A DISCOVERY.
"That be so as I tell ye, zur," said Matthew gardener, as he slowly
sharpened a long knife on the hone that he held in his hand; "it all
cometh of the pampering of queasy stomachs nowadays that cannot hold
honest food. There be no such folk now as there wur in former days, when
men wur hardy, and long-lived, and healthy; and why, zur?--why, but that
they wur content wi' plain dishes of pulse or herbs, and for the most
worshipful no more than a dish of broth and a piece of good wholesome
beef withal. But nowadays, Lord! Lord!--dish after dish, with each his
several sauce; and this from Portugal and that from France, so that
gluttony shall have its swing, and never a penny be kept for the poor.
Nay, I tell ye, zur, rich and poor alike wur stronger and healthier when
there wur no such waste in the land; when a man would wear his frieze
coat and hosen of the color of the sheep that bore them; and have his
shirt of honest hemp or flax, and could sleep well with his head on a
block of wood and a sheep-skin thrown o'er it. But nowadays must he have
his shirt of fine lawn and needle-work; ay, and his soft pillow to lie
on, so that his lily-white body shall come to no scratching; nor will he
drink any longer small drink, no, nor water, but heavy ales and rich
wines; and all goeth to the belly, and naught to his poorer neighbor.
And what cometh of this but tender stomachs, and riot, and waste?--and
lucky if Bocardo be not at the end of it all."
As it chanced on this fine morning, Judith's father had strolled along
to look at some trained apple-trees at the further end of the garden,
and finding goodman Matthew there, and having a mind for idleness, had
sat down on a bench to hear what news of the condition of the land
Matthew might have to lay before him.
"Nay, but, good Matthew," said he, "if these luxuries work such
mischief, 'tis the better surely that the poor have none of them. They,
at least, cannot have their stomachs ruined with sauces and condiments."
"Lord bless ye, zur," said the ancient, with a wise smile, "'tis not in
one way, but in all ways, that the mischief is done; for the poorest,
seeing such waste and gluttony everywhere abroad, have no continence of
their means, but will spend their last penny on any foolishness. Lord!
Lord! they be such poor simple creatures! they that have scarce a rag to
their backs will crowd at the mops and fairs, and spend their money--on
what? Why, you must ha' witnessed it, zur--the poor fools!--emptying
their pouches to see a woman walking on a rope, or a tumbler joining his
hands to his heels, or a hen with two heads. The poor simple
creatures!--and yet I warrant me they be none so poor but that the
rascal doctor can make his money out o' them: 'tis a foine way o' making
a fortune that, going vagrom about the country with his draughts and
pills--not honest medicines that a body might make out o' wholesome
herbs, but nauseous stinking stuff that robs a man of his breath in the
very swallowing of it. And the almanac-makers, too--marry, that, now, is
another thriving trade!--the searching of stars, and the prophesying of
dry or wet weather! Weather? what know they of the weather, the
town-bred rogues, that lie and cheat to get at the poor country folks'
money? God 'a mercy, a whip to their shoulders would teach them more o'
the weather than ever they are like to get out of the stars! And yet the
poor fools o' countrymen--that scarce know a B from a battle-door--will
sit o' nights puzzling their brains o'er the signs o' the heavens; and
no matter what any man with eyes can see for himself--ay, and fifty
times surer, as I take it--they will prophesy you a dry month or a wet
month, because the almanac saith so; and they will swear to you that
Taurus--that is a lion--and the virgin scales have come together,
therefore there must be a blight on the pear-trees! Heard you ever the
like, zur?--that a man in Lunnon, knowing as much about husbandry and
farm-work as a cat knows about quoit-throwing, is to tell me the weather
down here in Warwickshire? God help us, they be poor weak creatures that
think so; I'd liefer look at the cover of a penny ballad, if I wanted to
know when there was to be frost o' nights."
At this juncture the old man grinned, as if some secret joke were
tickling his fancy.
"Why, zur," said he, looking up from the hone, "would you believe this,
zur--they be such fools that a rogue will sell them a barren cow for a
milch cow if he but put a strange calf to her. 'Tis done, zur--'tis
done, I assure ye."
"In truth, a scurvy trick!" Judith's father said. He was idly drawing
figures on the ground with a bit of stick he had got hold of. Perhaps he
was not listening attentively; but at all events he encouraged Matthew
to talk. "But surely with years comes wisdom. The most foolish are not
caught twice with such a trick."
"What of that, zur?" answered Matthew. "There be plenty of other fools
in the land to make the trade of roguery thrive. 'Tis true that a man
may learn by his own experience; but what if he hath a son that be
growing up a bigger fool than himself? And that's where 'tis nowadays,
zur; there be no waiting and prudence; but every saucy boy must match on
to his maid, and marry her ere they have a roof to put over their heads.
'Tis a fine beginning, surely! No waiting, no prudence--as the rich are
wasteful and careless, so are the poor heedless of the morrow; and the
boy and the wench they must have their cottage at the lane end, run up
of elder poles, and forthwith begin the begetting of beggars to swarm
over the land. A rare beginning! Body o' me, do they think they can live
on nettles and grass, like Nebuchadnezzar?"
And so the old man continued to rail and grumble and bemoan, sometimes
with a saturnine grin of satisfaction at his own wit coming over his
face; and Judith's father did not seek to controvert; he listened, and
drew figures on the ground, and merely put in a word now and again. It
was a pleasant morning--fresh, and clear, and sunny; and this town of
Stratford was a quiet place at that hour, with the children all at
school. Sometimes Judith's father laughed; but he did not argue; and
goodman Matthew, having it all his own way, was more than ever convinced
not only that he was the one wise man among a generation of fools, but
also that he was the only representative and upholder of the Spartan
virtues that had characterized his forefathers. It is true that on more
than one occasion he had been found somewhat overcome with ale; but
this, when he had recovered from his temporary confusion, he declared
was entirely due to the rascal brewers of those degenerate days--and
especially of Warwickshire--who put all manner of abominations into
their huff-cap, so that an honest Worcestershire stomach might easily be
caught napping, and take no shame.
And meanwhile what had been happening in another part of the garden? As
it chanced, Judith had been sent by her mother to carry to the
summer-house a cup of wine and some thin cakes; and in doing so she of
course saw that both her father and goodman Matthew were at the further
end of the garden, and apparently settled there for the time being. The
opportunity was too good to be lost. She swiftly went back to the house,
secured the portion of the play that was secreted there, and as quickly
coming out again, exchanged it for an equal number of new sheets. It was
all the work of a couple of minutes; and in another second she was in
her own room, ready to put the precious prize into her little cupboard
of boxes. And yet she could not forbear turning over the sheets, and
examining them curiously, and she was saying to herself: "You cruel
writing, to have such secrets, and refuse to give them up! If it were
pictures, now, I could make out something with a guess; but all these
little marks, so much alike, what can one make of them?--all alike--with
here and there a curling, as if my father had been amusing himself--and
all so plain and even, too, with never a blot: marry, I marvel he should
make the other copy, unless with the intent to alter as he writes. And
those words with the big letters at the beginning--these be the people's
names--Ferdinand, and sweet Miranda, and the Duke, and the ill beast
that would harm them all. Why, in Heaven's mercy, was I so fractious? I
might even now be learning all the story--here by myself--the only one
in the land: I might all by myself know the story that will set the
London folk agog in the coming winter. And what a prize were this, now,
for Master Ben Jonson! Could one but go to him and say, 'Good sir, here
be something better than your masques and mummeries, your Greeks and
clouds and long speeches: put your name to it, good sir--nay, my father
hath abundant store of such matter, and we in Warwickshire are no
niggards--put your name to it, good sir, and you will get the court
ladies to say you have risen a step on the ladder, else have they but a
strange judgment!' What would the goodman do? Beshrew me, Prudence never
told me the name of the play! But let us call it _The Magic Island_.
_The Magic Island, by Master Benjamin Jonson._ What would the wits say?"
But here she heard some noise on the stairs; so she quickly hid away
the treasure in the little drawer, and locked it up safe there until she
should have the chance of asking Prudence to read it to her.
That did not happen until nearly nightfall; for Prudence had been away
all day helping to put the house straight of a poor woman that was ill
and in bed. Moreover, she had been sewing a good deal at the children's
clothes and her eyes looked tired--or perhaps it was the wan light that
yet lingered in the sky that gave her that expression, the candles not
yet being lit. Judith regarded her, and took her hand tenderly, and made
her sit down.
"Sweet mouse," said she, "you are wearing yourself out in the service of
others; and if you take such little heed of yourself, you will yourself
fall ill. And now must I demand of you further labor. Or will it be a
refreshment for you after the fatigues of the day? See, I have brought
them all with me--the sprite Ariel, and the sweet prince, and Miranda;
but in good sooth I will gladly wait for another time if you are
tired----"
"Nay, not so, Judith," she answered. "There is nothing I could like
better--but for one thing."
"What, then?"
"Mean you to show this also to the young gentleman that is at Bidford?"
"And wherefore not, good Prue? He hath seen so much of the story, 'twere
a pity he should not have the rest. And what a small kindness--the loan
but for an hour or two; and I need not even see him, for I have but to
leave it at my grandmother's cottage. And if you heard what he says of
it--and how grateful he is: marry, it all lies in this, sweet Prue, that
you have not seen him, else would you be willing enough to do him so
small a favor."
By this time Prudence had lit the candles; and presently they made their
way up-stairs to her own room.
"And surely," said Judith, as her gentle gossip was arranging the
manuscript, "the story will all end well, and merrily for the sweet
maiden, seeing how powerful her father is? Will he not compel all things
to her happiness--he that can raise storms, and that has messengers to
fly round the world for him?"
"And yet he spoke but harshly to the young man when last we saw them,"
Prudence said. "Why, what's this?"
She had run her eye down the first page; and now she began reading:
"'_Enter_ FERDINAND _bearing a log_.
_Ferdinand._ There be some sports are painful, and their labor
Delight in them sets off. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead,
And makes my labors pleasures. Oh, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed;
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work; and says such baseness
Had never like executor.'"
Judith's face had gradually fallen.
"Why, 'tis cruel," said she; "and 'tis cruel of my father to put such
pain on the sweet prince, that is so gentle, and so unfortunate withal."
But Prudence continued the reading:
"'_Enter_ MIRANDA.
_Miranda._ Alas, now, pray you,
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile!
Pray, set it down and rest you; when this burns,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.
_Ferdinand._ O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
_Miranda._ If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while: pray give me that--
I'll carry it to the pile.'"
At this point Judith's eyes grew proud and grateful (as though Miranda
had done some brave thing), but she did not speak.
"'_Ferdinand._ No, precious creature:
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonor undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
_Miranda._ You look wearily.
_Ferdinand._ No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me,
When you are by at night. I do beseech you
(Chiefly that I may set it in my prayers),
What is your name?
_Miranda._ Miranda.--O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so!
_Ferdinand._ Admired Miranda!
Indeed, the top of admiration; worth
What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard; and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any
With so full soul but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best!
_Miranda._ I do not know
One of my sex: no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father; how features are abroad,
I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty
(The jewel in my dower), I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of: But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.'"
"Nay, is she not fair and modest!" Judith exclaimed--but apart; and, as
the reading proceeded, she began to think of how Master Leofric Hope
would regard this maiden. Would he not judge her to be right gentle, and
timid, and yet womanly withal, and frank in her confiding? And
he--supposing that he were the young prince--what would he think of such
a one? Was it too submissive that she should offer to carry the logs?
Ought she to so openly confess that she would fain have him to be her
companion? And then, as Judith was thus considering, this was what she
heard, in Prudence's gentle voice:
"'_Miranda._ Do you love me?
_Ferdinand._ O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event,
If I speak true; if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me, to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honor you.
_Miranda._ I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
_Ferdinand._ Wherefore weep you?
_Miranda._ At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take
What I shall die to want: But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid; to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.
_Ferdinand._ My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
_Miranda._ My husband, then?
_Ferdinand._ Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom; here's my hand.
_Miranda._ And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell,
Till half an hour hence.
_Ferdinand._ A thousand thousand!'"
She clapped her hands and laughed, in delight and triumph.
"Why, sure her father will relent," she cried.
"But, Judith, Judith, stay," Prudence said, quickly, and with scarce
less gladness. "'Tis so set down; for this is what her father says:
'So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surprised withal; but by rejoicing
At nothing can be more.'
Nay, I take it he will soon explain to us why he was so harsh with the
young prince--perchance to try his constancy?"
Well, after that the reading went on as far as the sheets that Judith
had brought; but ever her mind was returning to the scene between the
two lovers, and speculating as to how Leofric Hope would look upon it.
She had no resentment against Ben Jonson now; her heart was full of
assurance and triumph, and was therefore generous. Her only vexation was
that the night must intervene before there could be a chance of the
young London gentleman calling at the cottage; and she looked forward to
the possibility of seeing him some time or other with the determination
to be more demure than ever. She would not expect him to praise this
play. Perchance 'twas good enough for simple Warwickshire folk; but the
London wits might consider it of the vulgar kind? And she laughed to
herself at thinking how awkward his protests would be if she ventured to
hint anything in that direction.
Prudence put the sheets carefully together again.
"Judith, Judith," she said, with a quiet smile, "you lead me far
astray. I ought to find such things wicked and horrible to the ear; but
perchance 'tis because I know your father, and see him from day to day,
that I find them innocent enough. They seem to rest the mind when one is
sorrowful."
"Beware of them, good Prue; they are the devil himself come in the guise
of an angel to snatch thee away. Nay, but, sweetheart, why should you be
sorrowful?"
"There is Martha Hodgson," said she, simply, "and her children, nigh to
starving; and I cannot ask Julius for more----"
Judith's purse was out in an instant.
"Why," said she, "my father did not use half of what I gave him for the
knife he bought at Warwick--marry, I guess he paid for it mostly
himself; but what there is here you shall have."
And she emptied the contents on to the table, and pushed them over to
her friend.
"You do not grudge it, Judith?" said Prudence. "Nay, I will not ask thee
that. Nor can I refuse it either, for the children are in sore want. But
why should you not give it to them yourself, Judith?"
"Why?" said Judith, regarding the gentle face with kindly eyes. "Shall I
tell thee why, sweetheart? 'Tis but this: that if I were in need, and
help to be given me, I would value it thrice as much if it came from
your hand. There is a way of doing such things, and you have it; that is
all."
"I hear Julius is come in," Prudence said, as she took up the two
candles. "Will you go in and speak with him?"
There was some strange hesitation in her manner, and she did not go to
the door. She glanced at Judith somewhat timidly. Then she set the
candles down again.
"Judith," said she, "your pity is quick, and you are generous and kind;
I would you could find it in your heart to extend your kindness."
"How now, good cousin?" Judith said, in amazement. "What's this?"
Prudence glanced at her again, somewhat uneasily, and obviously in great
embarrassment.
"You will not take it ill, dear Judith?"
"By my life, I will not! Not from you, dear heart, whatever it be. But
what is the dreadful secret?"
"Tom Quiney has spoken to me," she said, diffidently.
Judith eagerly caught both her hands.
"And you! What said you? 'Tis all settled, then!" she exclaimed, almost
breathlessly.
"It is as I imagined, Judith," said Prudence, calmly--and she withdrew
her hands, with a touch of maidenly pride, perhaps, from what she could
not but imagine to be a kind of felicitation. "He hath no fault to find
with the country. If he goes away to those lands beyond seas, 'tis
merely because you will say no word to hold him back."
"I!" said Judith, impatiently; and then she checked herself. "But you,
sweetheart, what said he to you?"
Prudence's cheeks flushed red.
"He would have me intercede for him," she said, timidly.
"Intercede? with whom?"
"Why, you know, Judith; with whom but yourself? Nay, but be
patient--have some kindness. The young man opened his heart to me; and I
know he is in trouble. 'Twas last night as we were coming home from the
lecture; and he would have me wait till he left a message at his door,
so that thus we fell behind; and then he told me why it was that
Stratford had grown distasteful to him, and not to be borne, and why he
was going away. How could I help saying that that would grieve
you?--sure I am you cannot but be sorry to think of the young man
banishing himself from his own people. And he said that I was your
nearest friend; and would I speak for him? And I answered that I was all
unused to such matters, but that if any pleading of mine would influence
you I would right gladly do him that service; and so I would, dear
Judith; for how can you bear to think of the youth going away with these
godless men, and perchance never to return to his own land, when a word
from you would restrain him?"
Judith took both her hands again, and looked with a kindly smile into
the timid, pleading eyes.
"And 'tis you, sweet mouse, that come to me with such a prayer? Was
there ever so kind a heart? But that is you ever and always--never a
thought for yourself, everything for others. And so he had the cruelty
to ask you--you--to bring this message?"
"Judith," said the other, with the color coming into her face again,
"you force me to speak against my will. Nay, how can I hide from myself,
dear friend, that you have plans and wishes--perchance suspicions--with
regard to me? And if what I guess be true--if that is your
meaning--indeed 'tis all built on a wrong foundation: believe me,
Judith, it is so. I would have you assured of it, sweetheart. You know
that I like not speaking of such matters; 'tis not seemly and becoming
to a maiden; and fain would I have my mind occupied with far other
things; but, Judith, this time I must speak plain; and I would have you
put away from you all such intentions and surmises--dear heart, you do
me wrong!"
"In good sooth, am I all mistaken?" Judith said, glancing keenly at her.
"Do you doubt my word, Judith?" said she.
"And yet," her friend said, as if to herself, and musingly, "there were
several occasions: there was the fortune-teller at Hampton Lucy that
coupled you, and Quiney seemed right merry withal; and then again, when
he would have us play kiss-in-the-ring on the evening after Mary
Sadler's marriage, and I forbade it chiefly for your sake, sweet mouse,
then methought you seemed none overpleased with my interference----"
But here she happened to look at Prudence, and she could not fail to see
that the whole subject was infinitely distressing to her. There was a
proud, hurt expression on the gentle face, and a red spot burning in
each cheek. So Judith took hold of her and kissed her.
"Once and forever, dearest heart," said she, "I banish all such
thoughts. And I will make no more plans for thee, nor suspect thee, but
let thee go in thine own way, in the paths of charity and goodness. But
I mean not to give up thy friendship, sweet Prue; if I cannot walk in
the same path, at least I may stretch a hand over to thee; and if I but
keep so near so true a saint, marry, I shall not go so far wrong."
She took up one of the candles.
"Shall we go down and see Julius?" said she.
"But Tom Quiney, Judith--what shall I say?" Prudence asked, anxiously.
"Why, say nothing, sweetheart," was the immediate answer. "'Twas a shame
to burden you with such a task. When he chooses he can at any moment
have speech of me, if his worship be not too proud or too suspicious. In
Stratford we can all of us speak the English tongue, I hope."
"But, Judith," said the other, slowly and wistfully, "twenty years is a
long space for one to be away from his native land."
"Marry is it, sweet mouse," Judith answered, as she opened the door and
proceeded to go down the narrow wooden steps. "'Tis a long space indeed,
and at the end of it many a thing that seemeth of great import and
consequence now will be no better than an old tale, idle and half
forgotten."