and see; she is there again. We are
not quite forgotten.” And will you do that for me,
too, dear Prue? Will you put some pansies on my
grave, too?—and I know you will say out of your
charity, ‘Well, she was not good and pious, as I
would have had her to be; she had plenty of faults;
but at least she often wished to be better than she
was.” Nay, I forgot,” she added, glancing carelessly
over to the church, “they say we shall lie among
the great people, since my father bought the tithes
—that we have the right to be buried in the chancel;
but indeed I know I would an hundred times liefer
have my grave in the open here among the grass
and the trees.”
“You are too young to have such thoughts as
these, Judith,” said her Companion as she rose and
shut down the lid of the now empty basket. “Come,
shall we go?”
“Let us cross the foot-bridge, Prue,” Judith said,
“and go through the meadows and round by Clop-
ton’s bridge and so home; for I have that to tell
I 24 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
you will take some time: pray Heaven it startle you
not of your senses withal!”
It was not, however, until they had got away
from the churchyard and were out in the clear
golden light of the open that she began to tell her
story. She had linked her arm within that of her
friend. Her manner was grave; and if there was
any mischief in her eyes, it was of a demure kind,
not easily detected. She confessed that it was out
of mere wanton folly that she had gone to the spot
indicated by the wizard; and without any very
definite hope or belief. But as chance would have
it, she did encounter a stranger—one, indeed, that
was coming to her father's house. Then followed a
complete and minute narrative of what the young
man had said—the glimpses he had given her of
his present condition, both on the occasion of that
meeting and of the subsequent one; and how she
had obtained his permission to state these things to
this gentle gossip of hers. Prudence listened in
silence, her eyes cast down; Judith could not see
the gathering concern on her face. Nay, the latter
spoke rather in a tone of raillery; for, having had
time to look back over the young gentleman’s Con-
fessions, and his manner and so forth, she had ar-
rived at a kind of assurance that he was in no such
desperate case. There were many reasons why a
young man might wish to lie perdu for a time; but
this one had not talked as if any very imminent
danger threatened him; at least, if he had intimated
as much, the impression produced upon her was not
permanent. And if Judith now told the story with
THROUGH THE MEADows. I 25
a sort of careless bravado—as if going forth in Secret
to meet this stranger was a thing of risk and hazard
—it was with no private conviction that there was
any particular peril in the matter, but rather with
the vague fancy that the adventure looked daring
and romantic, and would appear as something ter-
rible in the eyes of her timid friend.
But what now happened startled her. They were
going up the steps of the foot-bridge, Prudence first;
and Judith following her, had just got to the end
of her story. Prudence suddenly turned round, and
her face, now opposed to the westering light, was,
as Judith instantly saw, quite aghast.
“But, Judith, you do not seem to understand!”
she exclaimed. “Was not that the very stranger
the wizard said you would meet?—the very hour,
the very place? In good truth, it must have been
so! Judith, what manner of man have you been in
company with?’” i * , , -
For an instant a flush of colour overspread
Judith’s face; and she said, with a sort of embar-
rassed laugh— - - -
“Well, and if it were so, sweet mouse? If that
were the appointed one, what then?”
She was on the bridge now. Prudence caught
her by both hands; and there was an anxious and
piteous appeal in the loving eyes.
“Dear Judith, I beseech you, be warned! Have
nothing to do with the man! Did I not say that
mischief would come of planting the charm in the
churchyard, and shaming a sacred place with such
heathenish magic? And now, look already—here is
126 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
one that you dare not speak of to your own people;
he is in secret correspondence with you; Heaven
alone knows what dark deeds he may be bent upon,
Or what ruin he may bring upon you and yours.
Judith, you are light-hearted and daring and you
love to be venturesome, but I know you better than
you know yourself, sweetheart; you would not will-
ingly do wrong, or bring harm on those that love
you; and for the sake of all of us—Judith !—hav
nothing to do with this man.” :
Judith was embarrassed, and perhaps a trifle re-
morseful; she had not expected her friend to take
this adventure so very seriously. - . . .
“Dear Prue, you alarm yourself without reason,”
she said (but there was still some tell-tale colour in
her face). “Indeed, there is no magic or witchery
about the young man. Had I seen a ghost I should
have been frightened, no doubt, for all that Don
Roderigo was with me; and had I met one of the
Stratford youths at the appointed place I should
have said that perhaps the good wizard had guessed
well; but this was merely a stranger coming to see
my father; and the chance that brought us together
—well, what magic was in that?—it would have
happened to you had you been walking in the lane:
do you see that, dear mouse?—it would have hap-
pened to yourself had you been walking in the lane,
and he would have asked of you the question that
he asked of me! Nay, banish that fancy, good
gossip, else I should be ashamed to do anything
further for the young man, that is unfortunate, and
very grateful withal for a few words of friendliness.
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. 127
And So fairly-spoken a young man, too; and SO
Courtly in his bearing; and of Such a handsome pre-
sence——”
“But, dear Judith, listen to me!—do not be led
into such peril! Know you not that evil spirits can
assume goodly shapes—the Prince of Darkness him-
self——” -
She could not finish what she had to say—her
imagination was so filled with terror.
“Sweet Puritan,” said Judith, with a smile, “I
know well that he goeth about like a raging lion,
seeking whom he may devour; I know it well; but
believe me it would not be worth his travail to
haunt such a lonely and useless place as the lane
that goes from Shottery to the Bidford road. Nay,
but I will convince you, dear mouse, by the best of
all evidence, that there is nothing ghostly or evil
about the young man; you shall see him, Prue—in-
deed you must and shall—when that he comes back
to his hiding I will contrive that you shall see him
and have speech with him, and sure you will pity
him as much as I do. Poor young gentleman, that
he should be suspected of being Satan!. Nay, how
could he be Satan, Prue, and be admitted to the
King's Court? Hath not our good King a powerful
insight into the doings of witches and wizards and
the like; and think you he would allow Satan in
person to come into the very banqueting hall to see
a masque?” -
“Judith, Judith,” said the other piteously, “when
you strive against me with your wit, I cannot answer
you; but my heart tells me you are in exceeding
128 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE,
danger. I would warn you, dear cousin; I were no
true friend to you else.”
“But you are the best and truest of friends, you
dearest Prue,” said Judith, lightly, as she released
her hands from her companion's earnest grasp.
“Come, let us on—or we shall go supperless for the
evening.”
She passed along and over the narrow bridge,
and down the steps on the other side. She did not
seem much impressed by Prudence's entreaties; in-
deed, she was singing aloud:
“Hey, good fellow, I drink to thee,
Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie;
To all good fellows where'er they be,
With never a penny of monie!”
Prudence overtook her.
“Judith,” said she, “even if he be not of that
fearful kind—even if he be a real man, and such
as he represents himself, bethink you what you are
doing! There may be another such gathering as
that at Dunchurch; and would you be in correspon-
dence with a plotter and murderer? Nay, what was’t
you asked of me the other day?” she added Sud-
denly; and she stood still to confront her friend,
with a new alarm in her eyes. “Did you not ask
whether your father was well affected towards the
Papists? Is there another plot?—another treason
against the King?—and you would harbour one Con-
nected with such a wicked, godless, and bloodthirsty
plan?” -
“Nay, nay, Sweet mouse! Have I not told you?
He declares he has naught to do with any such en-
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. I29
terprise; and if you would but see him, Prudence,
you would believe him. Sure I am that you would
believe him instantly. Why, now, there be many
reasons why a young gentleman might wish to re-
main Concealed—” * - -
“None, Judith, none?” the other said, with de-
cision. “Why should an honest man fear the day-
light?”
“Oh, as for that,” was the careless answer, “there
be many an honest man that has got into the
clutches of the twelve-in-the-hundred rogues; and
when the writs are out against such an one, I hold
it no shame that he would rather be out of the way
than be thrown among the wretches in Bocardo. I
know well what I speak of; many a time have I
heard my father and your brother talk of it; how
the rogues of usurers will keep a man in prison for
twelve years for a matter of sixteen shillings—what
is it they call it?—making dice of his bones? And
if the young gentleman fear such treatment and the
horrible company of the prisons, I marvel not that
he should prefer the fresh air of Bidford, howsoever
dull the life at the farm may be.” -
“And if that were all, why should he fear to
bring the letter to your father?” the other said, with
a quick glance of suspicion: she did not like the
way in which Judith’s ready brain could furnish
forth. Such plausible conjectures and excuses. “An-
swer me that, Judith. Is your father one likely to
call aloud and have the man taken, if that be all
that is against him? Why should he be afraid to
bring the letter from your father's friend? Nay,
Şudith Shakespeare. I. 9
I 30 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
why should he be on the way to the house with it,
and thereafter stop short and change his mind?
There be many a mile betwixt London and Strat-
ford; ’tis a marvellous thing he should travel all
that way and change his mind within a few minutes
of being in the town. I love not such dark ways,
Judith; no good thing can come of them, but evil;
and it were ill done of you—even if you be care-
less of danger to yourself, as I trow you mostly are
—I say it is ill done of you to risk the peace of
your family by holding such dangerous converse
with a stranger and one that may bring harm to
us all.”
Judith was not well pleased; her mouth became
rather proud.
“Marry, if this be your Christian charity I would
not give a penny ballad for it!” said she, with some
bitterness of tone. “I had thought the story had
another teaching—I mean the story of him that fell
among thieves and was beaten and robbed and left
for dead; and that we were to give a helping hand
to such, like the Samaritan. But now I mind me
'twas the Priest that passed by on the other side—
yes, the Priest and the Levite—the godly ones who
would preserve a whole skin for themselves and let
the other die of his wounds for aught they cared!
And here is a young man in distress—alone and
friendless—and when he would have a few words
of cheerfulness, or a message, or a scrap of news
as to what is going on in the world—— No, no,
say the Priest and the Levite—go not near him—
because he is in misfortune he is dangerous—be-
THROUGH THE MEADows. I3 I
cause he is alone he is a thief and a murderer—
perchance a pirate, like Captain Ward and Dansekar,
or even Catesby himself come alive again. I say
God keep us all from such Christian charity!”
“You use me ill, Judith,” said the other, and
then was silent. -
They walked on through the meadows, and
Judith was watching the play of the boys. As she
did so, a leather ball, struck a surprising distance,
came rolling almost to her feet, and forthwith one
of the lads came running after it. She picked it
up and threw it to him—threw it awkwardly and
clumsily as a girl throws, but nevertheless she saved
him some distance and time, and she was rewarded
with many a loud “Thank you!—thank you!” from
the side who were out. But when they got past
the players and their noise, Prudence could no
longer keep silent; she had a forgiving disposition,
and nothing distressed her so much as being on
unfriendly terms with Judith.
“You know I meant not that, dear Judith,” said
she. “I only meant to shield you from harm.”
As for Judith, all such trivial and temporary
clouds of misunderstanding were instantly Swallowed
up in the warm and radiant Sunniness of her nature.
She broke into a laugh.
“And so you shall, dear cousin,” said she, gaily,
“you shall shield me from the reproach of not hav-
ing a common and ordinary share of humanity;
that shall you, dear Prue, should the unfortunate
young gentleman Come into the neighbourhood again;
for you will read to me the message that he sends
9*
I 32 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
me; and together we will devise somewhat on his
behalf. No? Are you afraid to go forth and meet
the private Dansekar? Do you expect to find the
ghost of Gamaliel Ratsey walking on the Evesham
road? Such silly fears, dear Prue, do not become
you; you are no longer a child.”
“You are laying too heavy a burden on me,
Judith,” the other said, rather sadly. “I know not
what to do; and you say I may not ask counsel of
any one. And if I do nothing, I am still taking a
part.” -
“What part, then, but to read a few words and
hold your peace?” said her companion, lightly.
“What is that? But I know you will not stay there,
sweet mouse. No, no; your heart is too tender; I
know you would not willingly do any one an injury,
or harbour suspicion and slander; you shall come
and see the young gentleman, good Prue, as I say;
and then you will repent in sackcloth and ashes
for all that you have urged against him. And per-
chance it may be in New Place that you shall see
him——” -
“Ah, Judith, that were well!” exclaimed the
other, with a brighter light on her face.
“What? Would you desire to see him, if he
were to pay us a visit?” Judith said, regarding her
with a smile. -
“Surely, surely, after what you have told me:
why not, Judith?’” was the placid answer.
“There would be nothing ghostly about him
then?” .
“There would be no secret, Judith,” said Pru-
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. I 33
dence, gravely, “that you have to keep back from
your own people.” - -
“Well, well, we will see what the future holds
for us,” said Judith, in the same careless fashion.
“And if the young gentleman come not back to
Stratford, why, then, good fortune attend him where-
ever he may be; for One that speaks so fair and is
so modest Sure deserves it. And if he come not
back, then shall your heart be all the lighter, dear
Prue; and as for mine, mine will not be troubled—
only, that I wish him well, as I say, and would fain
hear of his better estate. So all is so far happily
settled; and you may go in to supper with me with
untroubled eyes and a free conscience: marry, there
be need for that, as I bethink me, for Master Par-
son Comes this evening, and you know you must
have a pure and joyful heart with you, good Pru-
dence, when you enter into the congregation of the
saints.” .
“Judith, for my sake!”
“Nay, I meant not to offend, truly; it was my
wicked idle tongue, that I must clap a bridle on
now—for listen! ——” -
They were come to New Place. There was
singing going forward within, and One or two of the
casements were open; but perhaps it was the glad
and confident nature of the psalm that led to the
words being so clearly heard without:
‘‘The man is blest that hath not bent
To wicked rede his ear;
Nor led his life as sinners do,
Nor sat in scorner's chair.
I 34 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
But in the law of God the Lord
Doth set his whole delight;
And in that law doth exercise
Himself both day and night.
He shall be like the tree that groweth
Fast by the river's side;
Which bringeth forth most pleasant fruit
In her due time and tide;
Whose leaf shall never fade nor fall,
But flourish still and stand:
Even so all things shall prosper well
That this man takes in hand.”
And so, having waited until the singing ceased,
they entered into the house, and found two or three
neighbours assembled there; and Master Walter was
just about to begin his discourse on the godly life,
and the substantial comfort and sweet peace of
mind pertaining thereto.
Some few days after this, and towards the hour
of noon, the mail-bearer came riding post-haste into
the town; and in due course the contents of his
saddle-bags were distributed among the folk en-
titled to them. But before the news-letters had
been carefully spelled out to the end a strange
rumour got abroad. The French King was slain,
and by the hand of an assassin. Some, as the
tidings passed quickly from mouth to mouth, said
the murderer was named Ravelok, others Havelok;
but as to the main fact of the fearful crime having
been committed there was no manner of doubt.
Naturally the bruit of this affair presently reached
THROUGH THE MEADOWS. I 35
Julius Shawe's house; and when the timid Prudence
heard of it—and when she thought of the man who
had been in hiding, and who had talked with Judith,
and had been so suddenly and secretly summoned
away—her face grew even paler than its wont, and
there was a sickly dread at her heart. She would
go to see Judith at once; and yet she scarcely dared
to breathe even to herself the terrible forebodings
that were crowding in on her mind.
I 36 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
C H A PTE R X.
A PLAYHOUSE.
BUT Judith laughed aside these foolish fears: as
it happened, far more important matters were just
at this moment occupying her mind.
She was in the garden. She had brought out
some after-dinner fragments for the Don; and while
the great dun-coloured beast devoured these, she
had turned from him to regard Matthew gardener;
and there was a sullen resentment on her face; for
it seemed to her imagination that he kept doggedly
and persistently near the Summer-house, on which
she had certain dark designs. However, the instant
she caught sight of Prudence her eyes brightened
up, and, indeed, became full of an eager anima-
tion. -
“Hither, hither, good Prue!” she exclaimed hur-
riedly. “Quick, quick! I have news for you!”
“Yes, indeed, Judith!” said the other; and at
the same moment Judith came to see there was
something wrong—the startled pale face and fright-
ened eyes had a story to tell.
“Why, what is to do?” said she.
“Know you not, Judith? Have you not heard?
The French king is slain—is murdered by an as-
sassin!” -
A PLAYHOUSE. I 37
To her astonishment the news seemed to pro-
duce no effect whatever. -
“Well, I am sorry for the poor man,” Judith
said, with perfect self-possession. “They that climb
high must risk a sudden fall." But why should that
alarm you, good gossip? Or have you other news
that comes more nearly home?” -
And then, when Prudence almost breathlessly
revealed the apprehensions that had so suddenly
filled her mind, Judith would not even stay to dis-
cuss such a monstrous possibility. She laughed it
aside altogether. That the courteous young gentle-
man who had come with a letter from Ben Jonson
should be concerned in the assassination of the
King of France was entirely absurd and out of the
question. - - -
“Nay, nay, dear Prue,” said she, lightly, “you
shall make him amends for these unjust suspicions;
that you shall, all in good time. But listen now:
I have weightier matters; I have eggs on the Spit,
beshrew me else! Can you read me this riddle,
Prue? Know you by these tokens what has hap-
pened? My father comes in to dinner to-day in
the gayest of humours; there is no absent staring
at the window, and forgetting of all of us; it is all
merriment this time; and he must needs have Bess
Hall to sit beside him; and he would charge her
with being a witch; and reproach her for our
simple meal, when that she might have given us a
banquet like that of a London Company, with French
dishes, and silver flagons of Theologicum, and a
memorial to tell each of us what was coming. And
138 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
then he would miscall your brother—which you
know, dear Prudence, he never would do were he
in earnest—and said he was chamberlain now, and
was conspiring to be made alderman, only that he
might sell building materials to the corporation and
So make money out of his office. And I know not
what else of jests and laughing; but at length he
Sent to have the Evesham roan saddled; and he
said that when once he had gone along to the
sheep-wash to see that the hurdles were rightly up
for the shearing, he would give all of the rest of the
day to idleness—to idleness wholly; and perchance
he might ride over to Broadway to see the shooting-
match going forward there. Now, you wise one,
Can you guess what has happened? Know you
what is in store for us? Can you read me the
riddle?” -
“I see no riddle, Judith,” said the other, with
puzzled eyes. “I met your father as I came through
the house, and he asked if Julius were at home:
doubtless he would have him ride to Broadway with
him!”
“Good gossip, is that your skill at guessing? But
listen, now”—and here she dropped her voice as
she regarded wiseman Matthew, though that per-
Sonage seemed busily enough occupied with his
watering-can,—“this is what has happened: I know
the signs of the weather. Be sure he has finished
the play—the play that the young Prince Mamillius
was in: you remember, Prudence?—and the large
fair copy is made out and locked away in the little
cupboard, against my father's next going to London;
A PLAYHOUSE. - I 39
and the loose sheets are thrown into the oak chest
along with the others. And now, good Prue, Sweet
Prue, do you know what you must manage? Indeed
I dare not go near the summer-house while that
ancient wiseman is loitering about; and you must
coax him; you must get him away; sometimes I see
his villain eyes watching me, as if he had suspicion
in his mind——”
“”Tis your own guilty conscience, Judith,” said
Prudence, but with a smile; for she had herself
connived at this offence ere now.
“By fair means or foul, sweetheart, you must get
him away to the other end of the garden,” said she,
eagerly; “for now the Don has nearly finished his
dinner, and goodman-wiseman-fool will wonder if we
stay longer here. Nay, I have it, cousin; you must
get him along to the corner where my mother grows
her simples; and you must keep him there for a
space, that I may get out the right papers; and this
is what you must do; you will ask him for some-
thing that sounds like Latin—no matter what non-
sense it may be; and he will answer you that he
knows it right well, but has none of it at the present
time; and you will say that you have surely seen it
among my mother's simples, and thus you will lead
him away to find it, and the longer you seek the
better. Do you understand, good Prue?—and quick,
quick!” -
Prudence's pale face flushed.
“You ask too much, Judith. I cannot deceive
the poor man so.” s -
I4O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Nay, nay, you are too scrupulous. A trifle—a
mere trifle!”
And then Prudence happened to look up, and
she met Judith’s eyes; and there was such frank
Self-confidence and audacity in them, and also such
a singular and clear-shining beauty that the simple
Puritan was in a manner bedazzled. She said, with
a quiet Smile, as she turned away her head again—
“Well, I marvel not, Judith, that you can be-
witch the young men, and bewilder their under-
standing. 'Tis easy to see—if they have eyes and
regard you, they are lost; but how you have your
Own way with all of us, and how you override our
judgment, and do with us what you please, that
passes me. Even Dr. Hall: for whom else would he
have brought from Coventry the green silk stockings
and green velvet shoes?—you know Such vanities
find little favour in his own home——”
“Quick, quick, sweetheart, muzzle me that gap-
ing ancient!” said Judith, interrupting her. “The
Don has finished; and I will dart into the summer-
house as I carry back the dish. Detain him, Prue;
speak a word or two of Latin to him; he will Swear
he understands you right well, though you yourself
understand not a word of it——”
“I may not do all you ask, Judith,” said the
other, after a moment's reflection (and still with an
uneasy feeling that she was yielding to the wiles of
a temptress), “but I will ask the goodman to show
me your mother's simples and how they thrive.”
A minute or two thereafter Judith had swiftly
stolen into the summer-house—which was spacious
A PLAYHOUSE. 14 I
and Substantial of its kind, and contained a small
black cupboard fixed up in a corner of the walls, a
table and chair, and a long oak chest on the floor.
It was this last that held the treasure she was in
Search of; and now, the lid having been raised, she
was down on one knee, carefully selecting from a
mass of strewn papers (indeed there were a riding-
whip, a sword and Sword belt, and several other
articles mixed up in this common receptacle) such
sheets as were without a minute mark which she
had invented for her own private purposes. These
Secured and hastily hidden in her sleeve, she closed
the lid, and went out into the open again; calling
upon Prudence to come to her, for that she was go-
ing into the house.
They did not, however, remain within doors at
New Place, for that might have been dangerous;
they knew of a far safer resort. Just behind Julius
Shawe's house, and between that and the garden,
there was a recess formed by the gable of a large
barn not quite reaching the adjacent wall. It was
a three-sided retreat, overlooked by no window what-
soever; there was a frail wooden bench on two sides
of it; and the entrance to it was partly blocked up
by an empty cask that had been put there to be out
of the way. For outlook there was nothing but a
glimpse of the path going into the garden, a bit of
greensward, and two apple-trees between them and
the sky. It was not a noble theatre, this little den
behind the barn; but it had produced for these two
many a wonderful pageant; for the empty barrel
and the bare barn wall and the two trees would at
I42 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
one time be transformed into the forest of Arden,
and Rosalind would be walking there, in her pretty
page Costume, and laughing at the love-sick Orlando;
and again they would form the Secret haunts of
Queen Titania and her court, with the jealous Oberon
chiding her for her refusal; and again they would
become the hall of a great northern castle, with
trumpets and cannon Sounding without as the King
drank to Hamlet. Indeed the elder of these two
young women had an extraordinarily vivid imagina-
tion; she saw the things and people as if they were
actually there before her; she realised their existence
So intensely that even Prudence was brought to sym-
pathise with them, and to follow their actions now
with hot indignation and now with triumphant de-
light over good fortune come at last. There was no
stage-carpenter there to distract them with his dis-
mal expedients; no actor to thrust his physical pe-
Culiarities between them and the poet’s ethereal
visions; the dream-world was before them, clear and
filled with light; and Prudence's voice was gentle
and of a musical kind. Nay, Sometimes Judith
would leap to her feet. “You shall not ſ—you shall
not!” She would exclaim, as if addressing some
strange visitant that was showing the villainy of his
mind; and tears came quickly to her eyes if there
was a tale of pity; and the joy and laughter over
lovers reconciled brought warm colour to her face.
They forgot that these walls that enclosed them
were of gray mud; they forgot that the prevailing
odour in the air was that of the malt in the barn;
for now they were regarding Romeo in the moon-
A PLAYHOUSE. I43
light, with the dusk of the garden around, and Juliet
uttering her secrets to the honeyed night; and
again they were listening to the awful voices of the
witches on the heath, and guessing at the Sombre
thoughts passing through the mind of Macbeth; and
then again they were crying bitterly when they saw
before them an old man, gray-haired, discrowned,
and witless, that looked from one to the other of
those standing by, and would ask who the Sweet
lady was that sought with tears for his benediction.
They could hear the frail and shaken voice—
“Methinks I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtful:—for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.”
And now, as they had retired into this sheltered
nook, and Prudence was carefully placing in Order
the scattered sheets that had been given her, Judith
was looking on with some compunction.
“Indeed I grieve to give you so much trouble,
Sweetheart,” said she. “I would I could get at the
Copy that my father has locked away——”
“Judith !” her friend said, reproachfully. “You
would not take that? Why, your father will scarce
show it even to Julius, and sure I am that none in
the house would put a hand upon it——”
“If it were a book of psalms and paraphrases
they might be of another mind,” Judith said; but
Prudence would not hear, -
I44. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Nay,” said she, as she continued to search for
the connecting pages, “I have heard your father say
to Julius that there is but little difference; and that
'tis only when he has leisure here in Stratford that
he makes this copy writ out fair and large; in LOn-
don he takes no such pains. Truly, I would not
that either my brother or any of his acquaintance
knew of my fingering in such a matter; what would
they say, Judith? And sometimes, indeed, my mind
is ill at ease with regard to it—that I should be
reading to you things that so many godly people
denounce as wicked and dangerous——”
“You are too full of fears, cousin,” said Judith,
coolly; “and too apt to take the good people at
their word. Nay, I have heard, they will make you
out everything to be wicked and sinful that is not
to their own minds; and they are zealous among
the saints; but I have heard, I have heard.”
“What, then?” said the other, with some faint
colour in her face,
“No matter,” said Judith, carelessly. “Well, I
have heard that when they make a journey to LOn-
don they are as fond of claret-wine and oysters as
any; but no matter: in truth the winds carry many
a thing not worth the listening to. But as regards
this special wickedness, good gossip, indeed you are
innocent of it; 'tis all laid to my charge; I am the
sinner and temptress; be sure you shall not suffer
one jot through my iniquity. And now have you
got them all together? Are you ready to begin?”
“But you must tell me where the story ceased,
dear Judith, when last we had it; for indeed you
A PLAYHOUSE. I45
have a marvellous memory, even to the word and
the letter. The poor babe that was abandoned on
the sea-shore had just been found by the old shepherd
—went it not so?—and he was wondering at the rich
bearing-cloth it was wrapped in. Why, here is the
name—Perdita—” she continued, as she rapidly
scanned one or two of the pages—“who is now
grown up, it appears, and in much grace; and this
is a kind of introduction, I take it, to tell you all
that has happened since your father last went to
London—I mean since the story was broken off. And
Florizel—I remember not the name—but here he is
so named as the son of the King of Bohemia—”
A quick laugh of intelligence rose to Judith’s
eyes; she had an alert brain. -
“Prince Florizel?” she exclaimed. “And Prin-
cess Perdita! That were a fair match, in good
sooth, and a way to heal old differences! But to
the beginning, Sweetheart, I beseech you; let us hear
how the story is to be; and pray Heaven he gives
me back my little Mamillius, that was so petted and
teased by the Court ladies.”
However, as speedily appeared, she had anti-
cipated too easy a continuation and conclusion. The
young Prince Florizel proved to be enamoured, not
of one of his own station, but of a simple shepherdess;
and, although she instantly guessed that this shep-
herdess might turn out to be the forsaken Perdita,
the conversation between King Polixenes and the
good Camillo still left her in doubt. As for the
next scene—the encounter between Autolycus and
the country clown—Judith wholly and somewhat
județh Shakesäeare. A. IO
I 46 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
sulkily disapproved of that. She laughed, it is true;
but it was Sorely against her will. For she suspected
that goodman Matthew’s influence was too apparent
here; and that, were he ever to hear of the story,
he would in his vanity claim this part as his own;
moreover, there was a kind of familiarity and every-
day feeling in the atmosphere—why, she herself had
been rapidly questioned by her father about the
necessary purchases for a sheep-shearing feast, and
Susan, laughing, had struck in with the information
as to the saffron for colouring the warden pies. But
when the sweet-voiced Prudence came to the scene
between Prince Florizel and the pretty shepherdess,
then Judith was right well content.
“Oh, do you see, now, how her gentle birth
shines through her lowly condition!” she said quickly.
“And when the old shepherd finds that he has been
ordering a king's daughter to be the mistress of the
feast—ay, and Soundly rating her, too, for her bash-
ful ways—what a fright will seize the good old
man! And what says she in answer?—again, good
Prue—let me hear it again—marry, now, I’ll be
sworn she had just such another voice as yours!”
“To the King Polixenes,” Prudence continued,
regarding the manuscript, “who is in disguise, you
know, Judith, she says—
‘Sir, welcome;
It is my father's will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o' the day: you’re welcome, sir.’
And then to both the gentlemen:
‘Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
A PLAYHOUSE, , I 47
Seeming and Savour all the winter long:
Grace and remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing.’” -
“Ah, there, now, will they not be won by her
gentleness?” she cried eagerly. “Will they not
suspect and discover the truth? It were a new
thing for a prince to wed a shepherdess, but this is
no shepherdess, as an owl might see! What say
they, then, Prue? Have they no suspicion?”
So Prudence continued her patient reading—in
the intense silence that was broken only by the
twittering of the birds in the orchard, or the Crow-
ing of a cock in some neighbouring yard; and
Judith listened keenly, drinking in every varying
phrase. But when Florizel had addressed his speech
to the pretty hostess of the day, Judith could no
longer forbear: she clapped her hands in delight.
“There, now, that is a true lover; that is spoken
like a true lover!” she cried, with her face radiant
and proud. “Again, good Prue, let us hear what
he says—ay, and before them all, too—I warrant
me he is not ashamed of her!”
So Prudence had to read once more Florizel’s
praise of his gentle mistress—
“‘What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I’d have you do it ever; when you sing,
I’d have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
Pray so; and for the ordering of your affairs, .
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do
INothing but that; move still, still so, and own
No other function. Each your doing
So singular in each particular,
IO*
148 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts be queens!’”
“In good sooth, it is spoken like a true lover!”
Judith said, with a light on her face as if the speech
had been addressed to herself. “Like one that is
well content with his sweetheart; and is proud of
her; and approves! Marry, there be few of such
in these days; for this one is jealous and unreason-
able, and would have the mastery too soon; and
that one would frighten you to his will by declaring
you are on the highway to perdition; and another
would have you more civil to his tribe of kinsfolk.
But there is a true lover, now; there is one that is
courteous and gentle; one that is not afraid to ap-
prove: there may be such in Stratford, but, God
wot, they would seem to be a scarce commodity!
Nay, I pray your pardon, dear Prue: to the story, if
it please you—and is there aught of the little
Mamillius forthcoming?” -
And so the reading proceeded; and Judith was
in much delight that the old King seemed to per-
ceive Something unusual in the grace and carriage
of the pretty Perdita.
“What is't he says? What are the very words?”
“‘This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the greensward; nothing she does or seems
But Smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” she exclaimed, quickly. “And
sees he not some likeness to the Queen Hermione?
Surely he must remember the poor injured Queen, and
See that this is her daughter? Happy daughter, that
has a lover that thinks so well of her! And now, Prue!”
A PLAYHOUSE. I49
But when, in the course of the hushed reading,
all these fair hopes came to be cruelly shattered;
when the pastoral romance was brought to a sudden
end; when the King, disclosing himself, declared a
divorce between the unhappy lovers, and was for
hanging the ancient shepherd, and would have
Perdita's beauty scratched with briers; and when
Prudence had to repeat the farewell words addressed
to the Prince by his hapless sweetheart— -
“‘Will’t please you, sir, be gone,
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
Of your own state take care. This dream of mine
Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther,
But milk my ewes; and weep——’”
—there was something very like tears in the gentle
reader's eyes; but that was not Judith’s mood; she
was in a tempest of indignation.
“God’s my life!” she cried, “was there ever
such a fool as this old King? He a king! He to
sit on a throne! Better if he sate in a barn and
helped madgehowlet to catch mice! And what says
the Prince? Nay, I’ll be sworn he proves himself a
true man, and no summer playfellow; he will stand
by her; he will hold to her, let the ancient dotard
wag his beard as he please!”
And so, in the end, the story was told, and all
happily settled; and Prudence rose from the rude
wooden bench with a kind of wistful look on her
face, as if she had been far away and seen strange
things. Then Judith—pausing for a minute or so
as if she would fix the whole thing in her memory,
to be thought over afterwards—proceeded to tie
I5O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE,
the pages together for the better concealment of
them on her way home.
“And the wickedness of it!” said she, lightly.
“Wherein lies the wickedness of such a reading,
Sweet mouse?”
Prudence was somewhat shamefaced on Such
Occasions; she could not honestly say that she re-
gretted as she ought to have done giving way to
Judith’s importunities.
“Some would answer you, Judith,” she said,
“that we had but ill used time that was given us
for more serious purposes.”
“And for what more serious purposes, cousin P
For the repeating of idle tales about our neigh-
bours? Or the spending of the afternoon in sleep,
as is the custom with many? Are we all so busy,
then, that we may not pass a few minutes in amuse-
ment? But, indeed, dear Prue,” said she, as she
gave a little touch to her pretty cap and Snow-white
ruff, to put them right before she went out into the
Street, “I mean to make amends this afternoon. I
shall be busy enough to make up for whatever loss
of time there has been over this dangerous and
godless idleness. For, do you know, I have every-
thing ready now for the new Portugal receipts that
you read to me; and two of them I am to try as
Soon as I get home; and my father is to know no-
thing of the matter—till the dishes be on the table.
So fare you well, Sweetheart; and give ye good
thanks, too: this has been but an evil preparation
for the church-going of the morrow, but remember,
the sin was mine—you are quit of that.”
A PLAYHOUSE. . $15 ſ
And then her glance fell on the roll of papers
that she held in her hand.
“The pretty Perdita!” said she, “Her beauty
was not scratched with briers after all. And I doubt
not she was in brave attire at the Court; though
methinks I better like to remember her as the mis-
tress of the feast, giving the flowers to this one and
that. And happy Perdita, also, to have the young
Prince Come to the sheep-shearing, and say so many
Sweet things to her! Is’t possible, think you, Prue,
there might come such another handsome stranger
to our sheep-shearing that is now at hand?”
“I know not what you mean, Judith.”
“Why, now, should such things happen only in
Bohemia?” she said, gaily, to the gentle and puzzled
Prudence. “Soon our shearing will begin, for the
weather has been warm, and I hear the hurdles are
already fixed. And there will be somewhat of a
merry-making, no doubt; and—and the road from
Evesham hither is a fair and goodly road, that a
handsome young stranger might well Come riding
along. What then, good mouse? If one were to
meet him in the lane that crosses to Shottery—and
to bid him to the feast—what then?”
“Oh, Judith, surely you are not still thinking of
that dangerous man!” the other exclaimed.
But Judith merely looked toward her for a
second—with the clear-shining eyes now become
quite demure and inscrutable. -
*srººmsºmºrºssrººs-sºmºrºs
I 52 - JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
C H A P T E R XI.
A REMONSTRANCE.
NEXT morning was Sunday; and Judith, having
got through her few domestic duties at an early
hour, and being dressed in an especially pretty COS-
tume in honour of the holy day, thought she need
no longer remain within-doors, but would walk along
to the churchyard, where she expected to find
Prudence. The latter very often went thither on a
Sunday morning, partly for quiet reverie and the
recalling of this one and the other of her departed
but not forgotten friends, whose names were carven
on the tombstones, and partly—if this may be for-
given her—to see how the generous mother earth
had responded to her week-day labours in the plant-
ing and tending of the graves. But when Judith,
idly and carelessly as was her wont, reached the
churchyard, she found the wide, silent space quite
empty; so she concluded that Prudence had pro-
bably been detained by a visit to some one fallen
sick; and she thought she might as well wait for
her; and with that view—or perhaps out of mere
thoughtlessness—she went along to the river-side,
and sate down on the low wall there, having before
her the slowly-moving yellow stream, and the fair,
far-stretching landscape beyond.
A REMONSTRANCE. I 53
There had been some rain during the night;
the roads she had come along were miry; and here
the grass in the churchyard was dripping with the
wet; but there was a kind of suffused rich light
abroad that bespoke the gradual breaking through
of the sun; and there was a warmth in the moist
atmosphere that seemed to call forth all kinds of
sweet odours from the surrounding plants and flowers.
Not that she needed these; for she had fixed in her
bosom a little nosegay of yellow-leaved mint, that
was quite sufficient to sweeten the scarcely-moving
air. And as she sate there, in the silence, it seemed
to her as if all the world were awake—and had been
awake for hours—but that all the human beings
were gone out of it. The rooks were cawing in the
elms above her, the bees hummed as they flew by
into the open light over the stream, and far away
she could hear the lowing of the cattle on the farms;
but there was no sound of any human voice, nor
any glimpse of any human creature in the wide
landscape. And she grew to wonder what it would
be like if she were left alone in the world; all the
people gone from it; her own relatives and friends
no longer here and around her, but away in the
Strange region where Hamnet was, and perhaps, on
such a morning as this, regarding her, not without
pity, and even, it might be, with some touch of
half-recalled affection. Which of them all should
she regret the most? Which of them all would this
solitary creature—left alone in Stratford—in an
empty town—most crave for, and feel the want of?
Well, she went over these friends and neighbours
I 54 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and Companions and would-be lovers; and she tried
to imagine what, in such circumstances, she might
think of this one and that; and which of them she
would most desire to have back on the earth and
living with her. But right well she knew in her
heart that all this balancing and choosing was but
a pretence. There was but the one; the one whose
briefest approval was a kind of heaven to her, and
the object of her secret and constant desire; the one
who turned aside her affection with a jest; who
brought her silks and scents from London as if her
mind were set on no other things than these. And
she was beginning to wonder whether, in those
imagined circumstances, he might come to think
differently of her, and to understand her somewhat;
and indeed, she was already picturing to herself the
life they might lead—these two, father and daughter
—together in the empty and silent, but sunlit and
sufficiently cheerful town—when her idle reverie
was interrupted. There was a sound of talking be-
hind her; doubtless the first of the people were
now coming to church, for the doors were already
Open.
She looked round, and saw that this was Master
Walter Blaise who had just come through the little
Swinging gate, and that he was accompanied by two
little girls, one at each side of him and holding his
hand. Instantly she turned her head away, pre-
tending not to have seen him.
“Bless the man,” she said to herself, “what does
he here of a Sunday morning? Why is so diligent
a pastor not in charge of his own flock?”
A REMONSTRANCE. 'I55
But she felt secure enough. Not only was he
accompanied by the two children, but there was
this other safeguard that he would not dare to pro-
fane the holy day by attempting anything in the
way of wooing. And it must be said that the young
parson had had but few opportunities for that—the
other members of the household eagerly seeking his
society when he came to New Place; and Judith
sharp to watch her chances of escape.
The next moment she was startled by hearing a
quick footstep behind her. She did not move.
“Give you good morrow, Judith,” said he, pre-
senting himself, and regarding her with his keen
and confident gray eyes. “I would crave a word
with you; and I trust it may be a word in season,
and acceptable to you.” -
He spoke with an air of cool authority which
she resented. There was nothing of the clownish
bashfulness of young Jelleyman about him, nor yet
of the half-timid, half-sulky jealousy of Tom Quiney;
but a kind of mastery; as if his office gave him the
right to speak, and commanded that she should
hear. And she did not think this fair; and she
distinctly wished to be alone; SO that her face had
but little welcome in it, and none of the shining
radiance of kindness that Willie Hart so worshipped.
“I know you like not hearing of Serious things,
Judith,” said he (while she wondered whither he
had sent the two little girls: perhaps into the church?)
“but I were no true friend to you, as I desire to be,
if I feared to displease you when there is need.”
“What have I done then? In what have I of.
156 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
fended? I know we are all miserable sinners, if
that be what you mean,” said she, coldly.
“I would not have you take it that way, Judith,”
said he, and there really was much friendliness in
his voice. “I meant to speak kindly to you. Nay;
I have tried to understand you; and perchance I do
in a measure. You are in the enjoyment of Such
health and spirits as fall to the lot of few; you are
well content with your life and the passing moment;
you do not like to be disturbed, or to think of the
future. But the future will come, nevertheless; and
it may be with altered circumstances; your light-
heartedness may cease; sorrow and sickness may
fall upon you; and then you may wish you had
learned earlier to seek for help and consolation
where these alone are to be found. It were well
that you should think of such things now, Surely;
you cannot live always as you live now—I had al-
most said a godless life, but I do not wish to offend;
in truth I would rather lead you in all kindliness
to what I know is the true pathway to the happi-
ness and peace of the soul. I would speak to you,
Judith, if in no other way, as a brother in Christ;
I were no true friend to you else; nay, I have the
Command of the Master whom I serve, to speak and
fear not.” *
She did not answer, but she was better content
now. So long as he only preached at her, he was
within his province, and within his right.
“And bethink you, Judith,” said he, with a touch
of reproach in his voice, “how and why it is you
enjoy such health and cheerfulness of spirits: surely
A REMONSTRANCE. I57
through the Lord in His loving-kindness answering
the prayers of your pious mother. Your life, one
might say, was vouchsafed in answer to her Sup-
plications; and do you owe nothing of duty and
gratitude to God, and to God’s Church, and to
God’s people? Why should you hold aloof from
them? Why should you favour worldly things, and
walk apart from the congregation, and live as if to-
morrow were always to be as to-day, and as if there
were to be no end to life, no calling to account as
to how we have spent our time here upon earth?
Dear Judith, I speak not unkindly; I wish not to
offend; but often my heart is grieved for you; and
I would have you think how trifling our present life
is in view of the great eternity whither we are all
journeying; and I would ask you, for your Soul’s
Sake, and for your peace of mind here and here-
after, to join with us, and come closer with us, and
partake of our exercises. Indeed you will find a
truer happiness. Do you not owe it to us? Have
you no gratitude for the answering of your mother's
prayers?”
“Doubtless, doubtless,” said she (though she
would rather have been listening in silence to the
singing of the birds, that were all rejoicing now, for
the Sun had at length cleared away the morning
vapours, and the woods and the meadows and the
far uplands were all shining in the brilliant new
light). “I go to church as the others do; and there
we give thanks for all the mercies that have been
granted.”
“And is it enough, think you?” said he—and
I 58. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
as he stood, while she sate, she did not care to
meet those clear, keen, authoritative eyes that were
bent on her. “Does your conscience tell you that
you give sufficient thanks for what God in His
great mercy has vouchsafed to you? Lip-service
every seventh day!—a form of words gone through
before you take your afternoon walk! Why, if a
neighbour were kind to you, you would show him as
much gratitude as that; and this is all you offer to
the Lord of heaven and earth for having in His
Compassion listened to your mother's prayers and
bestowed on you life and health and a cheerful
mind?” . -
“What would you have me do? I cannot profess
to be a saint while at heart I am none,” said she,
Somewhat sullenly. -
It was an unlucky question. Moreover, at this
moment the bells in the tower sent forth their first
throbbing peals into the startled air; and these
doubtless recalled him to the passing of time, and
the fact that presently the people would be coming
into the churchyard.
“I will speak plainly to you, Judith; I take no
shame to mention such a matter on the Lord’s day;
perchance the very holiness of the hour, and of the
spot where I have chanced to meet you, will the
better incline your heart. You know what I have
wished; what your family wish; and indeed you
cannot be so blind as not to have seen. It is true
I am but a humble labourer in the Lord's vineyard,
but I magnify my office; it is an honourable work
A REMONSTRANCE. I59
—the Saving of Souls, the calling to repentance, the
Carrying of the gospel to the poor and stricken
Ones of the earth—I say that is an honourable
Calling, and one that blesses them that partake in
it, and gives a peace of mind far beyond what the
worldlings dream of And if I have wished that
you might be able and willing—through God’s
merciful inclining of your heart—to aid me in this
work—to become my helpmate—was it only of my
Own domestic state I was thinking? Surely not. I
have seen you from day to day—careless and con-
tent with the trifles and idle things of this vain and
profitless world; but I have looked forward to what
might befall in the future; and I have desired with
all my heart—yea, and with prayers to God for the
same—that you should be taught to seek the true
haven in time of need. Do you understand me,
Judith?’”
He spoke with little tenderness—and certainly
with no show of lover-like anxiety; but he was in
earnest; and she had a terrible conviction pressing
upon her that her wit might not be able to save
her. The others she could easily elude when she
was in the mind; this one spoke close and clear;
she was afraid to look up and face his keen, acqui-
sitive eyes.
“And if I do understand you, good Master
Blaise,” said she, desperately; “if I do understand
you—as I confess I have gathered something of this
before—but—but surely—One such as I–such as
you say I am—might she not become pious—and
seek to have her soul saved—without also having
16O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
to marry a parson?—if such be your meaning, good
Master Blaise.”
It was she who was in distress and in embarrass-
ment, not he. &
“You are not situated as many others are,” said
he. “You owe your life, as one may say, to the
prayers of God’s people; I but put before you one
way in which you could repay the debt—by labour-
ing in the Lord’s vineyard, and giving the health
and cheerfulness that have been bestowed on you
to the comfort of those less fortunate——”
“I? Such an one as I? Nay, nay, you have
shown me how all unfit I were for that,” she exclaimed,
glad of this one loophole.
“I will not commend you, Judith, to your face,”
said he, calmly, “nor praise such worldly gifts as
others, it may be, over-value; but in truth I may
say you have a way of winning people towards you;
your presence is welcome to the sick; your cheerful-
ness gladdens the troubled in heart; and you have
youth and strength and an intelligence beyond that
of many. Are all these to be thrown away?—to
wither and perish as the years go by? Nay, I seek
not to urge my suit to you by idle words of wooing,
as they call it, or by allurements of flattery; these
are the foolish devices of the ballad-mongers and
the players; and are well-fitted, I doubt not, for the
purposes of the master of these, the father of lies
himself; rather would I speak to you words of sober
truth and reason; I would show you how you can
make yourself useful in the garden of the Lord, and
so offer some thanksgiving for the bounties bestowed
A REMONSTRANCE. I6 I
on you. Pray consider it, Judith; I ask not for yea
or nay at this moment; I would have your heart
meditate over it in your own privacy, when you can
bethink you of what has happened to you and what
may happen to you in the future. Life has been
glad for you So far; but trouble might come; your
relatives are older than you; you might be left so
that you would be thankful to have one beside you
whose arm you could lean on in time of distress.
Think over it, Judith; and may God incline your
heart to what is right and best for you.”
But at this moment the first of the early comers
began to make their appearance—strolling along to-
wards the churchyard, and chatting to each other
as they came; and all at once it occurred to her
that if he and she separated thus, he might consider
that she had given some silent acquiescence to his
reasons and arguments, and this possibility alarmed
her.
“Good Master Blaise,” said she, hurriedly, “pray
mistake me not. Surely if you are choosing a help-
mate for such high and holy reasons, it were well
that you looked farther afield. I am all unworthy
for such a place—indeed, I know it; there is not a
maid in Stratford that would not better become it;
nay, for my own part, I know several that I could
point out to you, though your own judgment were
best in such a matter. I pray you think no more
of me in regard to such a position; God help me,
I should make a parson’s wife such as all the
neighbours would stare at; indeed, I know there
be many you could choose from—if their heart
județh Shakespeare. I. II
I62 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
were set in that direction — that are far better
than I.”
And with this protest she would fain have got
away; and she was all anxiety to catch a glimpse
of Prudence, whose appearance would afford her a
fair excuse. How delightful would be the silence
of the great building and the security of the Oaken
pew; with what a peace of mind would she regard
the soft coloured beams of light streaming into the
chancel; and listen to the solemn Organ-music; and
wait for the silver-clear tones of Susanna’s voice.
But good Master Walter would have another word
with her ere allowing her to depart.
“In truth you misjudge yourself, Judith,” said he,
with a firm assurance, as if he could read her heart
far better than she herself; “I know more of the
duties pertaining to such a station than you; I can
foresee that you would fulfil them worthily and in
a manner pleasing to the Lord. Your parents, too:
will you not consider their wishes before saying a
final nay?”
“My parents?” she said, and she looked up with
a quick surprise. “My mother, it may be——”
“And if your father were to approve also?”
For an instant her heart felt like lead; but be-
fore this sudden fright had had time to tell its tale
in her eyes she had re-assured herself. This was
not possible.
“Has my father expressed any such wish?”
said she—but well she knew what the reply would be.
“No, he has not, Judith,” he said, distinctly, “for
A REMONSTRANCE. I63
I have not spoken to him. But if I were to obtain
his approval, would that influence you?”
She did not answer.
“I should not despair of gaining that,” said he,
with a calm confidence that caused her to lift her
eyes and regard him for a second—with a kind of
wonder, as it were, for she knew not what this
assurance meant. “Your father,” he continued,
“must naturally desire to see your future made
secure, Judith. Think what would happen to you
all if an accident befell him on his journeyings to
London. There would be no man to protect you
and your mother. Dr. Hall has his own household
and its charges; and two women left by themselves
would surely feel the want of guidance and help. If
I put these worldly considerations before you, it is
with no wish that you should forget the higher duty
you owe to God and His Church, and the care you
should have of your Own Soul. Do I Speak for my-
self alone? I think not. I trust it is not merely sel-
fish hopes that have bidden me appeal to you. And
you will reflect, Judith; you will commune with
yourself, before saying the final yea or nay; and if
your father should approve—”
“Good Master Blaise,” said she, interrupting him
—and she rose and glanced towards the straggling
groups now approaching the church; “I cannot for-
bid you to speak to my father, if it is your wish to
do that; but I would have him understand that it
is through no desire of mine; and—and, in truth,
he must know that I am all unfit to take the charge
you would put upon me. I pray you hold it in
II*
I64 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
kindness that I say so:—and there, now,” she quickly
added, “is little Willie Hart, that I have a message
for, lest he escape me when we come out again.”
He could not further detain her; but he accom-
panied her as she walked along the path towards
the little swinging gate; for she could see that her
Small cousin, though he had caught sight of her,
was shyly uncertain as to whether he should come
to her, and she wished to have his hand as far as
the church-door. And then—alas! that such things
should befall—at the very same moment a number
of the young men and maidens also entered the
churchyard; and foremost among them was Tom
Quiney. One rapid glance that he directed towards
her and the parson was all that passed; but in-
stantly in her heart of hearts she knew the suspi-
cion that he had formed. An assignation?—and on
a Sunday morning, too! Nay, her guess was quickly
confirmed. He did not stay to pay her even the
ordinary courtesy of a greeting. He went on with
the others; he was walking with two of the girls;
his laughter and talk were louder than any. In-
deed, this unseemly mirth was continued to within
a yard or two of the church-door—perhaps it was
meant for her to hear?
Little Willie Hart, as he and his cousin Judith
went hand-in-hand through the porch, happened t
look up at her. }
“Judith,” said he, “why are you crying?”
“I am not!” she said, angrily. And with her
hand she dashed aside those quick tears of vexa-
tion. - -
A REMONSTRANCE. I65
The boy did not pay close heed to what now
went on within the hushed building. He was won-
dering over what had occurred—for these mysteries
were beyond his years. But at least he knew that
his cousin Judith was no longer angry with him; for
she had taken him into the pew with her; and her
arm, that was interlinked with his, was Soft and
warm and gentle to the touch; and Once or twice,
when the service bade them to stand up, she had
put her hand kindly on his hair. And not only
that, but she had at the outset taken from her
bosom the little nosegay of mint, and given it to
him; and the perfume of it (for it was Judith’s gift,
and she had worn it near her heart, and she had
given it him with a velvet touch of her fingers)
seemed to him a strange and sweet and mystical
thing—something almost as strange and Sweet and
inexplicable as the beauty and shining tenderness
of her eyes.
166 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
C H A PTER XII.
DIVIDED WAYS.
SOME few weeks passed quite uneventfully, bring-
ing them to the end of June; and then it was that
Mistress Hathaway chanced to send a message into
the town that she would have her granddaughter
Judith come over to see her roses, of which there
was a great show in the garden. Judith was no-
thing loth; she felt she had somewhat neglected the
old dame of late; and so, one morning—or rather
one mid-day it was, for the family had but finished
dinner—found her in her own room, before her
mirror, busy with an out-of-door toilet, with Pru-
dence sitting patiently by. Judith seemed well con-
tent with herself and with affairs in general on this
warm Summer day; now she spoke to Prudence,
again she idly sang a scrap of some familiar Song,
while the work of adornment went on apace.
“But why such bravery, Judith?” her friend
said, with a quiet smile. “Why should you take
such heed about a walk through the fields to Shot-
tery?”
“Truly I know not,” said Judith, carelessly; “but
well I wot my grandmother will grumble. If I am
Soberly dressed she says I am a sloven, and will
never win me a husband; and if I am pranked out,
TXIVIDED WAYS. - 167
she says I am vain and will frighten away the young
men with my pride. In Heaven's name let them
go, Say I; I can do excellent well without them.
What think you of the cap, good Prue?—’twas but
last night I finished it; and the beads I had from
Warwick.”
She took it up, and regarded it, humming the
while—
“O say, my Joan, say, my Joan, will not that do?
I cannot come every day to woo.”
“Is’t not a pretty cap, good gossip?”
Prudence knew that she ought to despise such
frivolities; which truly were a snare to her, for she
liked to look at Judith when she was dressed, as
she was now, and she forgot to condemn these pretty
colours. On this occasion Judith was clad in a
gown of light gray or rather buff; with a petticoat
of pale blue taffeta, elaborately quilted with her
own handiwork; the small ruff she wore, which was
open in front, and partly showed her neck, was
Snow-white and stiffly starched; and she was now
engaged in putting On her Soft brown hair this cap
of gray velvet, adorned with two rows of brass beads,
and with a bit of curling feather at the side of it.
Prudence’s eyes were pleased, if her conscience bade
her disapprove; nay, sometimes she had to confess
that at heart she was proud to see her dear gossip
wear such pretty things, for that she became them
so well.
“Judith,” said she, “shall I tell you what I heard
your father Say of you last night? He was talking
168 - JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
to Julius; and they were speaking of this one and
that, and how they did; and when you were men-
tioned, “Oh yes,’ says your father, “the wench looks
bravely well; ’tis a pity she cannot sell the painting
of her cheeks: there be many a dame at the Court
would buy it of her for a goodly sum.’”
Judith gave a quick short laugh; this was music
in her ears—coming from whence it did. - -
“But, Judith,” said her friend, with a grave in-
quiry in her face, “what is't that you have done to
Tom Quiney, that he comes no longer near the
house—nay, he will avoid you when he happens to
see you abroad, for that I have observed myself,
and more than once? What is the matter? How
have you offended him?”
“What have I done?” she said; and there was
a swift and angry colour in her face. “Let him ask
what his own evil imaginings have done! Not that
I care, in good sooth !”
“But what is it, Judith? There must be a
reason.”
“Why,” said Judith, turning indignantly to her,
“you remember, sweetheart, the Sunday morning
that Mrs. Pike's little boy was taken ill, and you
were sent for, and did not come to church?—well,
I had gone along to the churchyard to seek you,
and was waiting for you, when who must needs
make his appearance but the worthy Master Blaise
—nay, but I told you, good Prue, the honour he
would put upon me; and thank Heaven he hath not
returned to it, nor spoken to my father yet, as far
as I can learn. Then, when the good parson’s Ser-
DIVIDED WAYS. I69
mon was over—body o' me, he let me know right
sharply I was no saint; though a saint I might be-
Come, no doubt, were I to take him for my master
—as I say, the lecture he gave me was over, and
we were walking to the church-door, when who
should come by but Master Quiney and some of
the others. Oh, well I know my gentleman! The
instant he clapped eyes on me, he suspected there
had been a planned meeting; I could see it well;
and off he goes in high dudgeon, and not a word
nor a look—before the others, mind you, before the
others, good Prue; that was the slight he put upon
me; marry, I care not!—whither he has gone there
he may stay!”
She spoke rapidly and with warmth; despite the
Scorn that was in her voice it was clear that that
public slight had touched her deeply.
“Nay, Judith,” said her gentle companion, “’twere
Surely a world of pity you should let an old friend
go away like that—through a mischance merely—”
“An old friend?” said she. “I want none of
such friends, that have ill thoughts of you ere you
can speak! Let him choose his friends elsewhere,
Say I; let him keep to his tapsters and his ale-house
wenches—there he will have enough of pleasure, I
doubt not, till his head be broke in a brawl some
night!” -
Then something seemed to occur to her. All at
once she threw aside the bit of ribbon she had in
her fingers, and dropped on her knee before her
friend, and seized hold of Prudence’s hands.
“I beseech your pardon, dearest heart!—indeed,
170 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
indeed, I knew not what I said—they were but idle
words—dear Prue, I pray you heed them not! He
may have reasons for distrusting me; and in truth I
complain not; 'tis a small matter; but I would not
have you think ill of him through these idle words
of mine! Nay, nay, they tell me he is sober and
diligent; that his business prospers; that he makes
many friends, and that the young men regard him
as the chief of them all, whether it be at merriment
or aught else.” -
“I am right glad to hear you speak so of the
young man, Judith,” Prudence said, in her gentle
way, and yet mildly wondering at this sudden
change of tone. “If he has displeased you, be sure
he will be sorry for it, when he knows the truth.”
“Nay, nay, Sweet mouse,” Judith said, rising,
and resuming her careless manner, as she picked
up the ribbon she had thrown aside. “Tis of no
moment. I wish the young man well, I pray you
speak to none of that I have told you; perchance
'twas but an accident, and he meant no slight at
all; and then—and then,” she added, with a kind of
laugh, “as the good parson seems determined that
willy-nilly I must wed him and help him in his charge
of souls, that were a good ending, Sweet cousin?”
She was now all equipped for setting forth, even
to the feather fan that hung from her girdle by a
small silver Cord.
“But I know he hath not spoken to my father
yet, else I should have heard of it, in jest or other-
wise. Come, mouse, shall we go; or the good dame
will have a scolding for us.” -
TXIVIDED WAYS. 171
Indeed this chance reference to the slight put
upon her in the churchyard seemed to have left no
sting behind it. She was laughing as she went
down the stair at some odd saying of Bess Hall’s
that her father had got hold of. When they went
outside she linked her arm within that of her friend,
and nodded to this or the other passer-by, and had
a merry Or a pleasant word for them, accordingly as
they greeted her. And .
“Green-sleeves was all my joy,
Green-sleeves was my delight”
came naturally into her idle brain, for the day
seemed a fit one for holiday-making; the skies were
clear, with large white clouds moving slowly across
the blue; and there was a fair west wind to stir the
leaves of the trees and the bushes, and to touch
warmly and softly her pink-hued cheek and pearly
neck.
“Ah, me,” said she, in mock desolation, “why
should one go nowadays to Shottery? What use is
in’t, sweet Prue, when all the magic and enticement
is gone from it? Aforetine I had the chance of
meeting with so gracious a young gentleman, that
brought news of the King's court, and spoke So Soft
you would think the cuckoo in the woods was still
to listen. That were something to expect when one
had walked so far—the apparition—a trembling
interview—and then so civil and sweet a farewell!
But now he is gone away I know not whither; and
he has forgotten that ever he lodged in a farm-
house, like a king consorting with shepherds; and
doubtless he will not seek to return. Well——”
I 72 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“You have never heard of him since, Judith?’”
her friend said, with a rapid look. -
“Alas, no!” she said, in the same simulated
vein. “And sometimes I ask myself whether there
ever was such a youth—whether the world ever did
produce such a courtly gentleman, such a paragon,
such a marvel of courtesy—or was it not but a trick
of the villain wizard? Think of it, good Prue—to
have been walking and talking with a ghost, with a
thing of air—and that twice, too: is't not enough to
chill the marrow in your bones? Well, I would that
all ghosts were as gentle and mannerly — there
would be less fear of them among the Warwickshire
wenches. But do you know, good Prue,” she said,
suddenly altering her tone into something of eager-
ness, “there is a matter of more moment than
ghosts that concerns us now? By this time, or I am
mistaken quite, there must be a goodly bulk of the
new play lying in the Oaken chest; and again and
again have I tried to see whether I might dare to
carry away some of the sheets; but always there was
some one to hinder. My father, you know, has been
much in the summer-house, since the business of
the new twenty acres was settled; and then again,
when by chance he has gone away with the bailiff
Somewhere, and I have had my eye on the place,
there was goodman Matthew on the watch, or else
a maid would come by to gather a dish of green
gooseberries for the baking, or Susan would have
me seek out a ripe raspberry or two for the child,
or my mother would call to me from the brewhouse.
But ’tis there, Prue, be sure; and there will come a
DIVIDED WAYS. 173
chance, I warrant; I will outwit the ancient Mat-
thew——”
“Do you never bethink you, Judith, what your
father would say were he to discover?” her friend
said, glancing at her, as they walked along the high-
way.
Judith laughed, but with some heightened colour.
“My father?” said she. “Truly, if he alone
were to discover, I should have easy penance.
Were it between himself and me, methinks there
were no great harm done; a daughter may fairly
seek to know the means that has gained for her
father the commendation of so many of the great
people, and placed him in such good estate in his
own town. Marry, I fear not my father's knowing,
were I to confess to himself; but as for the others—
were they to learn of it—my mother, and Susan,
and Dr. Hall, and the pious Master Walter—I trow
there might be some stormy weather abroad! At all
events, good Prue, in any such mischance, you shall
not suffer; ’tis I that will bear the blame, and all
the blame; for indeed I forced you to it, sweet
mouse; and you are as innocent of the wickedness
as though you had ne'er been born.”
And now they were just about to leave the main
road for the footpath leading to Shottery when they
heard the sound of some one coming along on
horseback; and, turning for a second, they found it
was young Tom Quiney, who was on a Smart Gallo-
way nag, and coming at a goodly pace. As he
passed them, he took off his cap and lowered it
with formal courtesy.
I 74 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Give ye good day!” said he; but he scarcely
looked at them; nor did he pull up for further talk
or greeting. -
“We are in such haste to be rich nowadays,”
said Judith, with a touch of scorn in her voice, as
the two maidens set forth to walk through the mea-
dows, “that we have scarce time to be civil to our
friends!” -
But she bore away no ill-will; the day was too
fine for that. The soft west wind was tempering
the heat and stirring the leaves of the elms; red
and white wild roses were sprinkled among the dark
green of the hedges; there was a perfume of elder-
blossom in the air; and perhaps, also, a faint scent
of hay, for in the distance they could see the
mowers at work among the clover, and could see
the long sweep of the Scythe. The Sun lay warm
on the grass and the wild-flowers around them;
there was a perfect silence but for the singing of
the birds; and now and again they could see one of
the mowers cease from his work, and a soft clicking
Sound told them that he was sharpening the long
curving blade. They did not walk quickly: it was
an idle day.
Presently some one came up behind them and
Overtook them; it was young Master Quiney, who
seemed to have changed his mind, and was now
On foot.
“You are going over to Shottery, Prudence?”
said he.
Prudence flushed uneasily: why should he ad-
dress her, and have no word for Judith?
DIVIDED WAYS. - I75
“Yes,” said she, “Mistress Hathaway would have
us see her roses; she is right proud of them this
year.”
“'Tis a good year for roses,” said he, in a
matter-of-fact way, and as if there were no restraint
at all on any of the party.
And then it seemed to occur to him that he
Ought to account for his presence.
“I guessed you were going to Shottery,” said he,
indifferently, and still addressing himself exclusively
to Prudence; “and I got a lad to take on the nag
and meet me at the cross-road; the short cut
through the meadows is pleasant walking. To
Mistress Hathaway’s, said you? I dare promise you
will be pleased with the show; there never was such
a year for roses; and not a touch of blight any-
where, as I have heard. And a fine season for the
Crops, too; just such weather as the farmers might
pray for; look at that field of rye over there, now—
is’t not a goodly sight?”
He was talking with much appearance of self-
possession; it was Prudence who was embarrassed.
As for Judith, she paid no heed; she was looking
before her at the hedges and the elms, at the wild
flowers around, and at the field of bearded rye, that
bent in rustling gray-green undulations before the
westerly breeze.
“And how does your brother, Prudence?” he
continued. “Tis well for him his business goes on
from year to year without respect of the season; he
can sleep o' nights without thinking of the weather.
It is the common report that the others of the Town
176 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Council hold him in great regard, and will have
him become alderman ere long; is it not so?”
“I have heard some talk of it,” Prudence said,
with her eyes cast down. - .
At this moment they happened to be passing
some patches of the common mallow, that were
growing by the side of the path; and the tall and
handsome youth who was walking with the two girls
(but who never once let his eyes stray in the direc-
tion of Judith) stooped down and pulled one of the
brightest clusters of the pale lilac blossoms.
“You have no flower in your dress, Prudence,”
said he, offering them to her. -
“Nay, I care not to wear them,” said she; and
she would rather have declined them; but as he
still offered them to her, how could she help accept-
ing them and carrying them in her hand? And
then, in desperation, she turned and addressed the
perfectly silent and impassive Judith.
“Judith,” said she, “you might have brought the
mastiff with you for a run.”
“Truly I might, sweetheart,” said Judith, cheer-
fully, “but that my grandmother likes him not in
the garden; his ways are over rough.”
“Now that reminds me,” said he, quickly (but
always addressing Prudence), “of the little Spaniel-
gentle that I have. Do you know the dog, Prudence?
'Tis accounted a great beauty; and of the true
Maltese breed. Will you accept him from me? In
truth I will hold it a favour if you will take the
little creature.”
“I?” said Prudence, with much amazement; for
T)IVIDED WAYS. 177
she had somehow vaguely heard that the dog had
been purchased and brought to Stratford for the
very purpose of being presented to Judith.
“I assure you 'tis just such an one as would
make a pleasant companion for you,” said he; “a
gentle Creature as ever was, and affectionate too—a
most pleasant and frolicsome playfellow. Will you
take it, Prudence?—for what can I do with the little
beast?—I have no one to look after it.”
“I had thought you meant Judith to have the
Spaniel!” said she, simply.
“Nay, how would that do, sweetheart?” said
Judith, calmly. “Do you think the Don would brook
Such invasion of his domain? Would you have the
little thing killed? You should take it, good cousin;
'twill be company for you should you be alone in
the house.”
She had spoken quite as if she had been engaged
in the conversation all the way through; there was no
appearance of anger or resentment at his Ostentatious
ignoring of her presence; whatever she felt she was
too proud to show.
“Then you will take the dog, Prudence,” said
he. “I know I could not give it into gentler hands,
for you could not but show it kindness, as you show
to all.”
“Give ye good thanks,” said Prudence, with her
pale face flushing with renewed embarrassment, “for
the offer of the gift; but in truth I doubt if it be
right and seemly to waste such care on a dumb
animal when there be so many of our fellow-crea-
tures that have more pressing claims on us. And
Şazdzłż Shakes?eare. I. I 2
178 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
there are enough of temptations to idleness without
our wilfully adding to them. But I thank you for
the intention of your kindness—indeed I do.”
“Nay, now, you shall have it, good Prudence,
whether you will or no,” said he, with a laugh.
“You shall bear with the little dog but for a week,
that I beg of you; and then if it please you not—if
you find no amusement in its tricks and antics—I
will take it back again. 'Tis a bargain; but as to
your sending of it back, I have no fears; I warrant
you 'twill overcome your scruples, for ’tis a most
Cunning and crafty playfellow, and merry withal;
nor will it hinder you from being as kind and help-
ful to those around you as you have ever been. I
envy the dog that is to have so gentle a guardian.”
They were now come to a parting of the ways;
and he said he would turn off to the left, so as to
reach the lane at the end of which his nag was
awaiting him.
“And with your leave, Prudence,” said he, “I
will bring the little spaniel to your house this even-
ing—for I am only going now as far as Bidford;
and if your brother be at home he may have half
an hour to spare, that we may have a chat about
the Corporation, and the new Ordinances they pro-
pose to make. And so fare-you-well, and good
wishes go with you!”
And with that he departed, and was soon out of
sight. -
“Oh, Judith,” Prudence exclaimed, almost melt-
ing into tears, “my heart is heavy to see it!”
“What, then, good cousin?” said Judith, lightly.
IDIVIDED WAYS. I79
“The quarrel——”
“The quarrel, dear heart! Think of no such
thing. In sober truth, dear Prudence, I would not
have matters other than they are; I would not; I am
well content; and as for Master Quiney, is not he
improved? Did ever mortal hear him speak so fair
before? Marry, he hath been learning good manners,
and profited well! But there it is: you are so gentle,
Sweetheart, that every one, no matter who, must find
you good company; while I am fractious, and ill to
bear with; and do I marvel to see any one prefer
your smooth ways and even disposition? And when
he comes to-night, heed you, you must thank him
right civilly for bringing you the little spaniel; ’tis a
great favour; the dog is one of value that many
would prize——”
“I cannot take it—I will not have it! 'Twas
meant for you, Judith, as well you know,” the other
cried, in real distress.
“But you must and shall accept the gift!” her
friend said, with decision. “Ay, and show yourself
grateful for his having singled you out withal.
Neither himself nor his spaniel would go long a-
begging in Stratford, I warrant you: give him
friendly welcome, sweetheart.”
“He went away without a word to you, Judith !”
“I am content.”
“But why should it be thus?” Prudence said,
almost piteously. - -
“Why? Dear mouse, I have told you ! He and
I never did agree; ’twas ever something wrong on
one side or the other; and wherefore should not he
I2 *
18o JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
look around for a gentler companion? 'Twere a
wonder should he do aught else; and now he hath
shown more wisdom than ever I laid to his credit.”
“But the ungraciousness of his going, Judith——”
said the gentle Prudence, who could in no wise
understand the apparent coolness with which Judith
seemed to regard the desperate thing that had taken
place. -
“Heaven have mercy, why should that trouble
you, if it harm not me?” was the instant answer.
“My spirits are not like to be dashed down for want
of a ‘fare-you-well’; in good sooth he had given you
so much of his courtesy and fair speeches that per-
chance he had none to spare for others!”
By this time they were come to the little wooden
gate leading into the garden; and it was no wonder
they should pause in passing through that to regard
the bewildering and glowing luxuriance of foliage
and blossom, though this was but a Cottage enclosure,
and none of the largest. The air seemed filled with
the perfume of this summer abundance; and the
clear Sunlight shone on the various masses of colour
—roses red and white, pansies, Snapdragon, none-
so-pretty, Sweet-williams of every kind, to say no-
thing of the clustering honeysuckle that surrounded
the cottage door.
“Was’t not worth the trouble, sweetheart?” Judith
said. “Indeed the good dame does well to be proud
of such a pageant.” -
As she spoke her grandmother suddenly, made
her appearance, glancing sharply from one to the
other of them. -
DIVIDED WAYS. I 81
“Welcome, child, welcome,” she said, “and to
you, Sweet Mistress Shawe.”
And yet she did not ask them to enter the cot-
tage; there was some kind of hesitation about the
old dame's manner that was unusual.
“Well, grandmother,” said Judith gaily, “have
you no grumbling? My cap I made myself; then
must it be out of the fashion. Or I did not make
it myself; then must it have cost a mint of money.
Or what say you to my petticoat–does not the
colour offend you? Shall I ever attain to the pleas-
ing of you, think you, good grandmother?”
“Wench, wench, hold your peace!” the old dame
said in a lower voice. “There be one within that
may not like the noise of strangers—though he be
no stranger to you, as he saith——”
“What, grandmother?” Judith exclaimed, and
involuntarily she shrank back a little, so startled
was she. “A stranger?—in the cottage? You do
not mean the young gentleman that is in hiding—
that I met in the lane——” -
“The same, Judith, the same,” she said quickly;
“and I know not whether he would wish to be seen
by more than needs be——”
She glanced at Judith, who understood: more-
over, the latter had pulled together her courage
again.
“Have no fear, good grandmother,” said she;
and she turned to Prudence: “You hear, good Prue,
who is within——”
“Yes,” the other answered, but she was some-
what breathless.
182 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Now, then, is such an opportunity as may ne'er
occur again,” Judith said. “You will come with
me, good Prue? Nay, but you must!”
“Indeed I shall not!” Prudence exclaimed, step-
ping back in affright. “Not for worlds, Judith,
would I have aught to do with such a thing! And
you, Judith, for my sake, come away! We will go
back to Stratford!—we will look at the garden some
other time!—in truth I can see your grandmother is
of my mind too. Judith, for the love of me, come!
—let us get away from this place!”
Judith regarded her with a strange kind of
Smile.
“I have had such courtesy and fair manners
shown me to-day, dear heart,” said she, with a sort
of gracious calmness, “that I am fain to seek else-
where for some other treatment, lest I should grow
vain. Will it please you wait for me in the garden,
then? Grandmother, I am going in with you to help
you give your guest good welcome.”
“Judith!” the terrified Prudence exclaimed, in a
kind of despair.
But Judith, with her head erect, and with a per-
fect and proud self-possession, had followed her
grandmother into the house.
A HERALD MERCURY. 183
CHA PTER XIII.
A HERALD MERCURY.
THE distance between this luxuriant garden, all
radiant and glowing in light and colour, and the
Small and darkened inner room of the cottage, was
but a matter of a few yards; yet in that brief space,
So alert was her brain, she had time to consider
much. And with her pride or anger was always of
short duration—the sunny cheerfulness of her nature
refusing to harbour such uncongenial guests. Why,
she asked herself, should she take umbrage at the
Somewhat too open neglect that had just been shown
her? Was it not tending in the very direction she
had herself desired? Had she not begged and
prayed Quiney to give Prudence the little spaniel-
gentle? Nay, had she not wilfully gone and buried
in the churchyard the bit of rosemary that he had
Sent her to keep—putting it away from her with the
chance of its summoning an unknown lover? So
now, she said to herself, she would presently come
out again to the poor affrighted Prudence, and
would reassure her, and congratulate her, moreover,
with words of good cheer and comfort for the
future.
And then again, in this lightning-like Survey of
the situation, she was conscious that she was be-
I84. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
comingly dressed—and right glad, indeed, that she
had chanced to put on the gray velvet cap with the
brass beads and the curling feather; and she knew
that the stranger gentleman would be courteous and
civil, with admiring eyes. Moreover, she had a
vague impression that he was somewhat too much
given to speak of Ben Jonson; and she hoped for
some opportunity to let him understand that her
father was one of good estate, and much thought of
by every one around, whose daughter knew what
was due to his position, and could conduct herself
not at all as a Country wenchs And so it was that
the next minute found her in the twilight of the
room; and there, truly enough, he was, standing at
the small window.
“Give ye good welcome, sir,” said she.
“What! fair Mistress Judith?” he said, as he
quickly turned round. And he would have come
forward and kissed her hand, perchance, but that a
moment’s hesitation prevented him.
“It may be that I have offended you,” said he,
diffidently.
“In what, good sir?”
She was quite at her ease; the little touch of
modest colour in her face could scarcely be attri-
buted to rustic shyness; it was but natural, and it
added to the gentleness of her look.
“Nay, then, sweet lady, 'twas but a lack of
courage, that I would ask you to pardon,” said he—
though he did not seem conscious of heavy guilt, to
judge by the way in which his black and eloquent
eyes regarded Judith’s face and the prettinesses of
A HERALD MERCURY. 185
her costume. “There was a promise that I should
communicate with you if I returned to this part of
the country, but I found myself not bold enough to
take advantage of your kindness. However, fortune
has been my friend, since again I meet you; ’tis the
luckiest chance; I but asked your good grandmother
here for a cup of water as I passed, and she would
have me take a cup of milk instead; and then she
bade me to come in out of the heat for a space—
which I was nothing loth to do, as you may guess;
and here have I been taking up the good lady’s
time with I know not what of idle gossip——”
“But sit ye down, grandchild,” the good dame
Said; “and you, sir, pray sit you down. Here,
wench”—she called to the little maid that was
her sole domestic. “Go fill this jug from the best
barrel.”
And then she herself proceeded to get down
from the high wooden rail some of the pewter
trenchers that shone there like a row of white moons
in the dusk; and these she placed on the table with
One or two knives; and then she began to get forth
cakes, a cheese, a ham, some spiced bread, the half
of a Cold gooseberry-tart, and what not.
“”Tis not every day we come by a visitor in
these quiet parts,” said she; “ay, good sir, and one
that is not afraid to speak out his mind. Nay, nay,
grandchild, I tell thee sit thee down; thou art too
fine a madam this morning to meddle wi' kitchen
matters. Tell the gentleman I be rather deaf; but
I thank him for his good company. Sit ye down,
Sweeting; sooth, you look bravely this morning.”
I86 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Have I pleased you at last, grandmother? 'tis
a miracle, Surely!” she said, with a smile; and then
she turned gravely to entertain the old dame's visitor.
“I hope your fortunes have mended sir,” said she.
“In a measure—somewhat—but still I am forced
to take heed——”
“Perchance you have still the letter to my
father?” she asked.
“Nay, madam, I considered it a prudent thing
to destroy it—little as that was in my heart.”
“I had thought on your next coming to the
neighbourhood that you would have taken the
chance to make my father's friendship,” said she;
and not without Some secret disappointment; for she
was anxious that this acquaintance of Ben Jonson’s
should see the New Place, with all its tapestries and
carved wood and silver-gilt bowls; with its large fair
garden, too, and substantial barns and stables. Per-
haps she would have had him carry the tale to
London? There were some things (she considered)
quite as fine as the trumpery masques and mum-
meries of the Court that the London people seemed
to talk about. She would have liked him to see
her father at the head of his own table, with her
mother's napery shining, and plenty of good friends
round the board, and her father drinking to the
health of Bess Hall out of the silver-topped tankard
that Thomas Combe, and Russell, and Julius Shawe,
and the rest of them, had given him on his last
birthday. Or perchance she would have had him
see her father riding through the town of Stratford
with some of these good neighbours (and who the
A HERALD MERCURY. 187
handsomest of all the company? she would make
bold to ask), with this one and that praising the
Evesham roan, and the waggoners as they passed
touching their caps to “worthy Mahster Shacksper.”
Ben Jonson! Well, she had seen Ben Jonson.
There was not a maid in the town would have
looked his way. Whereas, if there were any secret
enchantments going forward on Hallowmas-eve (and
she knew of such, if the ministers did not), and
if the young damsels were called on to form a
shape in their brain as they prayed for the
handsome lover that was to be sent them in the
future, she was well aware what type of man they
would choose from amongst those familiar to them;
and also, it had more than once reached her ears
that the young fellows would jokingly say among
themselves that right well it was that Master Shake-
Speare was married and in safe keeping, else they
would never have a chance. In the meanwhile, and
with much Courtesy, this young gentleman was en-
deavouring to explain to her why it was he dared
not go near Stratford town.
“Truly, sweet Mistress Judith,” said he, in his
suave voice, and with modestly downcast eyes, “it
is a disappointment to me in more regards than
one; perchance I dare not say how much. But in
these times one has to see that one’s own mis-
fortunes may not prove harmful to one’s friends;
and then again, ever since the French King's mur-
der, they are becoming harder and harder against
any one, however innocent he may be, that is under
suspicion. And whom do they not suspect? The
I88 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Parliament have entreated the King to be more
careful of his safety; and the recusants—as they call
those that have some regard for the faith they were
brought up in-must not appear within ten miles of
the Court. Nay, they are ordered to betake them-
selves to their own dwellings; and by the last pro-
clamation all Roman priests, Jesuits, and Seminaries,
are banished the kingdom;-I wonder not your good
grandmother should have a word of pity for them
that are harried this way and that for conscience sake.”
“I say naught, I say naught; 'twere well to keep
a still tongue,” the old dame said, being still busy
with the table. “But I have heard there wur more
peace and quiet in former days when there wur but
one faith in the land; ay, and good tending of the
poor folk by the monks and the rich houses.”
However, the chance reference to the French
Ring had suddenly recalled to Judith that Prudence
was waiting her in the garden, and her conscience
smote her for her neglect; while she was determined
that so favourable an opportunity should not be lost
of banishing once and for ever her dear gossip’s
cruel suspicions. So she rose.
“I crave your pardon, good sir,” said she, “if I
leave you for a moment to seek my gossip Prudence
Shawe that was to wait for me in the garden. I
would have you acquainted with each other; but
pray you, sir, forbear to say anything against the
Puritan section of the church, for she is well in-
clined that way, and she has a heart that is easily
wounded.”
“And thank you for the caution, fair Mistress
A HERALD MERCURY. 189
Judith,” said he, and he rose, and bowed low; and
stood hat in hand until she had left the apart-
ment. - -
At first, so blinding was the glare of light and
colour, she could hardly see; but presently, when
her eyes were less dazzled, she looked everywhere,
and found the garden quite empty. She called;
there was no answer. She went down to the little
gate; there was no one in the road. And so, tak-
ing it for granted that Prudence had sought safety
in flight, and was now back in Stratford town, or on
the way thither, she returned into the cottage with
a light heart, and well content to hear what news
was abroad.
“Pray you, sir,” said old Mistress Hathaway,
“sit in to the table; and you, grandchild, come
your ways. If the fare be poor, the welcome is
hearty. What, then, Judith? Dined already, say'st
thou? Body o’ me, a fresh-coloured young wench
like you should be ready for your dinner at any
time. Well, well, sit thee in, and grace the table;
and you shall sip a cup of claret for the sake of
good Company.”
Master Leofric Hope, on the other hand, was not
at all backward in applying himself to this extem-
porised meal; on the contrary, he did it such justice
as fairly warmed the old dame's heart. And he
drank to her, moreover, bending low. Over his
cup of ale; but he did not do the like by Judith—
for some reason or another. And all the while he
was telling them of the affairs of the town; as to
how there was much talking of the new river that
I 90 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
was to bring water from some ten or twelve miles
off, and how one Middleton was far advanced with
the cutting of it, although many were against it, and
would have the project overthrown altogether. Of
these and similar matters he spoke right pleasantly,
and the old dame was greatly interested; but Judith
grew to think it strange that so much should be
said about public affairs, and what the people were
talking about, and yet no mention made of her
father. And so it came about, when he went on to
tell them of the new ship of war that so many were
going to see at Woolwich, and that the King made
So much of, she said— -
“Oh, my father knows all about that ship. 'Twas
but the other day I heard him and Master Combe
speak of it; and of the King too; and my father
said, “Poor man, 'tis a far smaller ship than that he
will make his last voyage in.’”
“Said he that of the King?”
She looked up in quick alarm.
“But as he would have said it of me or of you
or of any one,” she exclaimed. “Nay, my father is
well inclined towards the King, though he be not as
much at the Court as some, nor caring to make
pageants for the Court ladies and their attendants
and followers.”
If there were any sarcasm in this speech he did
not perceive it, for it merely led him on to speak
of the new masque that Ben Jonson was preparing
for the Prince Henry; and incidentally he men-
tioned that the subject was to be Oberon the Fair
Prince. -
A HERALD MERCURY. I9 I
“Oberon?” said Judith, opening her eyes. “Why,
my father hath writ about that!”
“Oh yes, as we all know,” said he courteously;
“but there will be a difference——”
“A difference?” said she. “By my life, yes!
There will be a difference. I wonder that Master
Jonson was not better advised.”
“Nay, in this matter, good Mistress Judith,” said
he, “there will be no comparison. I know ’tis the
fashion to compare them——”
“To compare my father and Master Jonson?”
she said, as if she had not heard aright. “Why,
what comparison? In what way? Pray you re-
member, sir, I have seen Master Ben Jonson. I have
seen him, and spoken with him. And as for my
father, I’ll be bound there is not his fellow for a
handsome presence and gracious manners in all
Warwickshire—no, nor in London town neither, I’ll
be sworn!”
“I meant not that, sweet lady,” said he, with a
Smile; and he added grimly: “I grant you our Ben
looks as if he had been in the wars; he hath had
a tussle with Bacchus on many a merry night, and
bears the scars of these noble combats. No, 'tis the
fashion to compare them as wits——”
“I’d as lief compare them as men, good sir,”
said she, with a touch of pride, “and I know right
well which should have my choice.”
“When it is my good fortune, dear lady,” said
the young man, “to have Master William Shake-
speare's daughter sitting before me, I need no other
testimony to his grace and bearing, even had I never
I92 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
set eyes on him.” And with that he bowed low;
and there was a slight flush on her face that was
none of displeasure, while the old dame said—
“Ay, ay, there be many a wench in Warwick-
shire worse-favoured than she; pray heaven it turn
not her head; the wench is a good wench, but ill
to manage; and ’twere no marvel if the young men
got tired of waiting.” .
To escape from any further discussion of this
Subject Judith proposed that they should go out and
look at her grandmother's roses and pansies, which
was in truth the object of her visit; and she added
that if Master Hope (this was the first time she had
named him by his name) were still desirous of
avoiding observation, they could go to the little
bower at the upper hedgerow, which was sufficiently
screened from the view of any passer-by. The old
dame was right willing, for she was exceedingly
proud of this garden that had no other tending than
her own; and so she got her knitting-needles and
ball of wool, and preceded them out into the warm
air and the sunlight.
“Dear, dear me,” said she, stopping to regard
two small shrubs that, stood withered and brown
by the side of the path. “There be something
strange in that rosemary now, in good sooth there
be; try as I may, I cannot bring them along; the
spring frost makes sure to kill them.” And then she
went on again.
“Strange, indeed,” said the young man to his
Companion, these two being somewhat behind, “that
A HERALD MERCURY. I93
a plant that is so fickle and difficult to hold should
be the emblem of constancy.”
“I know not what they do elsewhere,” said
Judith, carelessly pulling a withered leaf or two to
See if they were quite inodorous, “but hereabouts
they often use a bit of rosemary for a charm and
the summoning of spirits.”
He started somewhat, and glanced at her quickly
and curiously. But there was clearly no subtle in-
tention in the speech. She idly threw away the
leaves.
“Have you faith in such charms, Mistress Ju-
dith?’” said he, still regarding her.
“In truth I know not,” she answered, as if the
question were of but little moment. “There be
Some who believe in them, and others that laugh.
But strange stories are told; marry, there be some
of them that are not pleasant to hear of a winter’s
night, when one has to change the warm chimney-
corner for the cold room above. There is my grand-
mother, she hath a rare store of them; but they fit
not well with the summer-time and with such a
show as this.”
“A goodly show indeed,” said he; and by this
time they were come to a small arbour of rude
lattice-work mostly smothered in foliage; and there
was a seat within it, and also a tiny table; while in
front they were screened from the gaze of any one
going along the road by a straggling and propped-
up wall of peas that were now showing their large
white blossoms plentifully among the green.
“”Tis a quiet spot,” said he, when they were
jºudith Shakespeare. I. I3
I 94. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
seated, and the old dame had taken to her knitting;
“’tis enough to make one pray never to hear more
of the din and turmoil of London.”
“I should have thought, sir,” said Judith, “you
would have feared to go near London, if there be
those that would fain get to know of your where-
about.”
“Truly,” said he, “I have no choice. I must run
the risk. From time to time I must seek to see
whether the cloud that is hanging over me gives
signs of breaking. And surely such must now be
the case, when fortune hath been so kind to me as
to place me where I am at this moment—in such
company—with such a quiet around. 'Tis like the
work of a magician; though from time to time I re-
mind me that I should rise and leave, craving your
pardon for intruding on you withal.”
“Trouble not yourself, young sir,” the old dame
said, in her matter-of-fact way, as she looked up
from her knitting, “if the place content you, 'tis
right well; we be in no such hurry in these country
parts; we let the day go by as it lists, and thank
God for a sound night's rest at the end of it.”
“And you have a more peaceful and happy life
than the London citizens, I’ll be bound,” said he,
“with all their feasts and gaieties and the noise of
drums and the like.” - -
“We hear but the murmur of such things from
a far distance,” Judith said. “Was there not a
great to-do on the river when the citizens gave their
welcome to the Prince?”
“Why, there, now,” said he, brightening up at
A HERALD MERCURY. I 95
this chance of repaying in some measure the cour-
tesy of his entertainers; “there was as wonderful a
thing as London ever saw. A noble spectacle, truly;
for the Companies would not be outdone; and such
bravery of apparel, and such a banqueting in the
afternoon! And perchance you heard of it but
through some news-letter? Shall I tell you what I
saw on my own part?”
“If it be not too troublesome to you, good sir.”
He was glad enough; for he had noticed, when
he was describing such things, that Judith’s eyes
grew absent, and he could gaze at them without
fear of causing her to start and blush. Moreover,
it was a pretty face to tell a story to; and the day
was so still and Shining; and all around them there
was a scent of roses in the air.
“Why, it was about daybreak, as I should think,”
he said, “that the citizens began to come forth; and
a bright fair morning it was; and all of them in
their best array. And you may be sure that when
the Companies learned that the whole of the citizens
were minded to show their love for the Prince
Henry on his coming back from Richmond, they
were not like to be behind-hand; and Such prepara-
tions had been made as you would scarce believe.
Well, then, so active were they in their several ways
that by eight of the clock the Companies were all
assembled in their barges of state to wait the Lord
Mayor and Aldermen; and such a sound of drums
and trumpets and fifes was there; and the water
covered with the fleet, and the banks all Crowded
with them that had come down to see. Then the
13 *
196 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Lord Mayor and the Aldermen being arrived, the
great procession set forth in state; and such a
booming of cannon there was, and cheering from
the crowd. 'Twas a sight, on my life; for they bore
the pageant with them—that was a huge whale and
a dolphin; and on the whale sate a fair and lovely
nymph, Corinea she was called, the Queen of Corn-
wall; and she had a coronet of strange sea-shells,
and strings of pearls around her neck and on her
wrists; and her dress was of crimson silk, so that
all could make her out from a distance; and she
had a silver shield slung on to her left arm and in
her right hand a silver spear—oh, a wonderful sight
she was; I marvel not the crowd cheered and cheered
again. Then on the other animal — that is the
dolphin—sate one that represented Amphion—he was
the father of music, as you must know; and a long
beard he wore, and he also had a wreath of sea-
shells on his head, and in his hand a harp of gold
that shone in the sun. Well, away they set towards
Chelsea; and there they waited for the Prince's ap-
proach——”
“And the young Prince himself,” Judith said,
quickly and eagerly, “he bears himself well, does
he not? He bears himself like a prince? He
would match such a pageant right royally, is t not
SO?” -
“Why, he is the very model and mirror of
princehood!—the pink of chivalry!—nor is there
one of them at the Court that can match him at the
knightly exercises,” said this enthusiastic chronicler,
who had his reward in seeing how interested she
A HERALD MERCURY. I 97
was. “Well, when the young Prince was come to
Chelsea, there he paused, and the Queen Corinea
addressed him in a speech of welcome—truly, I
could not hear a word of it, there being such a
noise among the multitude, but I was told thereafter
that it presented him with their love and loyal duty;
and then they all set forth towards Whitehall again.
By this time ’twas later in the day; and no man
would have believed so many dwelt in the neigh-
bourhood of our great river; and that again was as
naught to the crowd assembled when they were
come again to the town. And here—as it must
have been arranged beforehand, doubtless—the fleet
of barges separated, and formed two long lines, so
as to make a lane for the Prince to pass through,
with great cheering and shouting, so that when they
were come to the Court steps he was at the head
of them all. And now it was that the dolphin ap-
proached, and Amphion, that was riding on his
back, bid the Prince a loyal farewell in the name
of all the citizens; and at the end of the speech—
which, in truth, the people guessed at rather than
heard—there was such a tumult of huzzas, and a
firing of cannon, and the drums and the trumpets
Sounding, and on every hand you could hear no-
thing but “Long live our Prince of Wales, the Royal
Henry!’” :
“And he bore himself bravely, I’ll dare be
sworn!” she exclaimed. “I have heard my father
speak of him—he is one that will uphold the honour
of England when he comes to the throne!”
“And there was such a feasting and rejoicing
198 ** JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
that evening,” he continued, within-doors and with-
out; and many an honest man, I fear me, trans-
gressed, and laid the train for a sore distracted
head next day. Then 'twas some two or three
evenings after that, if I remember aright, that we
had the great water-fight and the fireworks—but
perchance you heard of these, Sweet Mistress
Judith?’”
“In truth, good sir,” she answered, “I heard of
these as of the welcome you speak of, but in so
scant a way as to be of no avail. 'Tis not a kind
of talking that is encouraged at Our house; unless,
indeed, when Julius Shawe and Master Combe and
Some of them come in of an evening to chat with
my father; and then sometimes I Contrive to linger,
with the bringing in of a flagon of Rhenish or the
like—until I am chid and sent forth. I pray you,
good sir, if I do not outwear your patience, to tell
us of the water-fight, too.”
“”Tis I that am more like to outwear your
patience, fair Judith,” said he. “I would I had a
hundred fights to tell you of. But this one—well,
'twas a rare and goodly pageant; and a vast crowd
was come down to the water's edge to see what was
going forward, for most of the business of the day
was over, and both master and prentice were free.
And very soon we saw how the story was going; for
there was a Turkish pirate, with fierce men with
blackened faces; and they would plunder two Eng-
lish merchantmen and make slaves of the crews.
This was but the beginning of the fight; and there
was great firing of guns and manoeuvring of the
A HERALD MERCURY. I99
vessels; and the merchantmen were like to fare
badly, not being trained to arms like the pirate. In
Sooth they were Sore bestead; but presently up came
two ships of war to the rescue, and then the coil
began in good earnest, I warrant you; for there was
boarding and charging and clambering Over the
bulwarks—ay, and many an honest man on both
sides knocked into the sea —until in the end they
had killed or secured all the pirates, and then there
was naught to do but to blow up the pirate ship
into the air, with a noise like thunder, and scarce
a rag or spar of him remaining. 'Twas a right good
ending, I take it, in the minds of the worthy citizens;
doubtless they hoped that every Turkish rogue would
be served the like. And then it was that the blow-
ing-up of the pirate ship was a kind of signal for
the beginning of the fireworks; and it had grown to
dusk now; so that the blazes of red light and blue
light and the whizzing of the squibs and what not
seemed to fill all the air. 'Twas a rare climax to
the destruction of the Turkish thieves; and the
people cheered and cheered again when 'twas well
done; and then at the end came a great discharge
of guns and Squibs and showers of stars that One
would have thought the whole world was set on fire.
Sure I am that the waters of the Thames never saw
such a sight before. And the people went home
right well content; and I doubt not drank to the
confusion of all pirates, as well as to the health of
the young Prince, that is to preserve the realm to
us in years to come.”
They talked for some time thereafter about that
2OO JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and other matters, and about his own condition and
occupation at the farm; and then he rose, and there
was a smile on his face. -
“You know, fair Mistress Judith,” said he, “that
a wise man is careful not to Outstay his welcome,
lest it be not offered to him again; and your good
grandmother has afforded me so pleasant an hour's
gossip and good company that I would fain look
forward to some other chance of the same in the
future.” - -
“Must you go, good sir?” said Judith, also
rising. “I trust we have not overtaxed your patience.
We country folk are hungry listeners.” -
“To have been awarded so much of your time,
sweet Mistress Judith,” said he, bowing very low,
“is an honour I am not likely to forget.”
And then he addressed the old dame, who had
missed something of this.
“Give ye good thanks for your kindness, good
Mistress Hathaway,” said he.
“Good fortune attend ye, sir,” said the old dame
contentedly, and without ceasing from her knitting.
Judith was standing there, with her eyes cast
down. - -
“Sweet lady, by your leave,” said he, and he
took her hand and raised it and just touched her
fingers with his lips. Then he bowed low again and
withdrew.
“Fare you well, good sir,” Judith had said at
the same moment, but without any word as to a
future meeting. Then she returned into the little
arbour and sate down.
A HERALD MERCURY. 2 O I
“Is’t not like a meteor, grandmother, shooting
across the sky?” said she, merrily. “Beshrew me,
but the day has grown dark since he left! Didst
ever hear of such a gallymawfrey of dolphins and
whales, and prince’s barges, and the roaring of
cannon, and fireworks? Sure 'tis well we live in
the country quiet—our ears would be riven in twain
else. And you, grandmother, that was ever preach-
ing about prudent behaviour, to be harbouring one
that may be an outlaw—a recusant—perchance he
hath drawn his sword in the King's presence——”
“What know you of the young gentleman,
Judith?’” the old dame said, sharply.
“Marry, not a jot beyond what he hath doubtless
told to yourself, good grandmother. But see you
any harm in him? Have you suspicion of him?
Would you have me think—as Prudence would fain
believe—that there be witchcraft about him?”
“Truly I see no harm in the young gentleman,”
the old grandmother was constrained to say. “And
he be fair spoken, and modest withal. But look
you to this, wench: should you chance to meet him
again while he bideth here in this neighbourhood—
I trow 'twere better you did not—but should that
chance, see you keep a still tongue in your head
about church and King and Parliament. Let others
meddle who choose: ’tis none of your affairs; do
you hear me, child? These be parlous times, as
the talk is; they do well that keep the byways, and
let my lord’s coaches go whither they list.”
“Grandmother,” said Judith, gravely, “I know
there be many things in which I cannot please you,
2 O2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
but this sin that you would lay to my charge—nay,
dear grandam, when have you caught me talking
about church and King and Parliament? Truly I
wish them well; but I am content if they go their
own way.”
The old dame glanced at her to see what this
demure tone of speech meant. -
“Thou?” she said, in a sort of grumble. “Thy
brain be filled with other gear, I reckon. 'Tis a bit
of ribbon that hath hold of thee; or the report as
to which of the lads shot best at the match; or
perchance ’tis the purchase of some penny ballads,
that you may put the pictures on your chamber-
wall, as if you were a farm-wench just come in from
the milking-pail.”
“Heaven have pity on me, good grandmother,”
Said she, with much penitence, and she looked down
at her costume, “but I can find no way of pleasing
you. You scold me for being but a farm-wench;
and truly this petticoat, though it be pretty enough,
methinks might have been made of a costlier
Stuff; and my cap—good grandmother, look at my
Cap——”
She took it off, and smoothed the gray velvet of
it, and arranged the beads and the feather.
“Is the cap also too much of the fashion of a
farm-wench? or have I gone amiss the other way,
and become too like a city dame? Would that I
knew how to please you, grandam l’’
“Go thy ways, child, get thee home!” the old
woman said, but only half-angrily. “Thy foolish
head hath been turned by hearing of those Court
A HERALD MERCURY. 2O3
gambols. Get you to your needle; be your mother's
napery all so well mended that you can spend the
whole day in idleness?”
“Nay, but you are in the right there, good
grandmother,” said Judith, drawing closer to her,
and taking her thin and wrinkled hand in her own
warm, white soft ones. “But not to the needle—not
to the needle, good grandam; I have other eggs on
the spit. Did not I tell you of the Portugal receipts
that Prudence got for me—in good sooth I did;
well, the dishes were made; and next day at dinner
my father was right well pleased. 'Tis little heed
he pays to such matters, and we scarce thought of
asking him how he liked the fare, when all at once
he said: “Good mother, you must give my thanks to
Jane Cook; 'twill cheer her in her work; nay, I owe
them.” Then says my mother: “But these two dishes
were not prepared by the cook, good husband;
'twas one of the maids.” “One of the maids?” he
says. ‘Well, which one of the maids?—truly, 'tis
Something rare to be found in a country house.’
And then there was a laughing amongst all of them;
and he fixes his eyes on me. “What?” he says,
‘that saucy wench? Is she striving to win her a
husband at last?’ And so you see, good grand-
mother, I must waste no more time here; for
Prudence hath one or two more of these receipts,
and I must try them to see whether my father ap-
proves or not.”
And so she kissed the old dame, and bade her
farewell, refusing at the same time to have the escort
of the small maid across the meadows to the town.
2O4 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
All the temporary annoyance of the morning was
now over and forgotten; she was wholly pleased to
have had this interview, and to have heard minutely
of all the great doings in London. She walked
quickly; a careless gladness shone in her face; and
she was lightly singing to herself—as she went along
the well-beaten path through the fields—
“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever.”
But it was not in the nature of any complaint
against the inconstancy of man that this rhyme had
come into her head. Quite other thoughts came as
well. At one moment she was saying to herself:
“Why, now, have I no spaniel-gentle with me
to keep me company?”
And then the next minute she was saying, with
a sort of laugh:
“God help me, I fear I am none of the spaniel-
gentle kind!”
But there was no deep Smiting of conscience
even when she confessed so much. Her face was
radiant and content; she looked at the cattle—Or
the trees, or the children, as it chanced—as if she
knew them all, and knew that they were friendly
towards her; and then again the idle air would
Come into her brain—
“Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey, nonny, nonny!”
A TIREWOMAN. 2O5
CHA PT E R XIV.
A TIREWOMAN.
IT was not until after supper that evening that
Judith was free to seek out her companion who had
fled from her in the morning; and when she did
steal forth—carrying a small basket in her hand—she
approached the house with much more caution than
was habitual with her. She glanced in at the lower
windows, but could see nothing. Then, instead of
trying whether the latch was left loose, she formally
knocked at the door.
It was opened by a little rosy-cheeked girl of
eleven or twelve, who instantly bobbed a respectful
Curtsey.
“Is Mistress Prudence within, little Margery?”
she said.
“Yes, if it please you,” said the little wench, and
she stood aside to let Judith pass.
But Judith did not enter; she seemed listening.
“Where is she?”
“In her own chamber, if it please you.”
“Alone, then?” .
“Yes, if it please you, Mistress Judith.”
Judith patted the little maid in requital of her
courtesy, and then stole noiselessly upstairs. The
door was open. Prudence was standing before a
2O6 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
small table ironing a pair of snow-white cuffs; the
while she was repeating to herself verses of a psalm.
Her voice, low as it was, could be heard distinctly:
“Open thou my lips, O Lord, and my mouth shall show
forth thy praise.
For thou desirest no sacrifice, though I would give it; thou
delightest not in burnt-offering.
The sacrifices of God are a contrite spirit; a contrite and a
broken heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.
Be favourable unto Zion for thy good pleasure; build the
walls of Jerusalem.
Then shalt thou accept the sacrifices of righteousness, even
the burnt-offering and oblation; then shall they offer calves upon
thine altar.”
She happened to turn her head; and then she
uttered a slight cry of surprise, and came quickly to
Judith, and caught her by the hand.
“What said he?” she exclaimed, almost breath-
lessly. “You saw him? 'Twas the same, was it
not? How came he there? Judith, tell me!”
“You timid mouse that ran away!” the other
said, with a complacent smile. “Why, what should
he say? But pritheee go on with the cuffs, else the
iron will be cold. And are you alone in the house,
|Prudence? There is no One below?”
“None but the maids, I trow; or Julius, per-
Chance, if he be come in from the malt-house.”
“Quick, then, with the cuffs,” Judith said, “and
get them finished. Nay, I will tell thee all about
the young gentleman thereafter. Get thee finished
with the cuffs, and put them on——”
“But I meant them not for this evening, Judith,”
said she, with her eyes turned away.
A TIREWOMAN. 2O7
“'Tis this evening, and now, you must wear
them,” her friend said peremptorily. “And more
than these. See I have brought you some things,
dear gossip, that you must wear for my Sake—nay,
nay, I will take no denial—you must and shall—
and with haste, too, must you put them on, lest any
one should come and find the mistress of the house
out of call. Is not this pretty, good Prudence?” .
She had opened the basket and taken therefrom
a plaited ruff that the briefest feminine glance
showed to be of the finest cobweb-lawn, tinged a
faint saffron hue, and tied with silken strings. Pru-
dence, who now divined the object of her visit, was
overwhelmed with confusion. The fair and pensive
face became rose-red with embarrassment; and she
did not even know how to protest.
“And this,” said Judith, in the most matter-of-
fact way, taking something else out of the basket,
“will also become you well–nay, not so, good
mouse, you shall be as prim and Puritanical as you
please to-morrow; to-night you shall be a little
braver; and is it not handsome, too?—’twas a gift
to my mother—and she knows that I have it—
though I have never worn it.”
This second article that she held out and stroked
with her fingers was a girdle of buff-coloured leather,
embroidered with flowers in silk of different colours,
and having a margin of filigree silverwork both
above and below, and a broad silver clasp.
“Come, then, let’s try—”
“Nay, Judith,” the other said, retreating a step,
“I cannot—indeed, I cannot——”
2O8 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Indeed, you must, silly child!” Judith said, and
she caught hold of her angrily. “I say you shall.
What know you of such things? Must I teach you
manners?” -
And when Judith was in this authoritative mood
Prudence had but little power to withstand her. Her
face was still burning with embarrassment; but she
succumbed in silence; while Judith whipped off the
plain linen collar that her friend wore, and set on
in its stead this small but handsome ruff. She ar-
ranged it carefully, and smoothed Prudence’s soft
fair hair, and gave a finishing touch to the three-
cornered cap: then she stepped back a pace or two
to contemplate her handiwork.
“There!” she exclaimed (pretending to see no-
thing of Prudence's blushes). “A princess! On my
life, a princess! And now for the girdle—but you
must cast aside that housewife's pouch, sweetheart,
and I will lend thee this little pomander of mine;
in truth 'twill suit it well——”
“No, no, dear Judith !” the other said, almost
piteously, “indeed I cannot prank me out in these
borrowed plumes. If you will have it so, I will
wear the ruff; but not the girdle—not the girdle, dear
cousin—that all would see was none of mine——”
“What's that?” Judith exclaimed suddenly, for
there was a noise below.
“”Tis Julius come in from the barn,” Prudence
said.
“Mercy on us,” the other cried, with a laugh,
“I thought 'twas the Spaniel-gentle come already.
So you will not wear the girdle? Well, the ruff be-
A TIREWOMAN. 2O9
comes you right fairly: and—and those roses in
your cheeks, good Prue—why, what is the matter?
Is there aught wonderful in one of Julius's friends
Coming to see him in the evening? And as the
mistress of the house you must receive him well
and Courteously; and be not so demure of speech,
and distant in manner, dearest heart, for youth must
have a little merriment, and we cannot always be
at Our prayers.”
“I know not what you mean, Judith, unless it
be something that is far away from any thought or
wish of mine.”
There was a touch of sincerity in this speech
that instantly recalled Judith from her half-jibing
ways. The truth was, that while she herself was
free enough in confiding to this chosen gossip of
hers all about such lovers or would-be lovers as
happened to present themselves, Prudence had never
volunteered any similar confidence in return; and
the very fact that there might be reasons for this
reticence was enough to keep Judith from seeking
to remove the veil. Judith herself was accustomed
to make merry over the whole matter of sweethearts
and rhymed messages and little tender gifts; but
Prudence was sensitive, and Judith was careful not
to wound her by indiscreet questioning. And at
this moment, when Prudence was standing there
confused and abashed, some compunction seized
the heart of her friend. She took her hand.
“In good sooth, I meant not to tease you, Sweet-
heart,” said she, in a kindly way; “and if I advise
you in aught 'tis but that you should make your
Şazdzáž Shakes/eare. A. I4.
2 I O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
brother’s house a pleasant resort for them that
would be friendly with him and visit him. What
harm can there be in receiving such with a cheerful
welcome?—and having a pretty house-mistress and
all things neat and conformable? Dear mouse, you
so often lecture me that I must have my turn; and
I do not find fault or cause of quarrel; ’tis but a
wish that you would be less severe in your ways,
and let your kind heart speak more freely. Men,
that have the burden of the world’s fight to bear,
love to meet women-folk that have a merry and
cheerful countenance—’twere a marvel else; and of
an evening, when there is idleness, and Some Solace
after the labours of the day, why should one be
glum, and thinking ever of that next world that is
coming Soon enough of its own accord? Look you,
now, how well the ruff becomes you; and what sin
is in it? The girdle too—think you my mother
would have worn it had there been aught of evil in
a simple piece of leather and embroidery?”
“”Tis many a day since she put it aside, as I
well remember,” Prudence said—but with a smile,
for she was easily won over. - -
“Truly,” said Judith, with a touch of scorn,
“the good preachers are pleased to meddle with
small matters when they would tell a woman what
she should wear, and order a maiden to give up a
finger-ring or a bit of lace, on peril of losing her
soul. These be marvellous small deer to be so
hunted and stormed about with bell, book, and
candle. But now, good Prudence, for this one even-
ing I would have you please your visitor and entertain
A TIREWOMAN. . 2 I I
him; and the spaniel-gentle—that, indeed, you must
take from him——”
“I cannot, dear Judith; ’twas meant for you!”
Prudence exclaimed.
“You cannot go back from your promise, good
cousin,” Judith said, coolly, and with some slight
inattention to facts. “’Twould be unmannerly of
you to refuse the gift, or to refuse ample thanks for
it either. And see you have plenty on the board,
for men like good fare along with good company;
and let there be no stint of wine or ale as they may
choose, for your brother's house, Prudence, must not
be niggard, were it only for appearance sake.”
“But you will stay, dear Judith, will you not?”
the other said, anxiously. “In truth you can entertain
them all, wherever you go; and always there is such
heart in the company——” -
“Nay, I cannot, sweet mouse,” Judith said, lightly.
“There is much for me to do now in the evenings,
since Susan has gone back to her own home. And
now I must go, lest your visitor arrive and find you
unprepared: marry, you must wear the cuffs as they
are, since I have hindered you in the ironing.”
“But you cannot go, Judith, till you have told
me what happened to-day at the Cottage,” the other
pleaded.
“What happened? Why, nothing!” Judith said,
brightly. “Only that my grandmother is of a mind
with myself, that a fairer-spoken young gentleman
seldom comes into these parts, and that, when he
does, he should be made welcome. Bless thy heart,
hadst thou but come in and seen how attentive the
14*
2 I 2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
good dame was to him; and she would press him
to have some claret-wine, but he said no—perchance
he guessed that good grandam had but small store
of that. Nay, but you should have come in, Pru-
dence—then would you assuredly have been Con-
Science-smitten about all your dark Surmisings. A
murderer forsooth!—a ghost!—a phantom!—why, so
civil was his manner that he but asked for a cup of
water in passing, and my grandmother must needs
have him come in out of the Sun, and rest him,
and have some milk. Was that like a ghost? I
warrant you there was naught of the ghost about
him when she put a solid repast before him on the
table; ghosts make no such stout attacks on goose-
berry tart and cheese, else they be sore belied.”
“But who and what is this man, Judith?’”
“Why, who can tell what any man is?” said the
other. “They all of them are puzzles, and unlike
other human creatures. But this one—well, he hath
a rare store of knowledge as to what is going for-
ward at the Court—and among the players, too;
and as we sate in the little bower there you would
have sworn you could see before you the river
Thames with a wonderful pageant on it—dolphins
and whales, and crowned sea-queens and the like;
and in the midst of them all the young Prince
Henry: “Long live the young Prince Henry!’ they
Cried; and there was such a noise of drums and
cannons and trumpets that you could scarce hear
my grandmother's bees among the flowers. I warrant
you the good dame was well repaid for her entertain-
ment, and right well pleased with the young gentle-
A TIREWOMAN. 2 I 3
man: I should not marvel to find him returning
thither, seeing that he can remain there in secrecy,
and have such gossip as pleases him.”
“But Judith, you know not what you do!” her
friend protested anxiously. “Do you forget—nay,
you cannot forget—that this was the very man the
wizard prophesied that you should meet; and more
than that, that he would be your husband!”
“My husband?” said Judith, with a flush of
colour, and she laughed uneasily. “Nay, not so,
good Prudence. He is not one that is likely to
choose a country wench. Nay, nay, the juggler
knave failed me—that is the truth of it; the charm
was a thing of naught; and this young gentleman,
if I met him by accident, the same might have
happened to you, as I showed you before. Marry,
I should not much crave to see him again, if any-
thing like that were in the wind; this is Stratford
town, 'tis not the forest of Arden; and in this neigh-
bourhood a maiden may not go forth to seek her
lover and coax him into the wooing of her. My
father may put that into a play, but methinks if he
heard of his own daughter doing the like the key
would quickly be turned on her. Nay, nay, good
Prue, you shall not fright me out of doing a civil
kindness to a stranger, and one that is in misfortune,
by flaunting his lovership before my eyes. There
be no such thing: do not I know the tokens? By
my life, this gentleman is too courteous to have a
lover’s mind with him!”
“And you will go and see him again, Judith?’”
her friend asked quickly.
2I4. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Nay, I said not that,” Judith answered, with
some complacence. “‘Tis not the forest of Arden—
would to heaven it were, for then life would move to a
pleasanter music! I said not that I would go forth
and seek him—that were not maidenly; and belike
there would come a coil of talking among the gossips,
or soon or late; but at this time of the year, do you
see, dear Cousin, the Country is fair to look upon;
and the air is sweeter in the meadows than it is
here in the town; and if a lone damsel, forsaken
by all else, should be straying silent and forlorn
along the pathway or by the river-side, and should
encounter One that hath but lately made her ac-
quaintance, why should not that acquaintance be
permitted in all modesty and courtesy to ripen into
friendship? The harm, good Prue; the harm of it?
Tush, your head is filled with childish fears of the
wizard; that is the truth; and had you but come
into the house to-day, and had but five minutes'
speech of the young gentleman, you would have
been as ready as any one to help in the beguile-
ment of the tedium of his hiding, if that be pos-
sible to two or three silly women. And bethink
you, was’t not a happy chance that I wore my
new velvet cap this morning?”
But she had been speaking too carelessly and
jestingly. This was a slip; and instantly she added
—with some touch of Confusion—
“I mean that I would fain have my father's
friends in London know that his family are not so
far out of the world or out of the fashion.”
A TIREWOMAN. 2 I5
“Is he one of your father's friends, Judith?’”
Prudence said, gravely.
“He is a friend of my father's friends, at least,”
said she, “and some day, I doubt not, he will him-
self be one of these. Truly that will be a rare
sight, some evening at New Place, when we con-
front you with him, and tell him how he was
charged with being a ghost, or a pirate, or an
assassin, or something of the like.”
“Your fancy runs free, Judith,” her friend said.
“Is’t a probable thing, think you, that one that
dares not come forth into the day, that is hiding
from justice, or perchance scheming in Catholic
plots, should become the friend of your house?”
“You saw him not at my grandmother's board,
good Prue,” said Judith, coolly. “The young gentle-
man hath the trick of making himself at home
wherever he cometh, I warrant you. And when this
cloud blows away, and he is free to come to Strat-
ford, there be none will welcome him more heartily
than I; for methinks he holdeth Master Benjamin
Jonson in too high consideration; and I would have
him see what is thought of my father in the town,
and what his estate is, and that his family, though
they live not in London, are not wholly of Moll-the-
milk-maid kind. And I would have Susan come
over, too; and were she to forget her preachers and
her psalms for but an evening, and were there any
merriment going forward, the young gentleman
would have to keep his wits clear, I’ll be bound.
There is the house, too, I would have him see; and
the silver-topped tankard with the writing on it from
2 I 6 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
my father's good friends; nay, I warrant me Julius
would not think of denying me the loan of the
King's letter to my father—were it but for an hour
or two——”
But here they were startled into silence by a
knocking below; then there was the sound of a
man’s voice in the narrow passage.
“”Tis he, sweetheart,” Judith said, quickly, and
she kissed her friend, and gave a final touch to the
ruff and the cap. “Get you down and welcome
him; I will go out when that you have shut the
door of the room. And be merry, good heart, be
merry—be brave and merry, as you love me!”
She almost thrust her out of the apartment, and
listened to hear her descend the stairs; then she
waited for the shutting of the chamber-door, and
finally she stole noiselessly down into the passage
and let herself out, without waiting for the little
maid Margery.
A FIRST PERFORMANCE. 217
C H A P T E R X. V.
A. FIRST PERFORMANCE.
“NAY, zur,” said the sour-visaged Matthew, as
he leaned his chin and both hands on the end of a
rake, and spoke in his slow-drawling grumbling
fashion; “nay, zur, this country be no longer the
country it wur; no, nor never will be again.”
“Why, what ails the land?” said Judith’s father,
turning from the small table in the summer-house,
and lying back in his chair, and crossing one knee
over the other, as if he would give a space to
idleness.
“Not the land, zur,” rejoined goodman Matthew,
oracularly. “Not the land; it be the men that live
in it; and that are all in such haste to make wealth,
with plundering of the poor and of each other, that
there’s naught but lying and cheating and roguery
—God a mercy, there never wur the loike in any
country under the sun. Why, zur, in my vather's
time, a pair o' shoes would wear you through all
weathers for a year; but now, with their half-tanned
leather, and their horse-hide, and their cat-skin for
the inner sole, ’tis a marvel if the rotten leaves
come not asunder within a month. And they be
all aloike; the devil would have no choice among
'em; the clothmaker he hideth his bad wool wi'
218 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
liquid stuff; and the tailor, no matter whether it
be doublet, cloak, or hose, he will filch you his
quarter of the cloth ere you see it again; and the
chandler—he be no better than the rest—he will
make you his wares of stinking offal that will splutter
and run over and do aught but give good light;
and the vintner, marry, who knoweth not his tricks
and knaveries of mixing and blending, and the
selling of poison instead of honest liquor? The
rogue butcher, too, he will let the blood soak in,
ay, and puff wind into the meat—meat, quothal—
'tis as like as not to have been found dead in a
ditch!”
“A bad case, indeed, good Matthew, if they be
all preying on each other so.”
“”Tis the poor man pays for all, zur,” said
Matthew, continuing his growlings (which, indeed,
were for the most part but echoes of Stubbes, that
had reached him through the Puritan preachers).
“Though how he liveth to pay no man can tell,
what with the landlords racking the rents, and en-
closing the commons and pasturages—nay, 'tis a
noble pastime the making of parks and warrens,
and shutting the poor man out, that used to have
his cow there and a pig or two; but no, now shall
he not let a goose stray within the fence. And
what help hath the poor man? May he go to the
lawyers, with their leases and clauses that none can
understand—ay, and their fists that must be well
greased ere they set to the business? 'Tis the poor
man pays for all, zur, I warrant ye; nor must he
grumble when the gentleman goes a-hunting and
A FIRST PERFORMANCE. 2 IQ
breaks down his hedges and tramples his corn.
Corn? 'Tis the last thing they think of, beshrew
me else! They are busiest of all in sending our
good English grain—ay, and Our English beef, and
bacon, and tallow—beyond the seas; and to bring
back what?—baubles of glass beads and amber,
fans for my ladies, and new toys from Turkey!
The proud dames—I would have their painted faces
scratched l’’
“What, what, good Matthew?” Judith’s father
said, laughing. “What know you of the city ladies
and their painting?”
“Nay, nay, zur, the London tricks be spread
abroad, I warrant ye; there’s not a farmer's wife
nowadays but must have her French hood and her
daughter a taffeta cap—marry, and a grogram gown
lined through with velvet! And there be other towns
in the land than London, to learn the London tricks;
I have heard of the dames and their daughters; set
them up with their pinching and girding with whale-
bone, to get a small waist withal!—ay, and the
Swallowing of ashes and candles and whatever will
spoil their stomach to give them a pale-bleak colour.
Lord, what a thing 'tis to be rich and in the fashion!
—let the poor man suffer as he may. Corn, i'faith !
—there be plenty of corn grown in the land, God
wot; but ’tis main too dear for the poor man; the
rack-rents for him, and a murrain on him; the Corn
for the fore-stallers and the merchants and gentle-
men, that send it out of the country; and back come
the silks and civets for proud Madam and her
painted crew!” g
220 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“God have mercy on us, man!” Judith’s father
exclaimed, and he drove him aside, and got out
into the sunlight. At the same moment he caught
sight of Judith herself.
“Come hither, wench, come hither!” he called
to her. *
She was nothing loth. She had merely been
taking some scraps to the Don; and seeing Matthew
in possession there, she had not even stayed to look
into the summer-house. But when her father came
out and called to her, she went quickly towards
him; and her eyes were bright enough—on this
bright morning.
“What would you, father?” .
For answer he plucked off her cap and threw it
aside, and took hold of her by a bunch of her now
loosened and short sun-brown curls.
“Father!” she protested (but with no great
anger). “There be twenty minutes' work un-
done!”
“Where bought you those roses?” said he,
sternly. “Answer me, wench!”
“I bought no roses, father!”
“The paint? Is’t not painted? Where got you
such a face, madam?”
“Father, you have undone my hair; and the
parson is coming to dinner.”
“Nay, I’ll be sworn 'tis as honest a face as
mother nature ever made. This goodman Matthew
hath belied you!”
“What said he of me?” she asked, with a flash
of anger in her eyes,
A FIRST PERFORMANCE. 22 I
Her father put his hand on her neck, and led
her away.
“Nay, nay, come thy ways, lass; thou shalt pick
me a handful of raspberries. And as for thine hair,
let that be as God made it; 'tis even better so; and
yet methinks” — here he stopped and passed his
hand lightly once or twice over her head, so that
any half-imprisoned curls were set free—“methinks,”
said he, regarding the pretty hair with considerable
favour, “if you would as lief have some ornament
for it, I saw that in London that would answer right
well. ’T was a net-work kind of cap; but the net-
ting so fine you could scarce see it; and at each
point a bead of gold: now, Madam Vanity, what
say you to that?—would you let your hair grow free
as it is now, and let the sunlight play with it, were
I to bring thee a fairy cap all besprinkled with gold?”
“I will wear it any way you wish, father, and
right gladly,” said she, “and I will have no cap at
all if it please you.”
“Nay, but you shall have the gossamer cap,
wench; I will not forget it when next I go to LOn-
don.”
“I would you had never to go to London again,”
said she, rather timidly.
He regarded her for a second with a scrutinis-
ing look, and there was an odd sort of Smile on his
face. -
“Why,” said he, “I was but this minute writing
about a man that had to use diverse arts and de-
vices for the attainment of a certain end—yea, and
devices that all the world would not approve of,
22.2 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
perchance; and that was ever promising to himself
that when the end was gained he would put aside
these spells and tricks, and be content to live as
other men live, in a quiet and ordinary fashion.
Wouldst have me live ever in Stratford, good lass?”
“The life of the house goes out when you go
away from us,” said she simply.
“Well, Stratford is no wilderness,” said he cheer-
fully; “and I have no bitter feud with mankind that
I would live apart from them. Didst ever think,
wench,” he added, more absently, “how sad a man
must have been ere he could speak so—
‘Happy were he could finish forth his fate
In Some unhaunted desert, most obscure
From all Societies, from love and hate
Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure;
Then wake again, and ever give God praise,
Content with hips and haws and bramble-berry;
In contemplation spending all his days,
And change of holy thoughts to make him merry;
Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush,
Where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.”
“Is it that you are writing now, father?”
“Nay, indeed,” said he slowly, and a cloud came
over his face. “That was written by one that was
my good friend in bygone days; by one that was
betrayed and done to death by lying tongues, and
had but sorry favour shown him in the end by those
he had served.”
He turned away. She thought she heard him
say “My noble Essex!” but she was mutely follow-
ing him. And then he said—
“Come, lass; come pick me the berries!”
A. FIRST PERFORMANCE. 223
He kept walking up and down by himself, while
her nimble fingers were busy with the bushes; and
when she had collected a sufficiency of the fruit
and brought it to him, she found that he appeared
to be in no hurry this morning, but was now grown
cheerful again, and rather inclined to talk to her.
And she was far from telling him that her proper
place at this moment was within-doors, to see that
the maids were getting things forward: and if she
bestowed a thought of any kind on the good parson,
it was to the effect that both he and the dinner
would have to wait. Her father had hold of her by
the arm. He was talking to her of all kinds of
things, as they slowly walked up and down the path
—but of his friends in Stratford mostly, and their
various ways of living: and this she conceived to
have Some reference to his project of withdrawing
altogether from London and settling down for good
amongst them. Indeed, so friendly and communica-
tive was he on this clear morning—in truth, they
were talking like brother and sister—that when at
last he went into the summer-house she made bold
to follow; and when he chanced to look at some
sheets lying on the table, she said—
“Father, what is the story of the man with the
devices?”
For an instant he did not understand what she
meant; then he laughed.
“Nay, pay you no heed to such things, child.”
“And why should not I, father, seeing that they
bring you So great honour?”
“Honour, say you?”—but then he seemed to
224 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
check himself. This was not Julius Shawe, to whom
he could speak freely enough about the conditions
of an actor's life in London. “Well, then, the story
is of a banished Duke, a man of great wisdom and
skill, and he is living on a desert island with his
daughter—a right fair maiden she is, too, and she
has no other companion in the world but him-
self——” -
“But he is kind to her and good?” she said
quickly.
“Truly.”
“What other companion would she have, then?
Is she not content — ay, and right well pleased
Withal?”
“Methinks the story would lag with but these,”
her father said, with a smile. “Would you not have
her furnished with a lover—a young Prince and a
handsome—one that would play chess with her, and
walk with her, while her father was busy?”
“But how on a desert island? How should she
find such an one?” Judith said—with her eyes all
intent.
“There, you see, is where the magic comes in.
What if her father have at his command a sprite, a
goblin, that can work all wonders—that can dazzle
people in the dark, and control the storm, and
whistle the young Prince to the very feet of his mis-
tress?”
Judith sighed, and glanced at the sheets lying
on the table. -
“Alas, good father, why did you aid me in my
folly, and suffer me to grow up so ignorant?”
A. FIRST PERFORMANCE, 225
“Folly, fond wench!” said he, and he caught her
by the shoulders, and pushed her out of the sum-
mer-house. “Thank God you have naught to do
with any such stuff. There, go you and seek out
Prudence, and get you into the fields, and give
those pink roses in your cheeks an airing. Is’t not
a rare morning? And you would blear your eyes
with books, silly wench? Get you gone—into the
meadows with you—and you may gather me a nose-
gay if your fingers would have work.”
“I must go indoors, father; good Master Blaise
is coming to dinner,” said she, “but I will bring
you the nosegay in the afternoon, so please you.
So fare you well,” she added; and she glanced at
him, “and pray you, sir, be kind to the young
Prince.”
He laughed and turned away; and she hurried
quickly into the house. In truth, all through that
day she had plenty to occupy her attention; but
whether it was the maids that were asking her ques-
tions, or her mother seeking her help, or good
Master Walter paying authoritative court to her, her
eyes were entirely distraught. For they saw before
them a strange island, with magic Surrounding it,
and two young lovers, and a grave and elderly man
regarding them; and she grew to wonder how much
more of that story was shut up in the Summer-house,
and to lament her misfortune in that she could not
go boldly to her father and ask him to be allowed
to read it. She felt quite certain that, could she
but sit down within there and peruse these sheets
for herself he would not say her nay; and from that
judźh Shakesøeare. Z. I5
226 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
conclusion to the next—that on the first chance she
would endeavour to borrow the sheets and have
them read to her—was but an obvious step, and
one that she had frequently taken before. More-
over, on this occasion, the chance came to her SOOner
than she could have expected. Towards dusk in
the evening her father went out, saying that he was
going along to see how the Harts were doing. Mat-
thew gardener was gone home. The parson had
left hours before, and her mother was in the brew-
house and out of hearing. Finally, to crown her
good fortune she discovered that the key had been
left in the door of the summer-house; and so the
next minute found her inside and on her knees.
It was a difficult task. There was scarcely any
light, for she dared not leave the door open; and
the mark that she put on the sheets, to know
which she had carried to Prudence, was minute.
And yet the sheets seemed to have been tossed into
this receptacle in fairly regular order; and when at
length, and after much straining of her eyes, she
had got down to the marked ones, she was rejoiced
to find that there remained above these a large bulk
of unperused matter; and the question was as to
how much it would be prudent to carry off. Further,
she had to discover where there was some kind of
division, so that the story should not abruptly break
off; and she had acquired some experience in this
direction. In the end, the portion of the play that
she resolved upon taking with her was modest and
small; there would be the less likelihood of de-
tection; and it was just possible that she would
A FIRST PERFORMANCE, 227
have no opportunity of returning the sheets that
night.
And then she quickly got indoors, and put on
her hood and muffler, and slipped out into the dusk.
She found Prudence alone in the lower room, sitting
sewing, the candles on the table being already lit;
and some distance off, curled up and fast asleep on
the floor, lay the little spaniel-gentle.
“Dear heart,” said Judith, brightly, as she
glanced at the little dog, “you have shown good
sense after all; I feared me you would fall away
from my wise counsel.”
“My brother was well inclined to the little crea-
ture,” Prudence said, with some embarrassment.
“And you had a right merry evening, I’ll be
bound,” Judith continued, blithely. “And was there
singing?—nay, he can sing well when he is in the
mood—none better. Did he give you
‘There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow’
—for Julius is more light-hearted in such matters
than you are, dear mouse. And was there any
trencher-business?—and wine? I warrant me Julius
would not have his guest sit dry-throated. 'Twas a
merry evening, in good sooth, Sweetheart?”
“They talked much together,” Prudence said,
with her eyes cast down.
“They talked? Mercy on us, were you not civil
to him? Did you not thank him prettily for the
little spaniel?”
“In a measure I think ’twas Julius took the little
creature from him,” Prudence said, bashfully.
15*
228. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Beshrew me now, but you know better!—’twas
given to you, you know right well: a spaniel-gentle
for your brother—as soon would he think of a
farthingale and a petticoat! And what did he say?
Had he aught special to say to you, gossip?”
“He would have me look at an ancient book he
had, with strange devices on the leaves,” Prudence
said. “Truly, 'twas strange and wonderful, the
Ornamentation of it in gold and colours, though I
doubt me 'twas the work of monks and priests. He
would have me take it from him,” she added, with
a faint blush. -
“And you would not, silly one?” Judith ex-
claimed, angrily.
“Would you have me place such Popish emblems
alongside such a book as that that Dr. Hall gave
me? Dear Judith, 'twould be a pollution, and a
sin!” -
“But you gave him thanks for the offer, then?”
“Of a surety; ’twas meant in friendship.”
“Well, well; right glad am I to see the little
beast lying there; and methinks your gentleness
hath cast a spell o'er it already, or 'twould not rest
So Soundly. And now, dear mouse, I have come to
tax your patience once more: see, here is part of
the new play; and we must go to your chamber,
dear Prue, lest some one come in and discover us.”
Prudence laughed in her quiet fashion.
“I think 'tis you that casteth spells, Judith, else
I should not be aiding thee in this perilous matter.”
But she took one of the candles in her hand
nevertheless, and led the way upstairs; and then,
A FIRST PERFORMANCE. 229
when they had carefully bolted the door, Judith
placed the roll of sheets on the table, and Prudence
sate down to arrange and decipher them.
“But this time,” Judith said, “have I less weight
On my conscience, for my father hath already told
me part of the story; and why should not I know
the rest? Nay, but it promises well, I do assure
thee, Sweetheart; 'tis a rare beginning—the desert
island, and the sprite that can work wonders, and
the poor banished Duke and his daughter. Ay, and
there comes a handsome young Prince, too; marry,
you shall hear of marvels! For the sprite is one
that can work magic at the bidding of the Duke,
and be seen like a fire in the dark, and can lead a
storm whither he lists——” -
“'Tis with a storm that it begins,” Prudence
said, for now she had arranged the sheets.
And instantly Judith was all attention. It is
true, she seemed to care little for the first scene
and the squabbles between the sailors and the
gentlemen; she was anxious to get to the enchanted
island; and when, at length, Prudence introduced
Prospero and Miranda, Judith listened as if a new
world were being slowly opened before her. And
yet not altogether with silence; for sometimes she
would utter a few words of quick assent, or even
explanation; but always so as not to interfere with
the gentle-voiced reader. By and by, when the
banished Duke had come to the end of his story,
and when he had caused slumber to fall upon his
daughter's eyes, and was about to summon Ariel,
Judith interposed to give the patient reader a rest.
23O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“And what say you, Prudence,” said she, eagerly.
“Is’t not a beautiful story? Is she not a sweet and
obedient maiden, and he a right noble and gentle
father? Ah, there, now, they may talk about their
masques and pageants of the Court, and gods and
goddesses dressed up to saw the air with long
speeches: see you what my father can tell you in a
few words, so that you can scarcely wait but must
on to hear the rest. And do I hurry you, good
Prue? Will you to it again? For now the sprite is
summoned that is to work the magic.” -
“Indeed 'tis no heavy labour, Judith,” her frien
said, with a smile. “And now here is your Ariel.”
She continued the reading.
“And hath he not done well, that clever imp!”
Judith cried. “Nay, but my father shall reward
him—that he shall—’twas bravely done and well.
And now to bring the Prince to the maiden that
hath never seen a sweetheart—that comes next,
good Prue?—I marvel now what she will say?”
“”Tis not yet, Judith,” her friend said, and she
went on with her task, while Judith sate and re-
garded the dusky shadows beyond the flame of the
candle as if the wonder-world were shining there.
Then they arrived at Ariel’s song, “Come unto these
yellow sands,” and all the hushed air around seemed
filled with music; but it was distant somehow, so
that it did not interfere with Prudence's gentle voice.
“But would he take her away?” said Judith,
presently (but to herself, as it were). “Nay, never
So! They must remain on the island—the two
A. FIRST PERFORMANCE. 23 I
happy lovers—with Ariel to wait on them: Surely
my father will so make it?” *
Then, as it appeared, came trouble to check the
too swift anticipations of the Prince, though Judith
guessed that the father of Miranda was but feigning
in his wrath; and when Prudence finally came to
the end of such sheets as had been brought her,
and looked up, Judith’s eyes were full of confidence
and pride—not only because she was sure that the
story would end happily, but also because she
would have her chosen gossip say Something about
what she had read.
“Well?” said She.
“”Tis a marvel,” Prudence said, with a kind of
sigh, “that shapes of the air can so take hold of us.”
Judith Smiled; there was something in her
manner that Prudence did not understand.
“And Master Jonson, good Prue—that they call
Ben Jonson—what of him?”
“I know not what you mean, Judith.”
“Sure you know they make so much of him at
the Court—and of his long speeches about Greece
and Rome and the like—and when one comes into
the country with news of what is going forward, by
my life you’d think that Master Jonson were the
only writer in the land! What say you, good Prue:
could worthy Master Jonson invent you a scene like
that?” - ‘.
“In truth I know not, Judith; I never read aught
of his writing.”
Judith took over the sheets and carefully rolled
them up. ar
232 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“Why,” said she, “’twas my father brought him
forward; and had his first play taken in at the
theatre!”
“But your father and he are great friends, Ju-
dith, as I am told; why should you speak against
him?” -
“I speak against him?” said Judith, as she rose;
and there was an air of calm indifference on her
face. “In truth I have naught to say against the
good man. 'Tis well that the Court ladies are
pleased with Demogorgons and such idle stuff; and
'tis passing well that he knows the trade. Now give
ye good-night and Sweet dreams, dear mouse; and
good thanks, too, for the reading.”
But at the door below—Prudence having followed
her with the candle—she turned and said, in a
whisper—
“Now, tell me true, good cousin: think you my
father hath ever done better than this magic island,
and the sweet Miranda, and the rest?”
“You know I am no judge of such matters, Ju-
dith,” her friend answered. -
“But, dear heart, were you not bewitched by it?
Were you not taken away thither? Saw you not
those strange things before your very eyes?”
“In good sooth, then, Judith,” said the other,
with a smile, “for the time being I knew not that I
was in Stratford town, nor in our own country of
England either.”
Judith laughed lightly and quickly, and with a
kind of pride too. And when she got home to her
own room, and once more regarded the roll of
BY THE RIVER, 233
sheets before bestowing them away in a secret place,
there was a fine bravery of triumph in her eyes. “Ben
Jonson!” she said, but no longer with any anger—
rather with a sovereign contempt. Then she locked
up the treasure in her small cupboard of boxes,
and went downstairs again to seek out her mother;
and now her heart was quite recovered from its
envy, and was beating warm and equably in its dis-
position towards all mankind; and her mind was
full of a proud and perfect confidence. “Ben Jon-
son!” she said.
CHA PTER XVI.
By THE RIVER,
THE next morning she was unusually demure,
and yet merry withal. In her own chamber, as she
chose out a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, and laid
On the bed her girdle of buff-coloured leather, and
proceeded to array herself in these and other
braveries, it was to the usual accompaniment of
thoughtless and quite inconsequent ballad-singing.
At One moment it was “Green-sleeves was all my
joy,” and again, “Fair, fair, and twice so fair,” or
perhaps—
“An ambling nag, and a-down, a-down,
We have borne her away to Dargison.”
But when she came to take forth from the cup-
board of boxes the portion of the play she had
locked up there the night before, and when she
234 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
carefully placed that in a satchel of dark blue velvet
that she had attached to the girdle, she was silent;
and when she went downstairs and encountered her
mother there was a kind of anxious innocence On
her face. The good parson (she explained) had
remained so late on the previous afternoon, and
there were so many things about the house she had
to attend to, that she had been unable to get out
into the fields, as her father had bade her, to bring
him home some wild flowers. Besides, as every
One knew, large dogs got weak in the hind legs if
they were kept chained up too continuously; and
it was absolutely necessary she should take Don
Roderigo out for a run with her through the meadows
if her father would permit.
“There be plenty of flowers in the garden,
surely,” her mother said, who was busy with some
leather hangings, and wanted help.
“But he would liefer have some of the little
wildlings, good mother,” said Judith. “That I know
right well, for he is pleased to see them lying on
the table before him; and sometimes, too, he puts
the names of them in his writing.”
“How know you that?” was the immediate and
sharp question. -
“As I have heard, good mother,” Judith said,
with calm equanimity.
And then she went to the small mirror to see
that her gray velvet cap and starched ruff were all
right. -
“What can your father want with wild flowers if
BY THE RIVER, 235
he is to remain the whole day at Warwick?” her
mother said.
“Is my father going to Warwick?” she asked,
quickly.
“If he be not already set forth.”
She glanced at the window; there was neither
horse nor serving-man waiting there. And then she
hastily went out and through the backyard into the
garden, and there, sure enough, was her father,
ready booted for the road, and giving a few parting
diretions to his bailiff.
“Well, wench,” he said, when he had finished
with the man, “what would you?”
She had taken from her purse all the money
she could find there.
“Good father,” said she, “will you do this er-
rand for me at Warwick?”
“More vanities?” said he. “I wonder you have
no commissioner to despatch to Spain and Flan-
ders. What is't then?—a muff of satin—a gimmal
ring——”
“No, no, not so, father; I would have you buy
for me a clasp-knife—as good a one as the money
will get; and the cutler must engrave on the blade,
Or on the handle, I care not which, a message—an
inscription, as it were—’tis but three words—For
Judith’s Sweelheart. Could you remember that, good
father?—is’t too much of a trouble?”
“How now?” said he, “For whom do you wish
me to bring you such a token?”
“Nay, sir,” said she, demurely, “would you have
236 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
me name names? The gift of a Sweetheart to a
sweetheart is a secret thing.” -
“You are a mad wench,” said he (though doubt-
less he guessed for whom the knife was intended),
and he called to Matthew gardener to go round
and see if Master Shawe were not yet ready. “But
now I bethink me, child, I have a message for thee.
Good Master Walter spoke to me yesternight about
what much concerns him—and you.”
Instantly all her gay self-confidence vanished;
she became confused, anxious, timid; and she re-
garded him as if she feared what his look or manner
might Convey.
“Yes, sir?” she said, in rather a low voice.
“Well, you know what the good man wishes,”
her father said, “and he speaks fairly, and reasoneth
well. Your mother, too, would be right well pleased.”
“And you, sir?” she said, rather faintly.
“I?” said he. “Nay, 'tis scarce a matter that I
can say aught in. 'Tis for yourself to decide,
wench; but were you inclined to favour the young
parson I should be well pleased enough—indeed
'tis so—a good man and honest, as I take him to
be—of fair attainment, and I know of none that
bear him ill will, or have aught to say against him.
Nay, if your heart be set that way, wench, I see
no harm; you are getting on in years to be still in
the unmarried state; and, as he himself says, there
would be security in seeing you settled in a home
of your own, and your future no longer open and
undecided. Nay, nay, I see no harm. He reasons
Well.”
BY THE RIVER, 237
“But, father, know you why he would have me
become his wife?” Judith said, with a wild feeling
Overcoming her that she was drowning and must
needs throw out her hands for help. “’Tis for no
matter of affection that I can make out—or that he
might not as well choose any other in the town—
but 'tis that I should help him in his work—and—
and—labour in the vineyard, as he said. In truth
I am all unfit for such a task—there be many an-
other far better fitted than I; my mother must know
that right well. There is little that I would not do
to please her; but surely we might all of us have
just as much of the good man’s company without
this further bond. But what say you, father? What
is your wish?” she added, humbly. “Perchance I
could bring my mind to it if all were anxious that
it should be so.”
- “Why, I have told thee, wench, thou must
choose for thyself. 'Twould please your mother
right well, as I say; and as for the duties of a
parson's wife—nay, nay, they are none so difficult.
Have no fears on that score, good lass; I dare be
SWOrn you are as honest and well-minded as most,
though perchance you make less profession of it.”
(The gratitude that sprang to her eyes, and shone
there, in spite of her downcast face!) “Nor must
you think the good parson has but that end in
view; ’tis not in keeping with his calling that he
should talk the language of romances. Consider
it, wench, consider. And there is more for you to
think of. Even if Master Blaise be no vehement
lover, as some of the young rattlepates might be,
238 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
that is but a temporary thing; ’tis the long years
of life that weigh for the most; and all through
these you would be in an honourable station, well
thought of and respected. Nay, there be many, I
can tell thee, lass, that might look askance now at
the player's daughter, who would be right glad to
welcome the parson’s wife.”
“What say you, father?” said she—and she was
so startled that the blood forsook her lips for a
moment. “That—that there be those—who scorn
the player’s daughter—and would favour the par-
son’s wife?” And then she instantly added, “I pray
you, sir, did not you say that I was to decide for
myself?”
“Truly, child, truly!” said he, somewhat won-
dering at her manner, for her face had grown quite
pale.
“Then I have decided, father.”
“And how? What answer will you have for
Master Walter?”
She spoke slowly now, and with a distinctness
that was almost harsh.
“This, so please you, sir — that the player's
daughter shall not, and shall never, become the
parson’s wife, God helping her!”
“Why, how now, what a coil is this!” he ex-
claimed. “Good lass, ’twas not the parson that
said aught of the kind. Lay not that to his charge,
in fair honesty!”
“I have decided,” she said, proudly and coldly.
“Father, the horses are brought round—I can hear
BY THE RIVER, 239
them. You will not forget the knife, and the mes-
sage on the blade?”
He looked at her and laughed—but in a kindly
way; and he took her by the shoulder.
“Nay, now, wench, thou shalt not throw over
the good man for a matter that was none of his
bringing forward. And why should you wish to
have less than the respect of all your neighbours,
all and Sundry, whatever be their views? In good
Sooth I meant to speak for the parson, and not to
harm him; and when I have more time I must
undo the ill that I have done him. So soften your
heart, you proud one, and be thankful for the
honour he would do you, and think over it, and be
civil and grateful.”
“Nay, I will be civil enough to the good
minister,” said she, with a return to her ordinary
placid humour, “if he speak no more of making me
his wife.”
“He will win you yet, for as stubborn as you
are,” her father said, with a smile. “He hath a
rare gift of reason; do not say may too soon, wench,
lest you have to recall your words. Fare you well,
lass, fare you well!”
“And forget not the knife, good father. “With
Judith’s love,” or ‘For Judith’s Sweetheart,” or what
you will.” And then she added, daringly: “'Tis
for the young Prince Mamillius, if you must know,
good sir.” -
He was just going away, but this caused him to
stop for a second; and he glanced at her with a
curious kind of suspicion. But her eyes had be-
24O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Come quite inscrutable. Whatever of dark mischief
was within them was not to be made out but by
further questioning, and for that he had now no
time. So she was left alone, mistress of the field,
and rather inclined to laugh at her own temerity,
until it occurred to her that now she could go
leisurely forth for her stroll along the banks of the
Avon, taking the great dog with her.
Indeed her anger was always short-lived. Or
perhaps it was the feeling that this danger was got
rid of—that the decision was taken, and the parson
finally and altogether left behind her—that now
raised her spirits. At all events, as she went along
the thoroughfare and cheerfully greeted those that
met her, the neighbours said 'twas little wonder
that Master William Shakespeare's second daughter
put off the choosing of a mate for herself, for that
she seemed to grow younger and more winsome
every day. And she knew all the children by name,
and had a word for them—scolding or merry as
the case might be—when that she passed them by;
and what with the clear sunlight of the morning,
and the fresher atmosphere as she got out of the
town, it seemed to herself as if all the air were
filled with music. -
“Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,”
she said or sang to herself; and she had not a trace
of ill will in her mind against the parson (although
she did not fail to recollect that she was a player's
daughter); and she was admonishing the Don to
BY THE RIVER, 24. I
take good care of her, for that phantom conspira-
tors and such like evil creatures might be about.
And so she got down to the river-side; but she did
not cross; she kept along by the path that followed
the windings of the stream, between the wide mea-
dows and the luxurious vegetation that overhung
the current.
This English-looking landscape was at its fairest
On this fair morning, for some heavy rain in the
night had washed the atmosphere clear; everything
seemed sharp and luminous; and the rows of trees
along the Summits of the distant and low-lying hills
were almost black against the white and blue sky.
Nearer her all the foliage of the wide-branching
elms was stirring and rustling before a soft westerly
breeze; the flooded river was of a tawny brown,
while its banks were a wilderness of wild flowers
between the stems of the stunted willows—straggling
rose-bushes of white and red, tall masses of goose-
grass all powdered over with cream-white blossom,
a patch of fragrant meadow-sweet here and there,
or an occasional blood-red poppy burning among
the dark dull greens. And as for companions?
Well, she caught a glimpse of a brood of ducks
sidling along by the reeds, and tried to follow them,
but the bushes shut them out from her sight. A
mare and her foal, standing under the cool shadow
of the trees, gazed blankly at her as she passed.
Farther off there were some shorn sheep in the
meadows, but she could see no shepherd. The
harsh note of the corn-crake sounded somewhere in
the long grass; and the bees were busy; and now
județh Shakesfeare. Z. I6
242 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
and again a blue-backed swallow would Swoop by
her and over the stream; while all around there
was a smell of clover sweetening the westerly wind.
At this moment she convinced herself she bore no
ill will at all against the good parson: only that she
had it in her mind that she would be well content
to remain a player’s daughter. Her condition, she
imagined, was one that she did not desire to have
bettered. Why, the air that touched her cheek was
like velvet; and there could be nothing in the world
fairer than the pink and white roses bestarring the
bushes there; and the very pulse of her blood
seemed to beat to an unheard and rhythmical and
subtle tune. What was it her father had said? “I
dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded
as most, though perchance you make less profession
of it.” She laughed to herself, with a kind of pride.
And she was so well content that she wished she
had little Willie Hart here that she might put her
hand on his shoulder, and pet him, and convey to
him some little of that satisfaction that reigned
within her own bosom. No matter, he should have
the clasp-knife—“with Judith’s love,”— and right
proud he would be of that, she made sure. And
SO she went idly on her way, sometimes with—
“Fair, fair, and twice so fair,
And fair as any may be,”
Coming uncalled for into her head; and always with
an eye to the various wild flowers, to see what kind
of a nosegay she would be able to gather on her
homeward walk.
BY THE RIVER, 243
But by and by her glances began to go farther
afield. Master Leofric Hope, in his brief references
to his own habits and condition at the farm, had
incidentally remarked that of all his walks abroad
he preferred the following of the path by the river-
side, for there he was most secure from observation.
Nay, he said that sometimes, after continued soli-
tude, a longing possessed him to see a town—to see
a populated place filled with a fair number of his
fellow-creatures—and that he would come within
sight of Stratford itself and have a look at the
church, and the church spire, and the thin blue
Smoke rising over the houses. That, he said, was
safer for him than coming over such an exposed
thoroughfare as Bardon Hill; and then again, when
he was of a mind to read—for this time he had
brought one or two books with him—he could find
many a sheltered nook by the side of the stream,
where even a passer-by would not suspect his pre-
sence. Nor could Judith, on this fresh, warm, breezy
morning, conceal from herself the true object of her
coming forth. If she had tried to deceive herself
the contents of the blue velvet satchel would have
borne crushing testimony against her. In truth, she
was now looking with some eagerness to find whether,
On Such a pleasant morning, it was possible that he
could have remained within-doors, and with the
very distinct belief that sooner or later she would
encounter him. - -
Nor was she mistaken, though the manner of
the meeting was unexpected. The mastiff happened
to have gone on a yard or two in front of her, and
I6*
244 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
she was paying but little attention to the beast, when
all of a sudden it stopped, became rigid, and uttered
a low growl. She sprang forward and seized it by
the collar. At the same instant she caught sight of
some one down by the water’s edge, where, but for
this occurrence, he would doubtless have escaped
observation. It was Leofric Hope without a doubt;
for now he was clambering up through the bushes,
and she saw that he had a small book in his hand.
“My good fortune pursues me, fair Mistress
Judith,” said he (but with a watchful eye on the
dog), “that I should so soon again have an oppor-
tunity of meeting with you. But perchance your
protector is jealous? He likes not strangers?”
“A lamb, sir, a very lambº!” Judith said, and
she patted the dog, and coaxed him, and got him
into a more friendly—or, at least, neutral and watch-
ful—frame of mind.
“I marvel not you have come forth on such a
morning,” said he, regarding the fresh colour in her
face. “‘Tis a rare morning, and ’tis a rare chance
for one that is a prisoner, as it were, that his
dungeon is not four walls, but the wide spaces of
Warwickshire. Will you go farther? May I attend
you?”
“Nay, sir,” said she, “I but came forth to look
at the country and see what blossoms I could carry
back to my father. I will go as far as the stile
there and rest a few minutes, and return.” |
“’Tis like your kindness, sweet lady, to vouch-
safe me a moment’s conversation; a book is but a
dull Companion,” said he, as they walked along to
BY THE RIVER, 245,
the stile that formed part of a boundary hedge.
And when they reached it she seated herself on the
wooden bar with much content, and the mastiff lay
down, stretching out his paws, while the young
gentleman stood idly—but not carelessly—by. He
seemed more than ever anxious to interest his fair
neighbour, and so to beguile her into remaining.
“A dull companion,” he repeated, “it is; one
would rather hear the sound of one’s voice occasion-
ally. When I came along here this morning I should
have been right glad even to have had a she shep-
herd say “Good-morrow’ to me—”
“A what, good sir?” she asked.
He laughed.
“Nay, 'tis a book the wits in London have much
merriment over just now—a guide-book for the use
of foreigners coming to this country—and there be
plenty of them at present, in the train of the am-
bassadors. Marry, the good man’s English is none
of the best. ‘For to ask f/he zway’ is a chapter of
the book; and the one traveller says to the other,
“Ask of that she shepherd’—in truth, the phrase hath
been caught up by the town. But the traveller is
of a pleasant and courteous turn; when that he
would go to bed, he says to the chambermaid:
*Draw the curtains, and pin them with a pin. My
she friend, kiss me once, and I shall sleep the
'better. I thank you, fair maiden.’ Well, their
English may be none of the best, but they have a
royal way with them, some of those foreigners that
come to our Court. When the Constable of Castile
was at the great banquet at Whitehall—doubtless
246 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
you heard of it, sweet Mistress Judith?—he rose
and drank the health of the Queen from a cup of
agate of extraordinary value, all set with diamonds
and rubies, and when the King had drunk from the
same cup the Constable called a servant, and de-
sired that the cup should be placed on his Majesty's
buffet, to remain there: was’t not a royal gift? And
so likewise he drank the health of the King from a
beautiful dragon-shaped cup of crystal all garnished
with gold; but he drank from the cover only, for
the Queen, standing up, drank the pledge from the
cup itself; and then he would have that in turn
transferred to her buffet, as he had given the other
one to the King.”
“My father,” said she, with much complacent
good-nature—for she had got into the way of talk-
ing to this young gentleman with a marvellous ab-
sence of restraint or country shyness — “hath a
tankard of great age and value, and on the silver
top of it is a tribute engraved from many of his
friends—truly, I would that you could come and
See it, good sir—and—and—my father, too, he
would make you welcome, I doubt not. And what
book is it,” she continued, with a smile, “that you
have for companion, seeing that there be no she shep-
herd for you to converse withal?”
“'Tis but a dull affair,” said he, scarce looking
at it, for Judith’s eyes were more attractive reading.
“And yet if the book itself be dull, there is that
within its boards that is less so. Perchance you
have not heard of one Master Browne, a young
BY THE RIVER, 247
Devonshire gentleman, that hath but late come to
London, and that only for a space, as I reckon?”
“No, sir——” she said, hesitatingly.
“The young man hath made some stir with his
poems,” he continued, “though there be none of
them in the booksellers’ hands as yet. And as it
has been my good fortune to see one or two of them
—marry, I am no judge, but I would call them ex-
cellent and of much modesty and grace—I took
occasion to pencil down a few of the lines, inside
the cover of this little book. May I read them to
you, Mistress Judith?’”
“If it please you, good sir.”
He opened the book, and she saw that there
were some lines pencilled on the gray binding; but
they must have been familiar to him, for he scarce
took his eyes from Judith’s face as he repeated
them.
“They are a description,” said he, “of one that
must have been fair indeed:
“Her cheeks, the wonder of what eye beheld,
Begot betwixt a lily and a rose,
In gentle rising plains divinely swelled,
Where all the graces and the loves repose.
Nature in this piece all her works excelled,
Yet showed herself imperfect in the close,
For she forgot (when she so fair did raise her)
To give the world a wit might duly praise her.
“When that she spoke, as at a voice from heaven
On her sweet words all ears and hearts attended;
When that she sung, they thought the planets seven
By her sweet voice might well their tunes have mended;
When she did sigh, all were of joy bereaven;
And when she smiled, heaven had them all befriended:
248. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
If that her voice, sighs, smiles, so many thrilled,
O, had she kissed, how many had she killed!’”
“'Tis a description of a lady of the Court?” Ju-
dith asked, timidly.
“No, by heavens,” he said, with warmth, “the
bonniest of Our English roses are they that grow in
the country air!”—and his glance of admiration was
so open and undisguised, and the application of his
words so obvious, that her eyes fell, and, in spite of
herself, the colour mounted to her cheeks. In her
embarrassment she sought safety in the blue velvet
satchel. She had contemplated some other way of
introducing this latest writing of her father's; but
now that had all fled from her brain. She knew
that the town gentlemen were given to flattery; but
then she was not accustomed to it. And she could
not but swiftly surmise that he had written down
these lines with the especial object of addressing
them to her, when he should have the chance.
“Good sir,” said she, endeavouring to hide this
brief embarrassment by assuming a merry air, “a
fair exchange, they say, is no robbery. Methinks
you will find something here that will outweigh
good Master Browne's verses—in bulk, if not in
merit.”
He gazed in astonishment at the parcel of sheets
she handed to him, and he but glanced at the first
page when he exclaimed— -
“Why, I have heard naught of this before.”
“Nay, sir,” said she, with a calm Smile, “the in-
fant is but young—but a few weeks, as I take it—
it hath had but little chance of making a noise in
BY THE RIVER, - 249
the world as yet? Will you say what you think
Of it?”
But now he was busy reading. Then by and by
she recollected something of the manner in which
she had meant to introduce the play.
“You see, sir, my father has many affairs on his
hands; ’tis not all his time he can give to such
things. And yet I have heard that they be well
spoken of in London—if not by the wits, perchance,
or by the Court ladies, at least by the common
people and the prentices. We in these parts have
but little skill of learning; but—but methinks 'tis a
pretty story—is it not, good sir?—and perchance as
interesting as a speech from a goddess among the
clouds?”
“In truth, it is a rare invention,” said he, but
absently, for his whole and rapt attention was fixed
on the sheets.
She, seeing him so absorbed, did not interfere
further. She sate still and content—perhaps with a
certain sedate triumph in her eyes. She listened to
the rustling of the elms overhead, and watched the
white clouds slowly crossing the blue, and the tawny-
hued river lazily and noiselessly stealing by below
the bushes. The corn-crake was silent now—there
was not even that interruption; and when the bell
in the church-tower began to toll, it was so soft and
faint and distant that she thought it most likely he
would not even hear it. And at what point was he
now? At the story of how the sweet Miranda came
to grow up in exile? Or listening to Ariel’s Song?
Or watching the Prince approach this new wonder
250 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
of the magic island? Her eyes were full of triumph.
“Ben Jonson!” she had said. - -
But suddenly he closed the sheets together.
“It were unmannerly so to keep you waiting,”
said he. -
“Nay, heed not that, good sir,” she said, in-
stantly. “I pray you go on with the reading. How
like you it? 'Tis a pretty story, methinks; but my
father hath been so busy of late—what with acres,
and tithes, and sheep, and malt, and the like—that
perchance he hath not given all his mind to it——”
“It is not for one such as I, fair Mistress Judith,”
said he, with much modesty, “to play the critic
when it is your father’s writing that comes forward.
Beshrew me, there be plenty of that trade in Lon-
don, and chiefly the feeble folk that he hath driven
from our stage. No, sweet lady; rather consider me
one of those that crowd to see each new piece of
his, and are right thankful for aught he pleaseth to
give us.”
“Is that so?” said she; and she regarded him
with much favour, which he was not slow to per-
ceive. & . .
“Why,” said he, boldly, “what needs your father
to heed if some worshipful Master Scoloker be of
opinion that the play of the Prince Hamlet belongeth
to the vulgar sort, and that the Prince was but
moon-sick; or that some one like Master Greene—
God rest his soul, wherever it be!—should call him
an upstart Crow, and a Johannes factotum, and the
like? 'Tis what the people of England think that
is of import; and right sure am I what they would
BY THE RIVER, 25 I
say—that there is no greater writer than your father
now living in the land.”
“Ah, think you so?” she said, quickly, and her
face grew radiant, as it were, and her eyes were
filled with gratitude.
“This Master Greene,” he continued, “was ever
jibing at the players, as I have heard, and bidding
them be more humble, for that their labour was but
mechanical, and them attracting notice through
wearing borrowed plumes. Nay, he would have it
that your father was no more than that—poor man,
he lived but a sorry life, and ’twere ill done to
cherish anger against him; but I remember to have
seen the apology that he that published the book
made thereafter to your father—in good truth, it
was fitting and right that it should be printed and
given to the world; and, though I forget the terms
of it, 'twas in fair praise of Master William Shake-
speare's gentle demeanour, and his uprightness of
conduct, and the grace of his wit.”
“Could you get that for me, good sir?” said she,
eagerly. “Is’t possible that I could get it?” And
then she stopped in some embarrassment, for she
remembered that it was not becoming she should
ask this stranger for a gift. “Nay, sir, 'twould be
of little use to me, that have no skill of reading.”
“But I pray you, Sweet Mistress Judith, to per-
mit me to bring you the book — 'twill be some-
thing, at least, for you to keep and show to your
friends——”
“If I might show it to Prudence Shawe, I could
return it to you, good sir,” said she; and then she
252 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
added: “Not that she-no, nor any one in Stratford
town—would need any such testimony to my father's
qualities, that are known to all.”
“At least they seem to have won him the love
and loyalty of his daughter,” said he, gallantly;
“and they know most about a man who live nearest
him. Nay, but I will beg you to accept the book
from me when I can with safety get to London
again; 'twill be a charge I am not likely to forget.
And in return, fair Mistress Judith, I would take of
you another favour, and a greater.”
“In what manner, gentle sir?”
“I have but glanced over this writing, for fear
of detaining you, and but half know the value of it,”
said he, “I pray you let me have it with me to my
lodging for an hour or two, that I may do it justice.
When one hath such a chance come to him, 'tis not
to be lightly treated; and I would give time and
quiet to the making out the beauties of your father's
latest work.”
She was at first somewhat startled by this pro-
posal; and almost involuntarily was for putting forth
her hand to receive the sheets again into safe keep-
ing; but then she asked herself what harm there
could be in acceding to his request. She was eagerly
anxious that he should understand how her father
—even amidst those multifarious occupations that
were entailed on him by his prominent position in
the town—could, when he chose, sit down and write
a tale far exceeding in beauty and interest any of
the mummeries that the Court people seemed to
talk about. Why should not he have a few hours'
By THE RIVER, 253
time to study this fragment withal? Her father was
gone to Warwick for the day. Nay, more, she had
taken so small a portion of what had been cast aside
that she knew the absence of it would not be noticed,
however long it might be kept. And then this young
gentleman, who was so civil and Courteous, and who
spoke so well of her father, was alone, and to be
pitied for that he had so few means of beguiling
the tedium of his hiding. -
“In the afternoon,” said he, seeing that she
hesitated, “I could with safety leave it at your
grandmother's Cottage; and then, perchance, you
might send some one for it. Nay, believe me, sweet
Mistress Judith, I know the value of that I ask; but
I would fain do justice to such a treasure.”
“You would not fail me, sir, in leaving it at the
cottage?” said she.
“You do me wrong, Mistress Judith, to doubt—
in good sooth you do. If you can find a trusty
messenger——”
“Nay, but I will come for it myself, good sir,
and explain to my grandmother the nature of the
thing, lest she suspect me of meddling with darker
plots. Let it be so, then, good sir—for now I must
get me back to the town. I pray you, forget not to
leave the package; and so—farewell!”
“But my thanks to you, dear lady—”
“Nay, sir,” said she, with a bright look of her
eyes, “bethink you you have not yet fairly made
out the matter. Tarry till you have seen whether
these sheets be worth the trouble—whether they re-
mind you in aught of the work of your friend Master
254. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
Jonson — and then your thanks will be welcome.
Give ye good-day, gentle sir!” -
There was no thought in her mind that she had
done anything imprudent in trusting him with this
portion of the play for the matter of an hour or two;
it was but a small equivalent, she recollected, for
his promise to bring her from London the retracta-
tion or apology of one of those who had railed at
her father, or abetted in that, and found himself
constrained by his conscience to make amends. And
now it occurred to her that it would look ill, if,
having come out to gather some wild flowers for the
little table in the summer-house, she returned with
empty hands; so, as she proceeded to walk leisurely
along the winding path leading back to the town,
she kept picking here and there such blossoms as
came within her reach. If the nosegay promised to
be somewhat large and straggling, at least it would
be sweet-scented; and she felt pretty sure that her
father would be well content with it. At first she
was silent, however; her wonted singing was aban-
doned; perchance she was trying to recall something
of the lines that Master Leofric Hope had repeated
to her—with so marked an emphasis.
“And what said he of our English roses?” she
asked herself, with some faint colour coming into
her face at the mere thought of it.
But then she forcibly dismissed these recollec-
tions—feeling that that was due to her own modesty
—and busied herself with her blossoms and sprays;
and presently, as she set out in good earnest for the
town, she strove to convince herself that there Was
WILD WORDS, 255
nothing more serious in her brain than the tune of
Green-sleeves—
“Green-sleeves, now farewell, adieu,
God I pray to prosper thee;
For I am still thy lover true—
Come once again and love me!”
CHA P T E R XVII.
WILD WORDS.
HER light-heartedness did not last long. In the
wide clear landscape a human figure suddenly ap-
peared, and the briefest turn of her head showed
her that Tom Quiney was rapidly coming towards
her across the fields. For a second her heart stood
still. Had he been riding home from Ludington?
Or from Bidford? Was it possible that he had
come over Bardon Hill, and from that height espied
the two down by the river? She could not even tell
whether that was possible—or what he had done
with his horse—or why he had not interfered sooner,
if he was bent on interfering; but she had an alarmed
impression that this rapid approach of his boded
trouble, and she had not long to wait before that
fear was confirmed.
“Judith, who is that man?” he demanded, with
a fury that was but half held in.
She turned, and faced him.
“I knew not,” she said, coldly and slowly, “that
we were on a speaking platform.”
256 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“”Tis no time to bandy words,” said he—and
his face was pale, for he was evidently striving to
control the passion with which his whole figure
seemed to quiver from head to heel. “Who is that
man, I ask? Who is he, that you come here to seek
him, and alone?”
“I know not by what right you put such ques-
tions to me,” she said—but she was somewhat
frightened.
“By what right? And you have no regard, then,
for your good name?”
There was a flash in her eyes. She had been
afraid: she was no longer afraid.
“My good name?” she repeated. “I thank God
'tis in none of your keeping!”
In his madness he caught her by the wrist.
“You shall tell me——”
“Unhand me, sir!” she exclaimed, and she
threw off his grasp, while her cheeks burned with
humiliation.
“Nay, I quarrel not with women,” said he. “I
Crave your pardon. But, by God, I will get to know
that man’s name and purpose here if I rive it from
his body!”
So he strode off—in the direction that Leofric
Hope had taken; and for a moment she stood quite
terror-stricken and helpless, scarcely daring to think
of what might happen. A murder on this fair morn-
ing? This young fellow, that was quite beside him-
self in his passion of jealous anger, was famed
throughout the length and breadth of Warwickshire
for his wrestling prowess. And the other—would
WILD WORDS. 257
he brook high words? These things flashed across
her mind in one bewildering instant, and in her
alarm she forgot all about her pride. She called
to him.
“I pray you—stay!”
He turned and regarded her.
“Stay,” said she, with her face afire. “I—I
will tell you what I know of him—if you will have
it so.”
He approached her—with seeming reluctance,
and with anger and suspicion in his lowering look.
He was silent, too.
“Indeed there is no harm,” said she (and still
with her face showing her mortification that she was
thus forced to defend herself). “Tis a young gentle-
man that is in some trouble—his lodging near Bid-
ford is also a hiding, as it were—and—and I know
but little of him beyond his name, and that he
is familiar with many of my father's friends in
London.”
“And how comes it that you seek him out here,
alone?” said he. “That is a becoming and maidenly
thing!”
“I promised you I would tell you what I know
of the young gentleman,” said she, with scornful
lips. “I did not promise to stand still and suffer
your insolence.”
“Insolence?” he exclaimed, as if her audacity
bewildered him.
“How know you that I sought him out!” she
said, indignantly. “May not one walk forth of a
Summer morning without being followed by suspi-
Şudzłh Shakespeare. I. 17
258 - JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
cious eyes—I warrant me, eyes that are only too
seems, with many: I wonder, sir, you are not
ashamed !” --- * * -
“You brave it out well,” said he, sullenly; but it
was evident that her courage had impressed him, if
it still left him angered and suspicious. ."
And then he asked.— . . i
“How comes it that none of your friends or
your family know aught of this stranger?”
“I marvel you should speak of my family,” she
retorted. “I had thought you were inclined to re-
main in ignorance of them of late. But had you
asked of Prudence Shawe, she might have told you
something of this young gentleman; or had you
thought fit to call in at my grandmother's cottage,
you might perchance have found him seated there,
and a welcome guest at her board. Marry, 'tis
easier far to keep aloof and to think evil, as one
may see!” - z’ -
And then she added— :
“Well, sir, are you satisfied? May I go home
without further threats?” -
“I threatened you not, Judith,” said he, rather
more humbly. “I would have my threats kept for
those that would harm you.” - i
“I know of none such,” she said distinctly. “And
as for this young gentleman—that is in misfortune
—such as might happen to any one—and not only
in hiding, but having entrusted his secret to one or
two of us that pity him and see no harm in him—I
say it were a Cruel and unmanly thing to spy out
WILD WORDS. 259
his concealment, or to spread the rumour of his
being in the neighbourhood—”
“Nay, you need not fear that of me, Judith,”
said he, “Man to man is my way, when there is
occasion. But can you marvel if I would have you
for your own sake avoid any further meetings with
this stranger? If he be in hiding let him remain
there, in God’s name; I for one will set no beagles
to hunt him out. But as for you, I would have you
hold aloof from such dangerous traps.”
“Good sir,” said she, “I have my conduct in
my own keeping, and can answer to those that have
the guardianship of me.” - - - -
He did not reply to this rebuke. He said—
“May I walk back to the town with you, Judith?’”
“You forget,” she said, coldly, “that if we were
seen together the gossips might say I had come out
hither to seek you, and alone.” .*
But he paid no heed to this taunt.
“I care not,” said he, with an affectation of in-
difference, “what the gossips in Stratford have to
talk over. Stratford and I are soon to part.”
“What say you?” said she, quickly—and they
were walking on together now, the Don leisurely
following at their heels. .
“Nay, 'tis nothing,” said he, carelessly; “there
are wider lands beyond the seas where a man ca.
fight for his own and hold it.” -
“And you?” said she. “You have it in your
mind to leave the country?” -
. “Marry, that have II” said he, gaily. “My good
friend Daniel Hutt hath gotten together a rare re-
17*
26O JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
giment, and I doubt not I shall be one of the cap-
tains of them ere many years be over.”
Her eyes were downcast, and he could not see
what impression this piece of news had made upon
her—if, indeed, he cared to look. They walked for
some time in silence.
“It is no light matter,” said she at length, and
in rather a low voice, “to leave one’s native land.”
“As for that,” said he, “the land will soon be
not worth the living in. Why, in former times, men
spoke of the merry world of England. A merry
world?—I trow the canting rogues of preachers have
left but little merriment in it; and now they would
seek to have all in their power, and to flood the
land with their whining and psalm-singing, till we
shall have no England left us, but only a vast Con-
venticle. Think you that your father hath any sym-
pathy with these? I tell you no; I take it he is an
Englishman, and not a conventicle-man. 'Tis no
longer the England of our forefathers, when men
may neither hawk nor hunt, and women are doomed
to perdition for worshipping the false idol starch,
and the very children be called in from their games
of a Sunday afternoon. God-a-mercy, I have had
enough of Brother Patience-in-suffering, and his
dominion of grace!”
This seemed to Judith a strange reason for his
going away, for he had never professed any strong
bias one way or the other in these religious dissen-
sions; his chief concern, like that of most of the
young men in Stratford, lying rather in the direction
of butt-shooting, or wrestling, or having a romp with
WILD WORDS. 26 I
Some of the wenches to the tune of Packington's
Pound.
“Nay, as I hear,” said he, “there be some of
them in such discontent with the King and the
Parliament that they even talk of transplanting them-
Selves beyond seas, like those that went to Holland:
'twere a goodly riddance if the whole gang of the
Sour-faced hypocrites went, and left to us our own
England. And a fair beginning for the new country
across the Atlantic—half of them these puritanical
rogues, with their fastings and preachments; and the
other half the constable's brats and broken men
that such as Hutt are drafting out: a right good be-
ginning, if they but keep from seizing each other
by the throat in the end! No matter: we should
have Our England purged of the double scum !”
“But,” said Judith, timidly, “methought you
Said you were going out with these same desperate
men?”
“I can take my life in my hand as well as an-
other,” said he, gloomily; and then he added: “They
be none so desperate, after all. Broken men there
may be amongst them, and many against whom for-
tune would seem to have a spite; perchance their
affairs may mend in the new country.”
“But your affairs are prosperous,” Judith said—
though she never once lifted her eyes. “Why should
you link yourself with such men as these?”
“One must forth to see the world,” said he; and
he went on to speak in a gay and reckless fashion
of the life that lay before him, and of its possible
adventures and hazards and prizes. “And what,”
262 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
said he, “if one were to have good fortune in that
far Country, and become rich in land, and have
good store of corn and fields of tobacco; what if
one were to come back in twenty years' time to this
same town of Stratford, and set up for the trade of
gentleman?” -
“Twenty years?” said she, rather breathlessly.
“”Tis a long time; you would find changes.”
“None that would matter much, methinks,” said
he, indifferently. -
“There be those that will be sorry for your
going away,” she ventured to say—and she forced
herself to think only of Prudence Shawe. -
“Not one that will care a cracked three-farthings!”
was the answer.
“You do ill to say so—indeed you do!” said
she, with just a touch of warmth in her tone. “You
have many friends; you serve them ill to say they
would not heed your going.”
“Friends?” said he, “Yes, they will miss me
at the shovel-board, or when there is one short at
the catches.”
“There be others than those,” said she, with
some little hesitation. -
“Who, then?” said he. .
“You should know yourself,” she answered.
“Think you that Prudence, for one, will be careless
as to your leaving the country?” -
“Prudence?” said he, and he darted a quick
glance at her. “Nay, I confess me wrong there; for
there is one that hath a gentle heart, and is full of
kindness.” - -
WILD WORDS. 263
“Right well I know that—for who should know
better than I?” said Judith. “As true a heart as
any in Christendom, and a prize for him that wins
it, I warrant you. If it be not won already,” she
added, quickly. “As to that, I know not.”
They were now nearing the town—they could
hear the dull sound of the mill, and before them
was the church spire among the trees, and beyond
that the gray and red huddled mass of houses,
barns, and Orchards.
“And when think you of going?” she said, after
a while.
“I know not, and I care not,” said he, absently.
“When I spoke of my acquaintances being indiffer-
ent as to what might befall me, I did them wrong,
for in truth there be none of them as indifferent as
I am myself.”
“”Tis not a hopeful mood,” said she, “to begin
the making of one’s fortunes in a new country
withal. I pray you, what ails this town of Stratford,
that you are not content?”
“It boots not to say, since I am leaving it,” he
answered. “Perchance in times to come, when I
am able to return to it, I shall be better content.
And you?”
“And I?” she repeated, with some surprise.
“Nay, you will be content enough,” said he,
somewhat bitterly. “Mother church will have a
care of you. You will be in the fold by then. The
faithful shepherd will have a charge over you to
keep you from communication with the children of
264 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
anger and the devil, that rage without like lions
seeking to destroy.”
“I know not what you mean,
hot face.
“Right well you know,” said he, coolly; but
there was an angry resentment running through his
affected disdain as he went on: “There be those
that protest, and go forth from the church. And
there be those that protest, and remain within—
eating the fat things, and well content with the milk
and the honey, and their stores of corn and oil.
Marry, you will be well provided for—the riches of
the next world laid up in waiting for you; and a
goodly share of the things of this world to beguile
the time withal. Nay, I marvel not; 'tis the wisdom
of the serpent along with the innocence of the dove.
What matters the surplice, the cross in baptism, and
the other relics of Popery, if conformity will keep
the larder full? Better that than starvation in
Holland, or seeking a home beyond the Atlantic—
where belike the children of the devil might prove
over-rude companions! I marvel not, I; ’tis a foolish
bird that forsakes a warm nest.”
And now she well knew against whom his bitter
speech was levelled; and some recollection of the
slight he had put upon her in the churchyard came
into her mind, with the memory that it had never
been atoned for. And she was astounded that he
had the audacity to walk with her now and here,
talking as if he were the injured one. The sudden
Qualm that had filled her heart when he spoke of
leaving the country was put aside; the kindly re-
22
said she, with a
WILD WORDS, - 265
ference to Prudence was forgotten, she only knew
that this sarcasm of his was very much out of place,
and that this was far from being the tone in which
he had any right to address her.
“I know not,” said she, stiffly, “what quarrel you
may have with this or that section of the church;
but it concerns me not. I pray you attack those
who are better able to defend themselves than I am,
or care to be. Methinks your studies in that line
have come somewhat late.”
“”Tis no greater marvel,” said he, “than that
you should have joined yourself to the assembly of
the saints: it was not always so with you.”
“I?” she said; but her cheeks were burning, for
well she knew that he referred to his having seen
her with the parson on that Sunday morning, and
she was far too proud to defend herself. “Heaven
help me, now, but I thought I was mistress of my
own actions!”
“In truth you are, Mistress Judith,” said he,
humbly (and this was the first time that he had
ever addressed her so, and it startled her, for it
seemed to suggest a final separation between them
—something as wide and irrevocable as that twenty
years of absence beyond the seas). And then he
said: “I crave your pardon if I have said aught to
offend you, and would take my leave.”
“God be wi' you,” said she, civilly; and then
he left—striking across the meadows towards the
Bidford road, and, as she guessed, probably going
to seek his horse from whomsoever he had left it
with,
266 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
And as she went on and into the town she was
wondering what Prudence had said to him that
should so suddenly drive him to think of quitting
the country. All had seemed going well. As for
Master Leofric Hope, his secret was safe; this late
Companion of hers seemed to have forgotten him
altogether in his anger against the good parson. And
then she grew to think of the far land across the
Ocean that she had heard vaguely of from time to
time, and to think how twenty years could be spent
there, and what Stratford would be like when that
long space was over.
“Twenty years,” she said to herself, with a kind
of sigh. “There are many things will be settled ere
that time be passed, for good or ill.”
C H A PTER XVIII.
A CONJECTURE.
WHEN she got back to New Place she found the
house in considerable commotion. It appeared that
the famous divine, Master Elihu Izod, had just come
into the town, being on his way towards Leicester-
shire, and that he had been brought by the gentle-
man whose guest he was to pay a visit to Judith’s
mother. Judith had remarked ere now that the
preachers and other godly persons who thus honoured
the New Place generally made their appearance a
trifling time before the hour of dinner; and now, as
she reached the house, she was not surprised to
A CONJECTURE. 267
find that Prudence had been called in to entertain
the two visitors—who were at present in the garden
—while within-doors her mother and the maids were
hastily making such preparations as were possible.
To this latter work she quickly lent a helping hand;
and in due course of time the board was spread
with a copious and substantial repast, not forgetting
an ample supply of wine and ale for those that
were that way inclined. Then the two gentlemen
were called in; Prudence was easily persuaded to
stay; and, after a lengthened grace, the good preacher
fell to, Seasoning his food with much pious conver-
sation.
At such times Judith had abundant opportunities
for reverie, and for a general review of the situation
of her own affairs. In fact, on this occasion, she
seemed in a manner to be debarred from participa-
tion in these informal services at the very outset.
Master Izod, who was a tall, thin, dark, melancholy-
visaged man—unlike his companion Godfrey Buller,
of the Leas, near to Hinckley, who, on the contrary,
was a stout yeoman-like person, whose small gray
absent eyes remained motionless and vacant in the
great breadth of his rubicund face—had taken for
his text, as it were, a list he had found somewhere
or other of those characters that were entitled to
command the admiration and respect of all good
people. These were: a young saint; an old martyr;
a religious Soldier; a conscionable statesman; a great
man courteous; a learned man humble; a silent
woman; a merry Companion without vanity; a friend
not changed with honour; a sick man cheerful; a
268 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
soul departing with comfort and assurance. And
as Judith did not make bold to claim to be any one
of these—nor, indeed, to have any such merits or
excellences as would extort the approval of the
membership of the saints—she gradually fell away
from listening; and her mind was busy with other
things; and her imagination, which was vivid enough,
intent upon other scenes. One thing that had struck
her the moment she had returned was that Prudence
seemed in an unusually cheerful mood. Of course,
the arrival of two visitors was an event in that quiet
life of theirs; and no doubt Prudence was glad to
be appointed to entertain the strangers—One of
them, moreover, being of such great fame. But so
pleased was she, and so cheerful in her manner,
that Judith was straightway convinced there had
been no quarrel between her and Tom Quiney.
Nay, when was there time for that? He could
scarcely have seen her that morning; while the
night before there had certainly been no mention of
his projected migration to America, else Prudence
would have said as much. What, then, had so
suddenly driven him to the conclusion that England
was no longer a land fit to live in? And why had
he paid Prudence such marked attention—why had
he presented her with the spaniel-gentle and offered
her the emblazoned missal—one evening, only to re-
solve the next morning that he must needs leave
the country? Nay, why had he so unexpectedly
broken the scornful silence with which he had re-
cently treated herself? He had given her to under-
Stand that, as far as he was concerned, she did not
A CONJECTURE. 269
exist. He seemed determined to ignore her pre-
sence. And yet she could not but remember that,
if this contemptuous silence on his part was broken
by the amazement of his seeing her in the company
of a stranger, his suspicions in that direction were
very speedily disarmed. A few words, and they
fled. It was his far more deadly jealousy of the
parson that remained, and was like to remain; for
she certainly would not stoop to explain that the
meeting in the churchyard was quite accidental.
But why should he trouble his head about either
her or the parson? Had he not betaken himself
elsewhere—and that with her right good will? Nay,
On his own confession, he had discovered how kind
and gentle Prudence was: there was a fit mate for
him—one to temper the wildness and hot-headed-
ness of his youth. Judith had never seen the sea,
and therefore had never seen moonlight on the sea;
but the nearest to that she could go, in thinking of
what Prudence's nature was like, in its restful and
Sweet and serious beauty, was the moonlight she
had seen on the river Avon, in the calm of a summer's
night, the water unbroken by a ripple, and not a
whisper among the reeds. Could he not perceive
that, too, and understand?
As for herself, she knew that she could at any
moment cut the knot of any complications that
might arise by allowing Master Walter to talk her
over into marrying him. Her father had assured
her that the clear-headed and energetic young
parson was quite equal to that. Well, it was
about time she should abandon the frivolities and
270 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
coquetries of her youth; and her yielding would
please many good people, especially her mother and
sister; and obtain for herself a secure and esta-
blished position, with an end to all these quarrels,
and jealousies, and uncertainties. Moreover, there
would be safety there. For, if the truth must be
told, she was becoming vaguely and uncomfortably
conscious that her relations with this young gentle-
man who had come secretly into the neighbourhood
were no longer what they had been at first. Their
friendship had ripened rapidly; for he was an auda-
cious person, with plenty of self-assurance; and, with
all his professions of modesty, and deference, he
seemed to know very well that he could make his
Society agreeable. Then those lines he had re-
peated: why, her face grew warm now as she
thought of them. She could not remember them
exactly, but she remembered their purport; and she
remembered, too, the emphasis with which he had
declared that the bonniest of our English roses were
those that grew in the country air. Now a young
man cut off from his fellows as he was might well
be grateful for some little solace of companionship,
or for this or the other little bit of courtesy; but he
need not (she considered) show his gratitude just in
that way. Doubtless, his flattery might mean little;
the town gentlemen, she understood, talked in that
Strain; and perhaps it was only by an accident that
the verses were there in the book; but still she had
the uneasy feeling that there was something in his
manner and speech that, if encouraged, or suffered
to continue without check, might lead to embarrass-
A CONJECTURE. 27 I
ment. That is to say, if she continued to see him;
and there was no need for that. She could cut short
this acquaintance the moment she chose. But on the
one hand she did not wish to appear uncivil; and
on the other she was anxious that he should see
the whole of this play that her father had written—
thrown off, as it were, amid the various cares and
duties that occupied his time. If Master Leofric
Hope talked of Ben Jonson when he came into the
country, she would have him furnished with some-
thing to say of her father when he returned to town.
These were idle and wandering thoughts; and
in one respect they were not quite honest. In real-
ity she was using them to cloak and hide, or to
drive from her mind altogether, a suspicion that
had suddenly occurred to her that morning, and
that had set her brain afire in a wild way. It was
not only the tune of Green-sleeves that was in her
head as she set off to walk home, though she was
trying to force herself to believe that. The fact is
this: when Master Leofric Hope made the pretty
speech about the country roses he accompanied it,
as has been said, by a glance of only too out-spoken
admiration; and there was something in this look—
apart from the mere flattery of it—that puzzled her.
She was confused, doubtless; but in her Confusion it
occurred to her that she had met that too eloquent
glance somewhere before. She had no time to
pursue this fancy further; for, in order to cover her
embarrassment, she had betaken herself to the
sheets in her satchel; and thereafter she was so
anxious that he should think well of the play that
272. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
all her attention was fixed on that. But after leav-
ing him, and having had a minute or two to think
over what had happened, she recalled that look,
and wondered why there should be something strange
in it. And then a startling fancy flashed across her
mind—the wizard! Was not that the same look—
of the same black eyes—that she had encountered
up at the corner of the field above the Wier Brake?
—a glance of wondering admiration, as it were?
And if these two were one and the same man? Of
course, that train being lit ran rapidly enough: there
were all kinds of parallels — in the elaborate
courtesy, in the Suave voice, in the bold and elo-
quent eyes. And she had no magical theory to ac-
count for the transformation—it did not even occur
to her that the wizard could have changed himself
into a young man—there was no dismay or panic in
that direction—she instantly took it for granted that
it was the young man who had been personating the
wizard. And why?—to what end, if this bewilder-
ing possibility were to be regarded for an instant?
The sole object of the wizard’s coming was to point
out to her her future husband. And if this young
man were himself the wizard? A trick to entrap her?
Ariel himself could not have flashed from place
to place more swiftly than this wild conjecture; but
the next moment she had collected herself. Her
common-sense triumphed. She bethought her of
the young man she had just left—of his respectful
manners—of the letter he had brought for her
father—of the circumstances of his hiding. It was
not possible that he had come into the neighbour-
A CONJECTURE. 273
hood for the deliberate purpose of making a jest of
her. Did he look like one that would play such a
trick; that would name himself as her future hus-
band; that would cozen her into meeting him? She
felt ashamed of herself for harbouring such a
thought for a single instant. Her wits had gone
wool-gathering! Or was it that Prudence's fears had
so far got hold of her brain that she could not re-
gard the young man but as something other than an
Ordinary mortal? In fair justice, she would dismiss
this absurd surmise from her mind forthwith; and
so she proceeded with her gathering of the flowers;
and when she did set forth for home, she had very
nearly convinced herself that there was nothing in
her head but the tune of Green-sleeves. Nay, she
was almost inclined to be angry with Prudence for
teaching her to be so suspicious. -
Nevertheless, during this protracted dinner,
while good Master Izod was enlarging upon the
catalogue of persons worthy of honour and emula-
tion, Judith was attacked once more by the whisper-
ings of the demon. For a while she fought against
these, and would not admit to herself that any
further doubt remained in her mind; but when at
last she found herself, despite herself, going back
and back to that possibility, she took heart of grace
and boldly faced it. What if it were true? Sup-
posing him to have adopted the disguise, and
passed himself off as a wizard, and directed her to
the spot where she should meet her future husband
—what then? What ought she to do? How ought
she to regard such conduct? As an idle frolic of
Şudzł% Shakes?eare. I. T 8
274. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
youth? Or the device of one tired of the loneliness
of living at the farm, and determined at all hazards
to secure companionship? Or a darker Snare still
—with what ultimate aims she could not divine?
Or again (for she was quite frank) if this were
merely some one who had seen her from afar, at
church or fair or market, and considered she was a
good-looking maid, and wished to have further ac-
quaintance, and could think of no other method
than this audacious prank? She had heard of
lovers’ stratagems in plenty; she knew of one or two
of such that had been resorted to in this same
quiet town of Stratford. And supposing that this
was the case, ought she to be indignant? Should
she resent his boldness in hazarding such a stroke
to win her? And then, when it suddenly occurred
to her that, in discussing this possibility, she was
calmly assuming that Master Leofric Hope was in
love with her—he never having said a word in that
direction, and being in a manner almost a stranger
to her—she told herself that no audacity on his
part could be greater than this on hers; and that
the best thing she could do would be to get rid
once and for ever of such unmaidenly conjectures.
No; she would go back to her original position.
The facts of the case were simple enough. He
would have brought no letter to her father had he
been bent on any such fantastic enterprise. Was it
likely he would suffer the thraldom of that farm-
house, and live away from his friends and com-
panions, for the mere chance of a few minutes’ oc-
casional talk with a Stratford wench? As for the
A CONJECTURE. 275
similarity between his look and that of the wizard,
the explanation lay no doubt in her own fancy,
which had been excited by Prudence's superstitious
fears. And if in his courtesy he had applied to
herself the lines written by the young Devonshire
poet—well, that was but a piece of civility and
kindness for which she ought to be more than
usually grateful, seeing that she had not experienced
too much of that species of treatment of late from
one or two of her would-be suitors.
She was awakened from these dreams by the
conversation Suddenly ceasing; and in its place she
heard the more solemn tones of the thanksgiving
offered up by Master Izod: .*
“The God of glory and peace, who hath created, redeemed,
and presently fed us, be blessed for ever and ever. So be it.
The God of all power, who hath called from death that great
pastor of the sheep, our Lord Jesus, comfort and defend the flock
which he hath redeemed by the blood of the eternal testament;
increase the number of true preachers; repress the rage of ob-
stinate tyrants; mitigate and lighten the hearts of the ignorant;
relieve the pains of such as be afflicted, but specially of those
that suffer for the testimony of thy truth; and finally, confound
Satan by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”
And then, as the travellers were continuing their
journey forthwith, they proposed to leave; and Master
Buller expressed his sorrow that Judith’s father had
not been at home to have made the friendship of a
man. So famous as Master Izod; and the good
parson, in his turn, as they departed, solemnly
blessed the house and all that dwelt therein,
whether present or absent. As soon as they were
gone Judith besought her mother for the key of the
I8*
276 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
summer-house, for she wished to lay on her father's
table the wild flowers she had brought; and, having
obtained it, she carried Prudence with her into the
garden; and there they found themselves alone, for
goodman Matthew had gone home for his dinner.
“Dear mouse,” said she, quickly, “what is it
hath happened to Tom Quiney?”
“I know not, Judith,” the other said, in some
Surprise. -
“It is in his mind to leave the country!”
“I knew not that.”
“I dare be sworn you did not, sweetheart,” said
she, “else surely you would have told me. But
why? What drives him to such a thing? His busi-
ness prospers well, as I hear them say; and yet
must he forsake it for the company of those desperate
men that are going away to fight the Indians beyond
seas. Nothing will content him. England is no
longer England; Stratford is no longer Stratford:
mercy on us, what is the meaning of it all?”
“In truth I know not, Judith.”
Then Judith glanced at her.
“Good cousin, I fear me you gave him but a
cold welcome yesternight.” - -
“I welcomed him as I would welcome any of my
brother's friends,” said Prudence, calmly and with-
out embarrassment. -
“But you do not understand!” Judith said, with
a touch of impatience. “Bless thy heart, young
men are such strange Creatures; and must have all
to suit their humours; and are off and away in their
peevish fits if you do not entertain them, and cringe,
A CONJECTURE. 277
and say your worship to every sirrah of them! Oh,
they be mighty men of valour in their own esteem;
and they must have us poor handmaidens do them
honour; and if all be not done to serve, ’tis boot
and spur and off to the wars with them, and many
a fine tale thereafter about the noble ladies that
were kind to them abroad. Marry, they can crow
loud enough; ’tis the poor hens that durst never
utter a word; and all must give way before his
worship! What, then? What did you do? Was
not the claret to his liking? Did not your brother
offer him a pipe of Trinidado?”
“Indeed, Judith, it cannot be through aught that
happened last night, if he be speaking of leaving
the country,” Prudence said. “I thought he was
well content, and right friendly in his manner.”
“But you do not take my meaning,” Judith said.
“Dear heart, bear me no ill will; but I would have
you a little more free with your favours. You are
too serious, sweet mouse; could you not pluck up
a little of the spirit that the pretty Rosalind showed
—do you remember?—when she was teasing Orlando
in the forest? In truth these men are fond of a
varying mood; when they play with a kitten they
like to know it has claws. And again, if you be
too civil with them, they presume, and would be-
come the master all at once; and then must every-
thing be done to suit their lordships’ fantasies, or
else ’tis up and away with them, as this one goes.”
“I pray you, Judith,” her friend said, and now
in great embarrassment, “forbear to speak of such
things; in truth my heart is not set that way. Right
278 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
well I know that if he be leaving the country, 'tis
through no discontent with me—nor that he would
heed in any way how I received him. Nay, 'tis far
otherwise; it is no secret whom he would choose
for wife; if you are sorry to hear of his going away
from his home you know that a word from you
would detain him.” -
“Good mouse, the folly of such thoughts!” Judith
exclaimed. “Why, when he will not even give me
a ‘good-day to you, wench!’”
“You best know what reasons he had for his
silence, Judith; I know not.”
“Reasons?” said she, with some quick colour
coming to her face. “We will let that alone, good
gossip. I meddle not with any man’s reasons, if he
choose to be uncivil to me; God help us, the world
is wide enough for all!” .
“Did you not anger him, Judith, that he is going
away from his home and his friends?” -
“Anger him? Perchance his own suspicions have
angered him!” was the answer; and then she said,
in a gentler tone: “But in truth, sweetheart, I hope
he will change his mind. Twenty years—for so he
Speaks—is a long space to be away from one's
native land; there would be many changes ere he
came back. Twenty years, he said.”
Judith rather timidly looked at her companion;
but indeed there was neither surprise nor dismay
depicted on the pale and gentle face. Her eyes
were absent, it is true; but they did not seem to
Crave for sympathy. - - -
“'Tis strange,” said she, “he said naught of such
A CONJECTURE. 279
a scheme last night, though he and Julius spoke of
this very matter of the men who were preparing to
Cross the seas. I know not what can have moved
him to such a purpose.”
“Does he imagine, think you,” said Judith, “that
we shall all be here awaiting him at the end of
twenty years, and as we are now? Or is he so sure
of his own life?—they say there is great peril in
the new lands they have taken possession of beyond
sea, and that there will be many a bloody fight ere
they can reap the fruit of their labours in peace.
Nay, I will confess to thee, sweet mouse, I like not
his going. Old friends are old friends, even if they
have wayward humours; and fain would I have him
remain with us here in Stratford—ay, and settled
here, morečver, with a sweet Puritan wife by his
side, that at present must keep everything hidden.
Well, no matter,” she continued, lightly. “I seek
no secrets—except those that be in the Oaken box
within here.” .
She unlocked the door of the summer-house,
and entered, and put the flowers on the table.
“Tell me, Prue,” said she, “may we venture to
take some more of the play, or must I wait till I
have put back the other sheets?”
“You have not put them back?”
“In truth, no,” said Judith, carelessly. “I lent
them to the young gentleman, Leofric Hope.”
“Judith !” her friend exclaimed, with frightened
eyes.
“What, then?”
28o JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
“To one you know nothing of? You have parted
with these sheets—that are so valuable?”
“Nay, nay, good gossip,” said she, “you know
the sheets are cast away as useless. And I but
lent them to him for an hour or two, to lighten the
tedium of his solitude. Nor was that all, good Prue,
if I must tell thee the truth: I would fain have him
know that my father can do something worth speak-
ing of, as well as his friend Ben Jonson, and per-
chance even better: what think you?” -
“You have seen him again, then?—this morning?”
“Even so,” Judith answered, calmly.
“Judith, why will you run into such danger?”
her friend said, in obvious distress. “In truth I
know not what 'twill come to. And now there is
this further bond in this secret commerce—think
you that all this can remain unknown? Your meet-
ing with him must come to some one's knowledge—
indeed it must, sweetheart.”
“Nay, but this time you have hit the mark,”
said Judith, complacently. “If you would assure
yourself, good Prue, that the young gentleman is no
grisly ghost or phantom, methinks you could not do
better than ask Tom Quiney, who saw him this
very morning—and saw us speaking together, as I
guess.”
“He saw you?” Prudence exclaimed. “And
what said he?”
“He talked large and wild for a space,” said
Judith, coolly, “but soon I persuaded him there was
no great harm in the stranger gentleman. In sooth
his mind was so full of his own affairs—and So
A CONJECTURE. 28 I
bitter against all preachers, ministers, and pastors—
and he would have it that England was no longer
fit to live in—marry, he told me so many things in
so few minutes that I have half forgotten them!”
And then it suddenly occurred to her that this
fantasy that had entered her mind in the morning,
and that had haunted her during Master Elihu
Izod’s discourse, would be an excellent thing with
which to frighten Prudence. 'Twas but a chimera,
she assured herself; but there was enough substance
in it for that. And so, when she had carefully ar-
ranged the flowers on the table, and cast another
longing look at the oaken chest, she locked the
door of the summer-house, and put her arm within
the arm of her friend, and led her away for a walk
in the garden.
“Prudence,” said she, seriously, “I would have
you give me counsel. Some one hath asked me
what a young maiden should do in certain circum-
stances that I will put before you; but how can I
tell—how can I judge of anything, when my head
is in a whirligig of confusion with parson’s argu-
ments, and people leaving the Country, and I know
not what else? But you, good mouse—your mind
is ever calm and equable—you can speak sweet
words in Israel—you are as Daniel that was so ex-
cellent a judge even in his youth——”
“Judith!” the other protested; but indeed Judith’s
eyes were perfectly grave and apparently sincere.
“Well, then, sweetheart, listen: let us say that a
young man has seen a young maiden that is not
known to him but by name—perchance at church
282 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
it may have been, or as she was walking home to
her own door. And there may be reasons why he
should not go boldly to her father's house, though
he would fain do so; his fancy being taken with her
in a small measure, and he of a gentle disposition,
and ready to esteem her higher than she deserved.
And again it might be that he wished for private
speech with her—to judge of her manners and her
inclinations—before coming publicly forward to pay
court to her: but alack, I cannot tell the story as
my father would; ’tis the veriest skeleton of a story;
and I fear me you will scarce understand. But let
us say that the young man is bold and ingenious, and
bethinks him of a stratagem whereby to make ac-
quaintance with the damsel. He writes to her as a
wizard that has important news to tell her; and
begs her to go forth and meet him; and that on a
certain morning he will be awaiting her at such
and such a place. Now this maiden that I am
telling you of has no great faith in wizards, but
being Curious to see the juggling, she goes forth to
meet him as he asks——”
“Judith, I pray you, speak plain; what is't you
mean?” Prudence exclaimed; for she had begun to
Suspect.
“You must listen, good cousin, before you can
give judgment,” said Judith, calmly; and she pro-
ceeded: “Now you must understand that it was the
young gentleman himself whom she met, though she
knew it not; for he had dressed himself up as an
ancient wizard, and he had a solemn manner, and
Latin speech, and what not. Then says the wizard
A CONJECTURE. 283
to her, I can show you the man that is to be your
lover and sweetheart and husband; that will win
you and wear you in the time coming; and if you
would see him go to such and such a cross-road
and he will appear. Do you perceive, now, good
Prue, that it was a right Safe prophecy, seeing that
he had appointed himself to be the very one who
should meet her?”
Prudence had gradually slipped her arm away
from that of her friend, and now stood still, re-
garding her breathlessly; while Judith, with eyes
quite placid and inscrutable, continued her story.
“’Twas a noteworthy stratagem, and successful
withal; for the maiden goes to the Cross-road, and
there she meets the young gentleman—now in his
proper costume. But she has no great faith in
magic; she regards him not as a ghost summoned
by the wizard; she would rather see in this meeting
an Ordinary accident, and the young man, being
most courteous and modest and civil-spoken, they
become friends. Do you follow the story? You see,
Prudence, there is much in his condition to demand
Sympathy and kindness—he being in hiding, and
cut off from his friends; and she, not being too in-
dustrious, and fond rather of walking in the meadows
and the like, meets him now here, now there, but
with no other thought than friendliness. I pray you,
bear that in mind, sweetheart; for though I esteem
her not highly, yet would I do her justice: there
was no thought in her mind but friendliness, and
a wish to be civil to one that seemed grateful for
any such communion. And then, one morning, some-
28 4. JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
thing happens—beshrew me if I can tell thee how
it happened, and that is the truth—but something
happens—an idea jumps into her head—she suspects
that this young gentleman is no other than the same
who was the wizard, and that she has been entrapped
by him, and that he, having played the wizard, would
now fain play the lover——”
“Judith, is't possible? Is’t possible?”
“Hold, cousin, hold; your time is not yet. I
grant you 'tis a bold conjecture, and some would
say not quite seemly and becoming to a maiden,
seeing that he had never spoken any word to her
of the kind; but there it was in her head—the
Suspicion that this young gentleman had tricked her,
for his own amusement, or perchance to secure her
company. Now, Sweet judge in Israel, for your
judgment! And on two points, please you. First,
supposing this conjecture to be false, how is she to
atone to the young gentleman? And how is she to
punish herself? And how is she to be anything but
uneasy should she chance to see him again? Nay
more, how is she to get this evil suspicion banished
from her mind, seeing that she dare not go to him
and Confess, and beg him for the assurance that he
had never heard of the wizard? Then the second
point: supposing the conjecture to be true, Ought
she to be very indignant? How should she demean
herself? Should she go to him and reproach him
with his treachery? She would never forgive it,
dear mouse, would she, even as a lover’s stra-
tagem?”
“Judith, I cannot understand you; I cannot
A CONJECTURE, 285
understand how you can even regard such a pos-
sibility and remain content and Smiling——”
“Then I Ought to be indignant?—good cousin, I
but asked for your advice!” Judith said. “I must
be angry; I must fret and fume, and use hot lan-
guage, and play the tragedy part? In good sooth,
when I think on’t, 'twas a piece of boldness to put
himself forward as my future husband—it was in-
deed—though 'twas cunningly contrived. Marry, but
I understand now why my goodman wizard would
take no money from me; 'twas myself that he would
have in payment of his skill; and ‘gracious lady”
and “sweet lady’—these were the lures to lead me
on; and his shepherd's dial placed on the ground!
Then off go beard and cloak; and a couple of days
thereafter he is a gay young gallant; and “sweet
lady’ it is again—or ‘fair lady,’ was’t?—“know you
one Master Shakespeare in the town?’ And such
modesty, and such downcast eyes, and an appeal
for one in misfortune: heaven save us, was it not
well done? Modesty! By my life, a rare modest
gentleman! He comes down to Stratford, armed
with his London speech and his London manners,
and he looks around. Which one, then? which of
all the maidens will his lordship choose for wife?
‘Oh,' saith he, “there is Judith Shakespeare; she
will do as well as another; perchance better, for
New Place is the fairest house in the town, and
doubtless she will have a goodly marriage portion.
So now how to secure her? how to charm her away
from any clownish sweetheart she may chance to
have? Easily done, i' faith !—a Country wench is
286 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
sure to believe in magic; 'tis but raising my own
ghost out of the ground, and a summons to her, and
I have her sure and safe, to win and to wear, for
better or worse!’” She looked at Prudence. “Heaven’s
blessings on us all, good Prue, was there ever poor
maiden played such a scurril trick?”
“Then your eyes are opened, Judith,” said Pru-
dence, eagerly; “you will have naught more to do
with such a desperate villain!”
Again Judith looked at her, and laughed.
“I but told a story to frighten thee, dear heart,”
said she. “A desperate villain? Yes, truly; but 'tis
I am the desperate villain to let such rascal sus-
picions possess me for an instant. Nay, good gossip,
think of it!—is’t possible that one would dare so
much for so poor a prize? That the young gentle-
man hath some self-assurance, I know; and he can
quickly make friends; but do you think, if any such
dark design had been his, he would have entered
my grandmother’s cottage, and ate and drank there,
and promised to renew his visit? Sweet judge in
Israel, your decision on the other point, I pray you!
What penance must I do for letting such cruel
thoughts stray into my brain? How shall I purge
them away? To whom must I confess? Nay, me-
thinks I must go to the young gentleman himself
and say: ‘Good sir, I have a friend and a gossip
that is named Prudence Shawe, who hath a strange .
belief in phantom-men and conspirators. I pray you
pardon me that through her my brain is somewhat
distraught; and that I had half a mind to accuse
you of a plot for stealing me away—me, who have
A CONJECTURE. 287
generally this stout mastiff with me. I beseech you,
sir, steal me not—nay, forgive me that I ever
dreamed of your having any such purpose. 'Tis our
rude Country manners, good sir, that teach a maid
to believe a man may not speak to her without
intent to marry her. I pray you pardon me—my
heart is kneeling to you, could you but see it—
and give me such assurance that you meditated no
such thing as will bring me back my scattered
senses.” Were not that well done? Shall that be
my penance, good mouse?”
“Dear Judith, tell me true,” her friend said,
almost piteously, “do you suspect him of having
played the wizard to cheat you and entrap you?”
“Good cousin,” said she, in her frankest manner,
“I confess: I did suspect—for an instant. I know
not what put it into my head. But sure I am I
have done him wrong—marry, 'twere no such deadly
sin even had he been guilty of such a trick; but I
believe it not—nay, he is too civil and gentle for a
jest of the kind. When I see him again, I must
make him amends for my evil thinking: do not I
owe him as much, sweetheart?”
This was all she could say at present, for Matthew
gardener here made his appearance, and that was
the signal for their withdrawing into the house.
But that afternoon, as Judith bethought her that
Master Leofric Hope would be coming to her grand-
mother's cottage with the manuscript he had pro-
mised to return, she became more and more anxious
to see him again. Somehow she thought she could
more effectually drive away this disquieting surmise
288 JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
if she could but look at him, and regard his manner,
and hear him speak. As it turned out, however, it
was not until somewhat late on in the evening that
she found time to seek out little Willie Hart, and
propose to him that he should walk with her as far
as Shottery.
END OF WOL. I.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
T
UNIVERSITY OF MIC
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