AN APPEAL.
Great changes were in store. To begin with, there were rumors of her
father being about to return to London. Then Dr. Hall was summoned away
into Worcestershire by a great lady living there, who was continually
fancying herself at the brink of death, and manifesting on such
occasions a terror not at all in consonance with her professed assurance
that she was going to a happier sphere. As it was possible that Dr. Hall
would seize this opportunity to pay several other professional visits in
the neighboring county, it was proposed that Susan and her daughter
should come for a while to New Place, and that Judith should at the same
time go and stay with her grandmother at Shottery, to cheer the old dame
somewhat. And so it happened, on this July morning, that Judith's mother
having gone round to see her elder daughter about all these
arrangements, Judith found herself not only alone in the house, but, as
rarely chanced, with nothing to do.
She tried to extract some music from her sister's lute, but that was a
failure; she tried half a dozen other things; and then it occurred to
her--for the morning was fine and clear, and she was fond of the meadows
and of open air and sunlight--that she would walk round to the grammar
school and beg for a half-holiday for Willie Hart. He, as well as Bess
Hall, was under her tuition; and there were things she could teach him
of quite as much value (as she considered) as anything to be learned at
a desk. At the same time, before going to meet the staring eyes of all
those boys, she thought she might as well repair to her own room and
smarten up her attire--even to the extent, perhaps, of putting on her
gray beaver hat with the row of brass beads.
That was not at all necessary. Nothing of the kind was needful to make
Judith Shakespeare attractive and fascinating and wonderful to that
crowd of lads. The fact was, the whole school of them were more or less
secretly in love with her; and this, so far from procuring Willie Hart
such bumps and thrashings that he might have received from a solitary
rival, gained for him; on the contrary, a mysterious favor and
good-will that showed itself in a hundred subtle ways. For he was in a
measure the dispenser of Judith's patronage. When he was walking along
the street with her he would tell her the name of this one or that of
his companions (in case she had forgotten), and she would stop and speak
to him kindly, and hope he was getting on well with his tasks. Also the
other lads, on the strength of Willie Hart's intermediation, would now
make bold to say, with great politeness, "Give ye good-morrow, Mistress
Judith," when they met her, and sometimes she would pause for a moment
and chat with one of them, and make some inquiries of him as to whether
her cousin did not occasionally need a little help in his lessons from
the bigger boys. Then there was a kind of fury of assistance instantly
promised; and the youth would again remember his good manners, and bid
her formally farewell, and go on his way, with his heart and his cheeks
alike afire, and his brain gone a-dancing. Even that dread being, the
head-master, had no frown for her when she went boldly up to his desk,
in the very middle of the day's duties, to demand some favor. Nay, he
would rather detain her with a little pleasant conversation, and would
at times become almost facetious (at sight of which the spirits of the
whole school rose into a seventh heaven of equanimity). And always she
got what she wanted; and generally, before leaving, she would give one
glance down the rows of oaken benches, singling out her friends here and
there, and, alas! not thinking at all of the deadly wounds she was thus
dealing with those lustrous and shining eyes.
Well, on this morning she had no difficulty in rescuing her cousin from
the dull captivity of the school-room; and hand in hand they went along
and down to the river-side and to the meadows there. But seemingly she
had no wish to get much farther from the town; for the truth was that
she lacked assurance as yet that Master Leofric Hope had left that
neighborhood; and she was distinctly of a mind to avoid all further
communications with him until, if ever, he should be able to come
forward openly and declare himself to the small world in which she
lived. Accordingly she did not lead Willie Hart far along the river-side
path; they rather kept to seeking about the banks and hedge-rows for
wild flowers--the pink and white bells of the bind-weed she was mostly
after, and these did not abound there--until at last they came to a
stile; and there she sat down, and would have her cousin sit beside her,
so that she should give him some further schooling as to all that he
was to do and think and be in the coming years. She had far other things
than Lilly's Grammar to teach him. The Sententiae Pueriles contained no
instruction as to how, for example, a modest and well-conducted youth
should approach his love-maiden to discover whether her heart was well
inclined toward him. And although her timid-eyed pupil seemed to take
but little interest in the fair creature that was thus being provided
for him in the future, and was far more anxious to know how he was to
win Judith's approval, either now or then, still he listened contentedly
enough, for Judith's voice was soft and musical. Nay, he put that
imaginary person out of his mind altogether. It was Judith, and Judith
alone, whom he saw in these forecasts. Would he have any other supplant
her in his dreams and visions of what was to be? This world around
him--the smooth-flowing Avon, the wooded banks, the wide white skies,
the meadows and fields and low-lying hills: was not she the very spirit
and central life and light of all these? Without her, what would these
be?--dead things; the mystery and wonder gone out of them; a world in
darkness. But he could not think of that; the world he looked forward to
was filled with light, for Judith was there, the touch of her hand as
gentle as ever, her eyes still as kind.
"So must you be accomplished at all points, sweetheart," she was
continuing, "that you shame her not in any company, whatever the kind of
it may be. If they be grave, and speak of the affairs of the realm, then
must you know how the country is governed, as becomes a man (though,
being a woman, alack! I cannot help you there), and you must have
opinions about what is best for England, and be ready to uphold them,
too. Then, if the company be of a gayer kind, again you shall not shame
her, but take part in all the merriment; and if there be dancing, you
shall not go to the door, and hang about like a booby; you must know the
new dances, every one; for would you have your sweetheart dance with
others, and you standing by? That were a spite, I take it, for both of
you!--nay, would not the wench be angry to be so used? Let me see,
now--what is the name of it?--the one that is danced to the tune of 'The
Merchant's Daughter went over the Field?'--have I shown you that,
sweetheart?"
"I know not, Cousin Judith," said he.
"Come, then," said she, blithely; and she took him by the hand and
placed him opposite her in the meadow. "Look you, now, the four at the
top cross hands--so (you must imagine the other two, sweetheart); and
all go round once--so; and then they change hands, and go back the other
way--so; and then each takes his own partner, and away they go round the
circle, and back to their place. Is it not simple, cousin? Come, now,
let us try properly."
And so they began again; and for music she lightly hummed a verse of a
song that was commonly sung to the same tune:
Maid, will you love me, yes or no?
Tell me the truth, and let me go.
"The other hand, Willie--quick!"
It can be no less than a sinful deed
(Trust me truly)
To linger a lover that looks to speed
(In due time duly).
"Why, is it not simple!" she said, laughing. "But now, instead of
crossing hands, I think it far the prettier way that they should hold
their hands up together--so: shall we try it, sweetheart?"
And then she had to sing another verse of the ballad:
Consider, sweet, what sighs and sobs
Do nip my heart with cruel throbs,
And all, my dear, for the love of you
(Trust me truly);
But I hope that you will some mercy show
(In due time duly).
"And then," she continued, when they had finished that laughing
rehearsal, "should the fiddles begin to squeal and screech--which is as
much as to say, 'Now, all of you, kiss your partners!'--then shall you
not bounce forward and seize the wench by the neck, as if you were a
ploughboy besotted with ale, and have her hate thee for destroying her
head-gear and her hair. No, you shall come forward in this manner, as if
to do her great courtesy, and you shall take her hand and bend one
knee--and make partly a jest of it, but not altogether a jest--and then
you shall kiss her hand, and rise and retire. Think you the maiden will
not be proud that you have shown her so much honor and respect in
public?--ay, and when she and you are thereafter together, by
yourselves, I doubt not but that she may be willing to make up to you
for your forbearance and courteous treatment of her. Marry, with that I
have naught to do; 'tis as the heart of the wench may happen to be
inclined; though you may trust me she will be well content that you show
her other than ale-house manners; and if 'tis but a matter of a kiss
that you forego, because you would pay her courtesy in public, why,
then, as I say, she may make that up to thee, or she is no woman else. I
wonder, now, what the Bonnybel will be like--or tall, or dark, or
fair----"
"I wish never to see her, Judith," said he, simply.
However, there was to be no further discussion of this matter, nor yet
greensward rehearsals of dancing; for they now descried coming to them
the little maid who waited on Judith's grandmother. She seemed in a
hurry, and had a basket over her arm.
"How now, little Cicely?" Judith said, as she drew near.
"I have sought you everywhere, so please you, Mistress Judith," the
little maid said, breathlessly, "for I was coming in to the town--on
some errands--and--and I met the stranger gentleman that came once or
twice to the house--and--and he would have me carry a message to
you----"
"Prithee, good lass," said Judith, instantly, and with much composure,
"go thy way back home. I wish for no message."
"He seemed in sore distress," the little maid said, diffidently.
"How, then? Did a gentleman of his tall inches seek help from such a
mite as thou?"
"He would fain see you, sweet mistress, and but for a moment," the girl
answered, being evidently desirous of getting the burden of the message
off her mind. "He bid me say he would be in the lane going to Bidford,
or thereabout, for the next hour or two, and would crave a word with
you--out of charity, the gentleman said, or something of the like--and
that it might be the last chance of seeing you ere he goes, and that I
was to give his message to you very secretly."
Well, she scarcely knew what to do. At their last interview he had
pleaded for another opportunity of saying farewell to her, and she had
not definitely refused; but, on the other hand, she would much rather
have seen nothing further of him in these present circumstances. His
half-reckless references to Prince Ferdinand undergoing any kind of
hardship for the sake of winning the fair Miranda were of a dangerous
cast. She did not wish to meet him on that ground at all, even to have
her suspicions removed. But if he were really in distress? And this his
last day in the neighborhood? It seemed a small matter to grant.
"What say you, Cousin Willie?" said she, good-naturedly. "Shall we go
and see what the gentleman would have of us? I cannot, unless with thee
as my shield and champion."
"If you wish it, Cousin Judith," said he: what would he not do that she
wished?
"And Cicely--shall we all go?"
"Nay, so please you, Mistress Judith," the girl said; "I have to go back
for my errands. I have been running everywhere to seek you."
"Then, Willie, come along," said she, lightly. "We must get across the
fields to the Evesham road."
And so the apple-cheeked little maiden trudged back to the town with her
basket, while Judith and her companion went on their way across the
meadows. There was a kind of good-humored indifference in her consent,
though she felt anxious that the interview should be as brief as
possible. She had had more time of late to think over all the events
that had recently happened--startling events enough in so quiet and even
a life; and occasionally she bethought her of the wizard, and of the odd
coincidence of her meeting this young gentleman at the very spot that
had been named. She had tried to laugh aside certain recurrent doubts
and surmises, and was only partially successful. And she had a vivid
recollection of the relief she had experienced when their last interview
came to an end.
"You must gather me some flowers, sweetheart," said she, "while I am
speaking to this gentleman; perchance he may have something to say of
his own private affairs."
"I will go on to your grandmother's garden," said he, "if you wish it,
Cousin Judith, and get you the flowers there."
"Indeed, no," she answered, patting him on the shoulder. "Would you
leave me without my champion? Nay, but if you stand aside a little, that
the gentleman may speak in confidence, if that be his pleasure, surely
that will be enough."
They had scarcely entered the lane when he made his appearance, and the
moment she set eyes on him she saw that something had happened. His face
seemed haggard and anxious--nay, his very manner was changed; where was
the elaborate courtesy with which he had been wont to approach her?
"Judith," said he, hurriedly, "I must risk all now. I must speak plain.
I--I scarce hoped you would give me the chance."
But she was in no alarm.
"Now, sweetheart," said she, calmly, to the little lad, "you may get me
the flowers; and if you find any more of the bind-weed bells and the St.
John's wort, so much the better."
Then she turned to Master Leofric Hope.
"I trust you have had no ill news," said she, but in a kind way.
"Indeed, I have. Well, I know not which way to take it," he said, in a
sort of desperate fashion. "It might be good news. But I am hard
pressed; 'twill be sink or swim with me presently. Well, there is one
way of safety opened to me: 'tis for you to say whether I shall take it
or not."
"I, sir?" she said; and she was so startled that she almost recoiled a
step.
"Nay, but first I must make a confession," said he, quickly, "whatever
comes of it. Think of me what you will, I will tell you the truth. Shall
I beg for your forgiveness beforehand?"
He was regarding her earnestly and anxiously, and there was nothing but
kindness and a dim expression of concern in his honest, frank face and
in the beautiful eyes.
"No, I will not," he said. "Doubtless you will be angry, and with just
cause; and you will go away. Well, this is the truth. The devils of
usurers were after me; I had some friends not far from here; I escaped
to them; and they sought out this hiding for me. Then I had heard of
you--you will not forgive me, but this is the truth--I had heard of your
beauty; and Satan himself put it into my head that I must see you. I
thought it would be a pastime, to while away this cursed hiding, if I
could get to know you without discovering myself. I sent you a message.
I was myself the wizard. Heaven is my witness that when I saw you at the
corner of the field up there, and heard you speak, and looked on your
gracious and gentle ways, remorse went to my heart; but how could I
forego seeking to see you again? It was a stupid jest. It was begun in
thoughtlessness; but now the truth is before you: I was myself the
wizard; and--and my name is not Leofric Hope, but John Orridge--a
worthless poor devil that is ashamed to stand before you."
Well, the color had mounted to her face: for she saw clearly the
invidious position that this confession had placed her in; but she was
far less startled than he had expected. She had already regarded this
trick as a possible thing, and she had also fully considered what she
ought to do in such circumstances. Now, when the circumstances were
actually laid before her, she made no display of wounded pride, or of
indignant anger, or anything of the kind.
"I pray you," said she, with a perfect and simple dignity, "pass from
that. I had no such firm belief in the wizard's prophecies. I took you
as you represented yourself to be, a stranger, met by chance, one who
was known to my father's friends, and who was in misfortune; and if I
have done aught beyond what I should have done in such a pass, I trust
you will put it down to our country manners, that are perchance less
guarded than those of the town."
For an instant--there was not the slightest doubt of it--actual tears
stood in the young man's eyes.
"By heavens," he exclaimed, "I think you must be the noblest creature
God ever made! You do not drive me away in scorn; you have no
reproaches? And I--to be standing here--telling you such a tale----"
"I pray you, sir, pass from that," said she. "What of your own fortune?
You are quitting the neighborhood?"
"But how can you believe me in anything, since you know how I have
deceived you?" said he, as if he could not understand how she should
make no sign of her displeasure.
"'Twas but a jest, as you say," she answered, good-naturedly, but still
with a trifle of reserve. "And no harm has come of it. I would leave it
aside, good sir."
"Harm?" said he, regarding her with a kind of anxious timidity. "That
may or may not be, sweet lady, as time will show. If I dared but speak
to you--well, bethink you of my meeting you here from day to day, in
these quiet retreats, and seeing such a sweetness and beauty and
womanliness as I have never met in the world before--such a wonder of
gentleness and kindness----"
"I would ask you to spare me these compliments," said she, simply. "I
thought 'twas some serious matter you had in hand."
"Serious enough i' faith!" he said, in an altered tone, as if she had
recalled him to a sense of the position in which he stood. "But there is
the one way out of it, after all. I can sell my life away for money to
pacify those fiends; nay, besides that, I should live in abundance,
doubtless, and be esteemed a most fortunate gentleman, and one to be
envied. A gilded prison-house and slavery; but what would the fools
think of that if they saw me with a good fat purse at the tavern?"
Again he regarded her.
"There is another way yet, however, if I must needs trouble you, dear
Mistress Judith, with my poor affairs. What if I were to break with that
accursed London altogether, and go off and fight my way in another
country, as many a better man hath done? ay, and there be still one or
two left who would help me to escape if they saw me on the way to
reform, as they would call it. And what would I not do in that way--ay,
or in any way--if I could hope for a certain prize to be won at the end
of it all?"
"And that, good sir?"
"That," said he, watching her face--"the reward that would be enough and
more than enough for all I might suffer would be just this--to find
Judith Shakespeare coming to meet me in this very lane."
"Oh, no, sir," was her immediate and incoherent exclamation; and then
she promptly pulled herself together, and said, with some touch of
pride: "Indeed, good sir, you talk wildly. I scarce understand how you
can be in such grave trouble."
"Then," said he, and he was rather pale, and spoke slowly, "it would be
no manner of use for any poor Ferdinand of these our own days to go
bearing logs or suffering any hardships that might arise? There would be
no Miranda waiting for him, after all?"
She colored deeply; she could not affect to misunderstand the repeated
allusion; and all she had in her mind now was to leave him and get away
from him, and yet without unkindness or anger.
"Good sir," said she, with such equanimity as she could muster, "if that
be your meaning--if that be why you wished to see me again--and no mere
continuance of an idle jest, plain speech will best serve our turn. I
trust no graver matters occupy your mind; as for this, you must put
that away. It was with no thought of any such thing that I--that I met
you once or twice, and--and lent you such reading as might pass the time
for you. And perchance I was too free in that, and in my craving to hear
of my father and his friends in London, and the rest. But what you say
now, if I understand you aright--well, I had no thought of any such
thing. Indeed, good sir, if I have done wrong in listening to you about
my father's friends, 'twas in the hope that soon or late you would
continue the tale in my father's house. But now--what you say--bids me
to leave you--and yet in no anger--for in truth I wish you well."
She gave him her hand, and he held it for a moment.
"Is this your last word, Judith?" said he.
"Yes, yes, indeed," she answered, rather breathlessly and earnestly. "I
may not see you again. I pray Heaven your troubles may soon be over; and
perchance you may meet my father in London, and become one of his
friends; then might I hear of your better fortunes. 'Twould be welcome
news, believe me. And now fare you well."
He stooped to touch her hand with his lips; but he said not a word; and
she turned away without raising her eyes. He stood there motionless and
silent, watching her and the little boy as they walked along the lane
toward the village--regarding them in an absent kind of way, and yet
with no great expression of sadness or hopelessness in his face. Then he
turned and made for the highway to Bidford; and he was saying to himself
as he went along:
"Well, there goes one chance in life, for good or ill. And what if I had
been more persistent? What if she had consented, or even half consented,
or said that in the future I might come back with some small modicum of
hope? Nay: the devil only knows where I should get logs to carry for the
winning of so fair a reward. Frank Lloyd is right. My case is too
desperate. So fare you well, sweet maiden; keep you to your quiet
meadows and your wooded lanes: and the clown that will marry you will
give you a happier life than ever you could have had with Jack Orridge
and his broken fortunes."
Indeed, he seemed in no downcast mood. As he walked along the highway he
was absently watching the people in the distant fields, or idly
whistling the tune of "Calen o Custure me." But by and by, as he drew
near the farm, his face assumed a more sombre look; and when, coming
still nearer, he saw Frank Lloyd calmly standing at the door of the
stables, smoking his pipe, there was a sullen frown on his forehead that
did not promise well for the cheerfulness of that journey to London
which Master Lloyd had sworn he would not undertake until his friend was
ready to accompany him.