"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 gratitude 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!"
"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 passed, 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.