Judith Shakespeare: Her love affairs and other adventures

"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."