A VISITOR.
Master Leofric Hope, on leaving Judith, returned to the farm, but not to
the solitude that had awakened her commiseration. When he entered his
room, which was at the back of the house, and facing the southern
horizon (that alone showed some streaks of sunlight on this gloomy day),
he found a stranger there--and a stranger who had evidently some notion
of making himself comfortable, for he had opened the window, and was now
sitting on the sill, and had just begun to smoke his pipe. His hat, his
sword, and sword-belt he had flung on the table.
For a second the proper owner of the apartment knew not who this new
tenant might be--he being dark against the light; but the next second he
had recognized him, and that with no good grace.
"What the devil brings you here?" said he, sulkily.
"A hearty welcome, truly!" the other said, with much complacency. "After
all my vexation in finding thee out! A goodly welcome for an old friend!
But no matter, Jack--come, hast naught to offer one to drink? I have
ridden from Banbury this morning; and the plague take me if I had not
enough trouble ere I found the hare in her form. But 'tis snug--'tis
snug. The place likes me; though I thought by now you might have
company, and entered with care. Come, man, be more friendly! Will you
not ask me to sit? Must I call the landlady--or the farmer's
wife--myself, and beg for a cup of something on so hot a day? Where be
your manners, Gentleman Jack?"
"What the devil brings you into Warwickshire?" the other repeated, as he
threw his hat on the table, and dropped into a chair, and stretched out
his legs, without a further look at his companion.
"Nay, 'tis what the devil keeps thee here--that is the graver
question--though I know the answer right well. Come, Jack, be
reasonable! 'Tis for thy good I have sought thee out. What, man, would
you ruin us both?--for I tell thee, the end is pressing and near."
Seeing that his unwilling host would not even turn his eyes toward him,
he got down from the window-sill, and came along to the table, and took
a chair. He was a short, stout young man, of puffy face and red hair,
good-natured in look, but with a curious glaze in his light blue-gray
eyes that told of the tavern and himself being pretty close companions.
His dress had some show of ornament about it, though it was rather
travel-stained and shabby; he wore jewelled rings in his ears; and the
handkerchief which he somewhat ostentatiously displayed, if the linen
might have been whiter, was elaborately embroidered with thread of
Coventry blue. For the rest, he spoke pleasantly and good-humoredly, and
was obviously determined not to take offence at his anything but hearty
reception.
"Hoy-day," said he, with a laugh, "what a bother I had with the good
dame here, that would scarce let me come in! For how knew I what name
you might be dancing your latest galliard in?--not plain Jack Orridge,
I'll be bound!--what is't, your worship?--or your lordship,
perchance?--nay, but a lord would look best in the eyes of a daughter of
Will Shakespeare, that loveth to have trumpets and drums going, and
dukes and princes stalking across his boards. But 'fore Heaven, now,
Jack," said he, interrupting himself, and sending an appealing look
round the room, "have you naught to drink in the house? Came you ever to
my lodging and found such scurvy entertainment?"
The reluctant host left the apartment for a second or two, and presently
returned, followed by the farmer's wife, who placed on the table a jug
of small beer, and some bread and cheese. The bread and cheese did not
find much favor with the new-comer, but he drank a large horn of the
beer, and took to his pipe again.
"Come, Jack, be friendly," said he; "'tis for thine own good I have
sought thee out."
"I would you would mind your own business," the other said, with a
sullen frown remaining on his face.
"Mine and yours are one, as I take it, good coz," his companion said,
coolly; and then he added in a more friendly way: "Come, come, man, you
know we must sink or swim together. And sinking it will be, if you give
not up this madcap chase. Nay, you carry the jest too far, _mon ami_.
'Twas a right merry tale at the beginning--the sham wizard, and your
coquetting with Will Shakespeare's daughter to while away the time;
'twas a prank would make them roar at the Cranes in the Vintry; and
right well done, I doubt not--for, in truth, if you were not such a
gallant gentleman, you might win to a place in the theatres as well as
any of them; but to come back here again--to hide yourself away
again--and when I tell you they will no longer forbear, but will clap
thee into jail if they have not their uttermost penny--why, 'tis pure
moonshine madness to risk so much for a jest!"
"I tell thee 'tis no jest at all!" the other said, angrily. "In Heaven's
name, what brought you here?"
"Am I to have no care of myself, then, that am your surety, and have
their threats from hour to hour?"
He laughed in a stupid kind of way, and filled out some more beer and
drank it off thirstily.
"We had a merry night, last night, at Banbury," said he. "I must pluck a
hair of the same wolf to-day. And what say you? No jest? Nay, you look
sour enough to be virtuous, by my life, or to get into a pulpit and
preach a sermon against fayles and tick-tack, as wiles of the devil. No
jest? Have you been overthrown at last--by a country wench? Must you
take to the plough, and grow turnips? Why, I should as soon expect to
see Gentleman Jack consort with the Finsbury archers, or go a-ducking to
Islington ponds! Our Gentleman Jack a farmer! The price of wheat,
goodman Dickon?--how fatten your pigs?--will the fine weather last,
think you? Have done with this foolery, man! If all comes to the worst,
'twere better we should take to the road, you and I, and snip a purse
when chance might serve."
"You?" said his companion, with only half-concealed contempt. "The first
click of a pistol would find you behind a hedge."
"Why, old lad," said the other (who did not seem to have heard that
remark, during his pouring out of another hornful of beer), "I know you
better than you know yourself. This time, you say, 'tis serious--ay, but
how many times before hast thou said the same? And ever the wench is the
fairest of her kind, and a queen? For how long?--a fortnight!--perchance
three weeks. Oh, the wonder of her! And 'tis all a love-worship; and
the praising of her hands and ankles; and Tom Morley's ditty about a
lover and his lass,
'That through the green corn fields did pass
In the pretty spring-time,
Ring-a-ding-ding!'
Ay, for a fortnight; and then Gentleman Jack discovers that some wench
of the Bankside hath brighter eyes and freer favors than the country
beauty, and you hear no more of him until he has ne'er a penny left, and
comes begging his friends to be surety for him, or to write to his
grandam at Oxford, saying how virtuous a youth he is, and in how sad a
plight. Good Lord, that were an end!--should you have to go back to the
old dame at last, and become tapster--no more acting of your lordship
and worship--what ho, there! thou lazy knave, a flask of Rhenish, and
put speed into thy rascal heels!"
The cloud on his companion's face had been darkening.
"Peace, drunken fool!" he muttered--but between his teeth, for he did
not seem to wish to anger this stranger.
"Come, come, man," the other said, jovially, "unwitch thee! unwitch
thee! Fetch back thy senses. What?--wouldst thou become a jest and
byword for every tavern table between the Temple and the Tower? Nay, I
cannot believe it of thee, Jack. Serious? Ay, as you have been twenty
times before. Lord, what a foot and ankle!--and she the queen o' the
world--the rose and crown and queen o' the world--and the sighing o'
moonlight nights--
'Mignonne, tant je vous aime,
Mais vous ne m'aimez pas'--
and we are all to be virtuous and live cleanly for the rest of our
lives; but the next time you see Gentleman Jack, lo, you, now!--'tis at
the Bear-house; his pockets lined with angels wrung from old Ely of
Queenhithe; and as for his company--Lord! Lord! And as it hath been
before, so 'twill be again, as said Solomon the wise man; only that this
time--mark you now, Jack--this time it were well if you came to your
senses at once; for I tell thee that Ely and the rest of them have lost
all patience, and they know this much of thy Stratford doings, that if
they cannot exactly name thy whereabout, they can come within a
stone's-cast of thee. And if I come to warn thee--as is the office of a
true friend and an old companion--why shouldst thou sit there with a
sulky face, man? Did I ever treat thee so in Fetter Lane?"
While he had been talking, a savory odor had begun to steal into the
apartment, and presently the farmer's wife appeared, and proceeded to
spread the cloth for dinner. Her lodger had given no orders; but she had
taken his return as sufficient signal, and naturally she assumed that
his friend would dine with him. Accordingly, in due course, there was
placed on the board a smoking dish of cow-heel and bacon, with abundance
of ale and other garnishings; and as this fare seemed more tempting to
the new-comer than the bread and cheese, he needed no pressing to draw
his chair to the table. It was not a sumptuous feast; but it had a
beneficial effect on both of them--sobering the one, and rendering the
other somewhat more placable. Master Leofric Hope--as he had styled
himself--was still in a measure taciturn; but his guest--whose name, it
appeared, was Francis Lloyd--had ceased his uncomfortable banter; and
indeed all his talk now was of the charms and wealth of a certain widow
who lived in a house near to Gray's Inn, on the road to Hampstead. He
had been asked to dine with the widow; and he gave a magniloquent
description of the state she kept--of her serving-men, and her
furniture, and her plate, and the manner in which she entertained her
friends.
"And why was I," said he--"why was poor Frank Lloyd--that could scarce
get the wherewithal to pay for a rose for his ear--why was he picked out
for so great a favor? Why, but that he was known to be a friend of
handsome Jack Orridge. 'Where be your friend Master Orridge, now?' she
says, for she hath sometimes a country trick in her speech, hath the
good lady. 'Business, madam--affairs of great import,' I say to her,
'keep him still in the country.' Would I tell her the wolves were
waiting to rend you should you be heard of anywhere within London city?
'Handsome Jack, they call him, is't not so?' says she. Would I tell her
thou wert called 'Gentleman Jack?' as if thou hadst but slim right to
the title. Then says she to one of the servants, 'Fill the gentleman's
cup.' Lord, Jack, what a sherris that was!--'twas meat and drink; a
thing to put marrow in your bones--cool and clear it was, and rich
withal--cool on the tongue and warm in the stomach. 'Fore Heaven, Jack,
if thou hast not ever a cup of that wine ready for me when I visit thee,
I will say thou hast no more gratitude than a toad. And then says she
to all the company (raising her glass the while), 'Absent friends;' but
she nods and smiles to me, as one would say: 'We know whom we mean; we
know.' Lord, that sherris, Jack! I have the taste of it in my mouth now;
I dream o' nights there is a jug of it by me."
"Dreaming or waking, there is little else in thy head," said the other;
"nor in thy stomach, either."
"Is it a bargain, Jack?" he said, looking up from his plate and
regarding his companion with a fixed look.
"A bargain?"
"I tell thee 'tis the only thing will save us now." This Frank Lloyd
said with more seriousness than he had hitherto shown. "Heavens, man,
you must cease this idling; I tell thee they are not in the frame for
further delay. 'Tis the Widow Becket or the King's highway, one or
t'other, if you would remain a free man; and as for the highway, why,
'tis an uncertain trade, and I know that Gentleman Jack is no lover of
broken heads. What else would you? Live on in a hole like this? Nay, but
they would not suffer you. I tell you they are ready to hunt you out at
this present moment. Go beyond seas? Ay, and forsake the merry nights at
the Cranes and the Silver Hind? When thy old grandam is driven out of
all patience, and will not even forth with a couple of shillings to buy
you wine and radish for your breakfast, 'tis a bad case. Wouldst go down
to Oxford and become tapster?--Gentleman Jack, that all of them think
hath fine fat acres in the west country, and a line of ancestors
reaching back to Noah the sailor or Adam gardener. Come, man, unwitch
thee! Collect thy senses. If this sorry jest of thine be growing
serious--and I confess I had some thought of it, when you would draw on
Harry Condell for the mere naming of the wench's name--then, o' Heaven's
name, come away and get thee out of such foolery! I tell thee thou art
getting near an end, o' one way or another; and wouldst thou have me
broken too, that have ever helped thee, and shared my last penny with
thee?"
"Broken?" said his friend, with a laugh. "If there be any in the country
more broken than you and I are at this moment, Frank, I wish them luck
of their fortunes. But still there is somewhat for you. You have not
pawned those jewels in your ears yet. And your horse--you rode hither,
said you not?--well, I trust it is a goodly beast, for it may have to
save thee from starvation ere long."
"Nay, ask me not how I came by the creature," said he, "but 'tis not
mine, I assure ye."
"Whose, then?"
Master Frank Lloyd shrugged his shoulders.
"If you cannot guess my errand," said he, "you cannot guess who equipped
me."
"Nay," said his friend, who was now in a much better humor, "read me no
riddles, Frank. I would fain know who knew thee so little as to lend
thee a horse and see thee ride forth with it. Who was't, Frank?"
His companion looked up and regarded him.
"The Widow Becket," he answered, coolly.
"What?" said the other, laughing. "Art thou so far in the good dame's
graces, and yet would have me go to London and marry her?"
"'Tis no laughing matter, Master Jack, as you may find out ere long,"
the other said. "The good lady lent me the horse, 'tis true; else how
could I have come all the way into Warwickshire?--ay, and lent me an
angel or two to appease the villain landlords. I tell thee she is as
bountiful as the day. Lord, what a house!--I'll take my oath that Master
Butler hath a good fat capon and a bottle of claret each evening for his
supper--if he have not, his face belieth him. And think you she would be
niggard with Handsome Jack? Nay, but a gentleman must have his friends;
ay, and his suppers at the tavern, when the play is over; and store of
pieces in his purse to make you good company. Why, man, thy fame would
spread through the Blackfriars, I warrant you: where is the hostess that
would not simper and ogle and court'sy to Gentleman Jack, when that he
came among them, slapping the purse in his pouch?"
"'Tis a fair picture," his friend said. "Thy wits have been sharpened by
thy long ride, Frank. And think you the buxom widow would consent, were
one to make bold and ask her? Nay, nay; 'tis thy dire need hath driven
thee to this excess of fancy."
For answer Master Lloyd proceeded to bring forth a small box, which he
opened, and took therefrom a finger ring. It was a man's ring, of
massive setting; the stone of a deep blood-red, and graven with an
intaglio of a Roman bust. He pushed it across the table.
"The horse was lent," said he, darkly. "That--if it please you--you may
keep and wear."
"What mean you?" Leofric Hope said, in some surprise.
"'I name no thing, and I mean no thing,'" said he, quoting a phrase
from a popular ballad. "If you understand not, 'tis a pity. I may not
speak more plainly. But bethink you that poor Frank Lloyd was not likely
to have the means of purchasing thee such a pretty toy, much as he would
like to please his old friend. Nay, canst thou not see, Jack? 'Tis a
message, man! More I may not say. Take it and wear it, good lad; and
come back boldly to London; and we will face the harpies, and live as
free men, ere a fortnight be over. What?--must I speak? Nay, an' you
understand not, I will tell no more."
He understood well enough; and he sat for a second or two moodily
regarding the ring; but he did not take it up. Then he rose from the
table, and began to walk up and down the room.
"Frank," said he, "couldst thou but see this wench----"
"Nay, nay, spare me the catalogue," his friend answered, quickly. "I
heard thee declare that Ben Jonson had no words to say how fair she was:
would you better his description and overmaster him? And fair or not
fair, 'tis all the same with thee; any petticoat can bewitch thee out of
thy senses: Black Almaine or New Almaine may be the tune, but 'tis ever
the same dance; and such a heaving of sighs and despair!--
'Thy gown was of the grassy green,
Thy sleeves of satin hanging by;
Which made thee be our harvest queen--
And yet thou wouldst not love me.'
'Tis a pleasant pastime, friend Jack; but there comes an end. I know not
which be the worse, wenches or usurers, for landing a poor lad in jail;
but both together, Jack--and that is thy case--they are not like to let
thee escape. 'Tis not to every one in such a plight there cometh a
talisman like that pretty toy there: beshrew me, what a thing it is in
this world to have a goodly presence!"
He now rose from the table and went to the door, and called aloud for
some one to bring him a light. When that was brought, and his pipe set
going, he sat him down on the bench by the empty fire-place, for the
seat seemed comfortable, and there he smoked with much content, while
his friend continued to pace up and down the apartment, meditating over
his own situation, and seemingly not over well pleased with the survey.
Presently something in one of the pigeon-holes over the fire-place
attracted the attention of the visitor; and having nothing better to do
(for he would leave his friend time to ponder over what he had said), he
rose and pulled forth a little bundle of sheets of paper that opened in
his hand as he sat down again.
"What's this, Jack?" said he. "Hast become playwright? Surely all of
this preachment is not in praise of the fair damsel's eyebrows?"
His friend turned round, saw what he had got hold of, and laughed.
"That, now," said he, "were something to puzzle the wits with, were one
free to go to London. I had some such jest in mind; but perchance 'twas
more of idleness that made me copy out the play."
"'Tis not yours, then? Whose?" said Master Frank Lloyd, looking over the
pages with some curiosity.
"Whose? Why, 'tis by one Will Shakespeare, that you may have heard of.
Would it not puzzle them, Frank? Were it not a good jest, now, to lay it
before some learned critic and ask his worship's opinion? Or to read it
at the Silver Hind as of thy writing? Would not Dame Margery weep with
joy? Out upon the Mermaid!--have we not poets of our own?"
He had drawn near, and was looking down at the sheets that his friend
was examining.
"I tell thee this, Jack," the latter said, in his cool way, "there is
more than a jest to be got out of a play by Will Shakespeare. Would not
the booksellers give us the price of a couple of nags for it if we were
pressed so far?"
"Mind thine own business, fool!" was the angry rejoinder; and ere he
knew what had happened his hands were empty.
* * * * *
And at that same moment, away over there in Stratford town, Judith was
in the garden, trying to teach little Bess Hall to dance, and merrily
laughing the while. And when the dancing lesson was over she would try a
singing lesson; and now the child was on Judith's shoulder, and had hold
of her bonny sun-brown curls.
"Well done, Bess; well done! Now again--
'The hunt is up--the hunt is up--
Awake, my lady dear!
O a morn in spring is the sweetest thing
Cometh in all the year!'
Well done indeed! Will not my father praise thee, lass; and what more
wouldst thou have for all thy pains?"