He went to the table and opened the box, and took out the little present he had brought for Judith. It was a pair of lace cuffs, with a slender silver circle at the wrist, the lace going back from that in a succession of widening leaves. It was not only a pretty present, it was also (in proportion to his means) a costly one, as the old dame's sharp eyes instantly saw.

"I think she would have been pleased with them," he said, absently. And then he said,

"Good grandmother, it were of no use to lay them near her in the morning--on a chair or at the window--that perchance she might look at them?"

"Nay, nay," the grandmother said, shaking her head, "'tis no child's trouble that hath befallen the poor wench, that she can be comforted with pretty trifles."

"I meant not that," said he, flushing somewhat. "'Tis that I would have her know that--that there were friends thinking of her all the same--those that would rather have her gladdened and tended and made much of, than--than--chidden with any chastis.e.m.e.nt."

This word chastis.e.m.e.nt seemed to recall his anger.

"I say that Judith hath done no wrong at all," he said, as if he were confronting some one not there; "and that I will maintain; and let no man in my hearing say aught else. Why, now, the story as you tell it, good grandmother--'tis as plain as daylight--a child can see it--all that she did was done to magnify her father and his writing; and if the villain sold the play--or let it slip out of his hands--was that her doing? Doubtless it is a sore mischance; but I see not that Judith is to be blamed for it; and right well I know that if her father were to hear how she is smitten down with grief he would be the first to say, 'Good la.s.s, there is no such harm done. A great harm would be your falling sick; get you up and out, seek your friends again, and be happy as you were before.' That is what he would say, I will take my oath of it; and if the parson and his chastis.e.m.e.nts were to come across him, by my life I would not seek to be in the parson's shoes!"

"I must make another trial with the poor wench," said the good grandmother, rising, "that hath eaten nothing all the day. In truth her only crying is to be left alone now, and that hereafter I am to let her bide with me. It be a poor shelter, I think, for one used to live in a n.o.ble house; but there 'tis, so long as she wisheth it."

"Nay, but this cannot be suffered to go on, good Mistress Hathaway,"

said he, as he rose and got his cap; "for if Judith take no food, and will see no one, and be alone with her trouble, of a surety she will fall ill. Now to-morrow morning I will bring Prudence over. If any can comfort her, Prudence can; and that she will be right willing, I know.

They have been as sisters."

"That be well thought of, Master Quiney," said the grandmother, as she went to the door with him. "Take care o' the ditch the other side of the way; it be main dark o' nights now."

"Good-night to you, good grandmother," said he, as he disappeared in the darkness.

But it was neither back home nor yet to Stratford town that Tom Quiney thought of going all that long night. He felt a kind of constraint upon him (and yet a constraint that kept his heart warm with a secret satisfaction) that he should play the part of a watch-dog, as it were--as if Judith were sorely ill, or in danger, or in need of protection somehow; and he kept wandering about in the dark, never at any great radius from the cottage. His self-imposed task was the easier now that, as the black clouds overhead slowly moved before the soft westerly wind, gaps were opened, and here and there cl.u.s.ters of stars were visible, shedding a faint light down on the sombre roads and fields and hedges. Many strange fancies occurred to him during that long and silent night, as to what he could do, or would like to do, for Judith's sake. Breaking the parson's neck was the first and most natural, and the most easily accomplished; but fleeing the country, which he knew must follow, did not seem so desirable a thing. He wanted to do something--he knew not what. He wished he had been less of a companion with the young men, and less careful to show, with them, that Stratford town and the county of Warwick could hold their own against all comers.

If he had been more considerate and gentle with Judith, perhaps she would not have sought the society of the parson. He knew he had not the art of winning her over, like the parson. He could not speak so plausibly. Nor had he the authority of the Church behind him. It was natural for women to think much of that, and to be glad of the shelter of authority. Parsons themselves (he considered) were a kind of half women, being in women's secrets, and ent.i.tled to speak to them in ghostly confidence. But if Judith, now, wanted some one to do something for her, no matter what, in his rough-and-ready way--well, he wondered what that could be that he would refuse. And so the dark hours went by.

With the gray of the dawn he began to cast his eyes abroad, as if to see if any one were stirring, or approaching the cl.u.s.ter of cottages nestled down there among the trees. The daylight widened and spread up in the trembling east; the fields and the woods became clear; here and there a small tuft of blue smoke began to arise from a cottage chimney. And now he was on Bardon Hill, and could look abroad over the wide landscape lying between Shottery and Stratford town; and if any one--any one bringing lowering brows and further cruel speech to a poor maid already stricken down and defenceless--had been in sight, what then? Watchfully and slowly he went down from the hill, and back to the meadows lying between the hamlet and Stratford, there to interpose, as it were, and question all comers. And well it was, for the sake of peace and charity, that the good parson did not chance to be early abroad on this still morning; and well it was for the young man himself. There was no wise-eyed Athene to descend from the clouds and bid this wrathful Achilles calm his heart. He was only an English country youth, though sufficiently Greek-like in form; and he was hungry and gray-faced with his vigil of the night, and not in a placable mood. Nay, when a young man is possessed with the consciousness that he is the defender of some one behind him--some one who is weak and feminine and suffering--he is apt to prove a dangerous antagonist; and it was well for all concerned that he had no occasion to pick a quarrel on this morning in these quiet meadows. In truth he might have been more at rest had he known that the good parson was in no hurry to follow up his monitions of the previous day; he wished these to sink into her mind and take root there, so that thereafter might spring up such wholesome fruits as repentance and humility, and the desire of G.o.dly aid and counsel.

By-and-by he slipped away home, plunged his head into cold water to banish the dreams of the night, and then, having swallowed a cup of milk to stay his hunger, he went along to Chapel Street, to see if he could have speech of Prudence. He found that not only were all of the household up and doing, but that Prudence herself was ready to go out, being bent on one of her charitable errands; and it needed but a word to alter the direction of her kindness: of course she would at once go to see Judith.

"Truly I had fears of it," said she, as they went through the fields, the pale, calm face having grown more and more anxious as she listened to all that he had to tell her. "Her father was as the light of the world to her. With the others of us she hath ever been headstrong in a measure, and careless--and yet so lovable withal, and merry, that I for one could never withstand her--nay, I confess I tried not to withstand her, for never knew I of any wilfulness of hers springing from anything but good-nature and her kind and generous ways. But that she was ever ready to brave our opinions I know, and perchance make light of our anxieties, we not having her courage; and in all things she seemed to be a guide unto herself, and to walk sure and have no fear. In all things but one. Indeed 'tis true what her grandmother told you, and who should know better than I, who was always with her? The slightest wish of her father's--that was law to her. A word of commending from him, and she was happy for days. And think what this must be now--she that was so proud of his approval--that scarce thought of aught else. Nay, for myself I can see that they have told him all a wrong story in London, that know I well; and 'tis no wonder that he is vexed and angry; but Judith--poor Judith----"

She could say no more just then; she turned aside her face somewhat.

"Do you know what she said to her grandmother, Prudence, when she fell a crying? that there had been but the one rose in her garden, and that was gone now."

"'Tis what Susan used to sing," said Prudence, with rather trembling lips. "'_The rose is from my garden gone_,' 'twas called. Ay, and hath she that on her mind now? Truly I wish that her mother and Susan had let me break this news to her; none know as well as I what it must be to her."

And here Tom Quiney quickly asked her whether it was not clear to her that the parson had gone beyond his mission altogether--and that in a way that would have to be dealt with afterward, when all these things were amended? Prudence, with some faint color in her pale face, defended Master Blaise to the best of her power, and said she knew he could not have been unduly harsh; nay, had she not herself, just as he was setting forth, besought him to be kind and considerate with Judith? Hereupon Quiney rather brusquely asked what the good man could mean by phrases about discipline and chastenings and chastis.e.m.e.nts; to which Prudence answered gently that these were but separate words, and that she was sure Master Blaise had fulfilled what he undertook in a merciful spirit, which was his nature. After that there was a kind of silence between these two; perhaps Quiney considered that no good end could be served at present by stating his own ideas on that subject. The proper time would come, in due course.

At length they reached the cottage. But here, to their amazement, and to the infinite distress of Prudence, when Judith's grandmother came down the wooden steps again, she shook her head, saying that the wench would see no one.

"I thought as 'twould be so," she said.

"But me, good grandmother! Me!" Prudence cried, with tears in her eyes.

"Surely she will not refuse to see me!"

"No one, she saith," was the answer. "Poor wench, her head do ache so bad. And when one would cheer her or comfort her a morsel, 'tis another fit of crying--that will wear her to skin and bone, if she do not pluck up better heart. She hath eaten naught this morning neither; 'tis for no wilfulness, poor la.s.s, for she tried an hour ago; and now 'tis best as I think to leave her alone."

"By your leave, good grandmother," said Prudence, with some firmness, "that will I not. If Judith be in such trouble, 'tis not likely that I should go away and leave her. It hath never been the custom between us two."

"As you will, Prudence," the grandmother said. "Young hearts have their confidences among themselves. Perchance you may be able to rouse her."

Prudence went up the stairs silently and opened the door. Judith was lying on the bed, her face turned away from the light, her hands clasped over her forehead.

"Judith!"

There was no answer.

"Judith," said her friend, going near, "I am come to see you."

There was a kind of sob--that was all.

"Judith, is your head so bad? Can I do nothing for you?"

She put over her hand--the soft and cool and gentle touch of which had comforted many a sick-bed--and she was startled to find that both Judith's hands and forehead were burning hot.

"No, sweetheart," was the answer, in a low and broken voice, "you can do nothing for me now."

"Nay, nay, Judith, take heart," Prudence said, and she gently removed the hot fingers from the burning forehead, and put her own cooler hand there, as if to dull the throbbing of the pain. "Sweetheart, be not so cast down! 'Twill be all put right in good time."

"Never--never!" the girl said, without tears, but with an abject hopelessness of tone. "It can never be undone now. He said my name was become a mockery among my father's friends. For myself, I would not heed that--nay, they might say of me what they pleased--but that my father should hear of it--a mockery and scorn--and they think I cared so little for my father that I was ready to give away his papers to any one pretending to be a sweetheart and befooling me--and my father to know it all, and to hear such things said--no, that can never be undone now. I used to count the weeks and the days and the very hours when I knew he was coming back--that was the joy of my life to me--and now, if I were to know that he were coming near to Stratford I should fly and hide somewhere--anywhere--in the river as lief as not. Nay, I make no complaint. 'Tis my own doing, and it cannot be undone now."

"Judith, Judith, you break my heart!" her friend cried. "Surely to all troubles there must come an end."

"Yes, yes," was the answer, in a low voice, and almost as if she were speaking to herself. "That is right. There will come an end. I would it were here now."

All Prudence's talking seemed to be of no avail. She reasoned and besought--oftentimes with tears in her eyes--but Judith remained quite listless and hopeless; she seemed to be in a stunned and dazed condition after the long sleeplessness of the night; and Prudence was afraid that further entreaties would only aggravate her headache.

"I will go and get you something to eat now," said she. "Your grandmother says you have had nothing since yesterday."

"Do not trouble; 'tis needless, sweetheart," Judith said; and then she added with a brief shiver, "but if you could fetch a thick cloak, dear Prudence, and throw it over me--surely the day is cold somewhat."

A few minutes after (so swift and eager was everybody in the house) Judith was warmly wrapped up; and by the side of the bed, on a chair, was some food the good grandmother had been keeping ready, and also a flask of wine that Quiney had brought with him.

"Look you, Judith," said Prudence, "here is some wine that Thomas Quiney hath brought for you--'tis of a rare quality, he saith--and you must take a little. Nay, you must and shall, sweetheart; and then perchance you may be able to eat."

She sipped a little of the wine; it was but to show her grat.i.tude and send him her thanks. She could not touch the food. She seemed mostly anxious for rest and quiet; and so Prudence noiselessly left her and stole down the stair again.

Prudence was terribly perplexed and in a kind of despair almost.

"I know not what to do," she said. "I would bring over her mother and Susan, but that she begs and prays me not to do that--nay, she cannot see them she says. And there is no reasoning with her. It cannot be undone now--that is her constant cry. What to do I cannot tell; for surely, if she remain so, and take no comfort, she will fall ill."

"Ay, and if that be so who is to blame?" said Quiney, who was walking up and down in considerable agitation. "I say that letter should never have been put into the parson's hands. Was it meant to be conveyed to Judith?

I warrant me it was not! Did her father say that he wished her chidden?

did he ask any of you to bid the parson go to her with his upbraidings?

would he himself have been so quick and eager to chasten her proud spirit? I tell you no. He is none of the parson kind. Vexed he might have been, but he would have taken no vengeance. What--on his own child?

By heavens, I'll be sworn now that if he were here, at this minute, he would take the girl by the hand, and laugh at her for being so afraid of his anger--ay, I warrant me he would--and would bid her be of good cheer, and brighten her face, that was ever the brightest in Warwickshire, as I have heard him say. That would he--my life on it!"