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He stooped and took off his shoes and threw them aside; then she led the way into the house, and they went stealthily up the short wooden stair. The door was open an inch or two; Prudence opened it still farther, but did not go into the room. Nor did he; he remained at the threshold, for Judith's mother, who was sitting by the bedside, and who had noticed the slight opening of the door, had raised her hand quietly, as if in warning. And was this Judith, then, that the cold morning light, entering by the small casement, showed him – worn and wasted, the natural radiance of her face all fled, and in place of that a dull, hectic tone that in nowise concealed the ravages the fever had made? But she slept sound. The bent arm, that she had raised to her head ere she fell asleep, lay absolutely still. No, it was not the Judith he had known – so gay and radiant and laughing in the summer meadows; but the wasted form still held a precious life, and he had no mistrust – he would not doubt; there was there still what would win back for him the Judith that he had known – ay, if they had to wait all through the winter for the first silver-white days of spring.

They stole down-stairs again and went to the front door. All the world was awaking now; the light was clear around them; the small birds were twittering in the bushes.

"And will you not go and get some sleep now, Prudence?" said he. "Surely you have earned it; and now there is the chance."

"I could not," she said simply. "There will be time for sleep by-and-by. But now, if you would do us a service, will you go over to the town, and tell Susan that Judith is sleeping peacefully, and that she need not hurry back, for there be plenty of us to watch and wait? And Julius would like to hear the good news, that I know. Then you yourself – do you not need rest? Why – "

"Heed not for me, dear Prudence," said he quickly, as if it were not worth while wasting time on that topic. "But is there naught else I can do for you? Naught that I can bring for you – against her getting well again?"

"Nay, 'tis all too soon for that," was Prudence's answer. "I would the occasion were here, and sure."

Well, he went away over to the town, and told his tale to those that were astir, leaving a message for those who were not; and then he passed on to his own house, and threw himself on his bed. But he could not rest. It was too far away, while all his thoughts were concentrated on the small cottage over there. So he wandered back thither, and again had assurance that Judith was doing well; and then he went quietly up to the summer-house and sat down there; and scarcely had he folded his arms on the little table, and bent forward his head, than he was in a deep sleep, nature claiming her due at last.

The hours passed; he knew nothing of them. He was awakened by Judith's father, and he looked around him strangely, for he saw by the light that it was now afternoon.

"Good lad," said he, "I make no scruple of rousing you. There is better news. She is awake, and quite calm and peaceable, and in her right mind – though sadly weak and listless, poor wench."

"Have you seen her – have you spoken with her?" he said, eagerly.

"Nay, not yet," Judith's father said. "I am doubtful. She is so faint and weak. I would not disturb her – "

"I pray you, sir, go and speak with her!" Quiney entreated. "Nay, I know that will give her more peace of mind than anything. And if she begin to recall what happened ere she fell ill – I pray you, sir, of your kindness, go and speak with her."

Judith's father went away to the house slowly, and with his head bent in meditation. He spoke to the doctor for a few minutes. But when, after some deliberation, he went up-stairs and into the room, it was his own advice, his own plan, he was acting on.

He went forward to the bedside and took the chair that the old grandmother had instantly vacated, and sat down just as if nothing had occurred.

"Well, lass, how goes it with thee?" he said, with an air of easy unconcern. "Bravely well, I hear. Thou must haste thee now, for soon we shall be busy with the brewing."

She regarded him in a strange way, perhaps wondering whether this was another vision. And then she said, faintly,

"Why are you come back to Stratford, father?"

"Oh, I have many affairs on hand," said he; "and yet I like not the garden to be so empty. I cannot spare thee over here much longer. 'Tis better when thou art in the garden, and little Bess with thee – nay, I swear to thee thou disturbest me not – and so must thou get quickly well and home again."

He took her hand – the thin, worn, white hand – and patted it.

"Why," said he, "I hear they told thee some foolish story about me. Believe them not, lass. Thou and I are old friends, despite thy saucy ways, and thy laughing at the young lads about, and thy lecturing of little Bess Hall – oh, thou hast thy faults – a many of them too – but heed no idle stories, good lass, that come between me and thee. Nay, I will have a sharp word for thee an thou do not as the doctor bids; and thou must rest thee still and quiet, and trouble not thy head, for we want thee back to us at New Place. Why, I tell thee I cannot have the garden left so empty; wouldst have me with none to talk with but goodman Matthew? So now farewell for the moment, good wench; get what sleep thou canst, and take what the doctor bids thee; why, knowest thou not of the ribbons and gloves I have brought thee all the way from London? I warrant me they will please thee!"

He patted her hand again, and rose and left, as if it were all a matter of course. For a minute or two after the girl looked dazed and bewildered, as if she were trying to recall many things; but always she kept looking at the hand that he had held, and there was a pleased light in her sad and tired eyes. She lay still and silent – for so she had been enjoined.

But by-and-by she said, in a way that was like the ghost of Judith's voice of old,

"Grandmother – I can scarce hold up my hand – will you help me? What is this that is on my head?"

"Why, 'tis a pretty lace cap that Susan brought thee," the grandmother said, "and we would have thee smart and neat ere thy father came in."

But she had got her hand to her head now, and then the truth became known to her. She began to cry bitterly.

"Oh, grandmother, grandmother," she said, or sobbed, "they have cut off my hair, and my father will never look with favor on me again. 'Twas all he ever praised!"

"Dearie, dearie, thy hair will grow again as fair as ever – ay, and who ever had prettier?" the old grandmother said. "Why, surely; and the roses will come to thy cheeks, too, that were ever the brightest of any in the town. Thy father – heardst thou not what he said a moment ago – that he could not bear to be without thee? Nay, nay, fret not, good lass, there be plenty that will right gladly wait for the growing of thy hair again – ay, ay, there be plenty and to spare that will hold thee in high favor and think well of thee – and thy father most of all of them – have no fear!"

And so the grandmother got her soothed and hushed, and at last she lay still and silent. But she had been thinking.

"Grandmother," said she, regarding her thin, wasted hand, "is my face like that?"

"Hush thee, child; thou must not speak more now, or the doctor will be scolding me."

"But tell me, grandmother," she pleaded.

"Why, then," she answered, evasively, "it be none so plump as it were – but all that will mend – ay, ay, good lass, 'twill mend, surely."

Again she lay silent for a while, but her mind was busy with its own fears.

"Grandmother," she said, "will you promise me this – to keep Quiney away? You will not let him come into the room, good grandmother, should he ever come over to the cottage?"

"Ay, and be this thy thanks, then, to him that rode all the way to London town to bring thy father to thee?" said the old dame, with some affectation of reproach. "Were I at thy age I would have a fairer message for him."

"A message, grandmother?" the girl said, turning her languid eyes to her with some faint eagerness. "Ay, that I would send him willingly. He went to London for me, that I know; Prudence said so. But perchance he would not care to have it, would he, think you?"

The old dame listened, to make sure that the doctor was not within hearing, for this talking was forbidden; but she was anxious to have the girl's mind pleased and at rest, and so she took Judith's hand and whispered to her.

"A message? Ay, I warrant me the lad would think more of it than of aught else in the world. Why, sweetheart, he hath been never away from the house all this time – watching to be of service to any one – night and day it hath been so – and that he be not done to death passes my understanding. Ay, and the riding to London, and the bringing of thy father, and all – is't not worth a word of thanks? Nay, the youth hath won to my favor, I declare to thee; if none else will speak for him I will; a right good honest youth, I warrant. But there now, sweeting, hush thee; I may not speak more to thee, else the doctor will be for driving me forth."

There was silence for some time; then Judith said, wistfully,

"What flowers are in the garden now, grandmother?"

The old dame went to the window slowly; it was an excuse for not having too much talking going on.

"The garden be far past its best now," said she, "but there be marigolds and Michaelmas daisies – "

"Could you get me a bit of rosemary, grandmother?" the girl asked.

"Rosemary!" she cried in affright, for the mention of the plant seemed to strike a funeral note. "Foolish wench, thou knowest I can never get the rosemary bushes through the spring frosts. Rosemary, truly! What wantest thou with rosemary?"

"Or a pansy, then?"

"A pansy, doubtless – ay, ay, that be better now – we may find thee a pansy somewhere – and a plenty of other things, so thou lie still and get well."

"Nay, I want but the one, grandmother," she said slowly. "You know I cannot write a message to him, and yet I would send him some token of thanks for all that he hath done. And would not that do, grandmother? Could you but find me a pansy – if there be one left anywhere – and a small leaf or two; and if 'twere put in a folded paper, and you could give it him from me, and no one knowing? I would rest the happier, grandmother, for I would not have him think me ungrateful – no, no, he must not think me that. And then, good grandmother, you will tell him that I wish him not to see me; only – only, the little flower will show him that I am not ungrateful; for I would not have him think me that."

"Rest you still now, then, sweeting," the old dame said. "I warrant me we will have the message conveyed to him; but rest you still – rest you still – and ere long you will not be ashamed to show him the roses coming again into your cheeks."

CHAPTER XXXV.
TOWARD THE LIGHT

This fresh and clear morning, with a south wind blowing and a blue sky overhead, made even the back yard of Quiney's premises look cheerful, though the surroundings were mostly empty barrels and boxes. And he was singing, too, as he went on with his task; sometimes —

 
"Play on, minstrèl, play on, minstrèl,
My lady is mine only girl;"
 

and sometimes —

 
"I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as fine might be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee;"
 

or, again, he would practise his part in the new catch —

 
"Merrily sang the Ely monks,
When rowed thereby Canute the King."
 

And yet this that he was so busy about seemed to have nothing to do with his own proper trade. He had chalked up on the wall a space about the size of an ordinary cottage-window; at each of the upper corners he had hammered in a nail, and now he was endeavoring to suspend from these supports, so that it should stand parallel with the bottom line, an oblong basket roughly made of wire, and pretty obviously of his own construction. His dinner of bread and cheese and ale stood untouched and unheeded on a bench hard by. Sometimes he whistled, sometimes he sang, for the morning air was fresh and pleasant, and the sunlight all about was enlivening.

Presently Judith's father made his appearance, and the twisting and shaping of the wire hooks instantly ceased.

"She is still going on well?" the lad said, with a rapid and anxious glance.

"But slowly – slowly," her father answered. "Nay, we must not demand too much. If she but hold her own now, time is on our side, and the doctor is more than ever hopeful that the fever hath left no serious harm behind it. When that she is a little stronger, they talk of having her carried down-stairs – the room is larger – and the window hath a pleasant outlook."

"I heard of that," said Quiney, glancing at the oblong basket of wire.

"I have brought you other news this morning," Judith's father said, taking out a letter and handing it to Quiney. "But I pray you say nothing of it to the wench; her mind is at rest now; we will let the past go."

"Nay, I can do no harm in that way," said the younger man, in something of a hurt tone, "for they will not let me see her."

"No, truly? Why, that is strange, now," her father said, affecting to be surprised, but having a shrewd guess that this was some fancy of the girl's own. "But they would have her kept quiet, I know."

Quiney was now reading the letter. It was from one of Judith's father's companions in London, and the beginning of it was devoted to the imparting of certain information that had apparently been asked from him touching negotiations for the purchase of a house in Blackfriars. Quiney rightly judged that this part had naught to do with him, and scanned it briefly; and as he went on he came to that which had a closer interest for him.

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.

"What a spite be this now!" they could hear her say, at the door of Judith's room. "The only looking-glass in the house and just as thou wouldst have it sent for! That mischievous, idle little wench – heard you the crash, sweetheart? Well, well, no matter; I must still have the tiring of thee – against any one coming to see thee; ay, and I would have thee brave and smart, when thou art able to sit up a bit – ay, and thy hair will soon be grown again, sweeting – and then the trinkets that thy father brought – and the lace cuffs that Quiney gave thee – these and all thou must wear. Was ever such a spite, now? – our only looking-glass to be broken so; but thou shalt not want it, sweetheart – nay, nay, thou must rest in my hands – I will have thee smart enough; when any would come to see thee – "

That was all they heard, for now she shut the door; but both of them guessed readily enough why the good dame had thrown down and smashed the solitary mirror of the house.

Then they went within, and heard from Prudence that Judith was going on well but very slowly, and that her mind was in perfect calm and content, only that at times she seemed anxious that her father should return to London, lest his affairs should be hindered.

"And truly I must go ere long," said he, "but not yet. Not until she is more fairly on the highway."

They were now in the room that was to be given up to Judith, because of its larger size.

"Prudence," said Quiney, "if the bed were placed so – by the window – she might be propped up, so that when she chose she could look abroad. Were not that a simple thing – and cheerful for her? And I have arranged a small matter so that every morning she may find some fresh blossoms awaiting her – and yet not disturbing her with any one wishing to enter the room. Methinks one might better fix it now, ere she be brought down, so that the knocking may not harm her."

"I would she were in a fit state to be brought down," Prudence said, rather sadly; "for never saw I any one so weak and helpless."

All the same he went away to see whether the oblong basket of wire and the fastenings would fit; and although (being a tall youth) he could easily reach the foot of the window with his hands, he had to take a chair with him in order to gain the proper height for the nails. Prudence from within saw what he was after, and when it was all fixed up she opened one of the casements to speak to him, and her face was well pleased.

"Truly, now, that was kindly thought of," said she. "And shall I tell her of this that you have contrived for her?"

"Why, 'tis in this way, Prudence," said he, rather shamefacedly, "she need not know whether 'tis this one or that that puts a few blossoms in the basket – 'twill do for any one – any one that is passing along the road or through the meadows, and picks up a pretty thing here or there. 'Twill soon be hard to get such things – save some red berries or the like – but when any can stop in passing and add their mite, 'twill be all the easier, for who that knows her but hath good-will toward her?"

"And her thanks to whom?" said Prudence, smiling.

"Why, to all of them," said he, evasively. "Nay, I would not have her even know that I nailed up the little basket – perchance she might think I was too officious."

"And can you undo it?" she asked. "Can you take it down?"

"Surely," he answered, and he lifted the basket off the hooks to show her.

"For," said she, "if you would bring it round, might we not put a few flowers in it, and have them carried up to Judith, to show her what you have designed for her? In truth it would please her."

He was not proof against this temptation. He carried the basket round, and they fell to gathering such blossoms as the garden afforded – marigolds, monthly roses, Michaelmas daisies, and the like, with some scarlet hips from the neighboring hedges, and some broad green leaves to serve as a cushion for all of these. But he did not stay to hear how his present was received. He was on his way to Bidford, and on foot, for he had kept his promise with the Galloway nag. So he bade Prudence farewell, and said he would call in again on his way back in the evening.

The wan, sad face lit up with something like pleasure when Judith saw this little present brought before her; it was not the first by many of similar small attentions that he had paid her – tokens of a continual thoughtfulness and affection – though he was not even permitted to see her, much less to speak with her. How his business managed to thrive during this period they could hardly guess, only that he seemed to find time for everything. Apparently, he was content with the most hap-hazard meals, and seemed able to get along with scarcely any sleep at all; and always he was the most hopeful one in the house, and would not admit that Judith's recovery seemed strangely slow, but regarded everything as happening for the best, and tending toward a certain and happy issue. One result of his being continually in or about the cottage was this – that Master Walter Blaise had not looked near them since the night on which the fever reached its crisis. The women-folk surmised that, now there was a fair hope of Judith's recovery, he perchance imagined his ministrations to be no longer necessary, and was considerately keeping out of the way, seeing that he could be of no use. At all events, they did not discuss the subject much, for more than one of them had perceived that, whenever the parson's name was mentioned, Judith's father became reticent and reserved – which was about his only way of showing displeasure – so that they got into the habit of omitting all mention of Master Blaise, for the better preserving and maintaining the serenity of the domestic atmosphere.

And yet Master Blaise came to be talked of – and to Judith herself – this very morning. When Prudence went into the room, carrying Quiney's flowers, the old grandmother said she would go down and see how dinner was getting forward (she having more mouths to feed than usual), and Prudence was left in her place, with strict injunctions to see that Judith took the small portions of food that had been ordered her at the proper time. Prudence sat down by the bedside. These two had not had much confidential chatting of late, for Judith had been forbidden to talk much, and was, indeed, far too weak and languid for that, while generally there was some third person about in attendance. But now they were alone; and Prudence had a long tale to tell of Quiney's constant watchfulness and care, and of all the little things he had thought of and arranged for her, up to the construction of the wire flower-basket.

"But what he hath done, Judith, to anger Parson Blaise, I cannot make out," she continued – "ay, and to anger him sorely; for yesternight, when I went over to see how my brother did, I met Master Blaise, and he stayed me and talked with me for a space. Nay, he spoke too harshly of Quiney, so that I had to defend him, and say what I had seen of him – truly, I was coming near to speaking with warmth – and then he went away from that. And think you what he came to next, Judith?"

The pale, quiet face of the speaker was overspread with a blush, and she looked timidly at her friend.

"What then, sweetheart?"

"Perchance I should not tell you," she said, with some hesitation; and then she said, more frankly, "Nay, why should there be any concealment between us, Judith? And he laid no charge of secrecy on me – in truth, I said that I would think of it, and might even ask for counsel and guidance. He would have made me his wife, Judith."

Judith betrayed no atom of surprise, nay, she almost instantly smiled her approval – it was a kind of friendly congratulation, as it were – and she would have reached out her hand only that she was so weak.

"I am glad of that, dear mouse," said she, as pleasantly as she could. "There would you be in your proper place; is't not so? And what said you? what said you, sweetheart? Ah, they all would welcome you, be sure; and a parson's wife – a parson's wife, Prudence – would not that be your proper place? would you not be happy so?"

"I know not," the girl said, and she spoke wistfully, and as if she were regarding distant things. "He had nearly persuaded me, good heart, for indeed there is such power and clearness in all he says; and it was almost put before me as a duty, and something incumbent on me, for the pleasing of all of them, and the being useful and serviceable to so many; and then – and then – "

There was another timid glance, and she took Judith's hand; and her eyes were downcast as she made the confession:

"Nay, I will tell thee the truth, sweetheart. Had he spoken to me earlier – I – I might not have said him nay – so good a man and earnest withal, and not fearing to give offence if he can do true service to the Master of us all. Judith, if it be unmaidenly, blame me not, but at one time I had thoughts of him; and sometimes, ashamed, I would not go to your house when he was there in the afternoon, though Julius wondered, seeing that there was worship and profitable expounding. But now – now – now 'tis different."

"Why, dear mouse, why?" Judith said, with some astonishment; "you must not flout the good man. 'Tis an honorable offer."

Prudence was looking back on that past time.

"If he had spoken then," she said, absently, "my heart would have rejoiced; and well I knew 'twould have been no harm to you, dear Judith, for who could doubt how you were inclined – ay, through all your quarrels and misunderstandings? And if 'twas you the good parson wished for in those days – "

"Prudence," her friend said, reproachfully, "you do ill to go back over a by-gone story. If you had thoughts of him then, when as yet he had not spoken, why not now, when he would have you be his wife? 'Tis an honorable offer, as I say; and you – were you not meant for a parson's wife, sweetheart?"

Then Prudence regarded her with her honest eyes.

"I should be afraid, Judith. Perchance I have listened overmuch to your grandmother's talking and to Quiney's; they are both of them angered against him. They say he wrought you ill, and was cruel when he should have been gentle with you, and was overproud of his office. Nay, I marked that your father had scarce ever a word for him when he was coming over to the cottage, but would get away somehow and leave him. And – and methinks I should be afraid, Judith; 'tis no longer as it used to be in former days; and then, without perfect confidence, how should one dare to venture on such a step? No, no, Judith, I should be afraid."

"In truth I cannot advise thee, then, dear heart," her friend said, looking at her curiously. "For more than any I know should you marry one that would be gentle with you and kind. And think you that the parson would overlord it?"

"I know not – I know not," she said, in the same absent way. "But with doubt, with hesitation, without perfect confidence – how could one take such a step?"

And then she bethought her.

"Why, now, all this talking over my poor affairs?" she said, more cheerfully. "A goodly nurse I am proving myself! 'Tis thy affairs are of greater moment, and thou must push forward, sweetheart, and get well more rapidly, else they will say we are careless and foolish, that cannot bring thee into firmer health."