Then that night, as she lay awake in the dark, her incessant imaginings shaped themselves toward one end. This passion of grief she knew to be unavailing and fruitless. Something she would try to do, if but to give evidence of her contrition: for how could she bear that her father should think of her as one having done him this harm and still going on light-hearted and unconcerned? The parson was coming over on the morrow. And if she were to put away her maidenly pride (and other vague dreams that she had sometimes dreamed), and take it that her consent would re-establish her in the eyes of those who were now regarding her askance, and make her peace with her own household? And if the surrender of her marriage-portion and her interest in the Rowington copyhold (whatever it might be) were in a measure to mitigate her father's loss? It was the only thing she could think of. And if at times she looked forward with a kind of shudder (for in the night-time all prospects wear a darker hue) to her existence as the parson's wife, again there came to her the reflection that it was not for her to repine. Some sacrifice was due from her. And could she not be as resolute as the daughter of the Gileadite? Oftentimes she had heard the words read out in the still afternoon: "Now when Iphtah came to Mizpeh unto his house, behold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and dances: which was his only child; he had none other, son nor daughter. And when he saw her he rent his clothes, and said, Alas! my daughter, thou hast brought me low, and art of them that trouble me." The Jewish maiden had done no ill, and yet was brave to suffer. Why should she repine at any sacrifice demanded of her to atone for her own wrong-doing? What else was there? She hoped that Susan and her mother would be pleased now, and that her father and his friends in London would not have any serious loss to regret. There was but the one way, she said to herself again and again. She was almost anxious for the parson to come over, to see if he would approve.

With the daylight her determination became still more clear, and also she saw more plainly the difficulties before her; for it could not be deemed a very seemly and maidenly thing that she, on being asked to become a bride (and she had no doubt that was his errand), should begin to speak of her marriage-portion. But would he understand? Would he help her over her embarrassment? Nay, she could not but reflect, here was an opportunity for his showing himself generous and large-minded. He had always professed, or at least intimated, that his wish to have her for wife was based mostly on his care for herself and his regard for the general good of the pious community to which he belonged. She was to be a helpmate for one laboring in the Lord's vineyard; she was to be of service in the church; she was to secure for herself a constant and loving direction and guidance. And now, if he wished to prove all this—if he wished to show himself so noble and disinterested as to win for himself her life-long gratitude—what if he were to take over all her marriage-portion, as that might be arranged, and forthwith and chivalrously hand it back again, so that her grievous fault should so far be condoned? If the girl had been in her usual condition of health and spirits, it is probable that she would have regarded this question with a trifle of scepticism (for she was about as shrewd in such matters as Susan herself); nay, it is just probable that she might have experienced a malicious joy in putting him to the proof. But she was in despair; her nerves were gone through continual wakefulness and mental torture; this was the only direction in which she saw light before her, and she regarded it, not with her ordinary faculty of judgment, but with a kind of pathetic hope.

Master Blaise arrived in the course of the morning. His reception was not auspicious, for the old dame met him at the gate, and made more than a show of barring the way.

"Indeed, good sir," said she, firmly, "the wench be far from well now, and I would have her left alone."

He answered that his errand was of some importance, and that he must crave a few minutes' interview. Both her mother and sister, he said, were aware he was coming over to see her, and had made no objection.

"No, no, perchance not," the grandmother said, though without budging an inch, "but she be under my care now, and I will have no harm befall her——"

"Harm! good Mistress Hathaway?" said he.

"Well, she be none so strong as she were—and—and perchance there hath been overmuch lecturing of the poor lass. Nay, I doubt not 'twas meant in kindness; but there hath been overmuch of it, as I reckon, and what I say is, if the wench have done amiss, let those that have the right to complain come to her. Nay, 'twas kindness, good sir; 'twas well meant, I doubt not; and 'tis your calling belike to give counsel and reproof; I say naught against that, but I am of a mind to have my grandchild left alone at present."

"If you refuse me, good Mistress Hathaway," said he, quite courteously and calmly, "there is no more to be said. But I imagine that her mother and sister will be surprised. And as for the maiden herself—go you by her wishes?"

"Nay, not I," was the bold answer. "I know better than all of them together. For to speak plainly with you, good Master Parson, your preaching must have been oversharp when last you were within here—and was like to have brought the wench to death's door thereafter; marry, she be none so far recovered as to risk any further of such treatment. Perchance you meant no harm; but she is proud and high-spirited, and by your leave, good sir, we will see her a little stronger and better set up ere she have any more of the discipline of the church bestowed on her."

It was well that Judith appeared at this juncture, for the tone of the old dame's voice was growing more and more tart.

"Grandmother," said she, "I would speak with Master Blaise."

"Get thee within-doors at once, I tell thee, wench!" was the peremptory rejoinder.

"No, good grandmother, so please you," Judith said, "I must speak with him. There is much of importance that I have to say to him. Good sir, will you step into the garden?"

The old dame withdrew, sulky and grumbling, and evidently inclined to remain within ear-shot, lest she should deem it necessary to interfere. Judith preceded Master Blaise to the door of the cottage, and asked the little maid to bring out a couple of chairs. As she sat down he could not but observe how wan and worn her face was, and how listless she was in manner; but he made no comment on that; he only remarked that her grandmother seemed in no friendly mood this morning, and that only the fact that his mission was known to Susan and her mother had caused him to persist.

It was clear that this untoward reception had disconcerted him somewhat; and it was some little time before he could recover that air of mild authority with which he was accustomed to convey his counsels. At first he confined himself to telling Judith what he had done on behalf of her mother and Susan, in obedience to their wishes; but by and by he came to herself and her own situation; and he hoped that this experience through which she had passed, though it might have caused her bitter distress for the time, would eventually make for good. If the past could not be recalled, at least the future might be made safe. Indeed one or two phrases he had used sounded as if they had done some previous service, perhaps he had consulted with Mistress Hall ere making this appeal—but in any case Judith was not listening so particularly as to think of that—she seemed to know beforehand what he had to say.

To tell the truth, he was himself a little surprised at her tacit acquiescence. He had always had to argue with Judith, and many a time he had found that her subtle feminine wit was capable of extricating herself from what he considered a defenceless position. But now she sat almost silent. She seemed to agree to everything. There was not a trace left of the old audacious self-reliance, nor yet of those saucy rejoinders which were only veiled by her professed respect for his cloth—she was at his mercy.

And so, growing bolder, he put in his own personal claim. He said little that he had not said or hinted on previous occasions; but now all the circumstances were changed; this heavy misfortune that had befallen her was but another and all too cogent reason why she should accept his offer of shelter and aid and counsel, seeing into what pitfalls her own unguided steps were like to lead her.

"I speak the words of truth and soberness," said he, as he sat and calmly regarded her downcast face, "and make no appeal to the foolish fancies of a young and giddy-headed girl—for that you are no longer, Judith. The years are going by. There must come a time in life when the enjoyment of the passing moment is not all in all—when one must look to the future, and make provision for sickness and old age. Death strikes here and there; friends fall away. What a sad thing it were to find one's self alone, the dark clouds of life thickening over, and none by to help and cheer. Then your mother and sister, Judith——"

"Yes, I know," she said, almost in despair—"I know 'twould please them."

And then she reflected that this was scarcely the manner in which she should receive his offer, that was put before her so plainly and with so much calm sincerity.

"I pray you, good sir," said she, in a kind of languid way, "forgive me if I answer you not as frankly as might be. I have been ill; my head aches now; perchance I have not followed all you said. But I understand it—I understand it—and in all you say there is naught but good intention."

"Then it is yes, Judith?" he exclaimed; and for the first time there was a little brightness of ardor—almost of triumph—in this clearly conceived and argued wooing.

"It would please my mother and sister," she repeated, slowly. "They are afraid of some story coming from London about—about—what is passed. This would be an answer, would it not?""Why, yes!" he said, confidently, for he saw that she was yielding (and his own susceptibilities were not likely to be wounded in that direction). "Think you we should heed any tavern scurrility? I trow not! There would be the answer plain and clear—if you were my wife, Judith."

"They would be pleased," again she said, and her eyes were absent. And then she added, "I pray you pardon me, good sir, if I speak of that which you may deem out of place, but—but if you knew—how I have been striving to think of some means of repairing the wrong I have done my father, you would not wonder that I should be anxious, and perchance indiscreet. You know of the loss I have caused him and his companions. How could I ever make that good with the work of my own hands? That is not possible; and yet when I think of how he hath toiled for all of us—late and early, as it were—why, good sir, I have myself been bold enough to chide him—or to wish that I were a man, to ride forth in the morning in his stead and look after the land; and then that his own daughter should be the means of taking from him what he hath earned so hardly—that I should never forget; 'twould be on my mind year after year, even if he were himself to try to forget it."

She paused for a second; the mere effort of speaking seemed to fatigue her.

"There is but the one means, as I can think, of showing him my humble sorrow for what hath been done—of making him some restitution. I know not what my marriage-portion may be—but 'twill be something—and Susan saith there is a part of the manor of Rowington, also, that would fall to me; now, see you, good Master Blaise, if I were to give these over to my father in part quittance of this injury—or if, belike—my—my—husband would do that—out of generosity and nobleness—would not my father be less aggrieved?"

She had spoken rather quickly and breathlessly (to get over her embarrassment), and now she regarded him with a strange anxiety, for so much depended on his answer! Would he understand her motives? Would he pardon her bluntness? Would he join her in this scheme of restitution?

He hesitated only for a moment.

"Dear Judith," he said, with perfect equanimity, "such matters are solely within the province of men, and not at the disposition of women, who know less of the affairs of the world. Whatever arrangements your father may have made in respect of your marriage-portion—truly I have made no inquiry in that direction—he will have made with due regard to his own circumstances, and with regard to the family and to your future. Would he be willing to upset these in order to please a girlish fancy? Why, in all positions in life pecuniary losses must happen; and a man takes account of these; and is he likely to recover himself at the expense of his own daughter?"

"Nay, but if she be willing! If she would give all that she hath, good sir!" she cried, quickly.

"'Twould be but taking it from one pocket to put it in the other," said he, in his patient and forbearing way. "I say not, if a man were like to become bankrupt, that his family might not forego their expectations in order to save him; but your father is one in good position. Think you that the loss is so great to him? In truth it cannot be."

The eagerness fell away from her face. She saw too clearly that he could not understand her at all. She did not reckon her father's loss in proportion to his wealth—in truth, she could not form the faintest notion of what that loss might be; all her thought was of her winning back (in some remote day, if that were still possible to her) to her father's forgiveness, and the regarding of his face as no longer in dread wrath against her.

"Why," said he, seeing that she sat silent and distraught (for all the hope had gone out of her), "in every profession and station in life a man must have here or there a loss, as I say; but would he rob his family to make that good? Surely not. Of what avail might that be? 'Tis for them that he is working, 'tis not for himself; why should he take from them to build up a property which must in due course revert and become theirs? I pray you put such fancies out of your head, Judith. Women are not accustomed to deal with such matters; 'tis better to have them settled in the ordinary fashion. Were I you I would leave it in your father's hands."

"And have him think of me as he is thinking now!" she said, in a kind of wild way. "Ah, good sir, you know not!—you know not! Every day that passes is but the deeper misery—for—for he will be hardened in the belief—'twill be fixed in his mind forever—that his own daughter did him this wrong, and went on lightly—not heeding—perchance to seek another sweetheart. This he is thinking now, and I—what can I do?—being so far away and none to help!"

"In truth, dear Judith," said he, "you make too much of your share in what happened. 'Tis not to you your father should look for reparation of his loss, but to the scoundrel who carried the play to London. What punishment would it be for him—or what gain to your father—that your father should upset the arrangements he has made for the establishment and surety of his own family? Nay, I pray you put aside such a strange fancy, dear heart, and let such things take their natural course."

"In no wise, in no wise!" she exclaimed, almost in despair. "In truth I cannot. 'Twould kill me were nothing to be done to appease my father's anger; and I thought that if he were to learn that you had sought me in marriage—and—and agreed that such restitution as I can make should be made forthwith—or afterward, as might be decided—but only that he should know now that I give up everything he had intended for me—then I should have great peace of mind."

"Indeed, Judith," said he, somewhat coldly, "I could be no party to any such foolish freak—nay, not even in intention, whatever your father might say to it. The very neighbors would think I was bereft of my senses. And 'twould be an ill beginning of our life together—in which there must ever be authority and guidance, as well as dutiful obedience—if I were to yield to what every one must perceive to be an idle and fantastic wish. I pray you consult your own sober judgment; at present you are ailing, and perturbed; rest you awhile until these matters have calmed somewhat, and you will see them in their true light."

"No, no," she said, hurriedly and absently—"no, no, good sir, you know not what you ask. Rest? Nay, one way or the other this must be done, and forthwith. I know not what he may have intended for me; but be it large or small, 'tis all that I have to give him—I can do no more than that—and then—then there may be some thoughts of rest."

She spoke as if she were scarcely aware of the good parson's presence; and in truth, though he was not one to allow any wounded self-love to mar his interests, he could not conceal from himself that she was considering the proposal he had put before her mainly, if not wholly, with a view to the possible settlement of these troubles and the appeasing of her friends. Whether, in other circumstances, he might not have calmly overlooked this slight, needs not now be regarded; in the present circumstances—that is to say, after her announced determination to forego every penny of her marriage-portion—he did take notice of it, and with some sharpness of tone, as if he were truly offended.

"Indeed you pay me no compliment, Judith," said he. "I come to offer you the shelter of an honest man's home, an honorable station as his wife, a life-long guidance and protection; and what is your answer?—that perchance you may make use of such an offer to please your friends and to pay back to your father what you foolishly think you owe him. If these be the only purposes you have in view—and you seem to think of none other—'twould be a sorry forecast for the future, as I take it. At the very beginning an act of madness! Nay, I could be no party to any such thing. If you refuse to be guided by me in great matters, how could I expect you to be guided in small?"

These words, uttered in his clear and precise and definite manner, she but vaguely understood (for her head troubled her sorely, and she was tired, and anxious to be at rest) to be a withdrawal of his proposal. But that was enough; and perhaps she even experienced some slight sense of relief. As for his rebuking of her, she heeded not that.

"As you will, sir, as you will," she said, listlessly, and she rose from her chair.

And he rose too. Perhaps he was truly offended; perhaps he only appeared to be; but at all events he bade her farewell in a cold and formal manner, and as if it were he who had brought this interview to an end, and that for good.

"What said he, wench, what said he?" her grandmother asked (who had been pretending all the time to be gathering peas, and now came forward). "Nay, I caught but little—a word here or there—and yet methinks 'tis a brave way of wooing they have nowadays that would question a maid about her marriage-portion! Heaven's mercy, did ever any hear the like? 'Twas not so when I was young—nay, a maid would have bade him go hang that brought her such a tale. Oh, the good parson! his thoughts be not all bent on heaven, I warrant me! Ay, and what said he? And what saidst thou, wench? Truly you be in no fit state to answer him; were you well enough, and in your usual spirits, the good man would have his answer—ay, as sharp as need be. But I will say no more; Master Quiney hath a vengeful spirit, and perchance he hath set me too much against the good man; but as for thyself, lass, there be little cause for talking further of thy offences, if 'tis thy marriage-portion the parson be after now!"

"Good grandmother, give me your arm," Judith said, in a strange way. "My head is so strange and giddy. I know not what I have said to him—I scarce can recollect it—if I have offended, bid him forgive me—but—but I would have him remain away."

"As I am a living woman," said the old dame (forgetting her resolve to speak smooth words), "he shall not come within the door, nor yet within that gate while you bide with me and would have him kept without! What then? More talk of chastenings? Marry now Thomas Quiney shall hear of this—that shall he—by my life he shall!"

"No, no, no, good grandmother, pray you blame no one," the girl said, and she was trembling somewhat. "'Tis I that have done all the harm—to every one. But I know not what I said—I—I would fain lie down, grandmother, if you will give me your arm so far—'tis so strangely cold—I understand it not—and I forget what wast he said to me—but I trust I offended him not——"

"Nay, but what is it, then, my deary?" the old woman said, taking both the girl's hands in hers. "What is it that you should fret about? Nay, fret not, fret not, good wench; the parson be well away, and there let him bide. And would you lie down?—well, come, then; but sure you shake as if 'twere winter. Come, lass! nay, fret not, we will keep the parson away, I warrant, if 'tis that vexes thee!"

"No, grandmother, 'tis not so," the girl said, in a low voice. "'Twas down by the river, as I think—'twas chilly there—I have felt it ever since, from time to time—but 'twill pass away when I am laid down and become warm again."

"Heaven grant it be no worse," the old dame said to herself, as she shrewdly regarded the girl; but of course her outward talk, as she took her within-doors, was ostensibly cheerful. "Come thy ways, then, sweeting, and we shall soon make thee warm enough. Ay, ay, and Prudence be coming over this afternoon, as I hear; and no doubt Thomas Quiney too; and thou must get thyself dressed prettily, and have supper with us all, though 'tis no treat to offer to a man of his own wine. Nay, I warrant me he will think naught of that so thou be there with a pleasant face for him; he will want nor wine nor aught else if he have but that, and a friendly word from thee, as I reckon; ay, and thou shalt put on the lace cuffs now, to do him fair service for his gift to thee—that shalt thou, and why not? I swear to thee, my brave lass, they be fit for a queen!"

And she would comfort her and help her (just as if this granddaughter of hers, that always was so bright and gay and radiant, so self-willed and self-reliant, with nothing but laughter for the sad eyes of the stricken youths, was now but a weak and frightened child, that had to be guarded and coaxed and caressed), and would talk as if all her thinking was of that visit in the afternoon; but the only answer was——

"Will you send for Prudence, grandmother? Oh, grandmother, my head aches so! I scarce know what I said."

Swiftly and secretly the old dame sent across to the town; and not to Prudence only, but also (for she was grown anxious) to Mistress Hall, to say that if her husband were like to return soon to Stratford he might come over and see Judith, who was far from well. As for Prudence, a word was sufficient to bring her; she was there straightway.

She found Judith very much as she had left her, but somewhat more restless and feverish perhaps, and then again hopelessly weak and languid, and always with those racking pains in the head. She said it was nothing—it would soon pass away; it was but a chill she had caught in sitting on the river-bank; would not Prudence now go back to her duties and her affairs in the house?

"Judith," said her friend, leaning over her and speaking low, "I have that to tell thee will comfort thee, methinks."

"Nay, I cannot listen to it now," was the answer—and it was a moan almost. "Dear mouse, do not trouble about me—but my head is so bad that I—that I care not now. And the parson is gone away, thinking that I have wronged him also—'tis ever the same now—oh, sweetheart, my head, my head!"

"But listen, Judith," the other pleaded. "Nay, but you must know what your friends are ready to do for you—this surely will make thee well, sweetheart. Think of it now; do you know that Quiney is gone to see your father?"

"To my father!" she repeated, and she tried to raise her head somewhat, so that her eyes might read her friend's face.

"I am almost sure of it, dear heart," Prudence said, taking her hot hand in hers. "Nay, he would have naught said of it. None of his family know whither he is gone, and I but guess. But this is the manner of it, dear Judith—that he and I were talking, and sorely vexed he was that your father should be told a wrong story concerning you—ay, and sorry to see you so shaken, Judith, and distressed; and said he, 'What if I were to get a message to her from her father—that he was in no such mood of anger—and had not heard the story aright—and that he was well disposed to her, and grieved to hear she had taken it so much to heart—would not that comfort her?' he said. And I answered that assuredly it would, and even more perchance than he thought of; and I gathered from him that he would write to some one in London to go and see your father, and pray him to send you assurance of that kind. But now—nay, I am certain of it, dear Judith—I am certain that he himself is gone all the way to London to bring thee back that comfort; and will not that cheer thee now, sweetheart?"

"He is doing all that for me?" the girl said, in a low voice, and absently.

"Ah, but you must be well and cheerful, good mouse, to give him greeting when he comes back," said Prudence, striving to raise her spirits somewhat. "Have I not read to thee many a time how great kings were wont to reward the messengers that brought them good news?—a gold chain round their neck, or lands perchance. And will you have no word of welcome for him? Will you not meet him with a glad face? Why, think of it now—a journey to London—and the perils and troubles by the way—and all done to please thee. Nay, he would say naught of it to any one—lest they might wonder at his doing so much for thee, belike—but when he comes back 'twere a sorry thing that you should not give him a good and gracious welcome."

Judith lay silent and thinking for a while, and then she said—but as if the mere effort to speak were too much for her—

"Whatever happens, dear Prudence—nay, in truth I think I am very ill—tell him this—that he did me wrong—he thought I had gone to meet the parson that Sunday morning in the church-yard—'twas not so—tell him it was not so—'twas but a chance, dear heart—I could not help it——"

"Judith, Judith," her friend said, "these be things for thine own telling. Nay, you shall say all that to himself, and you must speak him fair; ay, and give him good welcome and thanks that hath done so much for thee."

Judith put her head down on the pillow again, languidly; but presently Prudence heard her laugh to herself, in a strange way.

"Last night," she said—"'twas so wonderful, dear Prue—I thought I was going about in a strange country, looking for my little brother Hamnet, and I knew not whether he would have any remembrance of me. Should I have to tell him my name? I kept asking myself. And 'Judith, Judith,' I said to him, when I found him; but he scarce knew; I thought he had forgotten me, 'tis so long ago now; 'Judith, Judith,' I said; and he looked up, and he was so strangely like little Willie Hart that I wondered whether it was Hamnet or no——"

But Prudence was alarmed by these wanderings, and did her best to hush them. And then, when at length the girl lay silent and still, Prudence stole down-stairs again and bade the grandmother go to Judith's room, for that she must at once hurry over to Stratford to speak with Susan Hall.