EVIL TIDINGS.
But a far sharper winter than any she had thought of was now about to
come upon her, and this was how it befell:
After the departure of her father, good Master Walter Blaise became more
and more the guide and counsellor of these women-folk; and indeed New
Place was now given over to meetings for prayer and worship, and was
also become the head-quarters in the town for the entertainment of
travelling preachers, and for the institution of all kinds of pious and
charitable undertakings. There was little else for the occupants of it
to do: the head of the house was in London; Judith was at Shottery with
her grandmother; Susanna was relieved from much of her own domestic
cares by the absence of her husband in Worcestershire; and the bailiff
looked after all matters pertaining to the farm. Indeed, so constant
were these informal services and ministerings to pious travellers that
Julius Shawe (though not himself much given in that direction, and
perhaps mostly to please his sister) felt bound to interfere and offer
to open his house on occasion, or pay part of the charges incurred
through this kindly hospitality. Nay, he went privately to Master Blaise
and threw out some vague hints as to the doubtful propriety of allowing
a wife, in the absence of her husband, to be so ready with her charity.
Now Master Blaise was an honest and straightforward man, and he met this
charge boldly and openly. He begged of Master Shawe to come to New Place
that very afternoon, when two or three of the neighbors were to assemble
to hear him lecture; and both Prudence and her brother went. But before
the lecture, the parson observed that he had had a case of conscience
put before him--as to the giving of alms and charity, by whom, for whom
and on whose authority--which he would not himself decide. The whole
matter, he observed, had been pronounced upon in the holiday lectures of
that famous divine Master William Perkins, who was now gone to his
eternal reward; these lectures having recently been given to the world
by the aid of one Thomas Pickering, of Emmanuel College, Cambridge. And
very soon it appeared, as the young parson read from the little
parchment-covered book, that the passages he quoted had been carefully
chosen and were singularly pertinent. For after a discourse on the duty
of almsgiving, as enjoined by Scripture (and it was pointed out that
Christ himself had lived on alms--"not by begging, as the Papists
affirm, but by the voluntary ministration and contribution of some to
whom he preached"), Master Blaise read on, with an occasional glance at
Julius Shawe: "'It may be asked whether the wife may give alms without
the consent of her husband, considering that she is in subjection to
another, and therefore all that she hath is another's, and not her own.
Answer. The wife may give alms of some things, but with these cautions:
as, first, she may give of those goods that she hath excepted from
marriage. Secondly, she may give of those things which are common to
them both, provided it be with the husband's consent, at least general
and implicit. Thirdly, she may not give without or against the consent
of her husband. And the reason is, because both the law of nature and
the word of God command her obedience to her husband in all things. If
it be alleged that Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod's steward, with
others, did minister to Christ of their goods (Luke viii., 3), I answer:
It is to be presumed that it was not done without all consent. Again, if
it be said that Abigail brought a present to David for the relief of him
and his young men, whereof she made not Nabal, her husband, acquainted
(1 Sam. xxv., 19), I answer, it is true, but mark the reason. Nabal was
generally of a churlish and unmerciful disposition, whereupon he was
altogether unwilling to yield relief to any, in how great necessity
soever; whence it was that he railed on the young men that came to him,
and drove them away, ver. 14. Again, he was a foolish man, and given to
drunkenness, so as he was not fit to govern his house or to dispense his
alms. Besides, that Abigail was a woman of great wisdom in all her
actions, and that which she now did was to save Nabal's and her own
life--yea, the lives of his whole family; for the case was desperate,
and all that they had were in present hazard. The example, therefore,
is no warrant for any woman to give alms, unless it be in the like
case.'" And then he summed up in a few words, saying, in effect, that as
regards the question which had been put before him, it was for the wife
to say whether she had her husband's general and implied consent to her
pious expenditure, and to rule her accordingly.
This completely and forever shut Julius Shawe's mouth. For he knew, and
they all knew, that Judith's father was well content that any preachers
or divines coming to the house should be generously received; while he
on his part claimed a like privilege in the entertainment of any vagrant
person or persons (especially if they were making a shift to live by
their wits) whom he might chance to meet. Strict economy in all other
things was the rule of the household; in the matter of hospitality the
limits were wide. And if Judith's mother half guessed, and if Susanna
Hall shrewdly perceived, why this topic had been introduced, and why
Julius Shawe had been asked to attend the lecture, the subject was one
that brought no sting to their conscience. If the whole question rested
on the general and implied consent of the husband, Judith's mother had
naught to tax herself with.
After that there was no further remonstrance (of however gentle and
underhand a kind) on the part of Julius Shawe; and more and more did
Parson Blaise become the guide, instructor, and mainstay of the
household. They were women-folk, some of them timid, all of them pious,
and they experienced a sense of comfort and safety in submitting to his
spiritual domination. As for his disinterestedness, there could be no
doubt of that; for now Judith was away at Shottery, and he could no
longer pay court to her in that authoritative fashion of his. It seemed
as if he were quite content to be with these others, bringing them the
news of the day, especially as regarded the religious dissensions that
were everywhere abroad, arranging for the welcoming of this or that
faithful teacher on his way through the country, getting up meetings for
prayer and profitable discourse in the afternoon, or sitting quietly
with them in the evening while they went on with their tasks of
dress-making or embroidery.
And so it came about that Master Walter was in the house one
morning--they were seated at dinner, indeed, and Prudence was also of
the company--when a letter was brought in and handed to Judith's
mother. It was an unusual thing; and all saw by the look of it that it
was from London; and all were eager for the news, the good parson as
well as any. There was not a word said as Judith's mother, with fingers
that trembled a little from mere anticipation, opened the large sheet,
and began to read to herself across the closely written lines. And then,
as they waited, anxious for the last bit of tidings about the King or
the Parliament or what not, they could not fail to observe a look of
alarm come into the reader's face.
"Oh, Susan," she said, in a way that startled them, "what is this?"
She read on, breathless and stunned, her face grown quite pale now; and
at last she stretched out her shaking hand with the letter in it.
"Susan, Susan, take it. I cannot understand it. I cannot read more. Oh,
Susan, what has the girl done?"
And she turned aside her chair, and began to cry stealthily; she was not
a strong-nerved woman, and she had gathered but a vague impression that
something terrible and irrevocable had occurred.
Susan was alarmed, no doubt; but she had plenty of self-command. She
took the letter, and proceeded as swiftly as she could to get at the
contents of it. Then she looked up in a frightened way at the parson, as
if to judge in her own mind as to how far he should be trusted in this
matter. And then she turned to the letter again--in a kind of despair.
"Mother," said she at last, "I understand no more than yourself what
should be done. To think that all this should have been going on, and we
knowing naught of it! But you see what my father wants; that is the
first thing. Who is to go to Judith?"
At the mere mention of Judith's name a flash of dismay went to
Prudence's heart. She knew that something must have happened; she at
once bethought her of Judith's interviews with the person in hiding; and
she was conscious of her own guilty connivance and secrecy; so that the
blood rushed to her face, and she sat there dreading to know what was
coming.
"Mother," Susan said again, and rather breathlessly, "do you not think,
in such a pass, we might beg Master Blaise to give us of his advice? The
Doctor being from home, who else is there?"
"Nay, if I can be of any service to you or yours, good Mistress Hall, I
pray you have no scruple in commanding me," said the parson--with his
clear and keen gray eyes calmly waiting for information.
Judith's mother was understood to give her consent; and then Susan
(after a moment's painful hesitation) took up the letter.
"Indeed, good sir," said she, with an embarrassment that she rarely
showed, "you will see there is reason for our perplexity, and--and I
pray you be not too prompt to think ill of my sister. Perchance there
may be explanations, or the story wrongly reported. In good truth, sir,
my father writes in no such passion of anger as another might in such a
pass, though 'tis but natural he should be sorely troubled and vexed."
Again she hesitated, being somewhat unnerved and bewildered by what she
had just been reading. She was trying to recall things, to measure
possibilities, to overcome her amazement, all at once. And then she knew
that the parson was coolly regarding her, and she strove to collect her
wits.
"This, good sir, is the manner of it," said she, in as calm a way as she
could assume, "that my father and his associates have but recently made
a discovery that concerns them much, and is even a disaster to them;
'tis no less than that a copy of my father's last written play--the very
one, indeed, that he finished ere leaving Stratford--hath lately been
sold, they scarce know by whom as yet, to a certain bookseller in
London, and that the bookseller is either about to print it and sell it,
or threatens to do so. They all of them, my father says, are grievously
annoyed by this, for that the publishing of the play will satisfy many
who will read it at home instead of coming to the theatre, and that thus
the interests of himself and his associates will suffer gravely. I am
sorry, good sir, to trouble you with such matters," she added, with a
glance of apology, "but they come more near home to us than you might
think."
"I have offered to you my service in all things--that befit my office,"
said Master Walter, but with a certain reserve, as if he did not quite
like the course that matters were taking.
"And then," continued Susan, glancing at the writing before her, "my
father says that they were much perplexed (having no right at law to
stop such a publication), and made inquiries as to how any such copy
could have found its way into the bookseller's hands; whereupon he
discovered that which hath grieved him far more than the trouble about
the play. Prudence, you are her nearest gossip; it cannot be true!" she
exclaimed; and she turned to the young maiden, whose face was no longer
pale and thoughtful, but rose-colored with shame and alarm. "For he says
'tis a story that is now everywhere abroad in London--and a laugh and a
jest at the taverns--how that one Jack Orridge came down to
Warwickshire, and made believe to be a wizard, and cozened
Judith--Judith, Prudence, our Judith!--heard ye ever the like?--into a
secret love affair; and that she gave him a copy of the play as one of
her favors----"
"Truly, now, that is false on the face of it," said Master Blaise,
appositely. "That is a tale told by some one who knows not that Judith
hath no skill of writing."
"Oh, 'tis too bewildering!" Susan said, as she turned again to the
letter in a kind of despair. "But to have such a story going about
London--about Judith--about my sister Judith--how can you wonder that my
father should write in haste and in anger? That she should meet this
young man day after day at a farm-house near to Bidford, and in secret,
and listen to his stories of the court, believing him to be a worthy
gentleman in misfortune! A worthy gentleman truly!--to come and make
sport of a poor country maiden, and teach her to deceive her father and
all of us, not one of us knowing--not one----"
"Susan! Susan!" Prudence cried, in an agony of grief, "'tis not as you
think. 'Tis not as it is written there. I will confess the truth. I
myself knew of the young man being in the neighborhood, and how he came
to be acquainted with Judith. And she never was at any farm-house to
meet him, that I know well, but--but he was alone, and in trouble, he
said, and she was sorry for him, and durst not speak to any one but me.
Nay, if there be aught wrong, 'twas none of her doing, that I know: as
to the copy of the play, I am ignorant; but 'twas none of her doing.
Susan, you think too harshly--indeed you do."
"Sweetheart, I think not harshly," said the other, in a bewildered way.
"I but tell the story as I find it."
"'Tis not true, then. On her part, at least, there was no whit of any
secret love affair, as I know right well," said Prudence, with a
vehemence near to tears.
"I but tell thee the story as my father heard it. Poor wench, whatever
wrong she may have done, I have no word against her," Judith's sister
said.
"I pray you continue," interposed Master Blaise, with his eyes calmly
fixed on the letter; he had scarcely uttered a word.
"Oh, my father goes on to say that this Orridge--this person
representing himself as familiar with the court, and the great nobles,
and the like--is none other than the illegitimate son of an Oxfordshire
gentleman who became over well acquainted with the daughter of an
innkeeper in Oxford town; that the father meant to bring up the lad, and
did give him some smattering of education, but died; that ever since he
hath been dependent on his grandmother, a widow, who still keeps the
inn; and that he hath lived his life in London in any sort of company he
could impose upon by reason of his fine manners. These particulars, my
father says, he hath had from Ben Jonson, that seems to know something
of the young man, and maintains that he is not so much vicious or
ill-disposed as reckless and idle, and that he is as likely as not to
end his days with a noose round his neck. This, saith my father, is all
that he can learn, and he would have us question Judith as to the truth
of the story, and as to how the copy of the play was made, and whether
'twas this same Orridge that carried it to London. And all this he would
have inquired into at once, for his associates and himself are in great
straits because of this matter, and have urgent need to know as much as
can be known. Then there is this further writing toward the end--'I
cannot explain all to thee at this time; but 'tis so that we have no
remedy against the rascal publisher. Even if they do not register at the
Stationers' Company, they but offend the Company; and the only
punishment that might at the best befall them would be his Grace of
Canterbury so far misliking the play as to cause it to be burnt--a
punishment that would fall heavier on us, I take it, than on them; and
that is in no case to be anticipated.'"
"I cannot understand these matters, good sir," Judith's mother said
drying her eyes. "'Tis my poor wench that I think of. I know she meant
no harm--whatever comes of it. And she is so gentle and so
proud-spirited that a word of rebuke from her father will drive her out
of her reason. That she should have fallen into such trouble, poor
wench! poor wench!--and you, Prudence, that was ever her intimate, and
seeing her in such a coil--that you should not have told us of it!"
Prudence sat silent under this reproach: she knew not how to defend
herself. Perhaps she did not care, for all her thoughts were about
Judith.
"Saw you ever the young man?" Susan said, scarcely concealing her
curiosity.
"Nay, not I," was Prudence's answer. "But your grandmother hath seen
him, and that several times."
"My grandmother!" she exclaimed.
"For he used to call at the cottage," said Prudence, "and pass an hour
or two--being in hiding, as he said, and glad to have a little company.
And he greatly pleased the old dame, as I have heard, because of his
gracious courtesy and good breeding; and when they believed him to be in
sad trouble, and pitied him, who would be the first to speak and
denounce a stranger so helpless? Nay, I know that I have erred. Had I
had more courage I should have come to you, Susan, and begged you to
draw Judith away from any further communication with the young man; but
I--I know not how it came about; she hath such a winning and
overpersuading way, and is herself so fearless."
"A handsome youth, perchance?" said Susan, who seemed to wish to know
more about this escapade of her sister's.
"Right handsome, as I have heard; and of great courtesy and gentle
manners," Prudence answered. "But well I know what it was that led
Judith to hold communication with him after she would fain have had that
broken off." And then Prudence, with such detail as was within her
knowledge, explained how Judith had come to think that the young
stranger talked overmuch of Ben Jonson, and was anxious to show that her
father could write as well as he (or better, as she considered). And
then came the story of the lending of the sheets of the play, and
Prudence had to confess how that she had been Judith's accomplice on
many a former occasion in purloining and studying the treasures laid by
in the summer-house. She told all that she knew openly and simply and
frankly; and if she was in distress, it was with no thought of herself;
it was in thinking of her dear friend and companion away over there at
Shottery, who was all in ignorance of what was about to befall her.
Then the three women, being somewhat recovered from their dismay, but
still helpless and bewildered, and not knowing what to do, turned to
the parson. He had sat calm and collected, silent for the most part, and
reading in between the lines of the story his own interpretation.
Perhaps, also, he had been considering other possibilities--as to the
chances that such an occasion offered for gathering back to the fold an
errant lamb.
"What your father wants done, that is the first thing, sweetheart,"
Judith's mother said, in a tremulous and dazed kind of fashion. "As to
the poor wench, we will see about her afterward. And not a harsh word
will I send her; she will have punishment enough to bear--poor lass!
poor lass! So heedless and so headstrong she hath been always, but
always the quickest to suffer if a word were spoken to her; and now if
this story be put about, how will she hold up her head--she that was so
proud? But what your father wants done, Susan, that is the first
thing--that is the first thing. See what you can do to answer the letter
as he wishes: you are quicker to understand such things than I."
And then the parson spoke, in his clear, incisive, and authoritative
way:
"Good madam, 'tis little I know of these matters in London; but if you
would have Judith questioned--and that might be somewhat painful to any
one of her relatives--I will go and see her for you, if you think fit.
If she have been the victim of knavish designs, 'twill be easy for her
to acquit herself; carelessness, perchance, may be the only charge to be
brought against her. And as I gather from Prudence that the sheets of
manuscript lent to the young man were in his possession for a certain
time, I make no doubt that the copy--if it came from this neighborhood
at all--was made by himself on those occasions, and that she had no hand
in the mischief, save in overtrusting a stranger. Doubtless your
husband, good madam, is desirous of having clear and accurate statements
on these and other points; whereas, if you, or Mistress Hall, or even
Prudence there, were to go and see Judith, natural affection and
sympathy might blunt the edge of your inquiries. You would be so anxious
to excuse (and who would not, in your place?) that the very information
asked for by your husband would be lost sight of. Therefore I am willing
to do as you think fitting. I may not say that my office lends any
special sanction to such a duty, for this is but a worldly matter; but
friendship hath its obligations: and if I can be of service to you,
good Mistress Shakespeare, 'tis far from repaying what I owe of godly
society and companionship to you and yours. These be rather affairs for
men to deal with than for women, who know less of the ways of the world;
and I take it that Judith, when she is made aware of her father's
wishes, will have no hesitation in meeting me with frankness and
sincerity."
It was this faculty of his of speaking clearly and well and to the point
that in a large measure gave him such an ascendency over those women; he
seemed always to see a straight path before him; to have confidence in
himself, and a courage to lead the way.
"Good sir, if you would have so much kindness," Judith's mother said.
"Truly, you offer us help and guidance in a dire necessity. And if you
will tell her what it is her father wishes to know, be sure that will be
enough; the wench will answer you, have no fear, good sir."
Then Susan said, when he was about to go:
"Worthy sir, you need not say to her all that you have heard concerning
the young man. I would liefer know what she herself thought of him; and
how they came together; and how he grew to be on such friendly terms
with her. For hitherto she hath been so sparing of her favor; though
many have wished her to change her name for theirs; but always the wench
hath kept roving eyes. Handsome was he, Prudence? And of gentle manners,
said you? Nay, I warrant me 'twas something far from the common that led
Judith such a dance."
But Prudence, when he was leaving, stole out after him; and when he was
at the door, she put her hand on his arm. He turned, and saw that the
tears were running down her face.
"Be kind to Judith," she said--not heeding that he saw her tears, and
still clinging to his arm; "be kind to Judith, from my heart I beg it of
you--I pray you be kind and gentle with her, good Master Blaise; for
indeed she is like an own sister to me."