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 Bidford 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 that she knew in everyday life? But yet she said
to herself--and there was no doubt about her absolute 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 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 showing 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 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
enterprises? What right had he to challenge her to show that she was not
afraid? She was not afraid, she assured herself. She had as good a title
to walk along this lane as any one in Warwickshire. Only the 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 return by this solitary
lane, for on the public highway there would be farm servants and laden
wains and carriers, and such-like comfortable and companionable 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 highway 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 Don Roderigo. 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 aghast; but she had a
brave will. She was determined 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 nothing 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 loving 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.
"I am one that is in misfortune," said he, simply; "nay, in peril."
"Truly I am sorry for that, sir," said she, regarding him with frank
eyes of sympathy, for indeed 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 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 respectful 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 husbands, and only knew
that here, in actual fact, was a stranger--and a modest young stranger,
too--that was in 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 dare not assume--she had no reason for
believing--that her father was secretly inclined to favor 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 man and his opinions;
but he would take no part in the talk; and when the discussion became
disputatious, as sometimes happened, and the combatants grew warm and
took to making hot assertions, he would rise and go out idly into the
garden, 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
sending this young man away with his letter of commendation 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 rapidly considering what she
could do for one in distress.
"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 friendship. 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
any one; 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 it were, last Sunday near to
Oxford--'Why,' says my father, 'if he take not life, and be a civil
gentleman, 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.' Indeed, you need
fear naught but kindness and gentleness; 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 neighborhood 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 color mounting to
her cheeks--"for he would but laugh at my speaking of such things--but
from my gossip and neighbor 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 scrupulous 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."
"But how am I to thank you for such a favor?" said he.
"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 honor 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 mayhap. And 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 account 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 Annandale--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 entertaining 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 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 addressed by the Lady of the Lake, and have
King Arthur hand him his armor 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
doleful or tragic in his appearance. He was a handsomely 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 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, 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 commanded of him, Judith grew at length to be not
so pleased; and she said, with some asperity, "But the King holds my
father in honor 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 are 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 assurance, 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 and hesitate in his walk, as if he were afraid of going
further.
"It is but a small kindness," said she; "and I hope it will bring you
and my father together. He has 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 welcome 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 favor? 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."
"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 neighborhood. 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 asking 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 forever 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 marvel!--and I dare be sworn, now, that half the clowns
in Stratford imagine themselves in love with her."