The writer's style was ornate and cumbrous and confused, but his story, in plainer terms, was this: The matter of the purloined play was now all satisfactorily ascertained and settled, except as regarded Jack Orridge himself, whom a dire mischance had befallen. It appeared that, having married a lady possessed of considerable wealth, his first step was to ransom—at what cost the writer knew not—the play that had been sold to the booksellers, not by himself but by one Francis Lloyd. It was said that this Lloyd had received but a trifle for it, and had, in truth, parted with it in the course of a drunken frolic; but that "Gentleman Jack," as they called him, had to disburse a goodly sum ere he could get the manuscript back into his own hands. That forthwith he had come to the theatre and delivered up the play, with such expressions of penitence and shame that they could not forbear to give him full quittance for his fault. But this was not all; for, having heard that Francis Lloyd had in many quarters been making a jest of the matter, and telling of Orridge's adventures in Warwickshire, and naming names, the young man had determined to visit him with personal chastisement, but had been defeated in this by Lloyd being thrust into prison for debt. That thereafter Lloyd, being liberated from jail, was sitting in a tavern with certain companions; and there "Gentleman Jack" found him, and dealt him a blow on the face with the back of his hand, with a mind to force the duello upon him. But that here again Orridge had ill-fortune; for Lloyd, being in his cups, would fight then and there, and flung himself on him, without sword or anything, as they thought; but that presently, in the struggle, Orridge uttered a cry, "I am stabbed," and fell headlong, and they found him with a dagger-wound in his side, bleeding so that they thought he would have died ere help came. And that in truth he had been nigh within death's door, and was not yet out of the leech's hands; while as for Lloyd, he had succeeded in making good his escape, and was now in Flanders, as some reported. This was the gist of the story, as far as Quiney was interested; thereafter came chiefly details about the theatre, and the writer concluded with wishing his correspondent all health and happiness, and bidding him ever remember "his true loving friend, Henry Condell."
Quiney handed back the letter.
"I wish the dagger had struck the worser villain of the two," said he.
"'Tis no concern of ours," Judith's father said. "And I would have the wench hear never a word more of the matter. Nay, I have already answered her that 'twas all well and settled in London, and no harm done; and the sooner 'tis quite forgotten the better. The young man hath made what amends he could; I trust he may soon be well of his wound again. And married, is he? Perchance his hurt may teach him to be more of a stay-at-home."
Judith's father put the letter in his pocket, and was for leaving, when Quiney suggested that if he were going to the cottage he would accompany him, as some business called him to Bidford. And so they set out together—the younger man having first of all made a bundle of the wire basket and the nails and hooks and what not, so that he could the more easily carry them.
It was a clear and mild October day; the wide country very silent; the woods turning to yellow and russet now and here and there golden leaves fluttering down from the elms. So quiet and peaceful it all was in the gracious sunlight; the steady ploughing going on; groups of people gleaning in the bean-field, but not a sound of any kind reaching them, save the cawing of some distant rooks. And when they drew near to Shottery, Quiney had an eye for the cottage-gardens, to see what flowers or shrubs were still available; for of course the long wire basket, when it was hung outside Judith's window, must be filled—ay, and filled freshly at frequent intervals. If the gardens or the fields or the hedge-rows would furnish sufficient store, there would be no lack of willing hands for the gathering.
They went first to the front door (the room that Judith was to be moved into looked to the back), and here, ere they had crossed the threshold, they beheld a strange thing. The old grandmother was standing at the foot of the wooden stair, with a small looking-glass in her hand; she had not heard them approach, so it was with some amazement they saw her deliberately let fall the glass on to the stone passage, where naturally it was smashed into a hundred fragments. And forthwith she began to scold and rate the little Cicely, and that in so loud a voice that her anger must have been plainly heard in the sick-room above.
"Ah, thou mischief, thou imp, thou idle brat, thou must needs go break the only looking-glass in the house! A handy wench, truly; thou can hold nothing with thy silly fingers, but must break cup and platter and pane, and now the looking-glass—'twere well done to box thine ears, thou mischief!"
And with that she patted the little girl on the shoulder, and shrewdly winked and smiled and nodded her head; and then she went up the stair, again and loudly bewailing her misfortune.