“Come, then, Judy. I will go at once.—Shall I see her?”
And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her from her persecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea how it was to be effected.
“We will talk about that as we go,” said Judy, authoritatively.
In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a still night, with an odour of damp earth, and a hint of green buds in it. A pale half-moon hung in the sky, now and then hidden by the clouds that swept across it, for there was wind in the heavens, though upon earth all was still. I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand, and we walked on without a word till we had got through the village and out upon the road.
“Now, Judy,” I said at last, “tell me what they are doing to your aunt?”
“I don’t know what they are doing. But I am sure she will die.”
“Is she ill?”
“She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room. Grannie must have frightened her dreadfully. Everybody is frightened at her but me, and I begin to be frightened too. And what will become of auntie then?”
“But what can her mother do to her?”
“I don’t know. I think it is her determination to have her own way that makes auntie afraid she will get it somehow; and she says now she will rather die than marry Captain Everard. Then there is no one allowed to wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of her is enough to turn auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane I don’t know. I haven’t seen her all day, and the servants are whispering together more than usual. Auntie can’t eat what Sarah brings her, I am sure; else I should almost fancy she was starving herself to death to keep clear of that Captain Everard.”