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, minstrel, play on, minstrel,
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."
"But I am well content," said Judith, with a perfectly placid smile.
"Content! But you must not be content," Prudence exclaimed. "Would you
remain within-doors until your hair be grown? Vanity is it, then? Ah,
for shame--you that always professed to be so proud, and careless of
what they thought! Content, truly! Look at so thin a hand--are you
content to remain so?"
"I am none so ill," Judith said, pleasantly. "The days pass well enough,
and every one is kind."
"But I say you must not be content!" Prudence again remonstrated. "Did
ever any one see such a poor, weak, white hand as that? Look at the
thin, thin veins."
"Ah, but you know not, sweetheart," Judith said, and she herself looked
at those thin blue veins in the white hand; "they seem to me to be
running full of music and happiness ever since I came out of the fever
and found my father talking to me in the old way."