THE PLANTING OF THE CHARM.
The embarrassment that ensued--on her part only, for the pale and gentle
face of her friend betrayed 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 delicate 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
retransform herself 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 habitual and great 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, 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 conscience--that they should carry thither and read aloud,
among 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 dwelt 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 regarded 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 obstinacy 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 the other fragments 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 considerably 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 suspicions; 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 displeasure 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 outhouses.
Judith glanced at the handwriting again, and said, with an affectation
of carelessness:
"There be those who have plenty of time, surely, 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 daylight 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 contained merely a sprig of
rosemary, along with some lines written in a most ornate calligraphy.
"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 foot-ball, and throw the
sledge as they say he can, he is master of a most delicate handwriting."
"But the rosemary, Prue!" Judith exclaimed, suddenly, and she groped
about at her feet until she had found it. "Why, now, look there, 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 summoned 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 mouth-piece only, sweet Prue!--a mere harmless, innocent whistle that
had nothing to do with the tune. And the business was not so dreadful
either; there was no caldron, 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 voice
like the voice of my lord bishop; and the assurance that the planets and
the stars were holding 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, dear mouse."
After a little search she found the tiny document; 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?"
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 becoming a
trifle clearer, so that doubtless the moon was declaring itself
somewhere; and she was looking forward, when the time came, to securing
Prudence's company as far as the church-yard, 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 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 from the other side of the way? Is it such a
wonder that one should meet a stranger on the Bidford road? And what
more? Man or ghost, he cannot make me marry him if I will not. He cannot
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 forbidden----"
"To you, sweet saint--to you," said the other, with much good-humor.
"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 Prudence, so occupied with her
own fears that she scarcely knew what to do.
"What!" exclaimed her friend, in tones of raillery, "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 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 vagrant 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 attempt 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, Madam Pride! Know you not,
then, whence comes 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 companion. There you have it complete--_Shackspere_,
the companion of strollers and vagabonds, of worthless and idle fellows.
What say you, Madam Pride?' And, indeed, poor Susan was sorely
displeased, insomuch 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 herself. She rose quickly,
thrust open the casement still wider, and put out her head to discover
whereabouts the moon was; and when she withdrew her head again there
was mischief and a spice of excitement 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 arm.
"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
punishment."
"Profaning, say you, sweet mouse? Is it anything worse than the children
playing tick round the grave-stones; or even, when no one is looking,
having 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, sweet mouse; I ask your company no further 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 thoughtfully, and even
reluctantly, she went to a small cupboard of boxes that stood in the
corner of the apartment, and brought forth some articles of attire which
(although she might not have confessed it) were for the better
disguising of herself, seeing 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
church-yard.
"Is it fair, dear Judith?" Prudence said, reproachfully, 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, sweet mouse?" said Judith, with a
quick glance, but indeed 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.
"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 evening 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 recognized, 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 between themselves for some time.
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,
gayly. "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 heart; so stand here
now, and hush!--pray 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 church-yard,
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
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 imbedded 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 church-yard like a
ghost.
"The deed is done, good Prue," said she, gayly, 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!'"
"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."