Judith Shakespeare: Her love affairs and other adventures

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"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!"