Prudence hurried away to meet Judith's father, who was in the doorway, getting such information as was possible, from the doctor. And then they all of them (all but Quiney) stole gently up-stairs; and they stood at the door in absolute silence, while Judith's father went forward to the bed—so quietly that the girl did not seem to notice his approach.
The grandmother was there, sitting by the bedside and speaking to her in a low voice.
"Hush thee now, sweeting, hush thee now," she was saying, and she patted her hand. "Nay, I know 'twas ill done; 'tis quite right what thou sayest; they treated her not well; and the poor wench anxious to please them all. But have no fear for her—nay, trouble not thy head with thoughts of her—she be safe at home again, I trust. Hush thee, now, sweeting; 'twill go well with her, I doubt not; I swear to thee her father be no longer angry with the wench; 'twill all go well with her, and well. Have no fear."
The girl looked at her steadily, and yet with a strange light in her eyes, as if she saw distant things before her, or was seeking to recall them.
"There was Susan, too," she said, in a low voice, "that sang so sweet—oh, in the church it was so sweet to hear her; but when it was 'The rose is from my garden gone,' she would not sing that, though that was ever in her sister's mind after she went away down to the river-side. I cannot think why they would not sing it to her; perchance the parson thought 'twas wicked—I know not now. And when she herself would try it with the lute, nothing would come right—all went wrong with her—all went wrong; and her father came angry and terrible to seek her—and 'twas the parson that would drag her forth—the bushes were not thick enough—good grandam, why should the bushes in the garden be so thin that the terrible eyes peered through them, and she tried to hide and could not?"
"Nay, I tell thee, sweetheart," said the grandmother, whispering to her, "that the poor wench you speak of went home; and all were well content with her, and her father was right pleased; indeed, indeed, 'twas so."
"Poor Judith, poor Judith!" the girl murmured to herself; and then she laughed slightly. "She was ever the stupid one; naught would go right with her; ay, and evil-tempered she was, too, for Quiney would ride all the way to London for her, and she thanked him with never a word or a look—never a word or a look, and he going all the way to please her. Poor wench, all went wrong with her somehow; but they might have let her go; she was so anxious to hide; and then to drag her forth—from under the bushes—grandam, it was cruelly done of them, was it not?"
"Ay, ay, but hush thee now, dearie," her grandmother said, as she put a cool cloth on the burning forehead. "'Tis quite well now with the poor wench you speak of."
Her father drew nearer, and took her hand quietly.
"Judith," said he, "poor lass, I am come to see you."