A CONJECTURE.
When she got back to New Place she found the house in considerable
commotion. It appeared that the famous divine, Master Elihu Izod, had
just come into the town, being on his way toward Leicestershire, and
that he had been brought by the gentleman whose guest he was to pay a
visit to Judith's mother. Judith had remarked ere now that the preachers
and other godly persons who thus honored the New Place generally made
their appearance a trifling time before the hour of dinner; and now, as
she reached the house, she was not surprised to find that Prudence had
been called in to entertain the two visitors--who were at present in the
garden--while within doors her mother and the maids were hastily making
such preparations as were possible. To this latter work she quickly lent
a helping hand; and in due course of time the board was spread with a
copious and substantial repast, not forgetting an ample supply of wine
and ale for those that were that way inclined. Then the two gentlemen
were called in, Prudence was easily persuaded to stay, and, after a
lengthened grace, the good preacher fell to, seasoning his food with
much pious conversation.
At such times Judith had abundant opportunities for reverie, and for a
general review of the situation of her own affairs. In fact, on this
occasion she seemed in a manner to be debarred from participation in
these informal services at the very outset. Master Izod, who was a tall,
thin, dark, melancholy-visaged man--unlike his companion, Godfrey
Buller, of the Leas, near to Hinckley, who, on the contrary, was a
stout, yeoman-like person, whose small gray absent eyes remained
motionless and vacant in the great breadth of his rubicund face--had
taken for his text, as it were, a list he had found somewhere or other
of those characters that were entitled to command the admiration and
respect of all good people. These were: a young saint; an old martyr; a
religious soldier; a conscionable statesman; a great man courteous; a
learned man humble; a silent woman; a merry companion without vanity; a
friend not changed with honor; a sick man cheerful; a soul departing
with comfort and assurance. And as Judith did not make bold to claim to
be any one of these--nor, indeed, to have any such merits or excellences
as would extort the approval of the membership of the saints--she
gradually fell away from listening; and her mind was busy with other
things; and her imagination, which was vivid enough, intent upon other
scenes. One thing that had struck her the moment she had returned was
that Prudence seemed in an unusually cheerful mood. Of course the
arrival of two visitors was an event in that quiet life of theirs; and
no doubt Prudence was glad to be appointed to entertain the
strangers--one of them, moreover, being of such great fame. But so
pleased was she, and so cheerful in her manner, that Judith was
straightway convinced there had been no quarrel between her and Tom
Quiney. Nay, when was there time for that? He could scarcely have seen
her that morning; while the night before there had certainly been no
mention of his projected migration to America, else Prudence would have
said as much. What, then, had so suddenly driven him to the conclusion
that England was no longer a land fit to live in? And why had he paid
Prudence such marked attention--why had he presented her with the
spaniel-gentle and offered her the emblazoned missal--one evening, only
to resolve the next morning that he must needs leave the country? Nay,
why had he so unexpectedly broken the scornful silence with which he had
recently treated herself? He had given her to understand that, as far as
he was concerned, she did not exist. He seemed determined to ignore her
presence. And yet she could not but remember that, if this contemptuous
silence on his part was broken by the amazement of his seeing her in the
company of a stranger, his suspicions in that direction were very
speedily disarmed. A few words and they fled. It was his far more deadly
jealousy of the parson that remained; and was like to remain, for she
certainly would not stoop to explain that the meeting in the church-yard
was quite accidental. But why should he trouble his head about either
her or the parson? Had he not betaken himself elsewhere--and that with
her right good-will? Nay, on his own confession he had discovered how
kind and gentle Prudence was: there was a fit mate for him--one to
temper the wildness and hot-headedness of his youth. Judith had never
seen the sea, and therefore had never seen moonlight on the sea; but
the nearest to that she could go, in thinking of what Prudence's nature
was like, in its restful and sweet and serious beauty, was the moonlight
she had seen on the river Avon in the calm of a summer's night, the
water unbroken by a ripple, and not a whisper among the reeds. Could he
not perceive that too, and understand?
As for herself, she knew that she could at any moment cut the knot of
any complications that might arise by allowing Master Walter to talk her
over into marrying him. Her father had assured her that the clear-headed
and energetic young parson was quite equal to that. Well, it was about
time she should abandon the frivolities and coquetries of her youth; and
her yielding would please many good people, especially her mother and
sister, and obtain for herself a secure and established position, with
an end to all these quarrels and jealousies and uncertainties. Moreover,
there would be safety there. For, if the truth must be told, she was
becoming vaguely and uncomfortably conscious that her relations with
this young gentleman who had come secretly into the neighborhood were no
longer what they had been at first. Their friendship had ripened
rapidly; for he was an audacious personage, with plenty of
self-assurance; and with all his professions of modesty and deference,
he seemed to know very well that he could make his society agreeable.
Then those lines he had repeated: why, her face grew warm now as she
thought of them. She could not remember them exactly, but she remembered
their purport; and she remembered, too, the emphasis with which he had
declared that the bonniest of our English roses were those that grew in
the country air. Now a young man cut off from his fellows as he was
might well be grateful for some little solace of companionship, or for
this or the other little bit of courtesy; but he need not (she
considered) show his gratitude just in that way. Doubtless his flattery
might mean little; the town gentlemen, she understood, talked in that
strain; and perhaps it was only by an accident that the verses were
there in the book; but still she had the uneasy feeling that there was
something in his manner and speech that, if encouraged, or suffered to
continue without check, might lead to embarrassment. That is to say, if
she continued to see him; and there was no need for that. She could cut
short this acquaintance the moment she chose. But on the one hand she
did not wish to appear uncivil; and on the other she was anxious that
he should see the whole of this play that her father had written--thrown
off, as it were, amid the various cares and duties that occupied his
time. If Master Leofric Hope talked of Ben Jonson when he came into the
country, she would have him furnished with something to say of her
father when he returned to town.
These were idle and wandering thoughts; and in one respect they were not
quite honest. In reality she was using them to cloak and hide, or to
drive from her mind altogether, a suspicion that had suddenly occurred
to her that morning, and that had set her brain afire in a wild way. It
was not only the tune of "Green-sleeves" that was in her head as she set
off to walk home, though she was trying to force herself to believe
that. The fact is this: when Master Leofric Hope made the pretty speech
about the country roses, he accompanied it, as has been said, by a
glance of only too outspoken admiration; and there was something in this
look--apart from the mere flattery of it--that puzzled her. She was
confused, doubtless; but in her confusion it occurred to her that she
had met that regard somewhere before. She had no time to pursue this
fancy further; for in order to cover her embarrassment she had betaken
herself to the sheets in her satchel; and thereafter she was so anxious
that he should think well of the play that all her attention was fixed
on that. But after leaving him, and having had a minute or two to think
over what had happened, she recalled that look, and wondered why there
should be something strange in it. And then a startling fancy flashed
across her mind--the wizard! Was not that the same look--of the same
black eyes--that she had encountered up at the corner of the field above
the Weir Brake?--a glance of wondering admiration, as it were? And if
these two were one and the same man? Of course that train, being lit,
ran rapidly enough: there were all kinds of parallels--in the elaborate
courtesy, in the suave voice, in the bold and eloquent eyes. And she had
no magical theory to account for the transformation--it did not even
occur to her that the wizard could have changed himself into a young
man--there was no dismay or panic in that direction; she instantly took
it for granted that it was the young man who had been personating the
wizard. And why?--to what end, if this bewildering possibility were to
be regarded for an instant? The sole object of the wizard's coming was
to point out to her her future husband. And if this young man were
himself the wizard? A trick to entrap her?
Ariel himself could not have flashed from place to place more swiftly
than this wild conjecture; but the next moment she had collected
herself. Her common-sense triumphed. She bethought her of the young man
she had just left--of his respectful manners--of the letter he had
brought for her father--of the circumstances of his hiding. It was not
possible that he had come into the neighborhood for the deliberate
purpose of making a jest of her. Did he look like one that would play
such a trick; that would name himself as her future husband; that would
cozen her into meeting him? She felt ashamed of herself for harboring
such a thought for a single instant. Her wits had gone wool-gathering!
Or was it that Prudence's fears had so far got hold of her brain that
she could not regard the young man but as something other than an
ordinary mortal? In fair justice, she would dismiss this absurd surmise
from her mind forthwith; and so she proceeded with her gathering of the
flowers; and when she did set forth for home, she had very nearly
convinced herself that there was nothing in her head but the tune of
"Green-sleeves." Nay, she was almost inclined to be angry with Prudence
for teaching her to be so suspicious.
Nevertheless, during this protracted dinner, while good Master Izod was
enlarging upon the catalogue of persons worthy of honor and emulation,
Judith was attacked once more by the whisperings of the demon. For
awhile she fought against these, and would not admit to herself that any
further doubt remained in her mind; but when at last, she found herself,
despite herself, going back and back to that possibility, she took heart
of grace and boldly faced it. What if it were true? Supposing him to
have adopted the disguise, and passed himself off as a wizard, and
directed her to the spot where she should meet her future husband--what
then? What ought she to do? How ought she to regard such conduct? As an
idle frolic of youth? Or the device of one tired of the loneliness of
living at the farm, and determined at all hazards to secure
companionship? Or a darker snare still--with what ultimate aims she
could not divine? Or again (for she was quite frank), if this were
merely some one who had seen her from afar, at church, or fair, or
market, and considered she was a good-looking maid, and wished to have
further acquaintance, and could think of no other method than this
audacious prank? She had heard of lovers' stratagems in plenty; she knew
of one or two of such that had been resorted to in this same quiet town
of Stratford. And supposing that this last was the case, ought she to be
indignant? Should she resent his boldness in hazarding such a stroke to
win her? And then, when it suddenly occurred to her that, in discussing
this possibility, she was calmly assuming that Master Leofric Hope was
in love with her--he never having said a word in that direction, and
being in a manner almost a stranger to her--she told herself that no
audacity on his part could be greater than this on hers; and that the
best thing she could do would be to get rid once and forever of such
unmaidenly conjectures. No; she would go back to her original position.
The facts of the case were simple enough. He would have brought no
letter to her father had he been bent on any such fantastic enterprise.
Was it likely he would suffer the thraldom of that farm-house, and live
away from his friends and companions, for the mere chance of a few
minutes' occasional talk with a Stratford wench? As for the similarity
between his look and that of the wizard, the explanation lay no doubt in
her own fancy, which had been excited by Prudence's superstitious fears.
And if in his courtesy he had applied to herself the lines written by
the young Devonshire poet--well, that was but a piece of civility and
kindness, for which she ought to be more than usually grateful, seeing
that she had not experienced too much of that species of treatment of
late from one or two of her would-be suitors.
She was awakened from these dreams by the conversation suddenly ceasing;
and in its place she heard the more solemn tones of the thanksgiving
offered up by Master Izod:
"The God of glory and peace, who hath created, redeemed, and
presently fed us, be blessed forever and ever. So be it. The God of
all power, who hath called from death that great pastor of the
sheep, our Lord Jesus, comfort and defend the flock which he hath
redeemed by the blood of the eternal testament; increase the number
of true preachers; repress the rage of obstinate tyrants; mitigate
and lighten the hearts of the ignorant; relieve the pains of such
as be afflicted, but specially of those that suffer for the
testimony of thy truth; and finally, confound Satan by the power of
our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."
And then, as the travellers were continuing their journey forthwith,
they proposed to leave; and Master Buller expressed his sorrow that
Judith's father had not been at home to have made the friendship of a
man so famous as Master Izod; and the good parson, in his turn, as they
departed, solemnly blessed the house and all that dwelt therein, whether
present or absent. As soon as they were gone, Judith besought her mother
for the key of the summer-house, for she wished to lay on her father's
table the wild flowers she had brought; and having obtained it, she
carried Prudence with her into the garden, and there they found
themselves alone, for goodman Matthew had gone home for his dinner.
"Dear mouse," said she, quickly, "what is it hath happened to Tom
Quiney?"
"I know not, Judith," the other said, in some surprise.
"It is in his mind to leave the country."
"I knew not that."
"I dare be sworn you did not, sweetheart," said she, "else surely you
would have told me. But why? What drives him to such a thing? His
business prospers well, as I hear them say; and yet must he forsake it
for the company of those desperate men that are going away to fight the
Indians beyond seas. Nothing will content him. England is no longer
England; Stratford is no longer Stratford. Mercy on us, what is the
meaning of it all?"
"In truth I know not, Judith."
Then Judith regarded her.
"Good cousin, I fear me you gave him but a cold welcome yesternight."
"I welcomed him as I would welcome any of my brother's friends," said
Prudence, calmly and without embarrassment.
"But you do not understand," Judith said, with a touch of impatience.
"Bless thy heart! young men are such strange creatures; and must have
all to suit their humors; and are off and away in their peevish fits if
you do not entertain them, and cringe, and say your worship to every
sirrah of them! Oh, they be mighty men of valor in their own esteem; and
they must have us poor handmaidens do them honor; and if all be not done
to serve, 'tis boot and spur and off to the wars with them, and many a
fine tale thereafter about the noble ladies that were kind to them
abroad. Marry! they can crow loud enough; 'tis the poor hens that durst
never utter a word; and all must give way before his worship! What,
then? What did you do? Was not the claret to his liking? Did not your
brother offer him a pipe of Trinidado?"
"Indeed, Judith, it cannot be through aught that happened last night, if
he be speaking of leaving the country," Prudence said. "I thought he was
well content, and right friendly in his manner."
"But you do not take my meaning," Judith said. "Dear heart, bear me no
ill-will; but I would have you a little more free with your favors. You
are too serious, sweet mouse. Could you not pluck up a little of the
spirit that the pretty Rosalind showed--do you remember?--when she was
teasing Orlando in the forest? In truth these men are fond of a varying
mood; when they play with a kitten they like to know it has claws. And
again, if you be too civil with them, they presume, and would become the
master all at once; and then must everything be done to suit their
lordships' fantasies, or else 'tis up and away with them, as this one
goes."
"I pray you, Judith," her friend said, and now in great embarrassment,
"forbear to speak of such things: in truth, my heart is not set that
way. Right well I know that if he be leaving the country, 'tis through
no discontent with me, nor that he would heed in any way how I received
him. Nay, 'tis far otherwise; it is no secret whom he would choose for
wife. If you are sorry to hear of his going away from his home, you know
that a word from you would detain him."
"Good mouse, the folly of such thoughts!" Judith exclaimed. "Why, when
he will not even give me a 'Good-day to you, wench'!"
"You best know what reasons he had for his silence, Judith; I know not."
"Reasons?" said she, with some quick color coming to her face. "We will
let that alone, good gossip. I meddle not with any man's reasons, if he
choose to be uncivil to me; God help us, the world is wide enough for
all!"
"Did you not anger him, Judith, that he is going away from his home and
his friends?"
"Anger him? Perchance his own suspicions have angered him," was the
answer; and then she said, in a gentler tone: "But in truth, sweetheart,
I hope he will change his mind. Twenty years--for so he speaks--is a
long space to be away from one's native land; there would be many
changes ere he came back. Twenty years, he said."
Judith rather timidly looked at her companion, but indeed there was
neither surprise nor dismay depicted on the pale and gentle face. Her
eyes were absent, it is true, but they did not seem to crave for
sympathy.
"'Tis strange," said she. "He said naught of such a scheme last night,
though he and Julius spoke of this very matter of the men who were
preparing to cross the seas. I know not what can have moved him to such
a purpose."
"Does he imagine, think you," said Judith, "that we shall all be here
awaiting him at the end of twenty years, and as we are now? Or is he so
sure of his own life? They say there is great peril in the new lands
they have taken possession of beyond sea, and that there will be many a
bloody fight ere they can reap the fruit of their labors in peace. Nay,
I will confess to thee, sweet mouse, I like not his going. Old friends
are old friends, even if they have wayward humors; and fain would I have
him remain with us here in Stratford--ay, and settled here, moreover,
with a sweet Puritan wife by his side, that at present must keep
everything hidden. Well no matter," she continued, lightly. "I seek no
secrets--except those that be in the oaken box within here."
She unlocked the door of the summer-house, and entered, and put the
flowers on the table. "Tell me, Prue," said she, "may we venture to take
some more of the play, or must I wait till I have put back the other
sheets?"
"You have not put them back?"
"In truth, no," said Judith, carelessly. "I lent them to the young
gentleman, Leofric Hope."
"Judith!" her friend exclaimed, with frightened eyes.
"What then?"
"To one you know nothing of? You have parted with these sheets--that are
so valuable?"
"Nay, nay, good mouse," said she; "you know the sheets are cast away as
useless. And I but lent them to him for an hour or two to lighten the
tedium of his solitude. Nor was that all, good Prue, if I must tell thee
the truth; I would fain have him know that my father can do something
worth speaking of as well as his friend Ben Jonson, and perchance even
better; what think you?"
"You have seen him again, then--this morning?"
"Even so," Judith answered, calmly.
"Judith, why would you run into such danger?" her friend said, in
obvious distress. "In truth I know not what 'twill come to. And now
there is this farther bond in this secret commerce--think you that all
this can remain unknown? Your meeting with him must come to some one's
knowledge--indeed it must, sweetheart."
"Nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently. "If you would
assure yourself, good Prue, that the young gentleman is no grisly ghost
or phantom, methinks you could not do better than ask Tom Quiney, who
saw him this very morning--and saw us speaking together, as I guess."
"He saw you!" Prudence exclaimed. "And what said he?"
"He talked large and wild for a space," said Judith, coolly, "but soon I
persuaded him there was no great harm in the stranger gentleman. In
sooth his mind was so full of his own affairs--and so bitter against all
preachers, ministers, and pastors--and he would have it that England was
no longer fit to live in--marry, he told me so many things in so few
minutes that I have half forgotten them!"
And then it suddenly occurred to her that this fantasy that had entered
her mind in the morning, and that had haunted her during Master Elihu
Izod's discourse, would be an excellent thing with which to frighten
Prudence. 'Twas but a chimera, she assured herself; but there was enough
substance in it for that. And so, when she had carefully arranged the
flowers on the table, and cast another longing look at the oaken chest,
she locked the door of the summer-house, and put her arm within the arm
of her friend, and led her away for a walk in the garden.
"Prudence," said she, seriously, "I would have you give me counsel. Some
one hath asked me what a young maiden should do in certain circumstances
that I will put before you; but how can I tell, how can I judge of
anything, when my head is in a whirligig of confusion with parsons'
arguments, and people leaving the country, and I know not what else? But
you, good mouse--your mind is ever calm and equable--you can speak sweet
words in Israel--you are as Daniel that was so excellent a judge even in
his youth----"
"Judith!" the other protested; but indeed Judith's eyes were perfectly
grave and apparently sincere.
"Well, then, sweetheart, listen: let us say that a young man has seen a
young maiden that is not known to him but by name--perchance at church
it may have been, or as she was walking home to her own door. And there
may be reasons why he should not go boldly to her father's house,
though he would fain do so; his fancy being taken with her in a small
measure, and he of a gentle disposition, and ready to esteem her higher
than she deserved. And again it might be that he wished for private
speech with her--to judge of her manners and her inclinations--before
coming publicly forward to pay court to her: but alack, I cannot tell
the story as my father would; 'tis the veriest skeleton of a story, and
I fear me you will scarce understand. But let us say that the young man
is bold and ingenious, and bethinks him of a stratagem whereby to make
acquaintance with the damsel. He writes to her as a wizard that has
important news to tell her; and begs her to go forth and meet him; and
that on a certain morning he will be awaiting her at such and such a
place. Now this maiden that I am telling you of has no great faith in
wizards, but being curious to see the juggling, she goes forth to meet
him as he asks----"
"Judith, I pray you speak plain; what is't you mean?" Prudence
exclaimed; for she had begun to suspect.
"You must listen, good mouse, before you can give judgment," said
Judith, calmly; and she proceeded: "Now you must understand that it was
the young gentleman himself whom she met, though she knew it not; for he
had dressed himself up as an ancient wizard, and he had a solemn manner,
and Latin speech, and what not. Then says the wizard to her, 'I can show
you the man that is to be your lover and sweetheart and husband; that
will win you and wear you in the time coming; and if you would see him,
go to such and such a cross-road, and he will appear.' Do you perceive,
now, sweet mouse, that it was a safe prophecy, seeing that he had
appointed himself to be the very one who should meet her?"
Prudence had gradually slipped her arm away from that of her friend, and
now stood still, regarding her breathlessly, while Judith, with eyes
quite placid and inscrutable, continued her story:
"'Twas a noteworthy stratagem, and successful withal; for the maiden
goes to the cross-road, and there she meets the young gentleman--now in
his proper costume. But she has no great faith in magic; she regards him
not as a ghost summoned by the wizard; she would rather see in this
meeting an ordinary accident; and the young man being most courteous and
modest and civil-spoken, they become friends. Do you follow the story?
You see, good mouse, there is much in his condition to demand sympathy
and kindness--he being in hiding, and cut off from his friends; and she,
not being too industrious, and fond rather of walking in the meadows and
the like, meets him now here, now there, but with no other thought than
friendliness. I pray you, bear that in mind, sweetheart; for though I
esteem her not highly, yet would I do her justice: there was no thought
in her mind but friendliness, and a wish to be civil to one that seemed
grateful for any such communion. And then one morning something
happens--beshrew me if I can tell thee how it happened, and that is the
truth--but something happens--an idea jumps into her head--she suspects
that this young gentleman is no other than the same who was the wizard,
and that she has been entrapped by him, and that he, having played the
wizard, would now fain play the lover----"
"Judith, is't possible! is't possible!"
"Hold, cousin, hold; your time is not yet. I grant you 'tis a bold
conjecture, and some would say not quite seemly and becoming to a
maiden, seeing that he had never spoken any word to her of the kind; but
there it was in her head--the suspicion that this young gentleman had
tricked her, for his own amusement, or perchance to secure her company.
Now, sweet judge in Israel, for your judgment! And on two points, please
you. First supposing this conjecture to be false, how is she to atone to
the young gentleman? And how is she to punish herself? And how is she to
be anything but uneasy should she chance to see him again? Nay, more,
how is she to get this evil suspicion banished from her mind, seeing
that she dare not go to him and confess, and beg him for the assurance
that he had never heard of the wizard? Then the second point: supposing
the conjecture to be true, ought she to be very indignant? How should
she demean herself? Should she go to him and reproach him with his
treachery? She would never forgive it, dear mouse, would she, even as a
lover's stratagem?"
"Judith, I cannot understand you; I cannot understand how you can even
regard such a possibility, and remain content and smiling----"
"Then I ought to be indignant? Good cousin, I but asked for your
advice," Judith said. "I must be angry; I must fret and fume, and use
hot language, and play the tragedy part? In good sooth, when I think
on't, 'twas a piece of boldness to put himself forward as my future
husband--it was indeed--though twas cunningly contrived. Marry, but I
understand now why my goodman wizard would take no money from me; 'twas
myself that he would have in payment of his skill; and 'gracious lady'
and 'sweet lady,' these were the lures to lead me on; and his shepherd's
dial placed on the ground! Then off go beard and cloak, and a couple of
days thereafter he is a gay young gallant; and 'sweet lady' it is
again--or 'fair lady,' was't?--'know you one Master Shakespeare in the
town?' And such modesty, and such downcast eyes, and an appeal for one
in misfortune. Heaven save us, was it not well done? Modesty! By my
life, a rare modest gentleman! He comes down to Stratford, armed with
his London speech and his London manners, and he looks around. Which
one, then? which of all the maidens will his lordship choose for wife?
'Oh!' saith he, 'there is Judith Shakespeare; she will do as well as
another; perchance better, for New Place is the fairest house in the
town, and doubtless she will have a goodly marriage portion. So now how
to secure her? how to charm her away from any clownish sweetheart she
may chance to have? Easily done, i' faith! A country wench is sure to
believe in magic; 'tis but raising my own ghost out of the ground, and a
summons to her, and I have her sure and safe, to win and to wear, for
better or worse!'" She looked at Prudence. "Heaven's blessings on us
all, good Prue, was there ever poor maiden played such a scurril trick?"
"Then your eyes are opened, Judith?" said Prudence, eagerly; "you will
have naught more to do with such a desperate villain?"
Again Judith regarded her, and laughed.
"I but told a story to frighten thee, good heart," said she. "A
desperate villain? Yes, truly; but 'tis I am a desperate villain to let
such rascal suspicions possess me for an instant. Nay, good mouse, think
of it! Is't possible that one would dare so much for so poor a prize?
That the young gentleman hath some self-assurance, I know; and he can
quickly make friends; but do you think, if any such dark design had been
his, he would have entered my grandmother's cottage, and ate and drank
there, and promised to renew his visit? Sweet judge in Israel, your
decision on the other point, I pray you! What penance must I do for
letting such cruel thoughts stray into my brain? How shall I purge them
away? To whom must I confess? Nay, methinks I must go to the young
gentleman himself, and say: 'Good sir, I have a friend and gossip that
is named Prudence Shawe, who hath a strange belief in phantom-men and
conspirators. I pray you pardon me that through her my brain is somewhat
distraught; and that I had half a mind to accuse you of a plot for
stealing me away--me, who have generally this stout mastiff with me. I
speech you, sir, steal me not--nay, forgive me that I ever dreamed of
your having any such purpose. 'Tis our rude country manners, good sir,
that teach a maid to believe a man may not speak to her without intent
to marry her. I pray you pardon me--my heart is kneeling to you, could
you but see--and give me such assurance that you meditated no such thing
as will bring me back my scattered senses.' Were not that well done?
Shall that be my penance, good mouse?"
"Dear Judith, tell me true," her friend said, almost piteously, "do you
suspect him of having played the wizard to cheat you and entrap you?"
"Good cousin," said she, in her frankest manner, "I confess: I did
suspect--for an instant. I know not what put it into my head. But sure I
am I have done him wrong--marry, 'twere no such deadly sin even had he
been guilty of such a trick; but I believe it not--nay, he is too civil
and gentle for a jest of the kind. When I see him again I must make him
amends for my evil thinking: do not I owe him as much, good gossip?"
This was all she could say at present, for Matthew gardener here made
his appearance, and that was the signal for their withdrawing into the
house. But that afternoon, as Judith bethought her that Master Leofric
Hope would be coming to her grandmother's cottage with the manuscript he
had promised to return, she became more and more anxious to see him
again. Somehow she thought she could more effectually drive away this
disquieting surmise if she could but look at him, and regard his manner,
and hear him speak. As it turned out, however, it was not until somewhat
late on in the evening that she found time to seek out little Willie
Hart, and propose to him that he should walk with her as far as
Shottery.