Judith Shakespeare: Her love affairs and other adventures

With the gray of the dawn he began to cast his eyes abroad, as if to see if any one were stirring, or approaching the cluster of cottages nestled down there among the trees. The daylight widened and spread up in the trembling east; the fields and the woods became clear; here and there a small tuft of blue smoke began to arise from a cottage chimney. And now he was on Bardon Hill, and could look abroad over the wide landscape lying between Shottery and Stratford town; and if any one – any one bringing lowering brows and further cruel speech to a poor maid already stricken down and defenceless – had been in sight, what then? Watchfully and slowly he went down from the hill, and back to the meadows lying between the hamlet and Stratford, there to interpose, as it were, and question all comers. And well it was, for the sake of peace and charity, that the good parson did not chance to be early abroad on this still morning; and well it was for the young man himself. There was no wise-eyed Athene to descend from the clouds and bid this wrathful Achilles calm his heart. He was only an English country youth, though sufficiently Greek-like in form; and he was hungry and gray-faced with his vigil of the night, and not in a placable mood. Nay, when a young man is possessed with the consciousness that he is the defender of some one behind him – some one who is weak and feminine and suffering – he is apt to prove a dangerous antagonist; and it was well for all concerned that he had no occasion to pick a quarrel on this morning in these quiet meadows. In truth he might have been more at rest had he known that the good parson was in no hurry to follow up his monitions of the previous day; he wished these to sink into her mind and take root there, so that thereafter might spring up such wholesome fruits as repentance and humility, and the desire of godly aid and counsel.

By-and-by he slipped away home, plunged his head into cold water to banish the dreams of the night, and then, having swallowed a cup of milk to stay his hunger, he went along to Chapel Street, to see if he could have speech of Prudence. He found that not only were all of the household up and doing, but that Prudence herself was ready to go out, being bent on one of her charitable errands; and it needed but a word to alter the direction of her kindness: of course she would at once go to see Judith.

"Truly I had fears of it," said she, as they went through the fields, the pale, calm face having grown more and more anxious as she listened to all that he had to tell her. "Her father was as the light of the world to her. With the others of us she hath ever been headstrong in a measure, and careless – and yet so lovable withal, and merry, that I for one could never withstand her – nay, I confess I tried not to withstand her, for never knew I of any wilfulness of hers springing from anything but good-nature and her kind and generous ways. But that she was ever ready to brave our opinions I know, and perchance make light of our anxieties, we not having her courage; and in all things she seemed to be a guide unto herself, and to walk sure and have no fear. In all things but one. Indeed 'tis true what her grandmother told you, and who should know better than I, who was always with her? The slightest wish of her father's – that was law to her. A word of commending from him, and she was happy for days. And think what this must be now – she that was so proud of his approval – that scarce thought of aught else. Nay, for myself I can see that they have told him all a wrong story in London, that know I well; and 'tis no wonder that he is vexed and angry; but Judith – poor Judith – "

She could say no more just then; she turned aside her face somewhat.

"Do you know what she said to her grandmother, Prudence, when she fell a crying? that there had been but the one rose in her garden, and that was gone now."

"'Tis what Susan used to sing," said Prudence, with rather trembling lips. "'The rose is from my garden gone,' 'twas called. Ay, and hath she that on her mind now? Truly I wish that her mother and Susan had let me break this news to her; none know as well as I what it must be to her."

And here Tom Quiney quickly asked her whether it was not clear to her that the parson had gone beyond his mission altogether – and that in a way that would have to be dealt with afterward, when all these things were amended? Prudence, with some faint color in her pale face, defended Master Blaise to the best of her power, and said she knew he could not have been unduly harsh; nay, had she not herself, just as he was setting forth, besought him to be kind and considerate with Judith? Hereupon Quiney rather brusquely asked what the good man could mean by phrases about discipline and chastenings and chastisements; to which Prudence answered gently that these were but separate words, and that she was sure Master Blaise had fulfilled what he undertook in a merciful spirit, which was his nature. After that there was a kind of silence between these two; perhaps Quiney considered that no good end could be served at present by stating his own ideas on that subject. The proper time would come, in due course.

At length they reached the cottage. But here, to their amazement, and to the infinite distress of Prudence, when Judith's grandmother came down the wooden steps again, she shook her head, saying that the wench would see no one.

"I thought as 'twould be so," she said.

"But me, good grandmother! Me!" Prudence cried, with tears in her eyes. "Surely she will not refuse to see me!"

"No one, she saith," was the answer. "Poor wench, her head do ache so bad. And when one would cheer her or comfort her a morsel, 'tis another fit of crying – that will wear her to skin and bone, if she do not pluck up better heart. She hath eaten naught this morning neither; 'tis for no wilfulness, poor lass, for she tried an hour ago; and now 'tis best as I think to leave her alone."

"By your leave, good grandmother," said Prudence, with some firmness, "that will I not. If Judith be in such trouble, 'tis not likely that I should go away and leave her. It hath never been the custom between us two."

"As you will, Prudence," the grandmother said. "Young hearts have their confidences among themselves. Perchance you may be able to rouse her."

Prudence went up the stairs silently and opened the door. Judith was lying on the bed, her face turned away from the light, her hands clasped over her forehead.

"Judith!"

There was no answer.

"Judith," said her friend, going near, "I am come to see you."

There was a kind of sob – that was all.

"Judith, is your head so bad? Can I do nothing for you?"

She put over her hand – the soft and cool and gentle touch of which had comforted many a sick-bed – and she was startled to find that both Judith's hands and forehead were burning hot.

"No, sweetheart," was the answer, in a low and broken voice, "you can do nothing for me now."

"Nay, nay, Judith, take heart," Prudence said, and she gently removed the hot fingers from the burning forehead, and put her own cooler hand there, as if to dull the throbbing of the pain. "Sweetheart, be not so cast down! 'Twill be all put right in good time."

"Never – never!" the girl said, without tears, but with an abject hopelessness of tone. "It can never be undone now. He said my name was become a mockery among my father's friends. For myself, I would not heed that – nay, they might say of me what they pleased – but that my father should hear of it – a mockery and scorn – and they think I cared so little for my father that I was ready to give away his papers to any one pretending to be a sweetheart and befooling me – and my father to know it all, and to hear such things said – no, that can never be undone now. I used to count the weeks and the days and the very hours when I knew he was coming back – that was the joy of my life to me – and now, if I were to know that he were coming near to Stratford I should fly and hide somewhere – anywhere – in the river as lief as not. Nay, I make no complaint. 'Tis my own doing, and it cannot be undone now."

"Judith, Judith, you break my heart!" her friend cried. "Surely to all troubles there must come an end."

"Yes, yes," was the answer, in a low voice, and almost as if she were speaking to herself. "That is right. There will come an end. I would it were here now."

All Prudence's talking seemed to be of no avail. She reasoned and besought – oftentimes with tears in her eyes – but Judith remained quite listless and hopeless; she seemed to be in a stunned and dazed condition after the long sleeplessness of the night; and Prudence was afraid that further entreaties would only aggravate her headache.

"I will go and get you something to eat now," said she. "Your grandmother says you have had nothing since yesterday."

"Do not trouble; 'tis needless, sweetheart," Judith said; and then she added with a brief shiver, "but if you could fetch a thick cloak, dear Prudence, and throw it over me – surely the day is cold somewhat."

A few minutes after (so swift and eager was everybody in the house) Judith was warmly wrapped up; and by the side of the bed, on a chair, was some food the good grandmother had been keeping ready, and also a flask of wine that Quiney had brought with him.

"Look you, Judith," said Prudence, "here is some wine that Thomas Quiney hath brought for you – 'tis of a rare quality, he saith – and you must take a little. Nay, you must and shall, sweetheart; and then perchance you may be able to eat."

She sipped a little of the wine; it was but to show her gratitude and send him her thanks. She could not touch the food. She seemed mostly anxious for rest and quiet; and so Prudence noiselessly left her and stole down the stair again.

Prudence was terribly perplexed and in a kind of despair almost.

"I know not what to do," she said. "I would bring over her mother and Susan, but that she begs and prays me not to do that – nay, she cannot see them she says. And there is no reasoning with her. It cannot be undone now – that is her constant cry. What to do I cannot tell; for surely, if she remain so, and take no comfort, she will fall ill."

"Ay, and if that be so who is to blame?" said Quiney, who was walking up and down in considerable agitation. "I say that letter should never have been put into the parson's hands. Was it meant to be conveyed to Judith? I warrant me it was not! Did her father say that he wished her chidden? did he ask any of you to bid the parson go to her with his upbraidings? would he himself have been so quick and eager to chasten her proud spirit? I tell you no. He is none of the parson kind. Vexed he might have been, but he would have taken no vengeance. What – on his own child? By heavens, I'll be sworn now that if he were here, at this minute, he would take the girl by the hand, and laugh at her for being so afraid of his anger – ay, I warrant me he would – and would bid her be of good cheer, and brighten her face, that was ever the brightest in Warwickshire, as I have heard him say. That would he – my life on it!"

"Ah," said Prudence, wistfully, "if you could only persuade Judith of that!"

"Persuade her?" said he. "Why, I would stake my life that is what her father would do?"

"You could not persuade her," said Prudence, with a hopeless air. "No; she thinks it is all over now between her father and her. She is disgraced and put away from him. She hath done him such injury, she says, as even his enemies have never done. When he comes back again, she says, to Stratford, she will be here, and she knows that he will never come near this house; and that will be better for her, she says, for she could never again meet him face to face."

Well, all that day Judith lay there in that solitary room, desiring only to be left alone; taking no food; the racking pains in her head returning from time to time; and now and again she shivered slightly, as if from cold. Tom Quiney kept coming and going to hear news of her, or to consult with Prudence as to how to rouse her from this hopelessness of grief; and as the day slowly passed, he grew more and more disturbed and anxious and restless. Could nothing be done? Could nothing be done? was his constant cry.

He remained late that evening, and Prudence stayed all night at the cottage. In the morning he was over again early, and more distressed than ever to hear that the girl was wearing herself out with this agony of remorse – crying stealthily when that she thought no one was near, and hiding herself away from the light, and refusing to be comforted.

But during the long and silent watches he had been taking counsel with himself.

"Prudence," said he, regarding her with a curious look, "do you think now, if some assurance were come from her father himself – some actual message from him – a kindly message – some token that he was far indeed from casting her away from him – think you Judith would be glad to have that?"

"'Twould be like giving her life back to her," said the girl, simply. "In truth I dread what may come of this; 'tis not in human nature to withstand such misery of mind. My poor Judith, that was ever so careless and merry!"

He hesitated for a second or two, and then he said, looking at her, and speaking in a cautious kind of way.

"Because, when next I have need to write to London, I might beg of some one – my brother Dick, perchance, that is now in Bucklersbury, and would have small trouble in doing such a service – I say I might beg of him to go and see Judith's father, and tell him the true story, and show him that she was not so much to blame. Nay, for my part I see not that she was to blame at all, but for over-kindness and confidence, and the wish to exalt her father. The mischief that hath been wrought is the doing of the scoundrel and villain on whose head I trust it may fall erelong; 'twas none of hers. And if her father were to have all that now put fairly and straight before him, think you he would not be right sorry to hear that she had taken his anger so much to heart, and was lying almost as one dead at the very thought of it? I tell you, now, if all this be put before him, and if he send her no comfortable message – ay, and that forthwith, and gladly – I have far misread him. And as for her, Prudence – 'twould be welcome, say you?"

"'Twould be of the value of all the world to her," Prudence said, in her direct and earnest way.

Well, he almost immediately thereafter left (seeing that he could be of no further help to these women-folk), and walked quickly back to Stratford, and to his house, which was also his place of business. He seemed to hurry through his affairs with speed; then he went up-stairs and looked out some clothing; he took down a pair of pistols and put some fresh powder in the pans, and made a few other preparations. Next he went round to the stable, and the stout little Galloway nag whinnied when she saw him at the door.

"Well, Maggie, lass," said he, going into the stall, and patting her neck, and stroking down her knees, "what sayst thou? Wouldst like a jaunt that would carry thee many a mile away from Stratford town? Nay, but if you knew the errand, I warrant me you would be as eager as I! What, then – a bargain, lass! By my life, you shall have many a long day's rest in clover when this sharp work is done!"

CHAPTER XXXI

A LOST ARCADIA

It was on this same morning that Judith made a desperate effort to rouse herself from the prostration into which she had fallen. All through that long darkness and despair she had been wearily and vainly asking herself whether she could do nothing to retrieve the evil she had wrought. Her good name might go – she cared little for that now – but was there no means of making up to her father the actual money he had lost? It was not forgiveness she thought of, but restitution. Forgiveness was not to be dreamed of; she saw before her always that angered face she had beheld in the garden, and her wish was to hide away from that, and be seen of it no more. Then there was another thing: if she were to be permitted to remain at the cottage, ought she not to show herself willing to take a share of the humblest domestic duties? Might not the good dame begin to regard her as but a useless encumbrance? If it were so that no work her ten fingers could accomplish would ever restore to her father what he had lost through her folly, at least it might win her grandmother's forbearance and patience. And so it was on the first occasion of her head ceasing to ache quite so badly she struggled to her feet (though she was so languid and listless and weak that she could scarcely stand), and put round her the heavy cloak that had been lying on the bed, and smoothed her hair somewhat, and went to the door. There she stood for a minute or two, listening, for she would not go down if there were any strangers about.

The house seemed perfectly still. There was not a sound anywhere. Then, quite suddenly, she heard little Cicely begin to sing to herself – but in snatches, as if she were occupied with other matters – some well-known rhymes to an equally familiar tune —

"By the moon we sport and play;With the night begins our day;As we drink the dew doth fall,Trip it, dainty urchins all!Lightly as the little bee,Two by two, and three by three,And about go we, go we."

– and she made no doubt that the little girl was alone in the kitchen. Accordingly, she went down. Cicely, who was seated near the window and busily engaged in plucking a fowl, uttered a slight cry when she entered, and started up.

"Dear Mistress Judith," she said, "can I do aught for you? Will you sit down? Dear, dear, how ill you do look!"

"I am not at all ill, little Cicely," said Judith, as cheerfully as she could, and she sat down. "Give me the fowl – I will do that for you, and you can go and help my grandmother in whatever she is at."

"Nay, not so," said the little maid, definitely refusing. "Why should you?"

"But I wish it," Judith said. "Do not vex me now – go and seek my grandmother, like a good little lass."

The little maid was thus driven to go, but it was with another purpose. In about a couple of minutes she had returned, and preceding her was Judith's grandmother.

"What! art come down, wench?" the old dame said, patting her kindly on the shoulder. "That be so far well – ay, ay, I like that now – that be better for thee than lying all alone. But what would you with the little maid's work, that you would take it out of her hands?"

"Why, if I am idle, and do nothing, grandmother, you will be for turning me out of the house," the girl answered, looking up with a strange kind of smile.

"Turn thee out of the house," said her grandmother, who had just caught a better glimpse of the wan and tired face. "Ay, that will I – and now. Come thy ways, wench; 'tis time for thee to be in the fresh air. Cicely, let be the fowl now. Put some more wood on the fire, and hang on the pot – there's a clever lass. And thou, grandchild, come thy ways with me into the garden, and I warrant me when thou comest back a cupful of barley-broth will do thee no harm."

Judith obeyed, though she would fain have sat still. And then, when she reached the front door what a bewilderment of light and color met her eyes! She stood as one dazed for a second or two. The odors of the flowers and the shrubs were so strange, moreover – pungent and strange and full of memories. It seemed so long a time since she had seen this wonderful glowing world and breathed this keen air, that she paused on the stone flag to collect her senses as it were. And then a kind of faintness came over her, and perhaps she might have sank to the ground, but that she laid hold of her grandmother's arm.

"Ay, ay, come thy ways and sit thee down, dearie," the old dame said, imagining that the girl was but begging for a little assistance in her walking. "I be main glad to see thee out again. I liked not that lying there alone – nay, I wur feared of it, and I bade Prudence send your mother and Susan to see you – "

"No, no, good grandmother, no, no!" Judith pleaded, with all the effort that remained to her.

"But yea, yea!" her grandmother said, sharply. "Foolish wench, that would hide away from them that can best aid thee! Ay, and knowest thou how the new disease, as they call it, shows itself at the beginning? Why, with a pinching of the face and sharp pains in the head. Wouldst thou have me let thee lie there, and perchance go from bad to worse, and not send for them – ay, and for Susan's husband, if need were? Nay, but let not that fright thee, good wench," she said, in a gentler way. "'Tis none so bad as I thought, else you would not be venturing down the stairs – nay, nay, there be no harm done as yet, I warrant me – 'tis a breath of fresh air to sharpen thee into a hungry fit that will be the best doctor for thee. Here, sit thee down and rest now, and when the barley-broth be warm enough, Cicely shall bring thee out a dish of it. Nay, I see no harm done. Keep up thy heart, lass; thou wert ever a brave one – ay, what was there ever that could daunt thee? and not the boldest of the youths but was afraid of thy laugh and thy merry tongue. Heaven save us, that thou should take on so! And if you would sell yourself to work in slavery in the Indies, think you they would buy a poor, weak, trembling creature? Nay, nay, we will have to fetch back the roses to your cheeks ere you make for that bargain, I warrant me!"

They were now seated in the little arbor. On entering Judith had cast her eyes round it in a strange and half-frightened fashion; and now, as she sat there, she was scarcely listening to the good-natured garrulity of the old dame, which was wholly meant to cheer her spirits.

"Grandmother," said she, in a low voice, "think you 'twas really he that took away with him my father's play?"

"I know not how else it could have been come by," said the grandmother, "but I pray you, child, heed not that for the present. What be done and gone cannot be helped – let it pass – there, there, now, what a lack of memory have I, that should have shown thee the pretty lace cuffs that Thomas Quiney left for thee – fit for a queen they be, to be sure – ay, and the fine lace of them, and the silver, too. He hath a free hand, he hath; 'tis a fair thing for any that will be in life-partnership with him; 'twill not away, marry 'twill not; 'twill bide in his nature – that will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone, as they say; and I like to see a young man that be none of the miser kind, but ready forth with his money where 'tis to please them he hath a fancy for. A brave lad he is too, and one that will hold his own; and when I told him that you were pleased that his business went forward well, why, saith he, as quick as quick, 'Said she that?' and if my old eyes fail me not, I know of one that setteth greater share by your good word than you imagine, wench."

She but half heard; she was recalling all that had happened in this very summer-house.

"And think you, grandmother," said she, slowly, and with absent eyes, "that when he was sitting here with us, and telling us all about the Court doings, and about my father's friends in London, and when he was so grateful to us – or saying that he was so – for our receiving of him here, think you that all the time he was planning to steal my father's play, and to take it and sell it in London? Grandmother can you think it possible? Could any one be such a hypocrite? I know that he deceived me at the first, but 'twas only a jest, and he confessed it all, and professed his shame that he had so done. But, grandmother, think of him – think of how he used to speak – and ever so modest and gentle; is't possible that all the time he was playing the thief, and looking forward to the getting away to London to sell what he had stolen?"

"For love's sake, sweetheart, heed that man no more! 'tis all done and gone – there can come no good of vexing thyself about it," her grandmother said. "Be he villain or not, 'twill be well for all of us that we never hear his name more. In good sooth I am as much to blame as thou thyself, child, for the encouraging him to come about, and listening to his gossip – beshrew me, that I should have meddled in such matters, and not bade him go about his business! But 'tis all past and gone now, as I say – there be no profit in vexing thyself – "

"Past and gone, grandmother!" she exclaimed, and yet in a listless way. "Yes – but what remains? Good grandmother, perchance you did not hear all that the parson said. 'Tis past and gone, truly – and more than you think."