"THE ROSE IS FROM MY GARDEN GONE."
Now when Parson Blaise set forth upon the mission that had been
intrusted to him, there was not a trace of anger or indignation in his
mind. He was not even moved by jealous wrath against the person with
whom Judith had been holding these clandestine communications, nor had
he any sense of having been himself injured by her conduct. For one
thing, he knew enough of Judith's pride and self-reliance to be fairly
well satisfied that she was not likely to have compromised herself in
any serious way; and for another, his own choice of her, from among the
Stratford maidens, as the one he wished to secure for helpmate, was the
result not so much of any overmastering passion as of a cool and
discriminating judgment. Nay, this very complication that had arisen,
might he not use it to his own advantage? Might it not prove an argument
more powerful than any he had hitherto tried? And so it was that he set
out, not as one armed to punish, but with the most placable intentions;
and the better to give the subject full consideration, he did not go
straight across the meadows to the cottage, but went through the town,
and away out the Alcester road, before turning round and making for
Shottery.
Nor did it occur to him that he was approaching this matter with any
mean or selfish ends in view. Far from that. The man was quite honest.
In winning Judith over to be his wife, by any means whatever, was he not
adding one more to the number of the Lord's people? Was he not saving
her from her own undisciplined and wayward impulses, and from all the
mischief that might arise from these? What was for his good was for her
good, and the good of the Church also. She had a winning way; she was
friends with many who rather kept aloof from the more austere of their
neighbors; she would be a useful go-between. Her cheerfulness, her good
temper, nay, her comely presence and bright ways--all these would be
profitably employed. Nor did he forget the probability of a handsome
marriage-portion, and the added domestic comfort and serenity that that
would bring himself. Even the marriage-portion (which he had no doubt
would be a substantial one) might be regarded as coming into the Church
in a way; and so all would work together for good.
When he reached the cottage he found the old dame in the garden, busy
with her flowers and vegetables, and was told that Judith had just gone
within-doors. Indeed, she had but that minute come back from her stroll
across the fields with Quiney, and had gone in to fetch a jug, so that
she might have some fresh water from the well in the garden. He met her
on the threshold.
"I would say a few words with you, Judith--and in private," said he.
She seemed surprised, but was in no ill-humor, so she said, "As you
will, good sir," and led the way into the main apartment, where she
remained standing.
"I pray you be seated," said he.
She was still more surprised; but she obeyed him, taking her seat under
the window, so that her face was in shadow, while the light from the
small panes fell full on him sitting opposite her.
"Judith," said he, "I am come upon a serious errand, and yet would not
alarm you unnecessarily. Nay, I think that when all is done, good may
spring out of the present troubles----"
"What is it?" she said quickly. "Is any one ill? my mother----"
"No, Judith," he said; "'tis no trial of that kind you are called to
face. The Lord hath been merciful to you and yours these several years;
while others have borne the heavy hand of affliction and lost their
dearest at untimeous seasons, you have been spared for many years now,
all but such trials as come in the natural course: would I could see you
as thankful as you ought to be to the Giver of all good. And yet I know
not but that grief over such afflictions is easier to bear than grief
over the consequences of our own wrong-doing; memory preserves this last
the longer; sorrow is not so enduring, nor cuts so deep, as remorse. And
then to think that others have been made to suffer through our
evil-doing--that is an added sting; when those who have expected naught
but filial obedience and duty--and the confidence that should exist
between children and their parents----"
But this phrase about filial obedience had struck her with a sudden
fear.
"I pray you, what is it, sir? What have I done?" she said, almost in a
cry.
Then he saw that he had gone too fast and too far.
"Nay, Judith," he said, "be not over-alarmed. 'Tis perchance but
carelessness, and a disposition to trust yourself in all circumstances
to your own guidance that have to be laid to your charge. I hope it may
be so; I hope matters may be no worse; 'tis for yourself to say. I come
from your mother and sister, Judith," he continued, in measured tones.
"I may tell you at once that they have learned of your having been in
secret communication with a stranger who has been in these parts, and
they would know the truth. I will not seek to judge you beforehand, nor
point out to you what perils and mischances must ever befall you, so
long as you are bent on going your own way, without government or
counsel; that you must now perceive for yourself--and I trust the lesson
will not be brought home to you too grievously."
"Is that all?" Judith had said quickly to herself, and with much relief.
"Good sir," she said to him, coolly, "I hope my good mother and Susan
are in no bewilderment of terror. 'Tis true, indeed, that there was one
in this neighborhood whom I met and spoke with on several occasions; if
there was secrecy, 'twas because the poor young gentleman was in
hiding; he dared not even present the letter that he brought commending
him to my father. Nay, good Master Blaise, I pray you comfort my mother
and sister, and assure them there was no harm thought of by the poor
young man."
"I know not that, Judith," said he, with his clear, observant eyes
trying to read her face in the dusk. "But your mother and sister would
fain know what manner of man he was, and what you know of him, and how
he came to be here."
Then the fancy flashed across her mind that this intervention of his was
but the prompting of his own jealousy, and that he was acting as the
spokesman of her mother and sister chiefly to get information for
himself.
"Why, sir," said she, lightly, "I think you might as well ask these
questions of my grandmother, that knoweth about as much as I do
concerning the young man, and was as sorry as I for his ill fortunes."
"I pray you take not this matter so heedlessly, Judith," he said, with
some coldness. "'Tis of greater moment than you think. No idle curiosity
has brought me hither to-day; nay, it is with the authority of your
family that I put these questions to you, and I am charged to ask you to
answer them with all of such knowledge as you may have."
"Well, well," said she, good-naturedly; "his name----"
She was about to say that his name was Leofric Hope, but she checked
herself, and some color rose to her face--though he could not see that.
"His name, good sir, as I believe, is John Orridge," she continued, but
with no embarrassment; indeed she did not think that she had anything
very serious either to conceal or to confess; "and I fear me the young
man is grievously in debt, or otherwise forced to keep away from those
that would imprison him; and being come to Warwickshire he brought a
letter to my father, but was afraid to present it. He hath been to the
cottage here certain times, for my grandmother, as well as I, was
pleased to hear of the doings in London; and right civil he was, and
well-mannered; and 'twas news to us to hear about the theatres, and my
father's way of living there. But why should my mother and Susan seek to
know aught of him? Surely Prudence hath not betrayed the trust I put in
her--for indeed the young man was anxious that his being in the
neighborhood should not be known to any in Stratford. However, as he is
now gone away, and that some weeks ago, 'tis of little moment, as I
reckon; and if ever he cometh back here, I doubt not but that he will
present himself at New Place, that they may judge of him as they please.
That he can speak for himself, and to advantage and goodly showing, I
know right well."
"And that is all you can say of this man, Judith," said he, with some
severity in his tone--"with this man that you have been thus familiar
with?"
"Marry is it!" she said, lightly. "But I have had guesses, no doubt; for
first I thought him a gentleman of the Court, he being apparently
acquainted with all the doings there; and then methought he was nearer
to the theatres, from his knowledge of the players. But you would not
have had me ask the young man as to his occupation and standing, good
sir? 'Twould have been unseemly in a stranger, would it not? Could I
dare venture on questions, he being all unknown to any of us?"
And now a suspicion flashed upon him that she was merely befooling him,
so he came at once and sharply to the point.
"Judith," said he, endeavoring to pierce with his keen eyes the dusk
that enshrouded her, "you have not told me all. How came he to have a
play of your father's in his possession?"
"Now," said she, with a quick anger, "that is ill done of Prudence! No
one but Prudence knew; and for so harmless a secret--and that all over
and gone, moreover--and the young man himself away, I know not
where--nay, by my life! I had not thought that Prudence would serve me
so. And to what end? Why, good sir, I myself lent the young man the
sheets of my father's writing--they were the sheets that were thrown
aside--and I got each and all of them safely back, and replaced them.
Prudence knew what led me to lend him my father's play; and where was
the harm of it? I thought not that she would go and make trouble out of
so small a thing."
By this time the good parson had come to see pretty clearly how matters
stood--what with Prudence's explanations and Judith's present
confessions; and he made no doubt that this stranger--whether from
idleness, or for amusement, or with some more sinister purpose, he had
no means of knowing--had copied the play when he had taken the sheets
home with him to the farm; while as to the appearance in London of the
copy so taken, it was sufficiently obvious that Judith was in complete
ignorance, and could afford no information whatever. So that now the
first part of his mission was accomplished. He asked her a few more
questions, and easily discovered that she knew nothing whatever about
the young man's position in life, or whether he had gone straight from
the farm to London, or whether he was in London now. As to his being in
possession, or having been in possession, of a copy of her father's
play, it was abundantly evident that she had never dreamed of any such
thing.
And now he came to the more personal part of his mission, that was for
him much more serious.
"Judith," said he, "'tis not like you should know what sad and grievous
consequences may spring from errors apparently small. How should you?
You will take no heed or caution. The advice of those who would be
nearest and dearest to you is of no account with you. You will go your
own way--as if one of your years and experience could know the pitfalls
that lie in a young maiden's path. The whole of life is but a jest to
you--a tale without meaning--something to pass the hour withal. And
think you that such blindness and wilfulness bring no penalty? Nay,
sooner or later the hour strikes; you look back and see what you have
done--and the offers of safe guidance that you have neglected or thrust
aside."
"I pray you, sir, what is it now?" she said, indifferently (and with a
distinct wish that he would go away and release her, and let her get out
into the light again). "Methought I had filled up the measure of my
iniquities."
"Thus it is--thus it will be always," said he, with a kind of
hopelessness, "so long as you harden your heart and have no thought but
for the vanities of the moment." And then he addressed her more
pointedly. "But even now methinks I can tell you what will startle you
out of your moral sloth, which is an offence in the eyes of the Lord, as
it is a cause for pity and almost despair to all who know you. It was a
light matter, you think, that you should hold this secret commerce with
a stranger; careless of the respect due to your father's house; careless
of the opinion and the anxious wishes of your friends; careless, even,
of your good name----"
"My good name?" said she, quickly and sharply. "I pray you, sir, have
heed what you say."
"Have heed to what I have to tell you, Judith," said he, sternly. "Ay,
and take warning by it. Think you that I have pleasure in being the
bearer of evil tidings?"
"But what now, sir? What now? Heaven's mercy on us, let us get to the
end of the dreadful deeds I have done!" she exclaimed, with some anger
and impatience.
"I would spare you, but may not," said he, calmly. "And, now, what if I
were to tell you that this young man whom you encouraged into secret
conversation--whose manners seemed to have had so much charm for
you--was a rascal, thief, and villain? How would your pride bear it if I
told you that he had cozened you with some foolish semblance of a
wizard?"
"Good sir, I know it," she retorted. "He himself told me as much."
"Perchance. Perchance 'twas part of his courteous manners to tell you as
much!" was the scornful rejoinder. "But he did not tell you all--he did
not tell you that he had copied out every one of those sheets of your
father's writing; that he was about to carry that stolen copy to London,
like the knave and thief that he was; that he was to offer it for money
to the booksellers. He did not tell you that soon your father and his
associates in the theatre would be astounded by learning that a copy of
the new play had been obtained, in some dark fashion, and sold; that it
was out of their power to recover it; that their interests would be
seriously affected by this vile conspiracy; or that they would by and by
discover that this purloined play, which was like to cause them so much
grievous loss and vexation of mind, had been obtained here--in this very
neighborhood--and by the aid of no other than your father's daughter."
"Who--told--you--this?" she asked in a strange, stunned way: her eyes
were terror-stricken, her hands all trembling.
"A good authority," said he--"your father. A letter is but now come from
London."
She uttered a low, shuddering cry; it was a moan almost.
"See you now," said he (for he knew that all her bravery was struck
down, and she entirely at his mercy), "what must ever come of your
wilfulness and your scorn of those who would aid and guide you? Loving
counsel and protection are offered you--the natural shield of a woman;
but you must needs go your own way alone. And to what ends? Think you
that this is all? Not so. For the woman who makes to herself her own
rule of conduct must be prepared for calumnious tongues. And bethink
you what your father must have thought of you--the only daughter of his
household now--when he learned the story of this young man coming into
Warwickshire, and befooling you with his wizard's tricks, and meeting
you secretly, and cozening you of the sheets of your father's play.
These deeds that are done in the dark soon reach to daylight; and can
you wonder, when your father found your name abroad in London--the
heroine of a common jest--a byword--that his vexation and anger should
overmaster him? What marvel that he should forthwith send to Stratford,
demanding to know what further could be learned of the matter--perchance
fondly trusting, who knows, to find that rumor had lied? But there is no
such hope for him--nor for you. What must your mother say in reply? What
excuse can she offer? Or how make reparation to those associates of your
father who suffer with him? And how get back your good name, that is
being bandied about the town as the heroine of a foolish jest? Your
father may regain possession of his property--I know not whether that be
possible or no--but can he withdraw the name of his daughter from the
ribald wit of the taverns? And I know which he valueth the more highly,
if his own daughter know it not."
He had struck hard; he knew not how hard.
"My father wrote thus?" she said; and her head was bent, and her hands
covering her face.
"I read the letter no more than an hour ago," said he. "Your mother and
sister would have me come over to see whether such a story could be
true; but Prudence had already admitted as much----"
"And my father is angered?" she said, in that low, strange voice.
"Can you wonder at it?" he said.
Again there came an almost inarticulate moan, like that of an animal
stricken to death.
As for him, he had now the opportunity of pouring forth the discourse to
her that he had in a measure prepared as he came along the highway. He
knew right well that she would be sorely wounded by this terrible
disclosure; that the proud spirit would be in the dust; that she would
be in a very bewilderment of grief. And he thought that now she might
consent to gentle leading, and would trust herself to the only one
(himself, to wit) capable of guiding her through her sorrows; and he had
many texts and illustrations apposite. She heard not one word. She was
as motionless as one dead; and the vision that rose before her burning
brain was the face of her father as she had seen it for a moment in the
garden, on the morning of his departure. That terrible swift look of
anger toward old Matthew she had never forgotten--the sudden lowering of
the brows, the flash in the eyes, the strange contraction of the mouth;
and that was what she saw now--that was how he was regarding her--and
that, she knew, would be the look that would meet her always and always
as she lay and thought of him in the long, wakeful nights. She could not
go to him. London was far away. She could not go to him and throw
herself at his feet, and beg and pray with outstretched and trembling
hands for but one word of pity. The good parson had struck hard.
And yet in a kind of way he was trying to administer consolation--at all
events, counsel. He was enlarging on the efficacy of prayer. And he said
that if the Canaanitish woman of old had power to intercede for her
daughter, and win succor for her, surely that would not be denied to
such an one as Judith's mother, if she sought, for her daughter,
strength and fortitude in trouble where alone these could be found.
"The Canaanitish woman," said he, "had but the one saving grace, but
that an all-powerful one, of faith; and even when the disciples would
have her sent away, she followed worshipping, and saying 'Lord, help
me.' And the Lord himself answered and said, 'It is not good to take the
children's bread, and to cast it to whelps.' But she said, 'Truth, Lord;
yet indeed the whelps eat of the crumbs which fall from their master's
table.' Then our Lord answered, and said, 'O woman, great is thy faith;
be it to thee as thou desirest.' And her daughter was made whole at that
hour."
Judith started up; she had not heard a single word.
"I pray you, pardon me, good sir," she said, for she was in a
half-frantic state of misery and despair; "my--my grandmother will speak
with you--I--I pray you pardon me----"
She got up into her own little chamber--she scarce knew how. She sat
down on the bed. There were no tears in her eyes, but there was a
terrible weight on her chest that seemed to stifle her; and she was
breathless, and could not think aright, and her trembling hands were
clinched. Sometimes she wildly thought she wanted Prudence to come to
her; and then a kind of shudder possessed her--and a wish to go
away--she cared not where--and be seen no more. That crushing weight
increased, choking her; she could not rest; she rose, and went quickly
down the stair, and through the garden into the road.
"Judith, wench!" called her grandmother, who was talking to the parson.
She took no heed. She went blindly on; and all these familiar things
seemed so different now. How could the children laugh so? She got into
the Bidford road; she did not turn her eyes toward any whom she met, to
see whether she knew them or no--there was enough within her own brain
for her to think of. She made her way to the summit of Bardon Hill, and
there she looked over the wide landscape; but it was toward London that
she looked, and with a strange and trembling fear. And then she seemed
anxious to hide away from being seen, and went down by hedge-rows and
field-paths, and at last she was by the river. She regarded it, flowing
so stealthily by, in the sad and monotonous silence. Here was an easy
means of slipping away from all this dread thing that seemed to surround
her and overwhelm her--to glide away as noiselessly and peacefully as
the river itself to any unknown shore, she cared not what. And then she
sat down, still looking vaguely and absently at the water, and began to
think of all that had happened to her on the banks of this stream; and
she looked at these visionary pictures and at herself in them as if they
were apart and separated from her, and she never to be like that again.
Was it possible that she ever could have been so careless and so happy,
with no weight at all resting on her heart, but singing out of mere
thoughtlessness, and teaching Willie Hart the figures of dances, herself
laughing the while? It seemed a long time ago now, and that he was cut
off from her too, and all of them, and that there was to be no expiation
for evermore for this that she had done.
How long she sat there she knew not. Everything was a blank to her but
this crushing consciousness that what had happened could never be
recalled; that her father and she were forever separated now--and his
face regarding her with the terrible look she had seen in the garden;
that all the happy past was cut away from her, and she an outcast, and a
byword, and a disgrace to all that knew her. And then she thought, in
the very weariness of her misery, that if she could only walk away
anywhere--anywhere alone, so that no one should meet her or question
her--until she was broken and exhausted with fatigue, she would then go
back to her own small room, and lie down on the bed, and try if sleep
would procure some brief spell of forgetfulness, some relief from her
aching head and far heavier heart. But when she rose she found that she
was trembling from weakness, and a kind of shiver as of cold went
through her, though the autumn day was warm enough. She walked slowly,
and almost dragged herself, all the way home. Her hand shook so that she
could scarce undo the latch of the gate. She heard her grandmother in
the inner apartment, but she managed to creep noiselessly up-stairs into
her own little chamber, and there she sank down on the bed, and lay in a
kind of stupor, pressing her hands on her throbbing brow.
It was some two hours afterward that her grandmother, who did not know
that Judith had returned, was walking along the little passage, and was
startled by hearing a low moaning above--a kind of dull cry of pain--so
slight that she had to listen again ere she could be sure that it was
not mere fancy. Instantly she went up the few wooden steps and opened
the door. Judith was lying on the bed, with all her things on, just as
she had seen her go forth. And then--perhaps the noise of the opening of
the door had wakened her--she started up, and looked at her grandmother
in a wild and dazed kind of way, as if she had just shaken off some
terrible dream.
"Oh, grandmother," she said, springing to her, and clinging to her like
a child, "it is not true--it is not true--it cannot be true!"
But then she fell to crying--crying as if her heart would break. The
whole weight of her misery came back upon her, and the hopelessness of
it, and her despair.
"Why, good lass," said her grandmother, smoothing the sun-brown hair
that was buried in her bosom, and trying to calm the violence of the
girl's sobbing, "thou must not take on so. Thy father may be angered,
'tis true, but there will come brighter days for thee. Nay, take not on
so, good lass!"
"Oh, grandmother, you cannot understand!" she said, and her whole form
was shaken with sobs. "You cannot understand. Grandmother, grandmother,
there was--there was but the one rose--in my garden--and that is gone
now."