"WESTERN WIND, WHEN WILL YOU BLOW?"
There was much laughing among the good folk of Stratford town--or rather
among those of them allowed to visit Quiney's back yard--over the
nondescript vehicle that he and his friend Pleydell were constructing
there. But that was chiefly at the first, when the neighbors would call
it a coffin on wheels or a grown-up cradle; afterward, when it grew
into shape and began to exhibit traces of decoration (the little canopy
at the head, for example, was covered, over with blue taffeta that made
a shelter from the sun), they moderated their ridicule, and at last
declared it a most ingenious and useful contrivance, and one that went
as easily on its leather bands as any king's coach that ever was built.
And they said they hoped it would do good service, for they knew it was
meant for Judith; and she had won the favor and good-will of many in
that town, in so far as an unmarried young woman was deemed worthy of
consideration.
But that was an anxious morning when Quiney set forth with this strange
vehicle for the cottage. Little Willie Hart was there, and Quiney had
flung him inside, saying he would give him a ride as far as Shottery,
but thereafter he did not speak a word to the boy. For this was the
morning on which he was to see Judith for the first time since the fever
had left her, and not only that, but he had been appointed to carry her
down-stairs to the larger room below. This was by the direct
instructions of the doctor. Judith's father was now in London again, the
doctor was not a very powerful man, the staircase was over-narrow to let
two of the women try it between them; who, therefore, was there but this
young athlete to gather up that precious charge and bear her gently
forth? But when he thought of that first meeting with Judith he
trembled, and dismay and apprehension filled his heart lest he should
show himself in the smallest way shocked by her appearance. Careless as
she might have been of other things, she had always put a value on that;
she knew she had good looks, and she liked to look pretty and dainty,
and to wear becoming and pretty things. And again and again he schooled
himself and argued with himself. He must be prepared to find her
changed--nay, had he not already had one glimpse of her, as she lay
asleep, in the cold light of the dawn?--he must be prepared to find the
happy and radiant face no longer that, but all faded and white and worn,
the clear shining eyes no longer laughing, but sunken and sad, and the
beautiful sun-brown hair--that was her chiefest pride of all--no longer
clustering round her neck. Not that he himself cared--Judith was for him
always and ever Judith, whatever she might be like, but his terror was
lest he should betray, in the smallest fashion, some pained surprise. He
knew how sensitive she was, and as an invalid she would be even more so,
and what a fine thing it would be if her eyes were suddenly to fill
with tears on witnessing his disappointment! And so he argued and
argued, and strove to think of Judith as a ghost--as anything rather
than her former self; and when he reached the cottage, he asked whether
Judith was ready to be brought down, in so matter-of-fact a way that he
seemed perfectly unconcerned.
Well, she was not ready, for her grandmother had the tiring of her, and
the old dame was determined that (if she had her way) her grandchild
should look none too like an invalid. If the sun-brown curls were gone,
at least the cap that she wore should have pretty blue ribbons where it
met under the chin. And she would have her wear the lace cuffs, too,
that Quiney had brought her from Warwick--did not she owe it to him to
do service for the gift? And when all that was done, she made Judith
take a little wine-and-water, to strengthen her for the being carried
down-stairs, and then she sent word that Quiney might come up.
He made his appearance forthwith, a little pale, perhaps, and hesitating
and apprehensive as he crossed the threshold. And then he came quickly
forward, and there was a sudden wonder of joy and gladness in his eyes.
"Judith," he exclaimed, quite involuntarily, and forgetting everything,
"why, how well you are looking!--indeed, indeed you are!--sweetheart,
you are not changed at all!"
For this was Judith; not any of the spectral phantoms he had been
conjuring up, but Judith herself, regarding him with friendly (if yet
timid) eyes, and her face, as he looked at her in this glad way, was no
longer pale, but had grown rose-red as the face of a bride. Her anxiety
and nervousness had been far greater than she dared to tell any of them;
but now his surprise and delight were surely real, and then--for she was
very weak, and she had been anxious and full of fear, and this joy of
seeing him--of seeing a strange face, that belonged to the former happy
time--was too much for her. Her lips were tremulous, tears rose to her
eyes, and she would have turned away to hide her crying--but that all at
once he recalled his scattered senses, and inwardly cursed himself for a
fool, and forthwith addressed her in the most cheerful and simple way.
"Why, now, what stories they have been telling me, Judith! I should
scarce know you had been ill. You are thinner--oh, yes, you are a little
thinner; and if you went to the woods to gather nuts I reckon you would
not bring home a heavy bag; but that will all mend in time. In honest
truth, dear Judith, I am glad to see you looking none so ill; now I
marvel not at your father going away to see after his affairs--so sure
he must have been."
"I am glad that he went, I was fretting so," she said (and it was so
strange to hear Judith's voice, that always stirred his heart as if with
the vibration of Susan's singing), and then she added, timidly regarding
him--"and you--I have caused you much trouble also."
He laughed; in truth he was so bewildered with the delight of seeing
this real living Judith before him that he scarce knew what he said.
"Trouble! yes, trouble, indeed, that I could do nothing for you, and all
the others waiting with you and cheering you. But now, dear Judith, I
have something for you--oh, you shall see it presently; and you may
laugh, but I warrant me you will find it easy and comfortable when that
you are allowed to go forth into the garden. 'Tis a kind of couch, as it
were, but on wheels--nay, you may call it your chariot, Judith, if you
would be in state; and if you may not go farther than the garden at
first, why, then you may lie in it, and have some one read to you; and
there is a small curtain if you would shut them all out and go to sleep;
ay, and when the time comes for you to go along the lanes, then you may
sit up somewhat, for there are pillows for your head and for your back.
As for the drawing of it, why, little Willie Hart can pull me when I am
in it, and surely he can do the same for you, that are scarce so heavy
as I, as I take it. Oh, I warrant you, you will soon get used to it; and
'twill be so much pleasanter for you than being always within-doors--and
the fresher air--the fresher air will soon bring back your color,
Judith."
For now that the first flush of embarrassment was gone he could not but
see (though still he talked in that cheerful strain) how pale and worn
was her face; and her hands, that lay listlessly on the coverlet, with
the pretty lace cuffs going back from the wrists, were spectral hands,
so thin and white were they.
"Master Quiney," said the old dame, coming to the door, "it be all ready
now below, if you can carry the wench down. And take time--take
time--there be no hurry."
"You must come and help me, good grandmother," said he, "to get her well
into my arms."
In truth he was trembling with very nervousness as he set about this
task. Should some mischance occur--some stumble! And then he found
himself all too strong and uncouth and clumsy, with her so frail and
delicate and weak. But her grandmother lifted the girl's hand to his
shoulder, or rather to his neck, and bade her hold on so, as well as she
might; and then he got his arms better round her, and with slow and
careful steps made his way down to the room below. There the bed was
near the window, and when he had gently placed her on it, and propped up
her head and shoulders, so that she was almost sitting, the first thing
that she saw before her was the slung box of flowers and leaves outside
the little casement. She turned to him and smiled, and looked her thanks
with grateful eyes: he sought for no more than that.
Of course they were all greatly pleased at this new state of affairs--it
seemed a step on the forward way, a hopeful thing. Moreover, there was a
brighter animation in the girl's look--whether that was owing to the
excitement of the change or the pleasure at seeing the face of an old
friend.
And as the others seemed busy among themselves, suggesting small
arrangements, and the like, Quiney judged it was time for him to go; his
services were no longer needed.
He went forward to her.
"Judith," said he, "I will bid you good-day now. If you but knew how
glad I am to have seen you--ay, and to find you going on so well! I will
take away a lighter heart with me."
She looked up at him hesitating and timid, and then she gathered
courage.
"But why must you go?" said she, with some touch of color in the pale
face.
He glanced at the others.
"Perchance they may not wish me to stay; they may fear your being tired
with talking."
"But if I wish you to stay--for a little while?" she said, gently. "If
your business call you not----"
"My business!" he said. "My business must shift for itself on such a day
as this; think you 'tis nothing for me to speak with you again, Judith,
after so long a time?"
"And my chariot," she said, brightly--"may not I see my chariot?"
"Why, truly!" he cried. "Willie Hart is in charge of it without. We will
bring it along the passage, and you will see it at the door; and you
must not laugh, dear Judith--'tis a rude-made thing, I know--but
serviceable--you shall have comfort from it, I warrant you."
They wheeled it along the passage, but could not get it within the
apartment; however, through the open door she could see very easily the
meaning and construction of it. And when she observed with what care and
pretty taste it had been adorned for her, even to the putting ribbons at
the front corners of the little canopy (but this was not the work of
men's fingers; it was Prudence who had contributed these), she was not
in the least inclined to laugh at the efforts of these good friends to
be of use to her and to gratify her. She beckoned him to come to her.
"'Tis but a patchwork thing to look at," said he, rather shamefacedly,
"but I hope you will find it right comfortable when you use it. I hope
soon to hear of you trying it, Judith."
"Give me your hand," said she.
She took his hand and kissed it.
"I cannot speak my thanks to you," she said, in a low voice, "for not
only this but all that you have done for me."
There were tears in her eyes, and he was so bewildered, and his heart so
wildly aflame, that he could only touch her shoulder and say,
"Be still now, Judith. Be still and quiet, and perchance they may let me
remain with you a little space further."
* * * * *
Well, it was a long and a weary waiting. She seemed, too, content with
her feeble state; there were so many who were kind to her; and her
father sending her messages from London; and Quiney coming every morning
to put some little things--branches of evergreens, or the like, when
flowers were no longer to be had--in the little basket outside the
window. He could reach to that easily; and when she happened to hear his
footsteps coming near, even when she could not see him, she would tap
with her white fingers on the window-panes--that was her thanks to him,
and morning greeting.
It was a bitter winter, and ever they were looking forward to the milder
weather, to see when they might risk taking her out-of-doors, swathed up
in her chariot, as she called it; but the weeks and weeks went by, hard
and obdurate, and at last they found themselves in the new year. But she
could get about the house a little now, in a quiet way; and so it was
that, one morning, she and Quiney were together standing at the front
window, looking abroad over the wide white landscape. Snow lay
everywhere, thick and silent; the bushes were heavy with it; and far
beyond those ghostly meadows, though they could not see it they knew
that the Avon was fixed and hard in its winter sleep, under the hanging
banks of the Wier Brake.
"'_Western wind, when will you blow?_'" she said, and yet not sadly, for
there was a placid look in her eyes: she was rather complaining, with a
touch of the petulance of the Judith of old.
The arm of her lover was resting lightly on her shoulder--she was strong
enough to bear that now, and she did not resent the burden; and she had
got her soft sunny-brown curls again, though still they were rather
short; and her face had got back something of its beautiful curves; and
her eyes, if they were not so cruelly audacious as of old, were yet
clear-shining and gentle, and with abundance of kind messages for all
the world, but with tenderer looks for only one.
"'_Western wind_,'" she repeated, with that not over-sad complaint of
injury, "'_when will you blow--when will you blow?_'"
"All in good time, sweetheart, all in good time," said he; and his hand
lay kindly on her shoulder, as if she were one to whom some measure of
gentle tending and cheering words were somewhat due. "And guess you now
what they mean to do for you when the milder weather comes? I mean the
lads at the school. Why, then, 'tis a secret league and compact--I doubt
not that your cousin Willie may have been at the suggesting of it--but
'twas some of the bigger lads who came to me. And 'tis all arranged now,
and all for the sake of you, dear heart. For when the milder weather
comes, and the year begins to wake again, why, they are all of them to
keep a sharp and eager eye here and there--in the lanes or in the
woods--for the early peeping up of the primroses; and then 'tis to be a
grand whole holiday that I am to get for them, as it appears; and all
the school is to go forth to search the hedge-rows and the woods and the
banks--all the country-side is to be searched and searched--and for
what, think you? why, to bring you a spacious basketful of the very
first primroses of the spring! See you, now, what it is to be the
general favorite. Nay, I swear to you, dear Judith, you are the
sweetheart of all of them; and what a shame it is that I must take you
away from them all!"
THE END.
List of Corrections:
p. 11: "and a semicicle on the crumbling earth" was changed to
"and a semicircle on the crumbling earth."
p. 78: "She did not not seem" was changed to
"She did not seem."
p. 81: "from you own people" was changed to
"from your own people."
p. 123: "chance of the the same" was changed to
"chance of the same."
p. 131: "we sat in the litttle bower" was changed to
"we sat in the little bower."
p. 166: "she had heard vaguely of from time time" was changed to
"she had heard vaguely of from time to time."
p. 169: "this acquaintence the moment she chose." was changed to
"this acquaintance the moment she chose."
p. 171: "the deliberare purpose" was changed to
"the deliberate purpose."
p. 191: "letters of red and biack;" was changed to
"letters of red and black;"
p. 203: "as he slowy sharpened" was changed to
"as he slowly sharpened."
p. 233: "For how long?--a fornight!" was changed to
"For how long?--a fortnight!"
p. 307: "her contritition" was changed to
"her contrition."
p. 322: "lead her delirous wanderings" was changed to
"lead her delirious wanderings."
p. 349: "so sure be must have been" was changed to
"so sure he must have been."
Errata:
p. 176: "Nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently.
should be "Nay, but this time you have hit the mark," said Judith,
complacently.
p. 185: "'twas a bold demand to made of England!" should be "'twas a
bold demand to make of England!"