A RESOLVE.
Then that night, as she lay awake in the dark, her incessant imaginings
shaped themselves toward one end. This passion of grief she knew to be
unavailing and fruitless. Something she would try to do, if but to give
evidence of her contrition: for how could she bear that her father
should think of her as one having done him this harm and still going on
light-hearted and unconcerned? The parson was coming over on the morrow.
And if she were to put away her maidenly pride (and other vague dreams
that she had sometimes dreamed), and take it that her consent would
re-establish her in the eyes of those who were now regarding her
askance, and make her peace with her own household? And if the
surrender of her marriage-portion and her interest in the Rowington
copyhold (whatever it might be) were in a measure to mitigate her
father's loss? It was the only thing she could think of. And if at times
she looked forward with a kind of shudder (for in the night-time all
prospects wear a darker hue) to her existence as the parson's wife,
again there came to her the reflection that it was not for her to
repine. Some sacrifice was due from her. And could she not be as
resolute as the daughter of the Gileadite? Oftentimes she had heard the
words read out in the still afternoon: "Now when Iphtah came to Mizpeh
unto his house, behold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels
and dances: which was his only child; he had none other, son nor
daughter. And when he saw her he rent his clothes, and said, Alas! my
daughter, thou hast brought me low, and art of them that trouble me."
The Jewish maiden had done no ill, and yet was brave to suffer. Why
should she repine at any sacrifice demanded of her to atone for her own
wrong-doing? What else was there? She hoped that Susan and her mother
would be pleased now, and that her father and his friends in London
would not have any serious loss to regret. There was but the one way,
she said to herself again and again. She was almost anxious for the
parson to come over, to see if he would approve.
With the daylight her determination became still more clear, and also
she saw more plainly the difficulties before her; for it could not be
deemed a very seemly and maidenly thing that she, on being asked to
become a bride (and she had no doubt that was his errand), should begin
to speak of her marriage-portion. But would he understand? Would he help
her over her embarrassment? Nay, she could not but reflect, here was an
opportunity for his showing himself generous and large-minded. He had
always professed, or at least intimated, that his wish to have her for
wife was based mostly on his care for herself and his regard for the
general good of the pious community to which he belonged. She was to be
a helpmate for one laboring in the Lord's vineyard; she was to be of
service in the church; she was to secure for herself a constant and
loving direction and guidance. And now, if he wished to prove all
this--if he wished to show himself so noble and disinterested as to win
for himself her life-long gratitude--what if he were to take over all
her marriage-portion, as that might be arranged, and forthwith and
chivalrously hand it back again, so that her grievous fault should so
far be condoned? If the girl had been in her usual condition of health
and spirits, it is probable that she would have regarded this question
with a trifle of scepticism (for she was about as shrewd in such matters
as Susan herself); nay, it is just probable that she might have
experienced a malicious joy in putting him to the proof. But she was in
despair; her nerves were gone through continual wakefulness and mental
torture; this was the only direction in which she saw light before her,
and she regarded it, not with her ordinary faculty of judgment, but with
a kind of pathetic hope.
Master Blaise arrived in the course of the morning. His reception was
not auspicious, for the old dame met him at the gate, and made more than
a show of barring the way.
"Indeed, good sir," said she, firmly, "the wench be far from well now,
and I would have her left alone."
He answered that his errand was of some importance, and that he must
crave a few minutes' interview. Both her mother and sister, he said,
were aware he was coming over to see her, and had made no objection.
"No, no, perchance not," the grandmother said, though without budging an
inch, "but she be under my care now, and I will have no harm befall
her----"
"Harm! good Mistress Hathaway?" said he.
"Well, she be none so strong as she were--and--and perchance there hath
been overmuch lecturing of the poor lass. Nay, I doubt not 'twas meant
in kindness; but there hath been overmuch of it, as I reckon, and what I
say is, if the wench have done amiss, let those that have the right to
complain come to her. Nay, 'twas kindness, good sir; 'twas well meant, I
doubt not; and 'tis your calling belike to give counsel and reproof; I
say naught against that, but I am of a mind to have my grandchild left
alone at present."
"If you refuse me, good Mistress Hathaway," said he, quite courteously
and calmly, "there is no more to be said. But I imagine that her mother
and sister will be surprised. And as for the maiden herself--go you by
her wishes?"
"Nay, not I," was the bold answer. "I know better than all of them
together. For to speak plainly with you, good Master Parson, your
preaching must have been oversharp when last you were within here--and
was like to have brought the wench to death's door thereafter; marry,
she be none so far recovered as to risk any further of such treatment.
Perchance you meant no harm; but she is proud and high-spirited, and by
your leave, good sir, we will see her a little stronger and better set
up ere she have any more of the discipline of the church bestowed on
her."
It was well that Judith appeared at this juncture, for the tone of the
old dame's voice was growing more and more tart.
"Grandmother," said she, "I would speak with Master Blaise."
"Get thee within-doors at once, I tell thee, wench!" was the peremptory
rejoinder.
"No, good grandmother, so please you," Judith said, "I must speak with
him. There is much of importance that I have to say to him. Good sir,
will you step into the garden?"
The old dame withdrew, sulky and grumbling, and evidently inclined to
remain within ear-shot, lest she should deem it necessary to interfere.
Judith preceded Master Blaise to the door of the cottage, and asked the
little maid to bring out a couple of chairs. As she sat down he could
not but observe how wan and worn her face was, and how listless she was
in manner; but he made no comment on that; he only remarked that her
grandmother seemed in no friendly mood this morning, and that only the
fact that his mission was known to Susan and her mother had caused him
to persist.
It was clear that this untoward reception had disconcerted him somewhat;
and it was some little time before he could recover that air of mild
authority with which he was accustomed to convey his counsels. At first
he confined himself to telling Judith what he had done on behalf of her
mother and Susan, in obedience to their wishes; but by and by he came to
herself and her own situation; and he hoped that this experience through
which she had passed, though it might have caused her bitter distress
for the time, would eventually make for good. If the past could not be
recalled, at least the future might be made safe. Indeed one or two
phrases he had used sounded as if they had done some previous service,
perhaps he had consulted with Mistress Hall ere making this appeal--but
in any case Judith was not listening so particularly as to think of
that--she seemed to know beforehand what he had to say.
To tell the truth, he was himself a little surprised at her tacit
acquiescence. He had always had to argue with Judith, and many a time he
had found that her subtle feminine wit was capable of extricating
herself from what he considered a defenceless position. But now she sat
almost silent. She seemed to agree to everything. There was not a trace
left of the old audacious self-reliance, nor yet of those saucy
rejoinders which were only veiled by her professed respect for his
cloth--she was at his mercy.
And so, growing bolder, he put in his own personal claim. He said little
that he had not said or hinted on previous occasions; but now all the
circumstances were changed; this heavy misfortune that had befallen her
was but another and all too cogent reason why she should accept his
offer of shelter and aid and counsel, seeing into what pitfalls her own
unguided steps were like to lead her.
"I speak the words of truth and soberness," said he, as he sat and
calmly regarded her downcast face, "and make no appeal to the foolish
fancies of a young and giddy-headed girl--for that you are no longer,
Judith. The years are going by. There must come a time in life when the
enjoyment of the passing moment is not all in all--when one must look to
the future, and make provision for sickness and old age. Death strikes
here and there; friends fall away. What a sad thing it were to find
one's self alone, the dark clouds of life thickening over, and none by
to help and cheer. Then your mother and sister, Judith----"
"Yes, I know," she said, almost in despair--"I know 'twould please
them."
And then she reflected that this was scarcely the manner in which she
should receive his offer, that was put before her so plainly and with so
much calm sincerity.
"I pray you, good sir," said she, in a kind of languid way, "forgive me
if I answer you not as frankly as might be. I have been ill; my head
aches now; perchance I have not followed all you said. But I understand
it--I understand it--and in all you say there is naught but good
intention."
"Then it is yes, Judith?" he exclaimed; and for the first time there was
a little brightness of ardor--almost of triumph--in this clearly
conceived and argued wooing.
"It would please my mother and sister," she repeated, slowly. "They are
afraid of some story coming from London about--about--what is passed.
This would be an answer, would it not?"
"Why, yes!" he said, confidently, for he saw that she was yielding (and
his own susceptibilities were not likely to be wounded in that
direction). "Think you we should heed any tavern scurrility? I trow not!
There would be the answer plain and clear--if you were my wife, Judith."
"They would be pleased," again she said, and her eyes were absent. And
then she added, "I pray you pardon me, good sir, if I speak of that
which you may deem out of place, but--but if you knew--how I have been
striving to think of some means of repairing the wrong I have done my
father, you would not wonder that I should be anxious, and perchance
indiscreet. You know of the loss I have caused him and his companions.
How could I ever make that good with the work of my own hands? That is
not possible; and yet when I think of how he hath toiled for all of
us--late and early, as it were--why, good sir, I have myself been bold
enough to chide him--or to wish that I were a man, to ride forth in the
morning in his stead and look after the land; and then that his own
daughter should be the means of taking from him what he hath earned so
hardly--that I should never forget; 'twould be on my mind year after
year, even if he were himself to try to forget it."
She paused for a second; the mere effort of speaking seemed to fatigue
her.
"There is but the one means, as I can think, of showing him my humble
sorrow for what hath been done--of making him some restitution. I know
not what my marriage-portion may be--but 'twill be something--and Susan
saith there is a part of the manor of Rowington, also, that would fall
to me; now, see you, good Master Blaise, if I were to give these over to
my father in part quittance of this injury--or if, belike--my--my--husband
would do that--out of generosity and nobleness--would not my father be
less aggrieved?"
She had spoken rather quickly and breathlessly (to get over her
embarrassment), and now she regarded him with a strange anxiety, for so
much depended on his answer! Would he understand her motives? Would he
pardon her bluntness? Would he join her in this scheme of restitution?
He hesitated only for a moment.
"Dear Judith," he said, with perfect equanimity, "such matters are
solely within the province of men, and not at the disposition of women,
who know less of the affairs of the world. Whatever arrangements your
father may have made in respect of your marriage-portion--truly I have
made no inquiry in that direction--he will have made with due regard to
his own circumstances, and with regard to the family and to your future.
Would he be willing to upset these in order to please a girlish fancy?
Why, in all positions in life pecuniary losses must happen; and a man
takes account of these; and is he likely to recover himself at the
expense of his own daughter?"
"Nay, but if she be willing! If she would give all that she hath, good
sir!" she cried, quickly.
"'Twould be but taking it from one pocket to put it in the other," said
he, in his patient and forbearing way. "I say not, if a man were like to
become bankrupt, that his family might not forego their expectations in
order to save him; but your father is one in good position. Think you
that the loss is so great to him? In truth it cannot be."
The eagerness fell away from her face. She saw too clearly that he could
not understand her at all. She did not reckon her father's loss in
proportion to his wealth--in truth, she could not form the faintest
notion of what that loss might be; all her thought was of her winning
back (in some remote day, if that were still possible to her) to her
father's forgiveness, and the regarding of his face as no longer in
dread wrath against her.
"Why," said he, seeing that she sat silent and distraught (for all the
hope had gone out of her), "in every profession and station in life a
man must have here or there a loss, as I say; but would he rob his
family to make that good? Surely not. Of what avail might that be? 'Tis
for them that he is working, 'tis not for himself; why should he take
from them to build up a property which must in due course revert and
become theirs? I pray you put such fancies out of your head, Judith.
Women are not accustomed to deal with such matters; 'tis better to have
them settled in the ordinary fashion. Were I you I would leave it in
your father's hands."
"And have him think of me as he is thinking now!" she said, in a kind of
wild way. "Ah, good sir, you know not!--you know not! Every day that
passes is but the deeper misery--for--for he will be hardened in the
belief--'twill be fixed in his mind forever--that his own daughter did
him this wrong, and went on lightly--not heeding--perchance to seek
another sweetheart. This he is thinking now, and I--what can I
do?--being so far away and none to help!"
"In truth, dear Judith," said he, "you make too much of your share in
what happened. 'Tis not to you your father should look for reparation of
his loss, but to the scoundrel who carried the play to London. What
punishment would it be for him--or what gain to your father--that your
father should upset the arrangements he has made for the establishment
and surety of his own family? Nay, I pray you put aside such a strange
fancy, dear heart, and let such things take their natural course."
"In no wise, in no wise!" she exclaimed, almost in despair. "In truth I
cannot. 'Twould kill me were nothing to be done to appease my father's
anger; and I thought that if he were to learn that you had sought me in
marriage--and--and agreed that such restitution as I can make should be
made forthwith--or afterward, as might be decided--but only that he
should know now that I give up everything he had intended for me--then I
should have great peace of mind."
"Indeed, Judith," said he, somewhat coldly, "I could be no party to any
such foolish freak--nay, not even in intention, whatever your father
might say to it. The very neighbors would think I was bereft of my
senses. And 'twould be an ill beginning of our life together--in which
there must ever be authority and guidance, as well as dutiful
obedience--if I were to yield to what every one must perceive to be an
idle and fantastic wish. I pray you consult your own sober judgment; at
present you are ailing, and perturbed; rest you awhile until these
matters have calmed somewhat, and you will see them in their true
light."
"No, no," she said, hurriedly and absently--"no, no, good sir, you know
not what you ask. Rest? Nay, one way or the other this must be done, and
forthwith. I know not what he may have intended for me; but be it large
or small, 'tis all that I have to give him--I can do no more than
that--and then--then there may be some thoughts of rest."
She spoke as if she were scarcely aware of the good parson's presence;
and in truth, though he was not one to allow any wounded self-love to
mar his interests, he could not conceal from himself that she was
considering the proposal he had put before her mainly, if not wholly,
with a view to the possible settlement of these troubles and the
appeasing of her friends. Whether, in other circumstances, he might not
have calmly overlooked this slight, needs not now be regarded; in the
present circumstances--that is to say, after her announced determination
to forego every penny of her marriage-portion--he did take notice of it,
and with some sharpness of tone, as if he were truly offended.
"Indeed you pay me no compliment, Judith," said he. "I come to offer you
the shelter of an honest man's home, an honorable station as his wife, a
life-long guidance and protection; and what is your answer?--that
perchance you may make use of such an offer to please your friends and
to pay back to your father what you foolishly think you owe him. If
these be the only purposes you have in view--and you seem to think of
none other--'twould be a sorry forecast for the future, as I take it. At
the very beginning an act of madness! Nay, I could be no party to any
such thing. If you refuse to be guided by me in great matters, how could
I expect you to be guided in small?"
These words, uttered in his clear and precise and definite manner, she
but vaguely understood (for her head troubled her sorely, and she was
tired, and anxious to be at rest) to be a withdrawal of his proposal.
But that was enough; and perhaps she even experienced some slight sense
of relief. As for his rebuking of her, she heeded not that.
"As you will, sir, as you will," she said, listlessly, and she rose from
her chair.
And he rose too. Perhaps he was truly offended; perhaps he only appeared
to be; but at all events he bade her farewell in a cold and formal
manner, and as if it were he who had brought this interview to an end,
and that for good.
"What said he, wench, what said he?" her grandmother asked (who had been
pretending all the time to be gathering peas, and now came forward).
"Nay, I caught but little--a word here or there--and yet methinks 'tis a
brave way of wooing they have nowadays that would question a maid about
her marriage-portion! Heaven's mercy, did ever any hear the like? 'Twas
not so when I was young--nay, a maid would have bade him go hang that
brought her such a tale. Oh, the good parson! his thoughts be not all
bent on heaven, I warrant me! Ay, and what said he? And what saidst
thou, wench? Truly you be in no fit state to answer him; were you well
enough, and in your usual spirits, the good man would have his
answer--ay, as sharp as need be. But I will say no more; Master Quiney
hath a vengeful spirit, and perchance he hath set me too much against
the good man; but as for thyself, lass, there be little cause for
talking further of thy offences, if 'tis thy marriage-portion the parson
be after now!"
"Good grandmother, give me your arm," Judith said, in a strange way. "My
head is so strange and giddy. I know not what I have said to him--I
scarce can recollect it--if I have offended, bid him forgive
me--but--but I would have him remain away."
"As I am a living woman," said the old dame (forgetting her resolve to
speak smooth words), "he shall not come within the door, nor yet within
that gate while you bide with me and would have him kept without! What
then? More talk of chastenings? Marry now Thomas Quiney shall hear of
this--that shall he--by my life he shall!"
"No, no, no, good grandmother, pray you blame no one," the girl said,
and she was trembling somewhat. "'Tis I that have done all the harm--to
every one. But I know not what I said--I--I would fain lie down,
grandmother, if you will give me your arm so far--'tis so strangely
cold--I understand it not--and I forget what wast he said to me--but I
trust I offended him not----"
"Nay, but what is it, then, my deary?" the old woman said, taking both
the girl's hands in hers. "What is it that you should fret about? Nay,
fret not, fret not, good wench; the parson be well away, and there let
him bide. And would you lie down?--well, come, then; but sure you shake
as if 'twere winter. Come, lass! nay, fret not, we will keep the parson
away, I warrant, if 'tis that vexes thee!"
"No, grandmother, 'tis not so," the girl said, in a low voice. "'Twas
down by the river, as I think--'twas chilly there--I have felt it ever
since, from time to time--but 'twill pass away when I am laid down and
become warm again."
"Heaven grant it be no worse," the old dame said to herself, as she
shrewdly regarded the girl; but of course her outward talk, as she took
her within-doors, was ostensibly cheerful. "Come thy ways, then,
sweeting, and we shall soon make thee warm enough. Ay, ay, and Prudence
be coming over this afternoon, as I hear; and no doubt Thomas Quiney
too; and thou must get thyself dressed prettily, and have supper with us
all, though 'tis no treat to offer to a man of his own wine. Nay, I
warrant me he will think naught of that so thou be there with a pleasant
face for him; he will want nor wine nor aught else if he have but that,
and a friendly word from thee, as I reckon; ay, and thou shalt put on
the lace cuffs now, to do him fair service for his gift to thee--that
shalt thou, and why not? I swear to thee, my brave lass, they be fit for
a queen!"
And she would comfort her and help her (just as if this granddaughter of
hers, that always was so bright and gay and radiant, so self-willed and
self-reliant, with nothing but laughter for the sad eyes of the stricken
youths, was now but a weak and frightened child, that had to be guarded
and coaxed and caressed), and would talk as if all her thinking was of
that visit in the afternoon; but the only answer was----
"Will you send for Prudence, grandmother? Oh, grandmother, my head aches
so! I scarce know what I said."
Swiftly and secretly the old dame sent across to the town; and not to
Prudence only, but also (for she was grown anxious) to Mistress Hall, to
say that if her husband were like to return soon to Stratford he might
come over and see Judith, who was far from well. As for Prudence, a word
was sufficient to bring her; she was there straightway.
She found Judith very much as she had left her, but somewhat more
restless and feverish perhaps, and then again hopelessly weak and
languid, and always with those racking pains in the head. She said it
was nothing--it would soon pass away; it was but a chill she had caught
in sitting on the river-bank; would not Prudence now go back to her
duties and her affairs in the house?
"Judith," said her friend, leaning over her and speaking low, "I have
that to tell thee will comfort thee, methinks."
"Nay, I cannot listen to it now," was the answer--and it was a moan
almost. "Dear mouse, do not trouble about me--but my head is so bad that
I--that I care not now. And the parson is gone away, thinking that I
have wronged him also--'tis ever the same now--oh, sweetheart, my head,
my head!"
"But listen, Judith," the other pleaded. "Nay, but you must know what
your friends are ready to do for you--this surely will make thee well,
sweetheart. Think of it now; do you know that Quiney is gone to see
your father?"
"To my father!" she repeated, and she tried to raise her head somewhat,
so that her eyes might read her friend's face.
"I am almost sure of it, dear heart," Prudence said, taking her hot hand
in hers. "Nay, he would have naught said of it. None of his family know
whither he is gone, and I but guess. But this is the manner of it, dear
Judith--that he and I were talking, and sorely vexed he was that your
father should be told a wrong story concerning you--ay, and sorry to see
you so shaken, Judith, and distressed; and said he, 'What if I were to
get a message to her from her father--that he was in no such mood of
anger--and had not heard the story aright--and that he was well disposed
to her, and grieved to hear she had taken it so much to heart--would not
that comfort her?' he said. And I answered that assuredly it would, and
even more perchance than he thought of; and I gathered from him that he
would write to some one in London to go and see your father, and pray
him to send you assurance of that kind. But now--nay, I am certain of
it, dear Judith--I am certain that he himself is gone all the way to
London to bring thee back that comfort; and will not that cheer thee
now, sweetheart?"
"He is doing all that for me?" the girl said, in a low voice, and
absently.
"Ah, but you must be well and cheerful, good mouse, to give him greeting
when he comes back," said Prudence, striving to raise her spirits
somewhat. "Have I not read to thee many a time how great kings were wont
to reward the messengers that brought them good news?--a gold chain
round their neck, or lands perchance. And will you have no word of
welcome for him? Will you not meet him with a glad face? Why, think of
it now--a journey to London--and the perils and troubles by the way--and
all done to please thee. Nay, he would say naught of it to any one--lest
they might wonder at his doing so much for thee, belike--but when he
comes back 'twere a sorry thing that you should not give him a good and
gracious welcome."
Judith lay silent and thinking for a while, and then she said--but as if
the mere effort to speak were too much for her--
"Whatever happens, dear Prudence--nay, in truth I think I am very
ill--tell him this--that he did me wrong--he thought I had gone to meet
the parson that Sunday morning in the church-yard--'twas not so--tell
him it was not so--'twas but a chance, dear heart--I could not help
it----"
"Judith, Judith," her friend said, "these be things for thine own
telling. Nay, you shall say all that to himself, and you must speak him
fair; ay, and give him good welcome and thanks that hath done so much
for thee."
Judith put her head down on the pillow again, languidly; but presently
Prudence heard her laugh to herself, in a strange way.
"Last night," she said--"'twas so wonderful, dear Prue--I thought I was
going about in a strange country, looking for my little brother Hamnet,
and I knew not whether he would have any remembrance of me. Should I
have to tell him my name? I kept asking myself. And 'Judith, Judith,' I
said to him, when I found him; but he scarce knew; I thought he had
forgotten me, 'tis so long ago now; 'Judith, Judith,' I said; and he
looked up, and he was so strangely like little Willie Hart that I
wondered whether it was Hamnet or no----"
But Prudence was alarmed by these wanderings, and did her best to hush
them. And then, when at length the girl lay silent and still, Prudence
stole down-stairs again and bade the grandmother go to Judith's room,
for that she must at once hurry over to Stratford to speak with Susan
Hall.