THROUGH THE MEADOWS.
Some two or three days after that, and toward 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 favorite 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 on a
Sunday morning, and perhaps from some distance, 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 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 shouting 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 toward 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 church-yard 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
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 would 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 something more than surprise--something with
suggestions 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 gentleman 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
circumstances were like to prove a matter of endless speculation and
curiosity.
But when Judith drew near to the little gate of the church-yard, and saw
how Prudence was occupied, her heart smote her.
Green sleeves was all my joy,
Green sleeves was my delight,
went clear out of her head. There was a kind of 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 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
pleasure to them. Surely they cannot have lost all their 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 playing 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 Prudence was patient and scrupulously careful; and the
dead, had they been able to speak, would not have 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!'"
"But naturally, Judith! Such things are mercifully 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, sweet
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 a 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, sweet Prue," Judith said, "and go through
the meadows and round by Clopton's bridge, and so home; for I have that
to tell you will take some time; pray Heaven it startle you not out of
your senses withal!"
It was not, however, until they had got away from the church-yard, 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 on 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 confessions, and his manner, and so forth, she had
arrived 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 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 terrible 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?"
For an instant a flush of color overspread Judith's face, and she said,
with a sort of embarrassed 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
church-yard, and shaming a sacred place with such heathenish magic? And
now look already--here is 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 willingly do wrong, or bring harm on those that love you;
and for the sake of all of us, Judith, have nothing to do with this
man."
Judith was embarrassed, and perhaps a trifle remorseful; 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 color 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 happened 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, sweet Prue, 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. And so fairly spoken a young man, too; and so
courtly in his bearing; and of such a handsome presence----"
"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 himself----"
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, good mouse, by the best of all
evidence, that there is nothing ghostly or evil about the young man; you
shall see him, Prue--indeed 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 that you are
in exceeding 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;
indeed, 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 money!
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 correspondence with a plotter and murderer? Nay, what
was't you asked of me the other day?" she added, suddenly; 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 toward the Papists? Is there
another plot?--another treason against the King?--and you would harbor
one connected 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 enterprise; 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
remain concealed----"
"None, Judith, none!" the other said, with decision. "Why should an
honest man fear the daylight?"
"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 a 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. "Answer 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, why should he be on the way to the house with
it, and thereafter stop short and change his mind? There is many a mile
betwixt London and Stratford; '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 careless 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 who 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--because 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 mouse," said she, gayly; "you shall shield me
from the reproach of not having a common and ordinary share of humanity;
that shall you, dear Prue, should the unfortunate young gentleman come
into the neighborhood again; for you will read to me the message that he
sends me, and together we will devise somewhat on his behalf. No? Are
you afraid to go forth and meet the pirate 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 harbor 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 perchance 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 Prudence, 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, wherever 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, sweet mouse; and you may go in to supper with me with
untroubled eyes and a free conscience: marry, there is need for that, as
I bethink me; for Master Parson comes this evening, and you know you
must have a pure and joyful heart with you, good Prudence, 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.
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 neighbors 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 toward 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 entitled to them. But
before the news-letters had been carefully spelled out to the end, a
strange rumor 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 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.