"I have brought you some food, Judith, and a little wine, and you must try and take them, sweetheart," said she. "'Twas right good news to us that you had come down and gone into the garden for a space. In truth, making yourself ill will not mend matters; and Prudence was in great alarm."
She put the tray on a chair, for there was no table in the room—but Judith, finding that her sister had not come to accuse her, but was in this gentle mood, said quickly and eagerly,
"Oh, Susan, you can tell me all that I would so fain know! You must have heard, for my father speaks to you of all his affairs, and at your own wedding you must have heard when all these things were arranged. Tell me, Susan—I shall have a marriage-portion, shall I not?—and how much, think you? Perchance not so large as yours, for you are the elder, and Dr. Hall was ever a favorite with my father. But I shall have a marriage-portion, Susan, shall I not? nay, it may already be set aside for me."
And then the elder sister did glance somewhat reproachfully at her.
"I wonder you should be thinking of such things, Judith," said she.
"Ah, but 'tis not as you imagine," the girl said, with the same pathetic eagerness. "Tis in this wise now: would my father take it in a measure to repay him for the ill that I have done? Would it make up the loss, Susan, or a part of it? Would he take it, think you? Ah, but if he would do that!"
"Why, that were an easy way out of the trouble, assuredly!" her sister exclaimed. "To take the marriage-portion that is set aside for thee—and if I mistake not, 'tis all provided—ay, and the Rowington copyhold, which will fall to thee, if 'tis not thine already; truly, 'twere a wise thing to take these to make good this loss, and then, when you marry, to have to give you your marriage-portion all the same!"
"Nay, nay, not so, Susan!" her sister cried, quickly. "What said you? The Rowington copyhold also? and perchance mine already? Susan, would it make good the loss? Would all taken together make good the loss? For, as Heaven is my witness, I will never marry—nor think of marrying—but rejoice all the days of my life if my father would but take these to satisfy him of the injury I have done him. Nay, but is't possible, Susan? Will he do that for me—as a kindness to me? I have no right to ask for such—but—but if only he knew—if only he knew!"
The tears were running down her face; her hands were clasped in abject entreaty.
"Sweetheart, you know not what you ask," her sister said, but gently. "When you marry, your marriage-portion will have to be in accordance with our position in the town—my father would not have it otherwise; were you to surrender that now, would he let one of his daughters go forth from his house as a beggar, think you? Or what would her husband say to be so treated? You might be willing to give up these, but my father could not, and your husband would not."