"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.