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."