BY THE RIVER.
The next morning she was unusually demure, and yet merry withal. In her
own chamber, as she chose out a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, and laid
on the bed her girdle of buff-colored leather, and proceeded to array
herself in these and other braveries, it was to the usual accompaniment
of thoughtless and quite inconsequent ballad-singing. At one moment it
was "Green-sleeves was all my joy," and again "Fair, fair, and twice so
fair," or perhaps--
"An ambling nag, and a-down, a-down,
We have borne her away to Dargison."
But when she came to take forth from the cupboard of boxes the portion
of the play she had locked up there the night before, and when she
carefully placed that in a satchel of dark blue velvet that she had
attached to the girdle, she was silent; and when she went down-stairs
and encountered her mother, there was a kind of anxious innocence on her
face. The good parson (she explained) had remained so late on the
previous afternoon, and there were so many things about the house she
had to attend to, that she had been unable to get out into the fields,
as her father had bade her, to bring him home some wild flowers.
Besides, as every one knew, large dogs got weak in the hind-legs if they
were kept chained up too continuously; and it was absolutely necessary
she should take Don Roderigo out for a run with her through the meadows,
if her father would permit.
"There be plenty of flowers in the garden, surely," her mother said, who
was busy with some leather hangings, and wanted help.
"But he would liefer have some of the little wildlings, good mother,"
said Judith. "That I know right well; for he is pleased to see them
lying on the table before him; and sometimes, too, he puts the names of
them in his writing."
"How know you that?" was the immediate and sharp question.
"As I have heard, good mother," Judith said, with calm equanimity.
And then she went to the small mirror to see that her gray velvet cap
and starched ruff were all right.
"What can your father want with wild flowers if he is to remain the
whole day at Warwick!" her mother said.
"Is my father gone to Warwick?" she asked, quickly.
"If he be not already set forth."
She glanced at the window; there was neither horse nor serving-men
waiting there. And then she hastily went out and through the back yard
into the garden; and there, sure enough was her father, ready booted for
the road, and giving a few parting directions to his bailiff.
"Well, wench," he said, when he had finished with the man, "what would
you?"
She had taken from her purse all the money she could find there.
"Good father," said she, "will you do this errand for me at Warwick?"
"More vanities?" said he. "I wonder you have no commissioner to despatch
to Spain and Flanders. What is't, then?--a muff of satin--a gimmal
ring----"
"No, no, not so, father; I would have you buy for me a clasp-knife--as
good a one as the money will get; and the cutler must engrave on the
blade, or on the handle, I care not which, a message--an inscription, as
it were; 'tis but three words--_For Judith's Sweetheart_. Could you
remember that, good father? Is't too much of a trouble?"
"How now?" said he. "For whom do you wish me to bring you such a token?"
"Nay, sir," said she, demurely, "would you have me name names? The gift
of a sweetheart is a secret thing."
"You are a mad wench," said he (though doubtless he guessed for whom the
knife was intended), and he called to Matthew gardener to go round and
see if Master Shawe were not yet ready. "But now I bethink me, child, I
have a message for thee. Good Master Walter spoke to me yesternight
about what much concerns him--and you."
Instantly all her gay self-confidence vanished; she became confused,
anxious, timid; and she regarded him as if she feared what his look or
manner might convey.
"Yes, sir," she said, in rather a low voice.
"Well, you know what the good man wishes," her father said, "and he
spoke fairly, and reasoneth well. Your mother, too, would be right well
pleased."
"And you, sir?" she said, rather faintly.
"I?" said he. "Nay, 'tis scarce a matter that I can say aught in. 'Tis
for yourself to decide, wench; but were you inclined to favor the young
parson, I should be well pleased enough--indeed 'tis so--a good man and
honest, as I take him to be, of fair attainment, and I know of none that
bear him ill-will, or have aught to say against him. Nay, if your heart
be set that way, wench, I see no harm; you are getting on in years to be
still in the unmarried state; and, as he himself says, there would be
security in seeing you settled in a home of your own, and your future no
longer open and undecided. Nay, nay, I see no harm. He reasons well."
"But, father, know you why he would have me become his wife?" Judith
said, with a wild feeling overcoming her that she was drowning and must
needs throw out her hands for help. "'Tis for no matter of affection
that I can make out--or that he might not as well choose any other in
the town; but 'tis that I should help him in his work, and--and labor in
the vineyard, as he said. In truth I am all unfit for such a task--there
be many another far better fitted than I; my mother must know that right
well. There is little that I would not do to please her; but surely we
might all of us have just as much of the good man's company without this
further bond. But what say you, father? What is your wish?" she added,
humbly. "Perchance I could bring my mind to it if all were anxious that
it should be so."
"Why, I have told thee, wench, thou must choose for thyself. 'Twould
please your mother right well, as I say; and as for the duties of a
parson's wife--nay, nay, they are none so difficult. Have no fears on
that score, good lass; I dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded
as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." (The
gratitude that sprang to her eyes, and shone there, in spite of her
downcast face!) "Nor must you think the good parson has but that end in
view; 'tis not in keeping with his calling that he should talk the
language of romance. And there is more for you to think of. Even if
Master Blaise be no vehement lover, as some of the young rattlepates
might be, that is but a temporary thing; 'tis the long years of life
that weigh for the most; and all through these you would be in an
honorable station, well thought of, and respected. Nay, there be many, I
can tell thee, lass, that might look askance now at the player's
daughter, who would be right glad to welcome the parson's wife."
"What say you, father?" said she--and she was so startled that the blood
forsook her lips for a moment. "That--that there be those--who scorn the
player's daughter--and would favor the parson's wife?" And then she
instantly added: "I pray you, sir, did not you say that I was to decide
for myself?"
"Truly, child, truly," said he, somewhat wondering at her manner, for
her face had grown quite pale.
"Then I have decided, father."
"And how? What answer will you have for Master Walter?"
She spoke slowly now, and with a distinctness that was almost harsh.
"This, so please you, sir--that the player's daughter shall not, and
shall never, become the parson's wife, God helping her!"
"Why, how now? what a coil is this!" he exclaimed. "Good lass, 'twas not
the parson that said aught of the kind. Lay not that to his charge, in
fair honesty."
"I have decided," she said proudly and coldly. "Father, the horses are
brought round--I can hear them. You will not forget the knife, and the
message on the blade?"
He looked at her, and laughed, but in a kindly way; and he took her by
the shoulder.
"Nay, now, wench, thou shalt not throw over the good man for a matter
that was none of his bringing forward. And why should you wish to have
less than the respect of all your neighbors, all and sundry, whatever be
their views? In good sooth I meant to speak for the parson, and not to
harm him; and when I have more time I must undo the ill that I have done
him. So soften your heart, you proud one, and be thankful for the honor
he would do you; and think over it; and be civil and grateful."
"Nay, I will be civil enough to the good minister," said she, with a
return to her ordinary placid humor, "if he speak no more of making me
his wife."
"He will win you yet, for as stubborn as you are," her father said, with
a smile. "He hath a rare gift of reason: do not say nay too soon, wench,
lest you have to recall your words. Fare you well, lass, fare you well."
"And forget not the knife, good father. '_With Judith's Love_,' or '_For
Judith's Sweetheart_,' or what you will." And then she added, daringly:
"'Tis for the young prince Mamillius, if you must know, good sir."
He was just going away; but this caused him to stop for a second; and he
glanced at her with a curious kind of suspicion. But her eyes had become
quite inscrutable. Whatever of dark mischief was within them was not to
be made out but by further questioning, and for that he had now no time.
So she was left alone, mistress of the field, and rather inclined to
laugh at her own temerity; until it occurred to her that now she could
go leisurely forth for her stroll along the banks of the Avon, taking
the great dog with her.
Indeed, her anger was always short-lived. Or perhaps it was the feeling
that this danger was got rid of--that the decision was taken, and the
parson finally and altogether left behind her--that now raised her
spirits. At all events, as she went along the thoroughfare, and
cheerfully greeted those that met her, the neighbors said 'twas little
wonder that Master William Shakespeare's second daughter put off the
choosing of a mate for herself, for that she seemed to grow younger and
more winsome every day. And she knew all the children by name, and had a
word for them--scolding or merry, as the case might be--when that she
passed them by; and what with the clear sunlight of the morning, and the
fresher atmosphere as she got out of the town, it seemed to herself as
if all the air were filled with music.
"Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,"
she said or sung to herself; and she had not a trace of ill-will in her
mind against the parson (although she did not fail to recollect that she
was a player's daughter); and she was admonishing the Don to take good
care of her, for that phantom conspirators and such like evil creatures
might be about. And so she got down to the river-side; but she did not
cross; she kept along by the path that followed the windings of the
stream, between the wide meadows and the luxurious vegetation that
overhung the current.
This English-looking landscape was at its fairest on this fair morning,
for some heavy rain in the night had washed the atmosphere clear;
everything seemed sharp and luminous; and the rows of trees along the
summits of the distant and low-lying hills were almost black against the
white and blue sky. Nearer her all the foliage of the wide-branching
elms was stirring and rustling before a soft westerly breeze; the
flooded river was of a tawny brown; while its banks were a wilderness of
wild flowers between the stems of the stunted willows--straggling
rose-bushes of white and red, tall masses of goose-grass all powdered
over with cream-white blossom, a patch of fragrant meadow-sweet here and
there, or an occasional blood-red poppy burning among the dark, dull
greens. And as for companions? Well, she caught a glimpse of a brood of
ducks sidling along by the reeds, and tried to follow them, but the
bushes shut them out from her sight. A mare and her foal, standing under
the cool shadow of the trees, gazed blankly at her as she passed.
Further off there were some shorn sheep in the meadows; but she could
see no shepherd. The harsh note of the corn-crake sounded somewhere in
the long grass; and the bees were busy; and now and again a blue-backed
swallow would swoop by her and over the stream; while all around there
was a smell of clover sweetening the westerly wind. At this moment, she
convinced herself, she bore no ill-will at all against the good parson:
only that she had it in her mind that she would be well content to
remain a player's daughter. Her condition, she imagined, was one that
she did not desire to have bettered. Why, the air that touched her cheek
was like velvet; and there could be nothing in the world fairer than the
pink and white roses bestarring the bushes there; and the very pulse of
her blood seemed to beat to an unheard and rhythmical and subtle tune.
What was it her father had said? "I dare be sworn you are as honest and
well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it."
She laughed to herself, with a kind of pride. And she was so well
content that she wished she had little Willie Hart here, that she might
put her hand on his shoulder and pet him, and convey to him some little
of that satisfaction that reigned within her own bosom. No matter; he
should have the clasp-knife--"_With Judith's Love_;" and right proud he
would be of that, she made sure. And so she went idly on her way,
sometimes with
"Fair, fair, and twice so fair,
And fair as any may be,"
coming uncalled for into her head; and always with an eye to the various
wild flowers, to see what kind of a nosegay she would be able to gather
on her homeward walk.
But by and by her glances began to go further afield. Master Leofric
Hope, in his brief references to his own habits and condition at the
farm, had incidentally remarked that of all his walks abroad he
preferred the following of the path by the river-side; for there he was
most secure from observation. Nay, he said that sometimes, after
continued solitude, a longing possessed him to see a town--to see a
populated place filled with a fair number of his fellow-creatures--and
that he would come within sight of Stratford itself and have a look at
the church, and the church spire, and the thin blue smoke rising over
the houses. That, he said, was safer for him than coming over such an
exposed thoroughfare as Bardon Hill; and then again, when he was of a
mind to read--for this time he had brought one or two books with him--he
could find many a sheltered nook by the side of the stream, where even a
passer-by would not suspect his presence. Nor could Judith, on this
fresh, warm, breezy morning, conceal from herself the true object of her
coming forth. If she had tried to deceive herself, the contents of the
blue velvet satchel would have borne crushing testimony against her. In
truth she was now looking with some eagerness to find whether, on such a
pleasant morning, it was possible that he could have remained
within-doors, and with the very distinct belief that sooner or later she
would encounter him.
Nor was she mistaken, though the manner of the meeting was unexpected.
The mastiff happened to have gone on a yard or two in front of her, and
she was paying but little attention to the beast, when all of a sudden
it stopped, became rigid, and uttered a low growl. She sprang forward
and seized it by the collar. At the same instant she caught sight of
some one down by the water's edge, where, but for this occurrence, he
would doubtless have escaped observation. It was Leofric Hope, without a
doubt; for now he was clambering up through the bushes, and she saw that
he had a small book in his hand.
"My good fortune pursues me, fair Mistress Judith," said he (but with a
watchful eye on the dog), "that I should so soon again have an
opportunity of meeting with you. But perchance your protector is
jealous? He likes not strangers?"
"A lamb, sir--a very lamb!" Judith said, and she patted the dog and
coaxed him, and got him into a more friendly--or at least neutral and
watchful--frame of mind.
"I marvel not you have come forth on such a morning," said he, regarding
the fresh color in her face. "'Tis a rare morning; and 'tis a rare
chance for one that is a prisoner, as it were, that his dungeon is not
four walls, but the wide spaces of Warwickshire. Will you go further?
May I attend you?"
"Nay, sir," said she, "I but came forth to look at the country, and see
what blossoms I could carry back to my father; I will go as far as the
stile there, and rest a few minutes, and return."
"'Tis like your kindness, sweet lady, to vouchsafe me a moment's
conversation; a book is but a dull companion," said he, as they walked
along to the stile that formed part of a boundary hedge. And when they
reached it she seated herself on the wooden bar with much content, and
the mastiff lay down, stretching out his paws, while the young gentleman
stood idly--but not carelessly--by. He seemed more than ever anxious to
interest his fair neighbor, and so to beguile her into remaining.
"A dull companion," he repeated, "it is. One would rather hear the sound
of one's voice occasionally. When I came along here this morning I
should have been right glad even to have had a she shepherd say 'Good
Morrow' to me----"
"A what, good sir?" she asked.
He laughed.
"Nay, 'tis a book the wits in London have much merriment over just
now--a guide-book for the use of foreigners coming to this country--and
there be plenty of them at present, in the train of the ambassadors.
Marry, the good man's English is none of the best. '_For to ask the
Way_' is a chapter of the book; and the one traveller saith to the
other, '_Ask of that she shepherd_'--in truth the phrase hath been
caught up by the town. But the traveller is of a pleasant and courteous
turn; when that he would go to bed, he saith to the chambermaid: 'Draw
the curtains, and pin them with a pin. My she friend, kiss me once, and
I shall sleep the better. I thank you, fair maiden.' Well, their English
may be none of the best, but they have a royal way with them, some of
those foreigners that come to our court. When the Constable of Castile
was at the great banquet at Whitehall--doubtless you heard of it, sweet
Mistress Judith?--he rose and drank the health of the Queen from a cup
of agate of extraordinary value, all set with diamonds and rubies, and
when the King had drank from the same cup the Constable called a
servant, and desired that the cup should be placed on his Majesty's
buffet, to remain there. Was't not a royal gift? And so likewise he
drank the health of the King from a beautiful dragon-shaped cup of
crystal all garnished with gold; but he drank from the cover only, for
the Queen, standing up, drank the pledge from the cup itself; and then
he would have that in turn transferred to her buffet, as he had given
the other one to the King."
"My father," said she, with much complacent good-nature--for she had got
into the way of talking to this young gentleman with a marvellous
absence of restraint or country shyness, "hath a tankard of great age
and value, and on the silver top of it is a tribute engraved from many
of his friends--truly I would that you could come and see it, good
sir--and--and--my father, too, he would make you welcome, I doubt not.
And what book is it," she continued, with a smile, "that you have for
companion, seeing that there be no she shepherd for you to converse
withal?"
"'Tis but a dull affair," said he, scarce looking at it, for Judith's
eyes were more attractive reading. "And yet if the book itself be dull,
there is that within its boards that is less so. Perchance you have not
heard of one Master Browne, a young Devonshire gentleman, that hath but
late come to London, and that only for a space, as I reckon?"
"No, sir," she said hesitatingly.
"The young man hath made some stir with his poems," he continued,
"though there be none of them in the booksellers' hands as yet. And as
it hath been my good fortune to see one or two of them--marry, I am no
judge, but I would call them excellent, and of much modesty and grace--I
took occasion to pencil down a few of the lines inside the cover of this
little book. May I read them to you Mistress Judith?"
"If it please you, good sir."
He opened the book, and she saw that there were some lines pencilled on
the gray binding; but they must have been familiar to him, for he scarce
took his eyes from Judith's face as he repeated them.
"They are a description," said he, "of one that must have been fair
indeed:
'Her cheeks, the wonder of what eye beheld,
Begot betwixt a lily and a rose,
In gentle rising plains divinely swelled,
Where all the graces and the loves repose,
Nature in this piece all her works excelled,
Yet showed herself imperfect in the close,
For she forgot (when she so fair did raise her)
To give the world a wit might duly praise her.
'When that she spoke, as at a voice from heaven,
On her sweet words all ears and hearts attended;
When that she sung, they thought the planets seven
By her sweet voice might well their tunes have mended;
When she did sigh, all were of joy bereaven;
And when she smiled, heaven had them all befriended:
If that her voice, sighs, smiles, so many thrilled,
Oh, had she kissed, how many had she killed!'"
"'Tis a description of a lady of the court?" Judith asked timidly.
"No, by heavens," he said, with warmth; "the bonniest of our English
roses are they that grow in the country air!" and his glance of
admiration was so open and undisguised, and the application of his words
so obvious, that her eyes fell, and in spite of herself the color
mounted to her cheeks. In her embarrassment she sought safety in the
blue velvet satchel. She had contemplated some other way of introducing
this latest writing of her father's; but now that had all fled from her
brain. She knew that the town gentlemen were given to flattery; but then
she was not accustomed to it. And she could not but swiftly surmise that
he had written down these lines with the especial object of addressing
them to her when he should have the chance.
"Good sir," said she, endeavoring to hide this brief embarrassment by
assuming a merry air, "a fair exchange, they say, is no robbery.
Methinks you will find something here that will outweigh good Master
Browne's verses--in bulk, if not in merit."
He gazed in astonishment at the parcel of sheets she handed to him, and
he but glanced at the first page when he exclaimed.
"Why, I have heard naught of this before."
"Nay, sir," said she, with a calm smile, "the infant is but young--but a
few weeks, as I take it; it hath had but little chance of making a noise
in the world as yet. Will you say what you think of it?"
But now he was busy reading. Then by and by she recollected something of
the manner in which she had meant to introduce the play.
"You see, sir, my father hath many affairs on his hands; 'tis not all
his time he can give to such things. And yet I have heard that they be
well spoken of in London--if not by the wits, perchance, or by the court
ladies, at least by the common people and the 'prentices. We in these
parts have but little skill of learning; but--but methinks 'tis a
pretty story--is it not, good sir?--and perchance as interesting as a
speech from a goddess among the clouds?"
"In truth it is a rare invention," said he, but absently, for his whole
and rapt attention was fixed on the sheets.
She, seeing him so absorbed, did not interfere further. She sat still
and content--perhaps with a certain sedate triumph in her eyes. She
listened to the rustling of the elms overhead, and watched the white
clouds slowly crossing the blue, and the tawny-hued river lazily and
noiselessly stealing by below the bushes. The corn-crake was silent
now--there was not even that interruption; and when the bell in the
church tower began to toll, it was so soft and faint and distant that
she thought it most likely he would not even hear it. And at what point
was he now? At the story of how the sweet Miranda came to grow up in
exile? Or listening to Ariel's song? Or watching the prince approach
this new wonder of the magic island? Her eyes were full of triumph. "Ben
Jonson!" she had said.
But suddenly he closed the sheets together.
"It were unmannerly so to keep you waiting," said he.
"Nay, heed not that, good sir," she said instantly. "I pray you go on
with the reading. How like you it? 'Tis a pretty story, methinks; but my
father hath been so busy of late--what with acres, and tithes, and
sheep, and malt and the like--that perchance he hath not given all his
mind to it."
"It is not for one such as I, fair Mistress Judith," said he, with much
modesty, "to play the critic when it is your father's writing that comes
forward. Beshrew me, there be plenty of that trade in London, and
chiefly the feeble folk that he hath driven from our stage. No, sweet
lady; rather consider me one of those that crowd to see each new piece
of his, and are right thankful for aught he pleaseth to give us."
"Is that so?" said she; and she regarded him with much favor, which he
was not slow to perceive.
"Why," said he, boldly, "what needs your father to heed if some
worshipful Master Scoloker be of opinion that the play of the Prince
Hamlet belongeth to the vulgar sort, and that the prince was but
moon-sick; or that some one like Master Greene--God rest his soul,
wherever it be!--should call him an upstart crow, and a Johannes
factotum, and the like? 'Tis what the people of England think that is of
import; and right sure am I what they would say--that there is no
greater writer than your father now living in the land."
"Ah, think you so?" she said, quickly, and her face grew radiant, as it
were, and her eyes were filled with gratitude.
"This Master Greene," he continued, "was ever jibing at the players, as
I have heard, and bidding them be more humble, for that their labor was
but mechanical, and them attracting notice through wearing borrowed
plumes. Nay, he would have it that your father was no more than
that--poor man, he lived but a sorry life, and 'twere ill done to
cherish anger against him; but I remember to have seen the apology that
he that published the book made thereafter to your father--in good truth
it was fitting and right that it should be printed and given to the
world; and though I forget the terms of it, 'twas in fair praise of
Master William Shakespeare's gentle demeanor, and his uprightness of
conduct, and the grace of his wit."
"Could you get that for me, good sir?" said she, eagerly. "Is't possible
that I could get it?"
And then she stopped in some embarrassment, for she remembered that it
was not becoming she should ask this stranger for a gift. "Nay, sir,
'twould be of little use to me, that have no skill of reading."
"But I pray you, sweet Mistress Judith, to permit me to bring you the
book; 'twill be something, at least, for you to keep and show to your
friends----"
"If I might show it to Prudence Shawe, I could return it to you, good
sir," said she. And then she added, "Not that she--no, nor any one in
Stratford town--would need any such testimony to my father's qualities,
that are known to all."
"At least they seem to have won him the love and loyalty of his
daughter," said he, gallantly; "and they know most about a man who live
nearest him. Nay, but I will beg you to accept the book from me when I
can with safety get to London again; 'twill be a charge I am not likely
to forget. And in return, fair Mistress Judith, I would take of you
another favor and a greater."
"In what manner, gentle sir?"
"I have but glanced over this writing, for fear of detaining you, and
but half know the value of it," said he. "I pray you let me have it with
me to my lodging for an hour or two, that I may do it justice. When one
hath such a chance come to him, 'tis not to be lightly treated, and I
would give time and quiet to the making out the beauties of your
father's latest work."
She was at first somewhat startled by this proposal, and almost
involuntarily was for putting forth her hand to receive the sheets again
into safe-keeping; but then she asked herself what harm there could be
in acceding to his request. She was eagerly anxious that he should
understand how her father--even amidst those multifarious occupations
that were entailed on him by his prominent position in the town--could,
when he chose, sit down and write a tale far exceeding in beauty and
interest any of the mummeries that the court people seemed to talk
about. Why should not he have a few hours' time to study this fragment
withal? Her father had gone to Warwick for the day. Nay, more, she had
taken so small a portion of what had been cast aside that she knew the
absence of it would not be noticed, however long it might be kept. And
then this young gentleman, who was so civil and courteous, and who spoke
so well of her father, was alone, and to be pitied for that he had so
few means of beguiling the tedium of his hiding.
"In the afternoon," said he, seeing that she hesitated, "I could with
safety leave it at your grandmother's cottage, and then, perchance, you
might send some one for it. Nay, believe me, sweet Mistress Judith, I
know the value of that I ask; but I would fain do justice to such a
treasure."
"You would not fail me, sir, in leaving it at the cottage?" said she.
"You do me wrong, Mistress Judith, to doubt--in good sooth you do. If
you can find a trusty messenger----"
"Nay, but I will come for it myself, good sir, and explain to my
grandmother the nature of the thing, lest she suspect me of meddling
with darker plots. Let it be so, then, good sir, for now I must get me
back to the town. I pray you forget not to leave the package; and
so--farewell!"
"But my thanks to you, dear lady----"
"Nay, sir," said she, with a bright look of her eyes "bethink you you
have not yet fairly made out the matter. Tarry till you have seen
whether these sheets be worth the trouble--whether they remind you in
aught of the work of your friend Master Jonson--and then your thanks
will be welcome. Give ye good-day, gentle sir."
There was no thought in her mind that she had done anything imprudent
in trusting him with this portion of the play for the matter of an hour
or two; it was but a small equivalent, she recollected, for his promise
to bring her from London the retractation or apology of one of those who
had railed at her father, or abetted in that, and found himself
constrained by his conscience to make amends. And now it occurred to her
that it would look ill if, having come out to gather some wild flowers
for the little table in the summer-house, she returned with empty hands;
so, as she proceeded to walk leisurely along the winding path leading
back to the town, she kept picking here and there such blossoms as came
within her reach. If the nosegay promised to be somewhat large and
straggling, at least it would be sweet-scented, and she felt pretty sure
that her father would be well content with it. At first she was silent,
however; her wonted singing was abandoned; perchance she was trying to
recall something of the lines that Master Leofric Hope had repeated to
her with so marked an emphasis.
"And what said he of our English roses?" she asked herself, with some
faint color coming into her face at the mere thought of it.
But then she forcibly dismissed these recollections, feeling that that
was due to her own modesty, and busied herself with her blossoms and
sprays; and presently, as she set out in good earnest for the town, she
strove to convince herself that there was nothing more serious in her
brain than the tune of "Green-sleeves:"
"Green-sleeves, now farewell, adieu;
God I pray to prosper thee;
For I am still thy lover true--
Come once again and love me!"