A DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND.
"Sweetheart Willie," she said--and her hand lay lightly on his shoulder,
as they were walking through the meadows in the quiet of this warm
golden evening--"what mean you to be when you grow up?"
He thought for a second or two, and then he rather timidly regarded her.
"What would you have me to be, Cousin Judith?" he said.
"Why, then," said she, "methinks I would have you be part student and
part soldier, were it possible, like the gallant Sir Philip Sidney, that
Queen Elizabeth said was the jewel of her reign. And yet you know,
sweetheart, that we cannot all of us be of such great estate. There be
those who live at the court, and have wealth and lands, and expeditions
given them to fit out, so that they gain fame; that is not the lot of
every one, and I know not whether it may be yours--though for brave men
there is ever a chance. But this I know I would have you ready to do,
whether you be in high position or in low, and that is to fight for
England, if needs be, and defend her, and cherish her. Why," she said,
"what would you think, now, of one brought up by a gentle mother, one
that owes his birth and training to this good mother, and because there
is something amiss in the house, and because everything is not to his
mind, he ups and says he must go away and forsake her? Call you that the
thought of a loyal son and one that is grateful? I call it the thought
of a peevish, froward, fractious child. Because, forsooth, this thing or
the other is not to his worship's liking, or all the company not such as
he would desire, or others of the family having different opinions--as
surely, in God's name, they have a right to have--why, he must needs
forsake the mother that bore him, and be off and away to other
countries! Sweetheart Willie, that shall never be your mind, I charge
you. No, you shall remain faithful to your mother England, that is a
dear mother and a good mother, and hath done well by her sons and
daughters for many a hundred years; and you shall be proud of her, and
ready to fight for her, ay, and to give your life for the love of her,
if ever the need should be!"
He was a small lad, but he was sensitive and proud-spirited; and he
loved dearly this Cousin Judith who had made this appeal to him; so that
for a second the blood seemed to forsake his face.
"I am too young as yet to do aught, Cousin Judith," said he, in rather a
low voice, for his breath seemed to catch; "but--but when I am become a
man I know that there will be one that will sooner die than see any
Spaniard or Frenchman seize the country."
"Bravely said, sweetheart, by my life!" she exclaimed (and her approval
was very sweet to his ears). "That is the spirit that women's hearts
love to hear of, I can tell thee." And she stooped and kissed him in
reward. "Hold to that faith. Be not ashamed of your loyalty to your
mother England! Ashamed? Heaven's mercy! where is there such another
country to be proud of? And where is there another mother that hath bred
such a race of sons? Why, times without number have I heard my father
say that neither Greece, nor Rome, nor Carthage, nor any of them, were
such a race of men as these in this small island, nor had done such
great things, nor earned so great a fame, in all parts of the world and
beyond the seas. And mark you this, too: 'tis the men who are fiercest
to fight with men that are the gentlest to women; they make no slaves of
their women; they make companions of them; and in honoring them they
honor themselves, as I reckon. Why, now, could I but remember what my
father hath written about England, 'twould stir your heart, I know; that
it would; for you are one of the true stuff, I'll be sworn; and you will
grow up to do your duty by your gracious mother England--not to run away
from her in peevish discontent!"
She cast about for some time, her memory, that she could not replenish
by any book-reading, being a large and somewhat miscellaneous
store-house.
"'Twas after this fashion," said she, "if I remember aright:
'This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This fortress, built by Nature for herself
Against infestion and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England!'
Mark you that, sweetheart?--is't not a land worth fighting for? Ay, and
she hath had sons that could fight for her; and she hath them yet, I
dare be sworn, if the need were to arise. And this is what you shall
say, Cousin Willie, when you are a man and grown:
'Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true!'"
These quotations were but for the instruction of this small cousin of
hers, and yet her own face was proud.
"Shall I be a soldier, then, Cousin Judith?" the boy said. "I am willing
enough. I would be what you would wish me to be; and if I went to the
wars, you would never have need to be ashamed of me."
"That know I right well, sweetheart," said she, and she patted him on
the head. "But 'tis not every one's duty to follow that calling. You
must wait and judge for yourself. But whatever chances life may bring
you, this must you ever remain, if you would have my love, sweetheart,
and that I hope you shall have always--you must remain a good and loyal
son to your mother England, one not easily discontented with small
discomforts, and sent forth in a peevish fit. Where is there a fairer
country? Marry, I know of none. Look around--is't not a fair enough
country?"
And fair indeed on this quiet evening was that wide stretch of
Warwickshire, with its hedges and green meadows, and low-lying wooded
hills bathed in the warm sunset light. But it was the presence of Judith
that made it all magical and mystical to him. Whatever she regarded with
her clear-shining and wondrous eyes was beautiful enough for him--while
her hand lay on his shoulder or touched his hair. He was a willing
pupil. He drank in those lessons in patriotism: what was it he would not
do for his cousin Judith? What was it he would not believe if it were
she who told him, in that strange voice of hers, that thrilled him, and
was like music to him, whether she spoke to him in this proud,
admonitory way, or was in a teasing mood, or was gentle and affectionate
toward him? Yes, this Warwickshire landscape was fair enough, under the
calm sunset sky; but he knew not what made it all so mystical and
wonderful, and made the far golden clouds seem as the very gateways to
heaven.
"Or is there one with a prouder story?" she continued. "Or a land of
greater freedom? Why, look at me, now. Here am I, a woman, easily
frightened, helpless if there were danger, not able to fight any one.
Why, you yourself, Cousin Willie, if you were to draw a dagger on me, I
declare to thee I would run and shriek and hide. Well, look at me as I
stand here: all the might and majesty of England cannot harm me; I am
free to go or to stay. What needs one more? None durst put a hand on me.
My mind is as free as my footsteps. I may go this way or that as I
choose; and no one may command me to believe this, that, or the other.
What more? And this security--think you it had not to be fought
for?--think you it was not worth the fighting for? Or think you we
should forget to give good thanks to the men that faced the Spaniards,
and drove them by sea and shore, and kept our England to ourselves? Or
think you we should forget our good Queen Bess, that I warrant me had as
much spirit as they, and was as much a man as any of them?"
She laughed.
"Perchance you never heard, sweetheart, of the answer that she made to
the Spanish ambassador?"
"No, Judith," said he, but something in her manner told him that there
had been no cowardice in that answer.
"Well," she said, "I will tell thee the story of what happened at
Deptford. And now I bethink me, this must you do, cousin Willie, when
you are grown to be a man; and whether you be soldier or sailor, or
merchant, or student, 'tis most like that some day or other you will be
in London; and then must you not fail to go straightway to Deptford to
see the famous ship of Sir Francis Drake lying there. I tell thee, 'twas
a goodly thought to place it there; that was like our brave Queen Bess;
she would have the youth of the country regard with honor the ship that
had been all round the world, and chased the Spaniards from every sea.
Nay, so bad is my memory that I cannot recall the name of the
vessel--perchance 'twas the Judith--at least I have heard that he had
one of that name; but there it lies, to signal the glory of England and
the routing of Spain."
"The Judith?" said he, with wondering eyes. "Did he name the ship after
you, cousin?"
"Bless the lad! All that I'm going to tell thee happened ere I was
born."
"No matter," said he, stoutly: "the first thing I will ask to see, if
ever I get to London is that very ship."
"Well, then, the story," she continued, shaping the thing in her mind
(for being entirely destitute of book learning, historical incidents
were apt to assume a dramatic form in her imagination, and also to lose
literal accuracy of outline). "You must know the Spaniards were sore
vexed because of the doings of Francis Drake in all parts of the world,
for he had plundered and harried them and burned their ships and their
towns, and made the very name of England a terror to them. 'Tis no
marvel if they wished to get hold of him; and they declared him to be no
better than a pirate; and they would have the Queen--that is, our last
Queen--deliver him over to them that they might do with him what they
willed. Marry, 'twas a bold demand to made of England! And the Queen,
how does she take it, think you?--how is she moved to act in such a
pass? Why, she goes down to Deptford, to this very ship that I told thee
of--she and all her nobles and ladies, for they would see the famous
ship. Then they had dinner on board, as I have heard the story; and the
Queen's Majesty asked many particulars of his voyages from Master Drake,
and received from him certain jewels as a gift, and was right proud to
wear them. Then says she aloud to them all: 'My lords, is this the man
the Spaniards would have me give over to them?' Right well she knew he
was the man; but that was her way, and she would call the attention of
all of them. 'Your Majesty,' they said, ''tis no other.' Then she swore
a great oath that the Queen of England knew how to make answer to such a
demand. 'Come hither, Master Drake,' says she, in a terrible voice.
'Kneel!' Then he knelt on his knee before her. 'My lord,' says she to
one of the noblemen standing by, 'your sword!' And then, when she had
the sword in her hand, she says, in a loud voice, 'My lords, this is the
man that Spain would have us give up to her; and this is the answer of
England: Arise, Sir Francis!'--and with that she taps him on the
shoulder--which is the way of making a knight, Cousin Willie; and I pray
you may be brave and valiant, and come to the same dignity, so that all
of us here in Stratford shall say, 'There, now, is one that knew how to
serve faithfully his fair mother England!' But that was not all, you
must know, that happened with regard to Sir Francis Drake. For the
Spanish ambassador was wroth with the Queen; ay, and went the length
even of speaking with threats. ''Twill come to the cannon,' says he.
'What?' says she, turning upon him. 'Your Majesty,' says he, 'I fear me
this matter will come to the cannon.' And guess you her answer?--nay,
they say she spoke quite calmly, and regarded him from head to foot, and
that if there were anger in her heart there was none in her voice.
'Little man, little man,' says she, 'if I hear any more such words from
thee, by God I will clap thee straight into a dungeon!'"
Judith laughed, in a proud kind of way.
"That was the answer that England gave," said she, "and that she is like
to give again, if the Don or any other of them would seek to lord it
over her."
Three-fourths of these details were of her own invention, or rather--for
it is scarcely fair to say that--they had unconsciously grown up in her
mind from the small seed of the true story. But little Willie Hart had
no distrust of any legend that his cousin Judith might relate to him.
Whatever Judith said was true, and also luminous in a strange kind of
fashion; something beautiful and full of color, to be thought over and
pondered over. And now as they walked along toward the village, idly and
lazily enough--for she had no other errand than to fetch back the
manuscript that would be lying at the cottage--his eyes were wistful.
His fancies were far away. What was it, then, that he was to do for
England--that Judith should approve in the after-years? And for how long
should he be away--in the Spanish Main, perchance, of which he had heard
many stories, or fighting in the lowlands of Holland, or whatever he was
called to do--and what was there at the end? Well, the end that he
foresaw and desired--the reward of all his toil--was nothing more nor
less than this: that he should be sitting once again in a pew in
Stratford church, on a quiet Sunday morning, with Judith beside him as
of old, they listening to the singing together. He did not think of his
being grown up, or that she would be other than she was now. His mind
could form no other or fairer consummation than that--that would be for
him the final good--to come back to Stratford town to find Judith as she
had ever been to him, gentle, and kind, and soft-handed, and ready with
a smile from her beautiful and lustrous eyes.
"Yes, sweetheart Willie," said she, as they were nearing the cottages,
"look at the quiet that reigns all around, and no priests of the
Inquisition to come dragging my poor old grandmother from her knitting.
What has she to do but look after the garden, and scold the maid, and
fetch milk for the cat? And all this peace of the land that we enjoy we
may have to fight for again; and then, if the King's Majesty calls
either for men or for money, you shall have no word but obedience. Heard
you never of the Scotch knight, Sir Patrick Spens?--that the Scotch King
would send away to Norroway at an evil time of the year? Did he grumble?
Did he say his men were ill content to start at such a time? Nay, as I
have heard, when he read the King's letter the tears welled in his eyes;
but I'll be sworn that was for the companions he was taking with him to
face the cruel sea.
'The King's daughter from Norroway,
'Tis we must fetch her home,'
he says; and then they up with their sails, and set out from the land
that they never were to see more. What of that? They were brave men;
they did what was demanded of them; though the black seas of the north
were too strong for them in the end. 'Twas a sad tale, in good sooth:
'O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' the fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
'And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' their gold combs in their hair,
All waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.
'Half owre, half owre to Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.'
But what then? I tell thee, sweetheart, any maiden that would be worth
the winning would a hundred times liefer wail for a lover that had died
bravely than welcome him back safe and sound as a coward. You shall be
no coward, I warrant me, when you are grown up to be a man; and above
all, as I say, shall you be gentle and forgiving with your mother
England, even if your own condition be not all you wish; and none the
less for that shall you be willing to fight for her should she be in
trouble. Nay, I'll answer for thee, lad: I know thee well."
"But, Judith," said he, "who are they you speak of, that are
discontented, and would go away and leave the country?"
Well, it is probable she might have found some embarrassment in
answering this question (if she had been pressed to name names) but that
what she now beheld deprived her of the power of answering altogether.
She had come over from the town with no other thought than to pay a
brief visit to her grandmother, and fetch back the portion of the play,
and she had not the slightest expectation of encountering Master Leofric
Hope. But there unmistakably he was, though he did not see her, for he
was standing at the gate of her grandmother's cottage, and talking to
the old dame, who was on the other side. There was no pretence of
concealment. Here he was in the public path, idly chatting, his hand
resting on the gate. And as Judith had her cousin Willie with her, her
first thought was to hurry away in any direction in order to escape an
interview; but directly she saw that this was impossible, for her
grandmother had descried her, if Leofric Hope had not. The consequence
was that, as she went forward to the unavoidable meeting, she was not
only surprised and a trifle confused and anxious, but also somewhat and
vaguely resentful; for she had been intending, before seeing him again,
to frame in her mind certain tests which might remove or confirm one or
two suspicions that had caused her disquietude. And now--and unfairly,
as she thought--she found herself compelled to meet him without any such
legitimate safeguard of preparation. She had no time to reflect that it
was none of his fault. Why had not he left the play earlier? she asked
herself. Why had not he departed at once? Why, with all his professions
of secrecy, should he be standing in the open highway, carelessly
talking? And what was she to say to little Willie Hart that would
prevent his carrying back the tale to the school and the town? When she
went forward, it was with considerable reluctance; and she had a dim,
hurt sense of having been imposed upon, or somehow or another injured.