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CHAPTER XXXIII.
ARRIVALS

Some few mornings after that two travellers were standing in the spacious archway of the inn at Shipston, 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 bluster 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 lass – 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 unobserved, 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.

"Ah," said he, quickly, and even joyously, "I have brought good news. Where is Judith? May I see her? I want to tell her that her father is come, and will be here to see her presently – "

And then something in the scared face that was regarding him struck him with a sudden terror.

"What is it?" he said, with his own face become about as pale as hers.

"Judith is very ill," was the answer.

"Yes, yes," he said eagerly, "and that she was when I left. But now that her father is come, 'twill be all different – 'twill be all set right now. And you will tell her, then, if I may not? Nay, but may not I see her for a moment – but for a moment – to say how her father is come all the way to see her – ay, and hath a store of trinkets for her – and is come to comfort her into the assurance that all will go well? Why, will not such a message cheer her?"

"Good Master Quiney," Susan said, with tears welling into her eyes, "if you were to see her she would not know you – she knows no one – she knows not that she is ill – but speaks of herself as some other – "

"But her father!" he exclaimed, in dismay, "will she not know him? Will she not understand? Nay, surely 'tis not yet too late!"

But here Doctor Hall appeared; and when he was told that Judith's father was come to the town, and would shortly be at the cottage, he merely said that perhaps his presence might soothe her somewhat, or even lead her delirious wanderings into a gentler channel, but that she would almost certainly be unable to recognize him. Nor was the fever yet at its height, he said, and they could do but little for her. They could but wait and hope. As for Quiney, he did not ask to be admitted to the room. He seemed stunned. He sat down in the kitchen, heeding no one, and vaguely wondering whether any lengthening of the stages of the journey would have brought them better in time. Nay, had he not wasted precious hours in London in vainly seeking to find himself face to face with Jack Orridge!

Prudence chanced to come down-stairs. As he entered the kitchen he forgot to give her any greeting; he only said, quickly,

"Think you she will not understand that her father is come to see her? Surely she must understand so much, Prudence! You will tell her, will you not? and ask her if she sees him standing before her?"

"I know not – I am afraid," said Prudence, anxiously. "Perchance it may frighten her the more; forever she says that she sees him, and always with an angry face toward her; and she is for hiding herself away from him – and even talking of the river! Good lack, 'tis pitiful that she should be so struck down – and almost at death's door – and all we can do of so little avail."

"Prudence," said he, starting to his feet, "there is her father just come; I hear him; now take him to her – and you will see – you will see. I may not go – a strange face might frighten her – but I know she will recognize him – and understand – and he will tell her to have no longer any fear of him – "

Prudence hurried away to meet Judith's father, who was in the doorway, getting such information as was possible, from the doctor. And then they all of them (all but Quiney) stole gently up-stairs; and they stood at the door in absolute silence, while Judith's father went forward to the bed – so quietly that the girl did not seem to notice his approach.

The grandmother was there, sitting by the bedside and speaking to her in a low voice.

"Hush thee now, sweeting, hush thee now," she was saying, and she patted her hand. "Nay, I know 'twas ill done; 'tis quite right what thou sayest; they treated her not well; and the poor wench anxious to please them all. But have no fear for her – nay, trouble not thy head with thoughts of her – she be safe at home again, I trust. Hush thee, now, sweeting; 'twill go well with her, I doubt not; I swear to thee her father be no longer angry with the wench; 'twill all go well with her, and well. Have no fear."

The girl looked at her steadily, and yet with a strange light in her eyes, as if she saw distant things before her, or was seeking to recall them.

"There was Susan, too," she said, in a low voice, "that sang so sweet – oh, in the church it was so sweet to hear her; but when it was 'The rose is from my garden gone,' she would not sing that, though that was ever in her sister's mind after she went away down to the river-side. I cannot think why they would not sing it to her; perchance the parson thought 'twas wicked – I know not now. And when she herself would try it with the lute, nothing would come right – all went wrong with her – all went wrong; and her father came angry and terrible to seek her – and 'twas the parson that would drag her forth – the bushes were not thick enough – good grandam, why should the bushes in the garden be so thin that the terrible eyes peered through them, and she tried to hide and could not?"

"Nay, I tell thee, sweetheart," said the grandmother, whispering to her, "that the poor wench you speak of went home; and all were well content with her, and her father was right pleased; indeed, indeed, 'twas so."

"Poor Judith, poor Judith!" the girl murmured to herself; and then she laughed slightly. "She was ever the stupid one; naught would go right with her; ay, and evil-tempered she was, too, for Quiney would ride all the way to London for her, and she thanked him with never a word or a look – never a word or a look, and he going all the way to please her. Poor wench, all went wrong with her somehow; but they might have let her go; she was so anxious to hide; and then to drag her forth – from under the bushes – grandam, it was cruelly done of them, was it not?"

"Ay, ay, but hush thee now, dearie," her grandmother said, as she put a cool cloth on the burning forehead. "'Tis quite well now with the poor wench you speak of."

Her father drew nearer, and took her hand quietly.

"Judith," said he, "poor lass, I am come to see you."

For an instant there was a startled look of fear in her eyes; but that passed, and she regarded him at first with a kind of smiling wonder, and thereafter with a contented satisfaction, as though his presence was familiar. Nay, she turned her attention altogether toward him now, and addressed him – not in any heart-broken way, but cheerfully, and as if he had been listening to her all along. It was clear that she did not in the least know who he was.

"There now, lass," said he, "knowest thou that Quiney and I have ridden all the way from London to see thee? and thou must lie still and rest, and get well again, ere we can carry thee out into the garden."

She was looking at him with those strangely brilliant eyes.

"But not into the garden," she said, in a vacant kind of way. "That is all gone away now – gone away. 'Twas long ago – when poor Judith used to go into the garden – and right fair and beautiful it was – ay, and her father would praise her hair and the color of it – until he grew angry, and drove her away far from him then – and then – she wandered down to the river – and always Susan's song was in her mind – or the other one, that was near as sad as that, about the western wind, was it not? How went it now? —

 
"'Western wind, when will you blow?'
 

Nay, I cannot recall it – 'tis gone out of my head, grandam, and there is only fire there – and fire – and fire —

 
"'Western wind, when will you blow?'
 

it went – and then about the rain next, what was it? —

 
"'So weary falls the rain!'
 

Ay, ay, that was it now – I remember Susan singing it —

 
"'Western wind, when will you blow?
So weary falls the rain!
Oh, if my love were in my arms,
Or I in my bed again!'"
 

And here she turned away from them and fell a-crying, and hid from them, as it were, covering her face with both her hands.

"Grandmother, grandmother," they could hear her say through her sobbing, "there was but the one rose in my garden, and that is gone now – they have robbed me of that – and what cared I for aught else? And Quiney is gone too, without a word or a look – without a word or a look – and ere he be come back – well, I shall be away by then – he will have no need to quarrel with me and think ill of me that I chanced to meet the parson. 'Tis all over now, grandmother, and done with, and you will let me bide with you for just a little while longer – a little while, grandmother; 'tis no great matter for so little a while, though I cannot help you as I would – but Cicely is a good lass – and 'twill be for a little while – for last night again I found Hamnet – ay, ay, he hath all things in readiness now – all in readiness – " And then she uttered a slight cry, or moan rather. "Grandmother, grandmother, why do you not keep the parson away from me? You said that you would!"

"Hush, hush, child," the grandmother said, bending over her and speaking softly and closely. "You are over-concerned about the poor lass that was treated so ill. Take heart now; I tell thee all is going well with her; her father hath taken her home again, and she is as happy as the day is long. Nay, I swear to thee, good wench, if thou lie still and restful, I will take thee to see her some of these days. Hush thee now, dearie; 'tis going right well with the lass now."

The doctor touched the arm of Judith's father, and they both withdrew.

"She knew you not," said he; "and the fewer people around her the better – they set her fancies wandering."

They went down-stairs to where Quiney was awaiting them, and the sombre look on their faces told its tale.

"She is in danger!" he said, quickly.

The doctor was busy with his own thoughts, but he glanced at the young man and saw the burning anxiety of his eyes.

"The fever must run its course," said he, "and Judith hath had a brave constitution these many years that I fear not will make a good fight. 'Twas a sore pity that she was so distressed and stricken down in spirits, as I hear, ere the fever seized her."

Quiney turned to the window.

"Too late – too late!" said he. "And yet I spared not the nag."

"You have done all that man could do," her father said, going to him. "Nay, had I myself guessed that she was in such peril – but 'tis past recall now."

And then he took the young man by the hand, and grasped it firmly.

"Good lad," said he, "this that you did for us was a right noble act of kindness, and I trust in Heaven's mercy that Judith herself may live to thank you. As for me, my thanks to you are all too poor and worthless; and I must be content to remain your debtor – and your friend."

CHAPTER XXXIV.
AN AWAKENING

It was going ill with her. Late one night, Quiney, who had kept hovering about the house, never able to sit patiently and watch the anxious coming and going within-doors, and never able to tear himself away but for a few hundred yards, wandered out into the clear starlit darkness. His heart was full. They had told him the crisis was near at hand. And almost it seemed to him that it was already over. Judith was going away from them. And those stars overhead – he knew but little of their names; he understood but little of the vast immensities and deeps that lay between them; they were to him but as grains of light in a darkened floor: and far above that floor rose the wonderful shining city that he had heard of in the Book of Revelation. And already, so wild and unstrung were his fancies, he could see the four square walls of jasper, and the gates of pearl, and the wide white steps leading up to these; and who was that who went all alone – giving no backward thought to any she was leaving behind – up those shining steps, with a strange light on her forehead and on her trembling hands? He saw her slowly kneel at the gate, her head meekly bowed, her hands clasped. And when they opened it, and when she rose, and made to enter, he could have cried aloud to her for one backward look, one backward thought, toward Stratford town and the friends of her childhood and her youth. Alas! there was no such thing. There was wonder on her face, as she turned to this side and to that, and she went hesitatingly; and when they took her hands to lead her forward, she regarded them – this side and that – pleased and wondering and silent; but there was never a thought of Stratford town. Could that be Judith that was going away from them so – she that all of them had known so dearly? And to leave her own friends without one word of farewell! Those others there – she went with them smiling and wondering, and looking in silence from one to the other – but she knew them not. Her friends were here – here – with breaking hearts because she had gone away and forgotten them, and vanished within those far-shining gates.

And then some sudden and sullen thought of the future would overtake him. The injunctions laid on him by Judith's father could not be expected to last forever. And if this were to be so – if the love and desire of his youth were to be stolen away from him – if her bright young life, that was so beautiful a thing to all who knew her, was to be extinguished, and leave instead but a blankness and an aching memory through the long years – then there might arrive a time for a settlement. The parson was still coming about the house, for the women-folk were comforted by his presence; but Judith's father regarded him darkly, and had scarce ever a word for him. As for Quiney, he moved away, or left the house, when the good man came near – it was safer so. But in the future? When one was freer to act? For those injunctions could not be expected to last forever; and what greater joy could then be secured than the one fierce stroke of justice and revenge? He did not reason out the matter much: it was a kind of flame in his heart whenever he thought of it.

And in truth that catastrophe was nearly occurring now. He had been wandering vaguely along the highways, appealing to the calmness of the night, as it were, and the serenity of the starlit heavens, for some quieting of his terrible fears; and then in his restlessness he walked back toward the cottage, anxious for further news and yet scarcely daring to enter and ask. He saw the dull red light in the window, but could hear no sound. And would not his very footfall on the path disturb her? They all of them went about the house like ghosts. And were it not better that he should remain here, so that the stillness dwelling around the place should not be broken even by his breathing? So quiet the night was, and so soundless, he could have imagined that the wings of the angel of mercy were brooding over the little cottage, hushing it, as it were, and bringing rest and sleep to the sore-bewildered brain. He would not go near. These were the precious hours. And if peace had at last stolen into the sick-chamber, and closed the troubled eyelids, were it not better to remain away, lest even a whisper should break the charm?

Suddenly he saw the door of the cottage open, and in the dull light a dark figure appeared. He heard footsteps on the garden-path. At first his heart felt like a stone, and he could not move, for he thought it was some one coming to seek him with evil views; but presently, in the clear starlight, he knew who this was that was now approaching him. He lost his senses. All the black night went red.

"So, good parson," said he (but he clinched his fists together so that he should not give way), "art thou satisfied with thy handiwork?"

There was more of menace in the tone than in the taunt; at all events, with some such phrase as "Out of the way, tavern-brawler!" the parson raised his stick, as if to defend himself, And then the next instant, he was gripped firm, as in a vise; the stick was twisted from his grasp and whirled away far into the dark; and forthwith, for it all happened in a moment, five fingers had him by the back of the neck.

There was one second of indecision – what it meant to this young athlete, who had his eyes afire and his mind afire with thoughts of the ill that had been done to the one he loved the dearest, can well be imagined. But he flung his enemy from him, forward, into the night.

"Take thy dog's life and welcome – coward and woman-striker!"

He waited; there was no answer. And then, all shaking from the terrible pressure he had put on himself, and still hungering and athirst to go back and settle the matter then and there, he turned and walked along the road, avoiding the cottage, and still with his heart aflame, and wondering whether he had done well to let the hour of vengeance go.

But that did not last long. What cared he for this man that any thought of him should occupy him at such a moment? All his anxieties were elsewhere – in that hushed, small chamber, where the lamp of life was flickering low, and all awaiting, with fear and trembling, what the dawn might bring. And if she were to slip away so – escaping from them, as it were – without a word of recognition? It seemed so hard that the solitary figure going up those far, wide steps should have no thought for them she had left behind. As he saw her there, content was on her face, and a mild radiance and wonder; and her new companions were pleasant to her. She would go away with them – she was content to be with them – she would disappear among them, and leave no sign. And Sunday morning after Sunday morning he would look in vain for her coming through the church-yard, under the trees; and there would be a vacant place in the pew; no matter who might be there, one face would be wanting; and in the afternoon the wide meadows would be empty. Look where he might – from the foot-bridge over the river, from Bardon Hill, from the Wier Brake – there would be no more chance of his descrying Judith walking with Prudence – the two figures that he could make out at any distance almost. And what a radiance there used to be on her face – not that mild wonder that he saw as she passed away with her companions within the shining gates, but a happy, audacious radiance, so that he could see she was laughing long ere he came near her. That was Judith – that was the Judith he had known – laughing, radiant – in summer meadows, as it seemed to him – careless of the young men, though her eyes would regard them – and always with her chief secrets and mystifications for her friend Prudence. That was Judith – not this poor, worn sufferer, wandering through darkened ways, the frail lamp of her life going down and down, so that they dared not speak in the room. And that message that she had left for him with Prudence – was it a kind of farewell? They were about the last words she had spoken ere her speech lost all coherence and meaning – a farewell before she entered into that dark and unknown realm. And there was a touch of reproach in them too – "Tell him he did me wrong to think I had gone to meet the parson in the church-yard: 'twas but a chance." The Judith of those former days was far too proud to make any such explanation; but this poor stricken creature seemed anxious to appease every one and make friends. And was he to have no chance of begging her forgiveness for doing her that wrong, and of telling how little she need regard it, and how that she might dismiss the parson from her mind altogether, as he had done? The ride to London – she knew nothing of that; she knew nothing of her father having come all the way to see her. Why, as they came riding along by Uxbridge and Wycombe, and Woodstock and Enstone, many a time he looked forward to telling Judith of what he had done; and he hoped that she would go round to the stable and have a word for the Galloway nag and pet the good beast's neck. But all that was over now, and only this terrible darkness and the silence of the roads and the trees; and always the dull, steady, ominous light in the small window. And still more terrible, that vision overhead – the far and mystic city, and Judith entering with those new and strange companions, regarding this one and that, and ever with a smile on her face and a mild wonder in her eyes; they leading her away by the hand, and she timid, and looking from one to the other, but pleased to go with them into the strange country. And as for her old friends, no backward look or backward thought for them; for them only the sad and empty town, the voiceless meadows, the vacant space in the pew, to which many an eye would be turned as week by week came round. And there would be a grave somewhere that Prudence would not leave untended.

But with the first gray light of the dawn there came a sudden trembling joy, that was so easily and eagerly translated into a wild, audacious hope. Judith had fallen into a sound sleep – a sleep hushed and profound, and no longer tortured with moanings and dull low cries as if for pity; a slumber profound and beneficent, with calmer breathing and a calmer pulse. If only on the awakening she might show that the crisis was over, and she started on the road – however long and tedious that might be – toward the winning back of life and health!

It was Prudence who brought him the news. She looked like a ghost in the wan light, as she opened the door and came forth. She knew he would not be far away; indeed, his eyes were more accustomed to this strange light than hers, and ere she had time to look about and search for him he was there. And when she told him this news, he could not speak for a little while, for his mind rushed forward blindly and wildly to a happy consummation; he would have no misgivings; this welcome sleep was a sure sign Judith was won back to them; not yet was she to go away all alone up those wide, sad steps.

"And you, Prudence," said he, or rather he whispered it eagerly, that no sound should disturb the profound quiet of the house, "now you must go and lie down; you are worn out; why, you are all trembling – "

"The morning air is a little cold," said she; but it was not that that caused her trembling.

"You must go and lie down, and get some sleep too," said he (but glancing up at the window, as if his thoughts were there). "What a patient watcher you have been! And now when there is this chance – do, dear Prudence, go within and lie down for a while – "

"Oh, how could I?" she said; and unknown to herself she was wringing her hands – not from grief, but from mere excitement and nervousness. "But for this sleep, now, the doctor was fearing the worst. I know it, though he would not say it. And she is so weak! Even if this sleep calm her brain, or if she come out of it in her right mind – one never knows, she is so worn away – she might waken only to slip away from us."

But he would not hear of that. No, no; this happy slumber was but the beginning of her recovery. Now that she was on the turn, Judith's brave constitution would fight through the rest. He knew it; he was sure of it; had there ever been a healthier, a happier wench – or one with such gallant spirits and cheerfulness?

"You have not seen her these last two days," Prudence said, sadly.

"Nay, I fear not now – I know she will fight through," said he, confidently (even with an excess of confidence, so as to cheer this patient and gentle nurse). "And what a spite it is that I can do nothing? Did you ask the doctor, Prudence? Is there nothing that I can fetch him from Harwich? ay, or from London, for that matter? 'Tis well for you that can do so much for your friend: what can I do but hang about the lanes? I would take a message anywhere, for any of you, if you would but tell me; 'tis all that I can do. But when she is getting better, that will be different – that will be all different then; I shall be able to get her many things, to please her and amuse her; and – and – think of this, Prudence," said he, his fancies running away with him in his eagerness, "do you not think, now, that when she is well enough to be carried into the garden – do you not think that Pleydell and I could devise some kind of couch, to be put on wheels, see you, and slung on leather bands, so that it would go easily? Why, I swear it could be made – and might be in readiness for her. What think you, Prudence? No one could object if we prepared it. Ay, and we should get it to go as smooth as velvet, so that she could be taken along the lanes or through the meadows."

"I would there were need of it," Prudence said, wistfully. "You go too fast. Nay, but if she come well out of this deep sleep, who knows? Pray Heaven there be need for all that you can do for her."

The chirping of a small bird close by startled them – it was the first sound of the coming day. And then she said, regarding him,

"Would you like to see Judith – for a moment? 'Twould not disturb her."

He stepped back, with a sudden look of dismay on his face.

"What mean you, Prudence?" he said, quickly. "You do not think that – that – there is fear – that I should look at her now?"

"Nay, not so; I trust not," she said simply. "But if you wished, you might slip up the stair; 'twould do no harm."