IN TIME OF NEED.
Late that night, in the apartment below, Tom Quiney was seated by the
big fireplace, staring moodily into the chips and logs that had been lit
there, the evenings having grown somewhat chill now. There was a little
parcel lying unopened and unheeded on the table. He had not had patience
to wait for the fair of the morrow; he had ridden all the way to Warwick
to purchase something worthy of Judith's acceptance, and he had come
over to the cottage in high hopes of her being still in that kindly mood
that reminded him of other days. Then came the good dame's story of what
had befallen; and how that the parson had been over, bringing with him
these terrible tidings; and how that since then Judith would not hear of
any one being sent for, and would take no food, but was now lying there,
alone in the dark, moaning to herself at times. And the good dame--as
this tall young fellow sat there listening to her, with his fists
clinched, and the look on his face ever growing darker--went on to
express her fear that the parson had been over-hard with her grandchild;
that probably he could not understand how her father had been the very
idol of her life-long worship; that the one thing she was ever thinking
of was how to win his approval--to be rewarded by even a nod of
encouragement.
"Nay, I liked not the manner of his speaking, when he wur come to me in
the garden," the old dame continued. "I liked it not. He be sharp of
tongue, the young pahrson, and there were too much to my mind of
discipline, and chastening of proud spirits, and the like o' that. To my
mind he have not years enough to be placed in such authority."
"The Church is behind him," said this young fellow, almost to himself,
and his eyes were burning darkly as he spoke. "I may not put hand on
him. The Church is behind him. Marry, 'tis a goodly shelter for men that
be of the woman kind."
Then he looked up quickly, and his words were savage.--"What think you,
good grandmother, were one to seize him by the neck and heel and break
his back on the rail of Clopton's bridge? Were it not well done? By my
life I think it were well done!"
"Nay, nay, now," said she, quickly, for she was somewhat alarmed, seeing
his face set hard with passion and his eyes afire. "I would have no
brawling. There be plenty of harm done already. Perchance the good
pahrson hath not spoken so harshly after all. In good sooth, now, none
but her own people can understand how the wench hath ever looked up to
her father--for a word or a nod commending her, as I say--and when she
be told now that she hath wrought mischief, and caused herself to be
talked about, and her father vexed, and all the rest of the tale, why
'tis like to drive her out of her mind. And now this be all her
cry--that she may see no one of her people any more, she would bide with
me here; 'Grandmother, grandmother,' she saith, 'I will bide with you,
if you will suffer me. I will show myself in Stratford no more; they
shall have no shame through me.' Nay, but the wench be half out of her
senses, as I think, and saith wild things--that she would go and sell
herself to be a slave in the Indies, could she restore the money to her
father or bring him back this that he hath lost. 'Tis a terrible plight
for the poor wench; and always she saith, 'Grandmother, grandmother, let
me bide with you; I will never go back to New Place; grandmother, I can
work as well as any, and you will let me bide with you.' Poor lass--poor
lass!"
"But how came the parson to interfere?" Quiney said, hotly. "I'll be
sworn Judith's father did not write to him. How came he to be preaching
his discipline and chastisement? How came he to be intrusted with the
task of abusing her and crushing the too proud spirit? By heavens, now,
there may be occasion erelong to tame some one's proud spirit, but not
the spirit of a defenceless young maid--marry, that is work fit only for
parsons. Man to man is the better way--and it will come erelong."
"Nay, softly, softly, good Master Quiney," said the old dame in her
gentlest tones. "Would you mar all the good opinion that Judith hath of
you? Why, to-day, now, just ere the parson came, I wur in the garden,
putting things straight a bit, and as she came through she says to me,
quite pleasant-like, I have just been across the fields, grandmother,
with Master Quiney--or Tom Quiney, as she said, being friendly and
pleasant-like--and I hear less now of his quarrelling and fighting among
the young men; and his business goeth on well; and to-morrow,
grandmother, he is going to buy me something at the fair."
"Said she all that?" he asked, quickly, and with a flush of color
rushing to his face.
"Marry did she, and looked pleased; for 'tis a right friendly wench, and
good-natured withal," the old dame said, glad to see that these words
had for the moment scattered his wrath to the winds; and she went on for
some little time talking to him in her garrulous easy fashion about
Judith's frank and honest qualities, and her goodhearted ways, and the
pretty daintinesses of her coaxing when she was so inclined. It was a
story he was not loath to listen to, and yet it seemed so strange; they
were talking of her almost as of one passed away--as if the girl lying
there in that darkened room, instead of torturing her brain with
incessant and lightning-like visions of all the harm she had caused in
London, were now far removed from all such troubles, and hushed in the
calm of death.
He went to the table and opened the box, and took out the little present
he had brought for Judith. It was a pair of lace cuffs, with a slender
silver circle at the wrist, the lace going back from that in a
succession of widening leaves. It was not only a pretty present, it was
also (in proportion to his means) a costly one, as the old dame's sharp
eyes instantly saw.
"I think she would have been pleased with them," he said, absently. And
then he said,
"Good grandmother, it were of no use to lay them near her in the
morning--on a chair or at the window--that perchance she might look at
them?"
"Nay, nay," the grandmother said, shaking her head, "'tis no child's
trouble that hath befallen the poor wench, that she can be comforted
with pretty trifles."
"I meant not that," said he, flushing somewhat. "'Tis that I would have
her know that--that there were friends thinking of her all the
same--those that would rather have her gladdened and tended and made
much of, than--than--chidden with any chastisement."
This word chastisement seemed to recall his anger.
"I say that Judith hath done no wrong at all," he said, as if he were
confronting some one not there; "and that I will maintain; and let no
man in my hearing say aught else. Why, now, the story as you tell it,
good grandmother--'tis as plain as daylight--a child can see it--all
that she did was done to magnify her father and his writing; and if the
villain sold the play--or let it slip out of his hands--was that her
doing? Doubtless it is a sore mischance; but I see not that Judith is to
be blamed for it; and right well I know that if her father were to hear
how she is smitten down with grief he would be the first to say, 'Good
lass, there is no such harm done. A great harm would be your falling
sick; get you up and out, seek your friends again, and be happy as you
were before.' That is what he would say, I will take my oath of it; and
if the parson and his chastisements were to come across him, by my life
I would not seek to be in the parson's shoes!"
"I must make another trial with the poor wench," said the good
grandmother, rising, "that hath eaten nothing all the day. In truth her
only crying is to be left alone now, and that hereafter I am to let her
bide with me. It be a poor shelter, I think, for one used to live in a
noble house; but there 'tis, so long as she wisheth it."
"Nay, but this cannot be suffered to go on, good Mistress Hathaway,"
said he, as he rose and got his cap; "for if Judith take no food, and
will see no one, and be alone with her trouble, of a surety she will
fall ill. Now to-morrow morning I will bring Prudence over. If any can
comfort her, Prudence can; and that she will be right willing, I know.
They have been as sisters."
"That be well thought of, Master Quiney," said the grandmother, as she
went to the door with him. "Take care o' the ditch the other side of the
way; it be main dark o' nights now."
"Good-night to you, good grandmother," said he, as he disappeared in the
darkness.
But it was neither back home nor yet to Stratford town that Tom Quiney
thought of going all that long night. He felt a kind of constraint upon
him (and yet a constraint that kept his heart warm with a secret
satisfaction) that he should play the part of a watch-dog, as it
were--as if Judith were sorely ill, or in danger, or in need of
protection somehow; and he kept wandering about in the dark, never at
any great radius from the cottage. His self-imposed task was the easier
now that, as the black clouds overhead slowly moved before the soft
westerly wind, gaps were opened, and here and there clusters of stars
were visible, shedding a faint light down on the sombre roads and fields
and hedges. Many strange fancies occurred to him during that long and
silent night, as to what he could do, or would like to do, for Judith's
sake. Breaking the parson's neck was the first and most natural, and
the most easily accomplished; but fleeing the country, which he knew
must follow, did not seem so desirable a thing. He wanted to do
something--he knew not what. He wished he had been less of a companion
with the young men, and less careful to show, with them, that Stratford
town and the county of Warwick could hold their own against all comers.
If he had been more considerate and gentle with Judith, perhaps she
would not have sought the society of the parson. He knew he had not the
art of winning her over, like the parson. He could not speak so
plausibly. Nor had he the authority of the Church behind him. It was
natural for women to think much of that, and to be glad of the shelter
of authority. Parsons themselves (he considered) were a kind of half
women, being in women's secrets, and entitled to speak to them in
ghostly confidence. But if Judith, now, wanted some one to do something
for her, no matter what, in his rough-and-ready way--well, he wondered
what that could be that he would refuse. And so the dark hours went by.
With the gray of the dawn he began to cast his eyes abroad, as if to see
if any one were stirring, or approaching the cluster of cottages nestled
down there among the trees. The daylight widened and spread up in the
trembling east; the fields and the woods became clear; here and there a
small tuft of blue smoke began to arise from a cottage chimney. And now
he was on Bardon Hill, and could look abroad over the wide landscape
lying between Shottery and Stratford town; and if any one--any one
bringing lowering brows and further cruel speech to a poor maid already
stricken down and defenceless--had been in sight, what then? Watchfully
and slowly he went down from the hill, and back to the meadows lying
between the hamlet and Stratford, there to interpose, as it were, and
question all comers. And well it was, for the sake of peace and charity,
that the good parson did not chance to be early abroad on this still
morning; and well it was for the young man himself. There was no
wise-eyed Athene to descend from the clouds and bid this wrathful
Achilles calm his heart. He was only an English country youth, though
sufficiently Greek-like in form; and he was hungry and gray-faced with
his vigil of the night, and not in a placable mood. Nay, when a young
man is possessed with the consciousness that he is the defender of some
one behind him--some one who is weak and feminine and suffering--he is
apt to prove a dangerous antagonist; and it was well for all concerned
that he had no occasion to pick a quarrel on this morning in these quiet
meadows. In truth he might have been more at rest had he known that the
good parson was in no hurry to follow up his monitions of the previous
day; he wished these to sink into her mind and take root there, so that
thereafter might spring up such wholesome fruits as repentance and
humility, and the desire of godly aid and counsel.
By-and-by he slipped away home, plunged his head into cold water to
banish the dreams of the night, and then, having swallowed a cup of milk
to stay his hunger, he went along to Chapel Street, to see if he could
have speech of Prudence. He found that not only were all of the
household up and doing, but that Prudence herself was ready to go out,
being bent on one of her charitable errands; and it needed but a word to
alter the direction of her kindness: of course she would at once go to
see Judith.
"Truly I had fears of it," said she, as they went through the fields,
the pale, calm face having grown more and more anxious as she listened
to all that he had to tell her. "Her father was as the light of the
world to her. With the others of us she hath ever been headstrong in a
measure, and careless--and yet so lovable withal, and merry, that I for
one could never withstand her--nay, I confess I tried not to withstand
her, for never knew I of any wilfulness of hers springing from anything
but good-nature and her kind and generous ways. But that she was ever
ready to brave our opinions I know, and perchance make light of our
anxieties, we not having her courage; and in all things she seemed to be
a guide unto herself, and to walk sure and have no fear. In all things
but one. Indeed 'tis true what her grandmother told you, and who should
know better than I, who was always with her? The slightest wish of her
father's--that was law to her. A word of commending from him, and she
was happy for days. And think what this must be now--she that was so
proud of his approval--that scarce thought of aught else. Nay, for
myself I can see that they have told him all a wrong story in London,
that know I well; and 'tis no wonder that he is vexed and angry; but
Judith--poor Judith----"
She could say no more just then; she turned aside her face somewhat.
"Do you know what she said to her grandmother, Prudence, when she fell
a crying? that there had been but the one rose in her garden, and that
was gone now."
"'Tis what Susan used to sing," said Prudence, with rather trembling
lips. "'_The rose is from my garden gone_,' 'twas called. Ay, and hath
she that on her mind now? Truly I wish that her mother and Susan had let
me break this news to her; none know as well as I what it must be to
her."
And here Tom Quiney quickly asked her whether it was not clear to her
that the parson had gone beyond his mission altogether--and that in a
way that would have to be dealt with afterward, when all these things
were amended? Prudence, with some faint color in her pale face, defended
Master Blaise to the best of her power, and said she knew he could not
have been unduly harsh; nay, had she not herself, just as he was setting
forth, besought him to be kind and considerate with Judith? Hereupon
Quiney rather brusquely asked what the good man could mean by phrases
about discipline and chastenings and chastisements; to which Prudence
answered gently that these were but separate words, and that she was
sure Master Blaise had fulfilled what he undertook in a merciful spirit,
which was his nature. After that there was a kind of silence between
these two; perhaps Quiney considered that no good end could be served at
present by stating his own ideas on that subject. The proper time would
come, in due course.
At length they reached the cottage. But here, to their amazement, and to
the infinite distress of Prudence, when Judith's grandmother came down
the wooden steps again, she shook her head, saying that the wench would
see no one.
"I thought as 'twould be so," she said.
"But me, good grandmother! Me!" Prudence cried, with tears in her eyes.
"Surely she will not refuse to see me!"
"No one, she saith," was the answer. "Poor wench, her head do ache so
bad. And when one would cheer her or comfort her a morsel, 'tis another
fit of crying--that will wear her to skin and bone, if she do not pluck
up better heart. She hath eaten naught this morning neither; 'tis for no
wilfulness, poor lass, for she tried an hour ago; and now 'tis best as I
think to leave her alone."
"By your leave, good grandmother," said Prudence, with some firmness,
"that will I not. If Judith be in such trouble, 'tis not likely that I
should go away and leave her. It hath never been the custom between us
two."
"As you will, Prudence," the grandmother said. "Young hearts have their
confidences among themselves. Perchance you may be able to rouse her."
Prudence went up the stairs silently and opened the door. Judith was
lying on the bed, her face turned away from the light, her hands clasped
over her forehead.
"Judith!"
There was no answer.
"Judith," said her friend, going near, "I am come to see you."
There was a kind of sob--that was all.
"Judith, is your head so bad? Can I do nothing for you?"
She put over her hand--the soft and cool and gentle touch of which had
comforted many a sick-bed--and she was startled to find that both
Judith's hands and forehead were burning hot.
"No, sweetheart," was the answer, in a low and broken voice, "you can do
nothing for me now."
"Nay, nay, Judith, take heart," Prudence said, and she gently removed
the hot fingers from the burning forehead, and put her own cooler hand
there, as if to dull the throbbing of the pain. "Sweetheart, be not so
cast down! 'Twill be all put right in good time."
"Never--never!" the girl said, without tears, but with an abject
hopelessness of tone. "It can never be undone now. He said my name was
become a mockery among my father's friends. For myself, I would not heed
that--nay, they might say of me what they pleased--but that my father
should hear of it--a mockery and scorn--and they think I cared so little
for my father that I was ready to give away his papers to any one
pretending to be a sweetheart and befooling me--and my father to know it
all, and to hear such things said--no, that can never be undone now. I
used to count the weeks and the days and the very hours when I knew he
was coming back--that was the joy of my life to me--and now, if I were
to know that he were coming near to Stratford I should fly and hide
somewhere--anywhere--in the river as lief as not. Nay, I make no
complaint. 'Tis my own doing, and it cannot be undone now."
"Judith, Judith, you break my heart!" her friend cried. "Surely to all
troubles there must come an end."
"Yes, yes," was the answer, in a low voice, and almost as if she were
speaking to herself. "That is right. There will come an end. I would it
were here now."
All Prudence's talking seemed to be of no avail. She reasoned and
besought--oftentimes with tears in her eyes--but Judith remained quite
listless and hopeless; she seemed to be in a stunned and dazed condition
after the long sleeplessness of the night; and Prudence was afraid that
further entreaties would only aggravate her headache.
"I will go and get you something to eat now," said she. "Your
grandmother says you have had nothing since yesterday."
"Do not trouble; 'tis needless, sweetheart," Judith said; and then she
added with a brief shiver, "but if you could fetch a thick cloak, dear
Prudence, and throw it over me--surely the day is cold somewhat."
A few minutes after (so swift and eager was everybody in the house)
Judith was warmly wrapped up; and by the side of the bed, on a chair,
was some food the good grandmother had been keeping ready, and also a
flask of wine that Quiney had brought with him.
"Look you, Judith," said Prudence, "here is some wine that Thomas Quiney
hath brought for you--'tis of a rare quality, he saith--and you must
take a little. Nay, you must and shall, sweetheart; and then perchance
you may be able to eat."
She sipped a little of the wine; it was but to show her gratitude and
send him her thanks. She could not touch the food. She seemed mostly
anxious for rest and quiet; and so Prudence noiselessly left her and
stole down the stair again.
Prudence was terribly perplexed and in a kind of despair almost.
"I know not what to do," she said. "I would bring over her mother and
Susan, but that she begs and prays me not to do that--nay, she cannot
see them she says. And there is no reasoning with her. It cannot be
undone now--that is her constant cry. What to do I cannot tell; for
surely, if she remain so, and take no comfort, she will fall ill."
"Ay, and if that be so who is to blame?" said Quiney, who was walking up
and down in considerable agitation. "I say that letter should never have
been put into the parson's hands. Was it meant to be conveyed to Judith?
I warrant me it was not! Did her father say that he wished her chidden?
did he ask any of you to bid the parson go to her with his upbraidings?
would he himself have been so quick and eager to chasten her proud
spirit? I tell you no. He is none of the parson kind. Vexed he might
have been, but he would have taken no vengeance. What--on his own child?
By heavens, I'll be sworn now that if he were here, at this minute, he
would take the girl by the hand, and laugh at her for being so afraid of
his anger--ay, I warrant me he would--and would bid her be of good
cheer, and brighten her face, that was ever the brightest in
Warwickshire, as I have heard him say. That would he--my life on it!"
"Ah," said Prudence, wistfully, "if you could only persuade Judith of
that!"
"Persuade her?" said he. "Why, I would stake my life that is what her
father would do?"
"You could not persuade her," said Prudence, with a hopeless air. "No;
she thinks it is all over now between her father and her. She is
disgraced and put away from him. She hath done him such injury, she
says, as even his enemies have never done. When he comes back again, she
says, to Stratford, she will be here, and she knows that he will never
come near this house; and that will be better for her, she says, for she
could never again meet him face to face."
Well, all that day Judith lay there in that solitary room, desiring only
to be left alone; taking no food; the racking pains in her head
returning from time to time; and now and again she shivered slightly, as
if from cold. Tom Quiney kept coming and going to hear news of her, or
to consult with Prudence as to how to rouse her from this hopelessness
of grief; and as the day slowly passed, he grew more and more disturbed
and anxious and restless. Could nothing be done? Could nothing be done?
was his constant cry.
He remained late that evening, and Prudence stayed all night at the
cottage. In the morning he was over again early, and more distressed
than ever to hear that the girl was wearing herself out with this agony
of remorse--crying stealthily when that she thought no one was near, and
hiding herself away from the light, and refusing to be comforted.
But during the long and silent watches he had been taking counsel with
himself.
"Prudence," said he, regarding her with a curious look, "do you think
now, if some assurance were come from her father himself--some actual
message from him--a kindly message--some token that he was far indeed
from casting her away from him--think you Judith would be glad to have
that?"
"'Twould be like giving her life back to her," said the girl, simply.
"In truth I dread what may come of this; 'tis not in human nature to
withstand such misery of mind. My poor Judith, that was ever so careless
and merry!"
He hesitated for a second or two, and then he said, looking at her, and
speaking in a cautious kind of way.
"Because, when next I have need to write to London, I might beg of some
one--my brother Dick, perchance, that is now in Bucklersbury, and would
have small trouble in doing such a service--I say I might beg of him to
go and see Judith's father, and tell him the true story, and show him
that she was not so much to blame. Nay, for my part I see not that she
was to blame at all, but for over-kindness and confidence, and the wish
to exalt her father. The mischief that hath been wrought is the doing of
the scoundrel and villain on whose head I trust it may fall erelong;
'twas none of hers. And if her father were to have all that now put
fairly and straight before him, think you he would not be right sorry to
hear that she had taken his anger so much to heart, and was lying almost
as one dead at the very thought of it? I tell you, now, if all this be
put before him, and if he send her no comfortable message--ay, and that
forthwith, and gladly--I have far misread him. And as for her,
Prudence--'twould be welcome, say you?"
"'Twould be of the value of all the world to her," Prudence said, in her
direct and earnest way.
Well, he almost immediately thereafter left (seeing that he could be of
no further help to these women-folk), and walked quickly back to
Stratford, and to his house, which was also his place of business. He
seemed to hurry through his affairs with speed; then he went up-stairs
and looked out some clothing; he took down a pair of pistols and put
some fresh powder in the pans, and made a few other preparations. Next
he went round to the stable, and the stout little Galloway nag whinnied
when she saw him at the door.
"Well, Maggie, lass," said he, going into the stall, and patting her
neck, and stroking down her knees, "what sayst thou? Wouldst like a
jaunt that would carry thee many a mile away from Stratford town? Nay,
but if you knew the errand, I warrant me you would be as eager as I!
What, then--a bargain, lass! By my life, you shall have many a long
day's rest in clover when this sharp work is done!"