"Ah," said Prudence, wistfully, "if you could only persuade Judith of that!"

"Persuade her?" said he. "Why, I would stake my life that is what her father would do?"

"You could not persuade her," said Prudence, with a hopeless air. "No; she thinks it is all over now between her father and her. She is disgraced and put away from him. She hath done him such injury, she says, as even his enemies have never done. When he comes back again, she says, to Stratford, she will be here, and she knows that he will never come near this house; and that will be better for her, she says, for she could never again meet him face to face."

Well, all that day Judith lay there in that solitary room, desiring only to be left alone; taking no food; the racking pains in her head returning from time to time; and now and again she shivered slightly, as if from cold. Tom Quiney kept coming and going to hear news of her, or to consult with Prudence as to how to rouse her from this hopelessness of grief; and as the day slowly pa.s.sed, he grew more and more disturbed and anxious and restless. Could nothing be done? Could nothing be done?

was his constant cry.

He remained late that evening, and Prudence stayed all night at the cottage. In the morning he was over again early, and more distressed than ever to hear that the girl was wearing herself out with this agony of remorse--crying stealthily when that she thought no one was near, and hiding herself away from the light, and refusing to be comforted.

But during the long and silent watches he had been taking counsel with himself.

"Prudence," said he, regarding her with a curious look, "do you think now, if some a.s.surance were come from her father himself--some actual message from him--a kindly message--some token that he was far indeed from casting her away from him--think you Judith would be glad to have that?"

"'Twould be like giving her life back to her," said the girl, simply.

"In truth I dread what may come of this; 'tis not in human nature to withstand such misery of mind. My poor Judith, that was ever so careless and merry!"

He hesitated for a second or two, and then he said, looking at her, and speaking in a cautious kind of way.

"Because, when next I have need to write to London, I might beg of some one--my brother d.i.c.k, perchance, that is now in Bucklersbury, and would have small trouble in doing such a service--I say I might beg of him to go and see Judith's father, and tell him the true story, and show him that she was not so much to blame. Nay, for my part I see not that she was to blame at all, but for over-kindness and confidence, and the wish to exalt her father. The mischief that hath been wrought is the doing of the scoundrel and villain on whose head I trust it may fall erelong; 'twas none of hers. And if her father were to have all that now put fairly and straight before him, think you he would not be right sorry to hear that she had taken his anger so much to heart, and was lying almost as one dead at the very thought of it? I tell you, now, if all this be put before him, and if he send her no comfortable message--ay, and that forthwith, and gladly--I have far misread him. And as for her, Prudence--'twould be welcome, say you?"

"'Twould be of the value of all the world to her," Prudence said, in her direct and earnest way.

Well, he almost immediately thereafter left (seeing that he could be of no further help to these women-folk), and walked quickly back to Stratford, and to his house, which was also his place of business. He seemed to hurry through his affairs with speed; then he went up-stairs and looked out some clothing; he took down a pair of pistols and put some fresh powder in the pans, and made a few other preparations. Next he went round to the stable, and the stout little Galloway nag whinnied when she saw him at the door.

"Well, Maggie, la.s.s," said he, going into the stall, and patting her neck, and stroking down her knees, "what sayst thou? Wouldst like a jaunt that would carry thee many a mile away from Stratford town? Nay, but if you knew the errand, I warrant me you would be as eager as I!

What, then--a bargain, la.s.s! By my life, you shall have many a long day's rest in clover when this sharp work is done!"

CHAPTER x.x.xI

A LOST ARCADIA.

It was on this same morning that Judith made a desperate effort to rouse herself from the prostration into which she had fallen. All through that long darkness and despair she had been wearily and vainly asking herself whether she could do nothing to retrieve the evil she had wrought. Her good name might go--she cared little for that now--but was there no means of making up to her father the actual money he had lost? It was not forgiveness she thought of, but rest.i.tution. Forgiveness was not to be dreamed of; she saw before her always that angered face she had beheld in the garden, and her wish was to hide away from that, and be seen of it no more. Then there was another thing: if she were to be permitted to remain at the cottage, ought she not to show herself willing to take a share of the humblest domestic duties? Might not the good dame begin to regard her as but a useless enc.u.mbrance? If it were so that no work her ten fingers could accomplish would ever restore to her father what he had lost through her folly, at least it might win her grandmother's forbearance and patience. And so it was on the first occasion of her head ceasing to ache quite so badly she struggled to her feet (though she was so languid and listless and weak that she could scarcely stand), and put round her the heavy cloak that had been lying on the bed, and smoothed her hair somewhat, and went to the door. There she stood for a minute or two, listening, for she would not go down if there were any strangers about.

The house seemed perfectly still. There was not a sound anywhere. Then, quite suddenly, she heard little Cicely begin to sing to herself--but in s.n.a.t.c.hes, as if she were occupied with other matters--some well-known rhymes to an equally familiar tune--

"By the moon we sport and play; With the night begins our day; As we drink the dew doth fall, Trip it, dainty urchins all!

Lightly as the little bee, Two by two, and three by three, And about go we, go we."

--and she made no doubt that the little girl was alone in the kitchen.

Accordingly, she went down. Cicely, who was seated near the window and busily engaged in plucking a fowl, uttered a slight cry when she entered, and started up.

"Dear Mistress Judith," she said, "can I do aught for you? Will you sit down? Dear, dear, how ill you do look!"

"I am not at all ill, little Cicely," said Judith, as cheerfully as she could, and she sat down. "Give me the fowl--I will do that for you, and you can go and help my grandmother in whatever she is at."

"Nay, not so," said the little maid, definitely refusing. "Why should you?"

"But I wish it," Judith said. "Do not vex me now--go and seek my grandmother, like a good little la.s.s."

The little maid was thus driven to go, but it was with another purpose.

In about a couple of minutes she had returned, and preceding her was Judith's grandmother.

"What! art come down, wench?" the old dame said, patting her kindly on the shoulder. "That be so far well--ay, ay, I like that now--that be better for thee than lying all alone. But what would you with the little maid's work, that you would take it out of her hands?"

"Why, if I am idle, and do nothing, grandmother, you will be for turning me out of the house," the girl answered, looking up with a strange kind of smile.

"Turn thee out of the house," said her grandmother, who had just caught a better glimpse of the wan and tired face. "Ay, that will I--and now.

Come thy ways, wench; 'tis time for thee to be in the fresh air. Cicely, let be the fowl now. Put some more wood on the fire, and hang on the pot--there's a clever la.s.s. And thou, grandchild, come thy ways with me into the garden, and I warrant me when thou comest back a cupful of barley-broth will do thee no harm."

Judith obeyed, though she would fain have sat still. And then, when she reached the front door what a bewilderment of light and color met her eyes! She stood as one dazed for a second or two. The odors of the flowers and the shrubs were so strange, moreover--pungent and strange and full of memories. It seemed so long a time since she had seen this wonderful glowing world and breathed this keen air, that she paused on the stone flag to collect her senses as it were. And then a kind of faintness came over her, and perhaps she might have sank to the ground, but that she laid hold of her grandmother's arm.

"Ay, ay, come thy ways and sit thee down, dearie," the old dame said, imagining that the girl was but begging for a little a.s.sistance in her walking. "I be main glad to see thee out again. I liked not that lying there alone--nay, I wur feared of it, and I bade Prudence send your mother and Susan to see you----"

"No, no, good grandmother, no, no!" Judith pleaded, with all the effort that remained to her.

"But yea, yea!" her grandmother said, sharply. "Foolish wench, that would hide away from them that can best aid thee! Ay, and knowest thou how the new disease, as they call it, shows itself at the beginning?

Why, with a pinching of the face and sharp pains in the head. Wouldst thou have me let thee lie there, and perchance go from bad to worse, and not send for them--ay, and for Susan's husband, if need were? Nay, but let not that fright thee, good wench," she said, in a gentler way. "'Tis none so bad as I thought, else you would not be venturing down the stairs--nay, nay, there be no harm done as yet, I warrant me--'tis a breath of fresh air to sharpen thee into a hungry fit that will be the best doctor for thee. Here, sit thee down and rest now, and when the barley-broth be warm enough, Cicely shall bring thee out a dish of it.

Nay, I see no harm done. Keep up thy heart, la.s.s; thou wert ever a brave one--ay, what was there ever that could daunt thee? and not the boldest of the youths but was afraid of thy laugh and thy merry tongue. Heaven save us, that thou should take on so! And if you would sell yourself to work in slavery in the Indies, think you they would buy a poor, weak, trembling creature? Nay, nay, we will have to fetch back the roses to your cheeks ere you make for that bargain, I warrant me!"

They were now seated in the little arbor. On entering Judith had cast her eyes round it in a strange and half-frightened fashion; and now, as she sat there, she was scarcely listening to the good-natured garrulity of the old dame, which was wholly meant to cheer her spirits.

"Grandmother," said she, in a low voice, "think you 'twas really he that took away with him my father's play?"

"I know not how else it could have been come by," said the grandmother, "but I pray you, child, heed not that for the present. What be done and gone cannot be helped--let it pa.s.s--there, there, now, what a lack of memory have I, that should have shown thee the pretty lace cuffs that Thomas Quiney left for thee--fit for a queen they be, to be sure--ay, and the fine lace of them, and the silver, too. He hath a free hand, he hath; 'tis a fair thing for any that will be in life-partnership with him; 'twill not away, marry 'twill not; 'twill bide in his nature--that will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone, as they say; and I like to see a young man that be none of the miser kind, but ready forth with his money where 'tis to please them he hath a fancy for. A brave lad he is too, and one that will hold his own; and when I told him that you were pleased that his business went forward well, why, saith he, as quick as quick, 'Said she that?' and if my old eyes fail me not, I know of one that setteth greater share by your good word than you imagine, wench."

She but half heard; she was recalling all that had happened in this very summer-house.

"And think you, grandmother," said she, slowly, and with absent eyes, "that when he was sitting here with us, and telling us all about the Court doings, and about my father's friends in London, and when he was so grateful to us--or saying that he was so--for our receiving of him here, think you that all the time he was planning to steal my father's play, and to take it and sell it in London? Grandmother can you think it possible? Could any one be such a hypocrite? I know that he deceived me at the first, but 'twas only a jest, and he confessed it all, and professed his shame that he had so done. But, grandmother, think of him--think of how he used to speak--and ever so modest and gentle; is't possible that all the time he was playing the thief, and looking forward to the getting away to London to sell what he had stolen?"

"For love's sake, sweetheart, heed that man no more! 'tis all done and gone--there can come no good of vexing thyself about it," her grandmother said. "Be he villain or not, 'twill be well for all of us that we never hear his name more. In good sooth I am as much to blame as thou thyself, child, for the encouraging him to come about, and listening to his gossip--beshrew me, that I should have meddled in such matters, and not bade him go about his business! But 'tis all past and gone now, as I say--there be no profit in vexing thyself----"

"Past and gone, grandmother!" she exclaimed, and yet in a listless way.

"Yes--but what remains? Good grandmother, perchance you did not hear all that the parson said. 'Tis past and gone, truly--and more than you think."

The tone in which she uttered these words somewhat startled the good dame, who looked at her anxiously. And then she said,

"Why, now, I warrant me the barley-broth will be hot enough by this time: I will go fetch thee a cupful, wench--'twill put warmth in thy veins, it will--ay, and cheer thy heart too."

"Trouble not, good grandmother," she said. "I would as lief go back to my room now. The light hurts my eyes strangely."

"Back to your room? that shall you not!" was the prompt answer, but not meant unkindly. "You shall wait here, wench, till I bring thee that will put some color in thy white face--ay, and some of Thomas Quiney's wine withal; and if the light hurt thee, sit farther back, then--of a truth 'tis no wonder, after thou hast hid thyself like a dormouse for so long."

And so she went away to the house. But she was scarcely gone when Judith--in this extreme silence that the rustling of a leaf would have disturbed--heard certain voices; and listening more intently she made sure that the new-comers must be Susan and her mother, whom Prudence had asked to walk over. Instantly she got up, though she had to steady herself for a moment by resting her hand on the table; and then, as quickly as she could, and as noiselessly, she stole along the path to the cottage, and entered, and made her way up to her own room. She fancied she had not been heard. She would rather be alone. If they had come to accuse her, what had she to answer? Why, nothing: they might say of her what they pleased now, it was all deserved; only, the one denunciation of her that she had listened to--the one she had heard from the parson--seemed like the ringing of her death-knell. Surely there was no need to repeat that? They could not wish to repeat it, did they but know all it meant to her.