A LETTER.
When she should get back from Master Leofric Hope the last portion of
the yet unnamed play, there remained (as she considered) but one thing
more--to show him the letter written by the King to her father, so that
when the skies should clear over the young gentleman's head, and he be
permitted to return among his friends and acquaintances, he might have
something else occasionally to talk of than Ben Jonson and his masques
and his favor at court. Nor had she any difficulty in procuring the
letter; for Prudence was distinctly of opinion that by right it belonged
to Judith, who had coveted it from the beginning. However, Judith only
now wanted the loan of it for a day or two, until, in her wanderings,
she might encounter Master Hope.
That opportunity soon arrived; for whether it was that the young
gentleman kept a sharp lookout for her, or whether she was able to make
a shrewd guess as to his probable whereabouts at certain hours of the
day, she had scarcely ever failed to meet him when she went over to
Shottery for the successive instalments of the play that he had left for
her there. On this occasion she had found the last of these awaiting her
at the cottage; and when she had put it into her velvet satchel, and
bade good-by to her grandmother, she set out for home with a pretty
clear foreknowledge that sooner or later the young gentleman would
appear. Was it not his duty?--to say what he thought of all this romance
that he had been allowed to see; and to thank her; and say farewell? For
she had a vague impression that she had done as much as could reasonably
be expected of her in the way of cheering the solitude of one in
misfortune: and she had gathered, moreover, that he was likely soon to
leave the neighborhood. But she would not have him go without seeing the
King's letter.
Well, when he stepped forth from behind some trees, she was not
surprised; and even the Don had grown accustomed to these sudden
appearances.
"Give ye good-day, sweet lady," said he.
"And to you, sir," she said. "I thank you for your care in leaving me
these pages; I would not have had any harm come to them, even though my
father will in time throw them away."
"And my thanks to you, sweet Mistress Judith," said he--"how can I
express them?"--and therewith he entered upon such a eulogy of the story
he had just been reading as she was not likely to hear from any
Stratford-born acquaintance. Indeed, he spoke well, and with obvious
sincerity; and although she had intended to receive these praises with
indifference (as though the play were but a trifle that her father had
thrown off easily amid the pressure of other labors), she did not quite
succeed. There was a kind of triumph in her eyes; her face was glad and
proud; when he quoted a bit of one of Ariel's songs, she laughed
lightly.
"He is a clever musician, that merry imp, is he not?" said she.
"I would I had such a magic-working spirit to serve me," said he,
looking at her. "One could shape one's own course then. 'Under the
blossom that hangs on the bough,' would be my motto; there would be no
going back to London or any other town. And what think you: might he
not find out for me some sweet Miranda?--not that I am worthy of such a
prize, or could do aught to deserve her, except in my duty and humble
service to her. The Miranda, I think, could be found," he said, glancing
timidly at her; "nay, I swear I know myself where to find just such a
beautiful and gentle maiden; but where is the Ariel that would charm her
heart and incline her to pity and kindness?"
"Here, sir," said she, quickly, "is the letter I said I would bring you,
that the King wrote to my father."
He did not look at the blue velvet satchel; he looked at her--perhaps to
see whether he had gone too far. But she did not show any signs of
confusion or resentment; at all events she pretended not to be
conscious; and, for one thing, her eyes were lowered, for the satchel
seemed for a second or so difficult to open. Then she brought forth the
letter.
"Perchance you can tell me the English of it, good sir?" said she. "'Tis
some time since Master Blaise read it for us, and I would hear it
again."
"Nay, I fear my Latin will scarce go so far," said he--"'tis but little
practice in it I have had since my school-days; but I will try to make
out the sense of it."
She carefully opened the large folded sheet of paper, and handed it to
him. This was what he found before him:
"JACOBUS D. G. Rex Anglorum et Scotorum poetae nostro fideli et bene
dilecto GULIELMO SHAKESPEARE, S. P. D.
"Cum nuper apud Londinium commorati comoediam tuam nobis inductam
spectassemus, de manu viri probi Eugenii Collins fabulae libro
accepto, operam dedimus ut eam diligenter perlegeremus.
Subtilissima illa quidem, multisque ingenii luminibus et artis,
multis etiam animi oblectamentis, excogitata, nimis tamen
accommodata ad cacchinationem movendam vulgi imperiti, politioris
humanitatis expertis. Quod vero ad opera tua futura attinet,
amicissime te admonemus ut multa commentatione et meditatione
exemplaria verses antistitum illorum artis comoedicae, Menandri
scilicet Atheniensis et Plauti et Terentii Romani, qui minus vulgi
plausum captabant quam vitiis tanquam flagellis castigandis
studebant. Qui optimi erant arte et summa honestate et utilitate,
qualem te etiam esse volumus; virtutum artium et exercitationum
doctores, atque illustrium illorum a Deo ad populum regendum
praepositorum adminicula. Quibus fac ne te minorem praestes; neque
tibi nec familiaribus tuis unquam deerimus quin, quum fiat occasio,
munere regali fungamur. Te interea Deus opt. max. feliciter
sospitet.
"Datum ex regia nostra apud Greenwich X. Kal. Jun."
He began his translation easily:
"'To our trusty and well-beloved poet, William Shakespeare: Health
and greeting.'" But then he began to stammer. "'When formerly--when
recently--tarrying in London--thy comedy--thy comedy'--nay, fair
Mistress Judith, I beseech your pardon; I am grown more rusty than
I thought, and would not destroy your patience. Perchance, now, you
would extend your favor once more, and let me have the letter home
with me, so that I might spell it out in school-boy fashion?"
She hesitated; but only for a second.
"Nay, good sir, I dare not. These sheets of the play were thrown aside,
and so far of little account; but this--if aught were to come amiss to
this letter, how should I regard myself? If my father value it but
slightly, there be others who think more of it; and--and they have
intrusted it to me; I would not have it go out of my own keeping, so
please you, and pardon me."
It was clear that she did not like to refuse this favor to so courteous
and grateful a young gentleman. However, her face instantly brightened.
"But I am in no hurry, good sir," said she. "Why should you not sit you
on the stile there, and take time to master the letter, while I gather
some wild flowers for my father? In truth, I am in no hurry; and I would
fain have you know what the King wrote."
"I would I were a school-boy again for five minutes," said he, with a
laugh; but he went obediently to the stile, and sat down, and proceeded
to pore over the contents of the letter.
And then she wandered off by herself (so as to leave him quite
undisturbed), and began to gather here and there a wild rose from the
hedge, or a piece of meadow-sweet from the bank beneath, or a bit of
yarrow from among the grass. It was a still, clear, quiet day, with some
rainy clouds in the sky; and beyond these, near to the horizon, broad
silver shafts of sunlight striking down on the woods and the distant
hills. It looked as if a kind of mid-day sleep had fallen over the
earth; there was scarce a sound; the birds were silent; and there was
not even enough wind to make a stirring through the wide fields of wheat
or in the elms. The nosegay grew apace, though she went about her work
idly--kneeling here and stretching a hand there; and always she kept
away from him, and would not even look in his direction; for she was
determined that he should have ample leisure to make out the sense of
the letter, of which she had but a vague recollection, only that she
knew it was complimentary.
Even when he rose and came toward her she pretended not to notice. She
would show him she was in no hurry. She was plucking the heads of red
clover, and sucking them to get at the honey; or she was adding a
buttercup or two to her nosegay; or she was carelessly humming to
herself:
"O stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low."
"Well, now, Mistress Judith," said he, with an air of apology, "methinks
I have got at the meaning of it, however imperfectly; and your father
might well be proud of such a commendation from so high a source--the
King, as every one knows, being a learned man, and skilled in the arts.
And I have not heard that he has written to any other of the poets of
our day----"
"No, sir?" said she, quickly. "Not to Master Jonson?"
"Not that I am aware of, sweet lady," said he, "though he hath sometimes
messages to send, as you may suppose, by one coming from the court. And
I marvel not that your father should put store by this letter that
speaks well of his work----"
"Your pardon, good sir, but 'tis not so," said Judith, calmly.
"Doubtless if the King commend my father's writing, that showeth that
his Majesty is skilled and learned, as you say; and my father was no
doubt pleased enough--as who would not be?--by such a mark of honor; but
as for setting great value on it, I assure you he did not; nay, he gave
it to Julius Shawe. And will you read it, good sir?--I remember me there
was something in it about the ancients."
"'Tis but a rough guess that I can make," said he, regarding the paper.
"But it seems that the King had received at the hands of one Eugene
Collins the book of a comedy of your father's that had been presented
before his Majesty when he was recently in London. And very diligently,
he says, he has read through the same; and finds it right subtly
conceived, with many beauties and delights, and such ornaments as are to
be approved by an ingenious mind. It is true his Majesty hints that
there may be parts of the play more calculated than might be to move the
laughter of the vulgar; but you would not have a critic have nothing but
praise?--and the King's praise is high indeed. And then he goes on to
say that as regards your father's future work, he would in the most
friendly manner admonish him to study the great masters of the comic
art; that is, Menander the Athenian, and the Romans Plautus and
Terentius, who--who--what says the King?--less studied to capture the
applause of the vulgar than to lash the vices of the day as with whips.
And these he highly commends as being of great service to the state; and
would have your father be the like: teachers of virtue, and also props
and aids to those whom God hath placed to rule over the people. He would
have your father be among these public benefactors; and then he adds
that, when occasion serves, he will not fail to extend his royal favor
to your father and his associates; and so commends him to the protection
of God. Nay, 'tis a right friendly letter; there is none in the land
that would not be proud of it; 'tis not every day nor with every one
that King James would take such trouble and play the part of tutor."
He handed her the letter, and she proceeded to fold it up carefully
again and put it in her satchel. She said nothing, but she hoped that
these phrases of commendation would remain fixed in his mind when that
he was returned to London.
And then there was a moment of embarrassment--or at least of constraint.
He had never been so near the town with her before (for his praise of
her father's comedy, as they walked together, had taken some time), and
there before them were the orchards and mud walls, and, further off, the
spire of the church among the trees. She did not like to bid him go, and
he seemed loath to say farewell, he probably having some dim notion
that, now he had seen the end of the play and also this letter, there
might be some difficulty in finding an excuse for another meeting.
"When do you return to London?" said she, for the sake of saying
something. "Or may you return? I hope, good sir, your prospects are
showing brighter; it must be hard for one of your years to pass the time
in idleness."
"The time that I have spent in these parts," said he, "has been far more
pleasant and joyful to me than I could have imagined--you may easily
guess why, dear Mistress Judith. And now, when there is some prospect of
my being able to go, I like it not; so many sweet hours have been passed
here, the very fields and meadows around have acquired a charm----"
"Nay, but, good sir," said she, a little breathlessly, "at your time of
life you would not waste the days in idleness."
"In truth it has been a gracious idleness!" he exclaimed.
"At your time of life," she repeated, quickly, "why, to be shut up in a
farm----"
"The Prince Ferdinand," said he, "though I would not compare myself with
him, found the time pass pleasantly and sweetly enough, as I reckon,
though he was shut up in a cave. But then there was the fair Miranda to
be his companion. There is no Ariel to work such a charm for me, else do
you think I could ever bring myself to leave so enchanting a
neighborhood?"
"Good sir," said she (in some anxiety to get away), "I may not ask the
reason of your being in hiding, though I wish you well, and would fain
hear there was no further occasion for it. And I trust there may be none
when next you come to Warwickshire, and that those of our household who
have a better right to speak for it than I, will have the chance of
entertaining you. And now I would bid you farewell."
"No, dear Judith!" he exclaimed, with a kind of entreaty in his voice.
"Not altogether? Why, look at the day!--would you have me say farewell
to you on such a day of gloom and cloud? Surely you will let me take
away a brighter picture of you, and Warwickshire, and our brief meetings
in these quiet spots--if go I must. In truth I know not what may happen
to me; I would speak plainer; but I am no free agent; I can but beg of
you to judge me charitably, if ever you hear aught of me----"
And here he stopped abruptly and paused, considering, and obviously
irresolute and perplexed.
"Why," said he at length, and almost to himself--"why should I go away
at all? I will carry logs--if needs be--or anything. Why should I go?"
She knew instantly what he meant; and knew, also, that it was high time
for her to escape from so perilous a situation.
"I pray you pardon me, good sir; but I must go. Come, Don."
"But one more meeting, sweet Mistress Judith," he pleaded, "on a fairer
day than this--you will grant as much?"
"I may not promise," said she; "but indeed I leave with you my good
wishes; and so, farewell!"
"God shield you, dearest lady," said he, bowing low; "you leave with me
also a memory of your kindness that will remain in my heart."
Well, there was no doubt that she felt very much relieved when she had
left him and was nearing the town; and yet she had a kind of pity for
him too, as she thought of his going away by himself to that lonely
farm: one so gentle, and so grateful for company, being shut up there on
this gloomy day. Whereas she was going back to a cheerful house;
Prudence was coming round to spend the afternoon with them, and help to
mark the new napery; and then in the evening the whole of them, her
father included, were going to sup at Dr. Hall's, who had purchased a
dishful of ancient coins in one of his peregrinations, and would have
them come and examine them. Perhaps, after all, that reference to
Miranda was not meant to apply to her. It was but natural he should
speak of Miranda, having just finished the play. And carrying logs: he
could not mean carrying logs for her father; that would be a foolish
jest. No, no; he would remain at the farm and spend the time as best he
could; and then, when this cloud blew over, he would return to London,
and carry with him (as she hoped) some discreet rumor of the new work of
her father's that he had praised so highly, and perchance some mention
of the compliments paid by the King; and if, in course of time, the
young gentleman should make his way back to Stratford again, and come to
see them at New Place, and if his pleasant manner and courtesy proved to
be quite irresistible, so that she had to allow the wizard's prophecy to
come true in spite of herself, why, then, it was the hand of fate, and
none of her doing, and she would have to accept her destiny with as good
a grace as might be.
As she was going into the town she met Tom Quincy. He was on the other
side of the roadway, and after one swift glance at her, he lowered his
eyes, and would have passed on without speaking. And then it suddenly
occurred to her that she would put her pride in her pocket. She knew
quite well that her maidenly dignity had been wounded by his suspicions,
and that she ought to let him go his own way if he chose. But, on the
other hand (and this she did not know), there was in her nature an odd
element of what might be called boyish generosity--of frankness and
common-sense and good comradeship. And these two had been very stanch
comrades in former days, each being in a curious manner the protector of
the other; for while she many a time came to his aid--being a trifle
older than he, and always ready with her quick feminine wit and
ingenuity when they were both of them likely to get into trouble--he, on
his side, was her shield and bold champion by reason of his superior
stature and his strength, and his terrible courage in face of bulls or
barking dogs and the like. For the moment she only thought of him as her
old companion; and she was a good-natured kind of creature, and frank
and boyish in her ways, and so she stepped across the road, though there
was some mud about.
"Why can't we be friends?" said she.
"You have enough of other friends," said he.
It was a rebuff; but still--she would keep down her girlish pride.
"I hope you are not going away from the country?" said she.
He did not meet her look; his eyes were fixed on the ground.
"What is there to keep me in it?" was his answer.
"Why, what is there to keep any of us in it?" she said. "Heaven's mercy,
if we were all to run away when we found something or another not quite
to our liking, what a fine thing that would be! Nay, I hope there is no
truth in it," she continued, looking at him, and not without some
memories of their escapades together when they were boy and girl.
"'Twould grieve many--indeed it would. I pray you think better of it. If
for no other, for my sake; we used to be better friends."
There were two figures now approaching.
"Oh, here come Widow Clemms and her daughter," she said; "a rare couple.
'Twill be meat and drink to them to carry back a story. No matter. Now,
fare you well; but pray think better of it; there be many that would
grieve if you went away."
He stole a look at her as she passed on: perhaps there was a trifle more
than usual of color in her radiant and sunny face, because of the
approach of the two women. It was a lingering kind of look that he sent
after her; and then he, too, turned and went on his way--cursing the
parson.