Judith Shakespeare Part 48

"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, la.s.s, 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, la.s.s! 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 pa.s.s 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 la.s.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.suredly 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 a.s.surance 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

ARRIVALS.

Some few mornings after that two travellers were standing in the s.p.a.cious archway of the inn at s.h.i.+pston, chatting to each other, and occasionally glancing toward the stable-yard, as if they were expecting their horses to be brought round.

"The wench will thank thee for this service done her," the elder of the two said; and he regarded the younger man in a shrewd and not unkindly way.

"Nay, I am none well pleased with the issue of it at all," the young man said, moodily.

"What, then?" his companion said. "Can nothing be done and finished but with the breaking of heads? Must that ever crown the work? Mercy on us!--how many would you have slaughtered? now 'tis the parson that must be thrown into the Avon; again it is Gentleman Jack you would have us seek out for you; and then it is his friend, whose very name we know not, that you would pursue through the dens and stews of London town. A hopeful task, truly, for a Stratford youth! What know you of London, man? And to pursue one whose very name you have not--and all for the further breaking of heads, that never did any good anywhere in the world."

"Your are right, sir," the younger man said, with some bitterness. "I can brag and bl.u.s.ter as well as any. But I see not that much comes of it. 'Tis easy to break the heads of scoundrels--in talk. Their bones are none the worse."

"And better so," the other said, gravely. "I will have no blood shed.

What, man, are you still fretting that I would not leave you behind in London?"

"Nay, sir, altogether I like not the issue of it," he said, but respectfully enough. "I shall be told, I doubt not, that I might have minded my own business. They will blame me for bringing you all this way and hindering your affairs."

"Heaven bless us," said the other, laughing, "may not a man come to see his own daughter without asking leave of the neighbors?"

"'Tis as like as not that she herself will be the first to chide me,"

the younger man answered. "A message to her was all I asked of you, sir.

I dreamt not of hindering your affairs so."

"Nay, nay," said Judith's father, good-naturedly. "I can make the occasion serve me well. Trouble not about that, friend Quiney. If we can cheer up the wench, and put her mind at rest--that will be a sufficient end of the journey; and we will have no broken heads withal, so please you. And if she herself should have put aside these idle fears, and become her usual self again, why, then, there is no harm done either. I mind me that some of them wondered that I should ride down to see my little Hamnet when he lay sick, for 'twas no serious illness that time, as it turned out; but what does that make for now? Now, I tell you, I am right glad I went to see the little lad; it cheered him to be made so much of, and such small services or kindnesses are pleasant things for ourselves to think of, when those who are dearest to us are no longer with us. So cease your fretting, friend Quiney, for the hindering of my affairs I take it that I am answerable to myself, and not to the good gossips of Stratford town. And if 'tis merely to say a kind word to the la.s.s--if that is all that needs be done--well, there are many things that are of different value to different people; and the wench and I understand each other shrewdly well."

The horses were now brought round; but ere they mounted, Judith's father said, again regarding the youth in that observant way,

"Nay, I see how it is with you, good lad--you are anxious as to how Judith may take this service you have done her. Is't not so?"

"Perchance she may be angry that I called you away, sir," he said.

"Have no fear. 'Twas none of thy doing; 'twas but a whim of mine own.

Nay, there be other and many reasons for my coming--that need not be explained to her. What, must I make apology to my own daughter? She is not the guardian of Stratford town. I am no rogue; she is no constable.

May not I enter? Nay, nay, have no fear, friend Quiney; when that she comes to understand the heavy errand you undertook for her, she will give you her thanks, or I know nothing of her. Her thanks?--marry, yes!"

He looked at the young man again.

"But let there be no broken heads, good friend, I charge you," said he, as he put his foot in the stirrup. "If the parson have been over-zealous we will set all matters straight, without hurt or harm to any son of Adam."

And now as they rode on together, the younger man's face seemed more confident and satisfied, and he was silent for the most part. Of course he would himself be the bearer of the news; it was but natural that he should claim as much. And as Judith's father intended to go first to New Place, Quiney intimated to him that he would rather not ride through the town; in fact, he wanted to get straightway (and un.o.bserved, if possible) to Shottery, to see how matters were there.

When he arrived at the little hamlet, Willie Hart was in the garden, and instantly came down to the gate to meet him. He asked no questions of the boy, but begged of him to hold the bridle of his horse for a few minutes; then he went into the house.

Just within the threshold he met Judith's sister.