A LOST ARCADIA.
It was on this same morning that Judith made a desperate effort to rouse
herself from the prostration into which she had fallen. All through that
long darkness and despair she had been wearily and vainly asking herself
whether she could do nothing to retrieve the evil she had wrought. Her
good name might go--she cared little for that now--but was there no
means of making up to her father the actual money he had lost? It was
not forgiveness she thought of, but restitution. Forgiveness was not to
be dreamed of; she saw before her always that angered face she had
beheld in the garden, and her wish was to hide away from that, and be
seen of it no more. Then there was another thing: if she were to be
permitted to remain at the cottage, ought she not to show herself
willing to take a share of the humblest domestic duties? Might not the
good dame begin to regard her as but a useless encumbrance? If it were
so that no work her ten fingers could accomplish would ever restore to
her father what he had lost through her folly, at least it might win her
grandmother's forbearance and patience. And so it was on the first
occasion of her head ceasing to ache quite so badly she struggled to her
feet (though she was so languid and listless and weak that she could
scarcely stand), and put round her the heavy cloak that had been lying
on the bed, and smoothed her hair somewhat, and went to the door. There
she stood for a minute or two, listening, for she would not go down if
there were any strangers about.
The house seemed perfectly still. There was not a sound anywhere. Then,
quite suddenly, she heard little Cicely begin to sing to herself--but in
snatches, as if she were occupied with other matters--some well-known
rhymes to an equally familiar tune--
"By the moon we sport and play;
With the night begins our day;
As we drink the dew doth fall,
Trip it, dainty urchins all!
Lightly as the little bee,
Two by two, and three by three,
And about go we, go we."
--and she made no doubt that the little girl was alone in the kitchen.
Accordingly, she went down. Cicely, who was seated near the window and
busily engaged in plucking a fowl, uttered a slight cry when she
entered, and started up.
"Dear Mistress Judith," she said, "can I do aught for you? Will you sit
down? Dear, dear, how ill you do look!"
"I am not at all ill, little Cicely," said Judith, as cheerfully as she
could, and she sat down. "Give me the fowl--I will do that for you, and
you can go and help my grandmother in whatever she is at."
"Nay, not so," said the little maid, definitely refusing. "Why should
you?"
"But I wish it," Judith said. "Do not vex me now--go and seek my
grandmother, like a good little lass."
The little maid was thus driven to go, but it was with another purpose.
In about a couple of minutes she had returned, and preceding her was
Judith's grandmother.
"What! art come down, wench?" the old dame said, patting her kindly on
the shoulder. "That be so far well--ay, ay, I like that now--that be
better for thee than lying all alone. But what would you with the little
maid's work, that you would take it out of her hands?"
"Why, if I am idle, and do nothing, grandmother, you will be for turning
me out of the house," the girl answered, looking up with a strange kind
of smile.
"Turn thee out of the house," said her grandmother, who had just caught
a better glimpse of the wan and tired face. "Ay, that will I--and now.
Come thy ways, wench; 'tis time for thee to be in the fresh air. Cicely,
let be the fowl now. Put some more wood on the fire, and hang on the
pot--there's a clever lass. And thou, grandchild, come thy ways with me
into the garden, and I warrant me when thou comest back a cupful of
barley-broth will do thee no harm."
Judith obeyed, though she would fain have sat still. And then, when she
reached the front door what a bewilderment of light and color met her
eyes! She stood as one dazed for a second or two. The odors of the
flowers and the shrubs were so strange, moreover--pungent and strange
and full of memories. It seemed so long a time since she had seen this
wonderful glowing world and breathed this keen air, that she paused on
the stone flag to collect her senses as it were. And then a kind of
faintness came over her, and perhaps she might have sank to the ground,
but that she laid hold of her grandmother's arm.
"Ay, ay, come thy ways and sit thee down, dearie," the old dame said,
imagining that the girl was but begging for a little assistance in her
walking. "I be main glad to see thee out again. I liked not that lying
there alone--nay, I wur feared of it, and I bade Prudence send your
mother and Susan to see you----"
"No, no, good grandmother, no, no!" Judith pleaded, with all the effort
that remained to her.
"But yea, yea!" her grandmother said, sharply. "Foolish wench, that
would hide away from them that can best aid thee! Ay, and knowest thou
how the new disease, as they call it, shows itself at the beginning?
Why, with a pinching of the face and sharp pains in the head. Wouldst
thou have me let thee lie there, and perchance go from bad to worse, and
not send for them--ay, and for Susan's husband, if need were? Nay, but
let not that fright thee, good wench," she said, in a gentler way. "'Tis
none so bad as I thought, else you would not be venturing down the
stairs--nay, nay, there be no harm done as yet, I warrant me--'tis a
breath of fresh air to sharpen thee into a hungry fit that will be the
best doctor for thee. Here, sit thee down and rest now, and when the
barley-broth be warm enough, Cicely shall bring thee out a dish of it.
Nay, I see no harm done. Keep up thy heart, lass; thou wert ever a brave
one--ay, what was there ever that could daunt thee? and not the boldest
of the youths but was afraid of thy laugh and thy merry tongue. Heaven
save us, that thou should take on so! And if you would sell yourself to
work in slavery in the Indies, think you they would buy a poor, weak,
trembling creature? Nay, nay, we will have to fetch back the roses to
your cheeks ere you make for that bargain, I warrant me!"
They were now seated in the little arbor. On entering Judith had cast
her eyes round it in a strange and half-frightened fashion; and now, as
she sat there, she was scarcely listening to the good-natured garrulity
of the old dame, which was wholly meant to cheer her spirits.
"Grandmother," said she, in a low voice, "think you 'twas really he that
took away with him my father's play?"
"I know not how else it could have been come by," said the grandmother,
"but I pray you, child, heed not that for the present. What be done and
gone cannot be helped--let it pass--there, there, now, what a lack of
memory have I, that should have shown thee the pretty lace cuffs that
Thomas Quiney left for thee--fit for a queen they be, to be sure--ay,
and the fine lace of them, and the silver, too. He hath a free hand, he
hath; 'tis a fair thing for any that will be in life-partnership with
him; 'twill not away, marry 'twill not; 'twill bide in his nature--that
will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone, as they say; and I
like to see a young man that be none of the miser kind, but ready forth
with his money where 'tis to please them he hath a fancy for. A brave
lad he is too, and one that will hold his own; and when I told him that
you were pleased that his business went forward well, why, saith he, as
quick as quick, 'Said she that?' and if my old eyes fail me not, I know
of one that setteth greater share by your good word than you imagine,
wench."
She but half heard; she was recalling all that had happened in this very
summer-house.
"And think you, grandmother," said she, slowly, and with absent eyes,
"that when he was sitting here with us, and telling us all about the
Court doings, and about my father's friends in London, and when he was
so grateful to us--or saying that he was so--for our receiving of him
here, think you that all the time he was planning to steal my father's
play, and to take it and sell it in London? Grandmother can you think it
possible? Could any one be such a hypocrite? I know that he deceived me
at the first, but 'twas only a jest, and he confessed it all, and
professed his shame that he had so done. But, grandmother, think of
him--think of how he used to speak--and ever so modest and gentle; is't
possible that all the time he was playing the thief, and looking forward
to the getting away to London to sell what he had stolen?"
"For love's sake, sweetheart, heed that man no more! 'tis all done and
gone--there can come no good of vexing thyself about it," her
grandmother said. "Be he villain or not, 'twill be well for all of us
that we never hear his name more. In good sooth I am as much to blame as
thou thyself, child, for the encouraging him to come about, and
listening to his gossip--beshrew me, that I should have meddled in such
matters, and not bade him go about his business! But 'tis all past and
gone now, as I say--there be no profit in vexing thyself----"
"Past and gone, grandmother!" she exclaimed, and yet in a listless way.
"Yes--but what remains? Good grandmother, perchance you did not hear all
that the parson said. 'Tis past and gone, truly--and more than you
think."
The tone in which she uttered these words somewhat startled the good
dame, who looked at her anxiously. And then she said,
"Why, now, I warrant me the barley-broth will be hot enough by this
time: I will go fetch thee a cupful, wench--'twill put warmth in thy
veins, it will--ay, and cheer thy heart too."
"Trouble not, good grandmother," she said. "I would as lief go back to
my room now. The light hurts my eyes strangely."
"Back to your room? that shall you not!" was the prompt answer, but not
meant unkindly. "You shall wait here, wench, till I bring thee that will
put some color in thy white face--ay, and some of Thomas Quiney's wine
withal; and if the light hurt thee, sit farther back, then--of a truth
'tis no wonder, after thou hast hid thyself like a dormouse for so
long."
And so she went away to the house. But she was scarcely gone when
Judith--in this extreme silence that the rustling of a leaf would have
disturbed--heard certain voices; and listening more intently she made
sure that the new-comers must be Susan and her mother, whom Prudence had
asked to walk over. Instantly she got up, though she had to steady
herself for a moment by resting her hand on the table; and then, as
quickly as she could, and as noiselessly, she stole along the path to
the cottage, and entered, and made her way up to her own room. She
fancied she had not been heard. She would rather be alone. If they had
come to accuse her, what had she to answer? Why, nothing: they might say
of her what they pleased now, it was all deserved; only, the one
denunciation of her that she had listened to--the one she had heard from
the parson--seemed like the ringing of her death-knell. Surely there
was no need to repeat that? They could not wish to repeat it, did they
but know all it meant to her.
Then the door was quietly opened, and her sister appeared, bearing in
one hand a small tray.
"I have brought you some food, Judith, and a little wine, and you must
try and take them, sweetheart," said she. "'Twas right good news to us
that you had come down and gone into the garden for a space. In truth,
making yourself ill will not mend matters; and Prudence was in great
alarm."
She put the tray on a chair, for there was no table in the room--but
Judith, finding that her sister had not come to accuse her, but was in
this gentle mood, said quickly and eagerly,
"Oh, Susan, you can tell me all that I would so fain know! You must have
heard, for my father speaks to you of all his affairs, and at your own
wedding you must have heard when all these things were arranged. Tell
me, Susan--I shall have a marriage-portion, shall I not?--and how much,
think you? Perchance not so large as yours, for you are the elder, and
Dr. Hall was ever a favorite with my father. But I shall have a
marriage-portion, Susan, shall I not? nay, it may already be set aside
for me."
And then the elder sister did glance somewhat reproachfully at her.
"I wonder you should be thinking of such things, Judith," said she.
"Ah, but 'tis not as you imagine," the girl said, with the same pathetic
eagerness. "Tis in this wise now: would my father take it in a measure
to repay him for the ill that I have done? Would it make up the loss,
Susan, or a part of it? Would he take it, think you? Ah, but if he would
do that!"
"Why, that were an easy way out of the trouble, assuredly!" her sister
exclaimed. "To take the marriage-portion that is set aside for thee--and
if I mistake not, 'tis all provided--ay, and the Rowington copyhold,
which will fall to thee, if 'tis not thine already; truly, 'twere a wise
thing to take these to make good this loss, and then, when you marry, to
have to give you your marriage-portion all the same!"
"Nay, nay, not so, Susan!" her sister cried, quickly. "What said you?
The Rowington copyhold also? and perchance mine already? Susan, would it
make good the loss? Would all taken together make good the loss? For,
as Heaven is my witness, I will never marry--nor think of marrying--but
rejoice all the days of my life if my father would but take these to
satisfy him of the injury I have done him. Nay, but is't possible,
Susan? Will he do that for me--as a kindness to me? I have no right to
ask for such--but--but if only he knew--if only he knew!"
The tears were running down her face; her hands were clasped in abject
entreaty.
"Sweetheart, you know not what you ask," her sister said, but gently.
"When you marry, your marriage-portion will have to be in accordance
with our position in the town--my father would not have it otherwise;
were you to surrender that now, would he let one of his daughters go
forth from his house as a beggar, think you? Or what would her husband
say to be so treated? You might be willing to give up these, but my
father could not, and your husband would not."
"Susan, Susan, I wish for no marriage," she cried; "I will stay with my
grandmother here; she is content that I should bide with her; and if my
father will take these, 'twill be the joy of my life; I shall wish for
no more; and New Place shall come to no harm by me; 'tis here that I am
to bide. Think you he would take them, Susan--think you he would take
them?" she pleaded; and in her excitement she got up, and tried to walk
about a little, but with her hands still clasped. "If one were to send
to London now--a message--or I would walk every foot of the way did I
but think he would do this for me--oh, no! no! no! I durst not--I durst
never see him more--he has cast me off--and--and I deserve no less!"
Her sister went to her and took her by the hand.
"Judith, you have been in sore trouble, and scarce know what you say,"
she said, in that clear, calm way of hers. "But this is now what you
must do. Sit down and take some of this food. As I hear, you have scarce
tasted anything these two days. You have always been so wild and
wayward; now must you listen to reason and suffer guidance."
She made her sit down. The girl took a little of the broth, some of the
spiced bread, and a little of the wine, but it was clear that she was
forcing herself to it; her thoughts were elsewhere. And scarcely had she
finished this make-believe of a repast when she turned to her sister and
said, with a pathetic pleading in her voice,
"And is it not possible, Susan? Surely I can do something! It is so
dreadful to think of my father imagining that I have done him this
injury, and gone on the same way, careless of what has happened. That
terrifies me at night! Oh, if you but knew what it is in the darkness,
in the long hours, and none to call to, and none to give you help; and
to think that these are the thoughts he has of me; that it was all for a
sweetheart I did it--that I gave away his writing to please a
sweetheart--and that I care not for what has happened, but would do the
like again to-morrow! It is so dreadful in the night."
"I would comfort you if I could, Judith," said her sister, "but I fear
me you must trust to wiser counsel than mine. In truth I know not
whether all this can be undone, or how my father regards it at the
moment; for at the time of the writing they were all uncertain. But
surely now you would do well to be ruled by some one better able to
guide you than any of us women-folk; Master Blaise hath been most kind
and serviceable in this as in all other matters, and hath written to
your father in answer to his letter, so that we have had trust and
assurance in his direction. And you also--why should you not seek his
aid and counsel?"
At the mere mention of the parson's name Judith shivered instinctively,
she scarce knew why.
"Judith," her sister continued, regarding her watchfully, "to-morrow, as
I understand, Master Blaise is coming over here to see you."
"May not I be spared that? He hath already brought his message," the
girl said, in a low voice.
"Nay, he comes but in kindness--or more than kindness, if I guess
aright. Bethink you, Judith," she said, "'tis not only the loss of the
money--or great or small I know not--that hath distressed my father.
There was more than that. Nay, do not think that I am come to reproach
you; but will it not be ever thus so long as you will be ruled by none,
but must always go your own way? There was more than merely concerned
money affairs in my father's letter, as doubtless Master Blaise hath
told you; and then, think of it, Judith, how 'twill be when the bruit of
the story comes down to Stratford----"
"I care not," was the perfectly calm answer. "That is for me to bear.
Can Master Blaise tell me how I may restore to my father this that he
hath lost? Then his visit might be more welcome, Susan."
"Why will you harden your heart so?" the elder sister said, with some
touch of entreaty in her tone. "Nay, think of it, Judith! Here is an
answer to all. If you but listen to him, and favor him, you will have
one always with you as a sure guide and counsellor; and who then may
dare say a word against you?"
"Then he comes to save my good name?" the girl said, with a curious
change of manner. "Nay, I will give him no such tarnished prize!"
And here it occurred to the elder sister, who was sufficiently shrewd
and observant, that her intercession did not seem to be producing good
results, and she considered it better that the parson should speak for
himself. Indeed, she hoped she had done no mischief, for this that she
now vaguely suggested had for long been the dream and desire of both her
mother and herself; and at this moment, if ever, there was a chance of
Judith's being obedient and compliant. Not only did she forthwith change
the subject, but also she managed to conquer the intense longing that
possessed her to learn something further about the young man who (as she
imagined) had for a time captured Judith's fancies. She gave her sister
what news there was in the town. She besought her to take care of
herself, and to go out as much as possible, for that she was looking far
from well. And, finally, when the girl confessed that she was fain to
lie down for a space (having slept so little during these two nights),
she put some things over her and quietly left, hoping that she might
soon get to sleep.
Judith did not rest long, however. The question whether the sacrifice of
her marriage-portion might not do something toward retrieving the
disaster she had caused was still harassing her mind; and then again
there was the prospect of the parson coming on the morrow. By-and-by,
when she was certain that her mother and sister were gone, she went
down-stairs, and began to help in doing this or the other little thing
about the house. Her grandmother was out-of-doors, and so did not know,
to interfere, though the small maid-servant remonstrated as best she
might. Luckily, however, nature was a more imperative monitress, and
again and again the girl had to sit down from sheer physical weakness.
But there came over a visitor in the afternoon who restored to her
something of her old spirit. It was little Willie Hart, who, having
timidly tapped at the open door without, came along the passage and
entered the dusky chamber where she was.
"Ah, sweetheart," said she (but with a kind of sudden sob in her
throat), "have you come to see me?"
"I heard that you were not well, cousin," said he, and he regarded her
with troubled and anxious eyes as she stooped to kiss him.
"Nay, I am well enough," said she, with as much cheerfulness as she
could muster. "Fret not yourself about that. And what a studious scholar
you are, Cousin Willie, to be sure, that must needs bring your book with
you! Were I not so ignorant myself, I should hear you your tasks; but
you would but laugh at me----"
"'Tis no task-book, Judith," said he, diffidently. "'Twas Prudence who
lent it to me." And then he hesitated, through shyness.
"Why, you know, Judith," he said, "you have spoken to me many a time
about Sir Philip Sidney; and I was asking this one and the other, at
times, and Prudence said she would show me a book he had written that
belongs to her brother. And then to-day, when I went to her, she bade me
bring the book to you, and to read to you, for that you were not well
and might be pleased to hear it, she not being able to come over till
the morrow."
"In truth, now, that was well thought of, and friendly," said she, and
she put her hand in a kindly fashion on his shoulder. "And you have come
all the way over to read to me! see you how good a thing it is to be
wise and instructed. Well, then, we will go and sit by the door, that
you may have more of light; and if my grandmother catch us at such
idleness, you shall have to defend me--you shall have to defend me,
sweetheart--for you are the man of us two, and I must be shielded."
So they went to the door, and sat down on the step, the various-colored
garden and the trees and the wide heavens all shining before them.
"And what is the tale, Cousin Willie?" said she, quite pleasantly (for
indeed she was glad to see the boy, and to chat with one who had no
reproaches for her, who knew nothing against her, but was ever her true
lover and slave). "Nay, if it be by Sir Philip Sidney, 'twill be of
gallant and noble knights, assuredly."
"I know not, Cousin Judith," said he; "I but looked at the beginning as
I came through the fields. And this is how it goes."
He opened the book and began to read--
"'It was in the time that the Earth begins to put on her new apparel
against the approach of her lover, and that the sun running a most even
course becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the day,
when the hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the sands which lie
against the island of Cythera, where, viewing the place with a heavy
kind of delight, and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward, he
called his friendly rival the pastor Claius unto him, and, setting first
down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he would speak,
"O my Claius," said he----'"
Thus he went on; and as he read, her face grew more and more wistful. It
was a far-off land that she heard of; and beautiful it was; it seemed to
her that she had been dwelling in some such land, careless and all
unknowing.
"'The third day after,'" she vaguely heard him say, "'in the time that
the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor against
the coming of the sun, the nightingales, striving one with the other
which could in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow,
made them put off their sleep, and rising from under a tree, which that
night had been their pavilion, they went on their journey, which
by-and-by welcomed Musidorus's eyes with delightful prospects. There
were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees;
humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of
silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers;
thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so
to by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture
stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs,
with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; here a shepherd's boy
piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess
knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her
hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'"
Surely she had herself been living in some such land of pleasant
delights, without a thought that ever it would end for her, but that
each following day would be as full of mirth and laughter as its
predecessor. She scarcely listened to the little lad now; she was
looking back over the years, so rare and bright and full of light and
color were they--and always a kind of music in them--and laughter at the
sad eyes of lovers. She had never known how happy she had been. It was
all distant now--the idle flower-gathering in the early spring-time; the
afternoon walking in the meadows, she and Prudence together (with the
young lads regarding them askance); the open casements on the moonlit
nights, to hear the madrigal singing of the youths going home; or the
fair and joyous mornings that she was allowed to ride away in the
direction of Oxford, to meet her father and his companions coming in to
Stratford town. And now, when next he should come--to all of them, and
all of them welcoming him--even neighbors and half-strangers--and he
laughing to them all, and getting off his horse, and calling for a cup
of wine as he strode into the house, where should she be? Not with all
of these--not laughing and listening to the merry stories of the
journey--but away by herself, hiding herself, as it were, and thinking,
alone.
"Dear Judith, but why are you crying?" said the little lad, as he
chanced to look up; and his face was of an instant and troubled anxiety.
"Why, 'tis a fair land--oh, indeed, a fair land," said she, with an
effort at regarding the book, and pretending to be wholly interested in
it. "Nay, I would hear more of Musidorus, sweetheart, and of that pretty
country. I pray you continue the reading--continue the reading,
sweetheart Willie. Nay, I never heard of a fairer country I assure thee,
in all the wide world!"