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.
Then the door was quietly opened, and her sister appeared, bearing in one hand a small tray.