Judith Shakespeare Part 51

"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, la.s.s. 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 la.s.s, 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 la.s.s, 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 la.s.s, '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 pa.s.ses 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 x.x.xV.

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 s.p.a.ce 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."