"This, good sir, is the manner of it," said she, in as calm a way as she could assume, "that my father and his associates have but recently made a discovery that concerns them much, and is even a disaster to them; 'tis no less than that a copy of my father's last written play—the very one, indeed, that he finished ere leaving Stratford—hath lately been sold, they scarce know by whom as yet, to a certain bookseller in London, and that the bookseller is either about to print it and sell it, or threatens to do so. They all of them, my father says, are grievously annoyed by this, for that the publishing of the play will satisfy many who will read it at home instead of coming to the theatre, and that thus the interests of himself and his associates will suffer gravely. I am sorry, good sir, to trouble you with such matters," she added, with a glance of apology, "but they come more near home to us than you might think."
"I have offered to you my service in all things—that befit my office," said Master Walter, but with a certain reserve, as if he did not quite like the course that matters were taking.
"And then," continued Susan, glancing at the writing before her, "my father says that they were much perplexed (having no right at law to stop such a publication), and made inquiries as to how any such copy could have found its way into the bookseller's hands; whereupon he discovered that which hath grieved him far more than the trouble about the play. Prudence, you are her nearest gossip; it cannot be true!" she exclaimed; and she turned to the young maiden, whose face was no longer pale and thoughtful, but rose-colored with shame and alarm. "For he says 'tis a story that is now everywhere abroad in London—and a laugh and a jest at the taverns—how that one Jack Orridge came down to Warwickshire, and made believe to be a wizard, and cozened Judith—Judith, Prudence, our Judith!—heard ye ever the like?—into a secret love affair; and that she gave him a copy of the play as one of her favors——"
"Truly, now, that is false on the face of it," said Master Blaise, appositely. "That is a tale told by some one who knows not that Judith hath no skill of writing."
"Oh, 'tis too bewildering!" Susan said, as she turned again to the letter in a kind of despair. "But to have such a story going about London—about Judith—about my sister Judith—how can you wonder that my father should write in haste and in anger? That she should meet this young man day after day at a farm-house near to Bidford, and in secret, and listen to his stories of the court, believing him to be a worthy gentleman in misfortune! A worthy gentleman truly!—to come and make sport of a poor country maiden, and teach her to deceive her father and all of us, not one of us knowing—not one——"
"Susan! Susan!" Prudence cried, in an agony of grief, "'tis not as you think. 'Tis not as it is written there. I will confess the truth. I myself knew of the young man being in the neighborhood, and how he came to be acquainted with Judith. And she never was at any farm-house to meet him, that I know well, but—but he was alone, and in trouble, he said, and she was sorry for him, and durst not speak to any one but me. Nay, if there be aught wrong, 'twas none of her doing, that I know: as to the copy of the play, I am ignorant; but 'twas none of her doing. Susan, you think too harshly—indeed you do."
"Sweetheart, I think not harshly," said the other, in a bewildered way. "I but tell the story as I find it."
"'Tis not true, then. On her part, at least, there was no whit of any secret love affair, as I know right well," said Prudence, with a vehemence near to tears.
"I but tell thee the story as my father heard it. Poor wench, whatever wrong she may have done, I have no word against her," Judith's sister said.
"I pray you continue," interposed Master Blaise, with his eyes calmly fixed on the letter; he had scarcely uttered a word.