"No, truly? Why, that is strange, now," her father said, affecting to be surprised, but having a shrewd guess that this was some fancy of the girl's own. "But they would have her kept quiet, I know."

Quiney was now reading the letter. It was from one of Judith's father's companions in London, and the beginning of it was devoted to the imparting of certain information that had apparently been asked from him touching negotiations for the purchase of a house in Blackfriars. Quiney rightly judged that this part had naught to do with him, and scanned it briefly; and as he went on he came to that which had a closer interest for him.

The writer's style was ornate and c.u.mbrous and confused, but his story, in plainer terms, was this: The matter of the purloined play was now all satisfactorily ascertained and settled, except as regarded Jack Orridge himself, whom a dire mischance had befallen. It appeared that, having married a lady possessed of considerable wealth, his first step was to ransom--at what cost the writer knew not--the play that had been sold to the booksellers, not by himself but by one Francis Lloyd. It was said that this Lloyd had received but a trifle for it, and had, in truth, parted with it in the course of a drunken frolic; but that "Gentleman Jack," as they called him, had to disburse a goodly sum ere he could get the ma.n.u.script back into his own hands. That forthwith he had come to the theatre and delivered up the play, with such expressions of penitence and shame that they could not forbear to give him full quittance for his fault. But this was not all; for, having heard that Francis Lloyd had in many quarters been making a jest of the matter, and telling of Orridge's adventures in Warwickshire, and naming names, the young man had determined to visit him with personal chastis.e.m.e.nt, but had been defeated in this by Lloyd being thrust into prison for debt.

That thereafter Lloyd, being liberated from jail, was sitting in a tavern with certain companions; and there "Gentleman Jack" found him, and dealt him a blow on the face with the back of his hand, with a mind to force the duello upon him. But that here again Orridge had ill-fortune; for Lloyd, being in his cups, would fight then and there, and flung himself on him, without sword or anything, as they thought; but that presently, in the struggle, Orridge uttered a cry, "I am stabbed," and fell headlong, and they found him with a dagger-wound in his side, bleeding so that they thought he would have died ere help came. And that in truth he had been nigh within death's door, and was not yet out of the leech's hands; while as for Lloyd, he had succeeded in making good his escape, and was now in Flanders, as some reported.

This was the gist of the story, as far as Quiney was interested; thereafter came chiefly details about the theatre, and the writer concluded with wishing his correspondent all health and happiness, and bidding him ever remember "his true loving friend, Henry Condell."

Quiney handed back the letter.

"I wish the dagger had struck the worser villain of the two," said he.

"'Tis no concern of ours," Judith's father said. "And I would have the wench hear never a word more of the matter. Nay, I have already answered her that 'twas all well and settled in London, and no harm done; and the sooner 'tis quite forgotten the better. The young man hath made what amends he could; I trust he may soon be well of his wound again. And married, is he? Perchance his hurt may teach him to be more of a stay-at-home."

Judith's father put the letter in his pocket, and was for leaving, when Quiney suggested that if he were going to the cottage he would accompany him, as some business called him to Bidford. And so they set out together--the younger man having first of all made a bundle of the wire basket and the nails and hooks and what not, so that he could the more easily carry them.

It was a clear and mild October day; the wide country very silent; the woods turning to yellow and russet now and here and there golden leaves fluttering down from the elms. So quiet and peaceful it all was in the gracious sunlight; the steady ploughing going on; groups of people gleaning in the bean-field, but not a sound of any kind reaching them, save the cawing of some distant rooks. And when they drew near to Shottery, Quiney had an eye for the cottage-gardens, to see what flowers or shrubs were still available; for of course the long wire basket, when it was hung outside Judith's window, must be filled--ay, and filled freshly at frequent intervals. If the gardens or the fields or the hedge-rows would furnish sufficient store, there would be no lack of willing hands for the gathering.

They went first to the front door (the room that Judith was to be moved into looked to the back), and here, ere they had crossed the threshold, they beheld a strange thing. The old grandmother was standing at the foot of the wooden stair, with a small looking-gla.s.s in her hand; she had not heard them approach, so it was with some amazement they saw her deliberately let fall the gla.s.s on to the stone pa.s.sage, where naturally it was smashed into a hundred fragments. And forthwith she began to scold and rate the little Cicely, and that in so loud a voice that her anger must have been plainly heard in the sick-room above.

"Ah, thou mischief, thou imp, thou idle brat, thou must needs go break the only looking-gla.s.s in the house! A handy wench, truly; thou can hold nothing with thy silly fingers, but must break cup and platter and pane, and now the looking-gla.s.s--'twere well done to box thine ears, thou mischief!"

And with that she patted the little girl on the shoulder, and shrewdly winked and smiled and nodded her head; and then she went up the stair, again and loudly bewailing her misfortune.

"What a spite be this now!" they could hear her say, at the door of Judith's room. "The only looking-gla.s.s in the house and just as thou wouldst have it sent for! That mischievous, idle little wench--heard you the crash, sweetheart? Well, well, no matter; I must still have the tiring of thee--against any one coming to see thee; ay, and I would have thee brave and smart, when thou art able to sit up a bit--ay, and thy hair will soon be grown again, sweeting--and then the trinkets that thy father brought--and the lace cuffs that Quiney gave thee--these and all thou must wear. Was ever such a spite, now?--our only looking-gla.s.s to be broken so; but thou shalt not want it, sweetheart--nay, nay, thou must rest in my hands--I will have thee smart enough; when any would come to see thee----"

That was all they heard, for now she shut the door; but both of them guessed readily enough why the good dame had thrown down and smashed the solitary mirror of the house.

Then they went within, and heard from Prudence that Judith was going on well but very slowly, and that her mind was in perfect calm and content, only that at times she seemed anxious that her father should return to London, lest his affairs should be hindered.

"And truly I must go ere long," said he, "but not yet. Not until she is more fairly on the highway."

They were now in the room that was to be given up to Judith, because of its larger size.

"Prudence," said Quiney, "if the bed were placed so--by the window--she might be propped up, so that when she chose she could look abroad. Were not that a simple thing--and cheerful for her? And I have arranged a small matter so that every morning she may find some fresh blossoms awaiting her--and yet not disturbing her with any one wishing to enter the room. Methinks one might better fix it now, ere she be brought down, so that the knocking may not harm her."

"I would she were in a fit state to be brought down," Prudence said, rather sadly; "for never saw I any one so weak and helpless."

All the same he went away to see whether the oblong basket of wire and the fastenings would fit; and although (being a tall youth) he could easily reach the foot of the window with his hands, he had to take a chair with him in order to gain the proper height for the nails.

Prudence from within saw what he was after, and when it was all fixed up she opened one of the cas.e.m.e.nts to speak to him, and her face was well pleased.

"Truly, now, that was kindly thought of," said she. "And shall I tell her of this that you have contrived for her?"

"Why, 'tis in this way, Prudence," said he, rather shamefacedly, "she need not know whether 'tis this one or that that puts a few blossoms in the basket--'twill do for any one--any one that is pa.s.sing along the road or through the meadows, and picks up a pretty thing here or there.

'Twill soon be hard to get such things--save some red berries or the like--but when any can stop in pa.s.sing and add their mite, 'twill be all the easier, for who that knows her but hath good-will toward her?"

"And her thanks to whom?" said Prudence, smiling.

"Why, to all of them," said he, evasively. "Nay, I would not have her even know that I nailed up the little basket--perchance she might think I was too officious."

"And can you undo it?" she asked. "Can you take it down?"

"Surely," he answered, and he lifted the basket off the hooks to show her.

"For," said she, "if you would bring it round, might we not put a few flowers in it, and have them carried up to Judith, to show her what you have designed for her? In truth it would please her."

He was not proof against this temptation. He carried the basket round, and they fell to gathering such blossoms as the garden afforded--marigolds, monthly roses, Michaelmas daisies, and the like, with some scarlet hips from the neighboring hedges, and some broad green leaves to serve as a cushion for all of these. But he did not stay to hear how his present was received. He was on his way to Bidford, and on foot, for he had kept his promise with the Galloway nag. So he bade Prudence farewell, and said he would call in again on his way back in the evening.

The wan, sad face lit up with something like pleasure when Judith saw this little present brought before her; it was not the first by many of similar small attentions that he had paid her--tokens of a continual thoughtfulness and affection--though he was not even permitted to see her, much less to speak with her. How his business managed to thrive during this period they could hardly guess, only that he seemed to find time for everything. Apparently, he was content with the most hap-hazard meals, and seemed able to get along with scarcely any sleep at all; and always he was the most hopeful one in the house, and would not admit that Judith's recovery seemed strangely slow, but regarded everything as happening for the best, and tending toward a certain and happy issue.

One result of his being continually in or about the cottage was this--that Master Walter Blaise had not looked near them since the night on which the fever reached its crisis. The women-folk surmised that, now there was a fair hope of Judith's recovery, he perchance imagined his ministrations to be no longer necessary, and was considerately keeping out of the way, seeing that he could be of no use. At all events, they did not discuss the subject much, for more than one of them had perceived that, whenever the parson's name was mentioned, Judith's father became reticent and reserved--which was about his only way of showing displeasure--so that they got into the habit of omitting all mention of Master Blaise, for the better preserving and maintaining the serenity of the domestic atmosphere.

And yet Master Blaise came to be talked of--and to Judith herself--this very morning. When Prudence went into the room, carrying Quiney's flowers, the old grandmother said she would go down and see how dinner was getting forward (she having more mouths to feed than usual), and Prudence was left in her place, with strict injunctions to see that Judith took the small portions of food that had been ordered her at the proper time. Prudence sat down by the bedside. These two had not had much confidential chatting of late, for Judith had been forbidden to talk much, and was, indeed, far too weak and languid for that, while generally there was some third person about in attendance. But now they were alone; and Prudence had a long tale to tell of Quiney's constant watchfulness and care, and of all the little things he had thought of and arranged for her, up to the construction of the wire flower-basket.

"But what he hath done, Judith, to anger Parson Blaise, I cannot make out," she continued--"ay, and to anger him sorely; for yesternight, when I went over to see how my brother did, I met Master Blaise, and he stayed me and talked with me for a s.p.a.ce. Nay, he spoke too harshly of Quiney, so that I had to defend him, and say what I had seen of him--truly, I was coming near to speaking with warmth--and then he went away from that. And think you what he came to next, Judith?"

The pale, quiet face of the speaker was overspread with a blush, and she looked timidly at her friend.

"What then, sweetheart?"

"Perchance I should not tell you," she said, with some hesitation; and then she said, more frankly, "Nay, why should there be any concealment between us, Judith? And he laid no charge of secrecy on me--in truth, I said that I would think of it, and might even ask for counsel and guidance. He would have made me his wife, Judith."

Judith betrayed no atom of surprise, nay, she almost instantly smiled her approval--it was a kind of friendly congratulation, as it were--and she would have reached out her hand only that she was so weak.

"I am glad of that, dear mouse," said she, as pleasantly as she could.

"There would you be in your proper place; is't not so? And what said you? what said you, sweetheart? Ah, they all would welcome you, be sure; and a parson's wife--a parson's wife, Prudence--would not that be your proper place? would you not be happy so?"

"I know not," the girl said, and she spoke wistfully, and as if she were regarding distant things. "He had nearly persuaded me, good heart, for indeed there is such power and clearness in all he says; and it was almost put before me as a duty, and something inc.u.mbent on me, for the pleasing of all of them, and the being useful and serviceable to so many; and then--and then----"

There was another timid glance, and she took Judith's hand; and her eyes were downcast as she made the confession:

"Nay, I will tell thee the truth, sweetheart. Had he spoken to me earlier--I--I might not have said him nay--so good a man and earnest withal, and not fearing to give offence if he can do true service to the Master of us all. Judith, if it be unmaidenly, blame me not, but at one time I had thoughts of him; and sometimes, ashamed, I would not go to your house when he was there in the afternoon, though Julius wondered, seeing that there was worship and profitable expounding. But now--now--now 'tis different."

"Why, dear mouse, why?" Judith said, with some astonishment; "you must not flout the good man. 'Tis an honorable offer."

Prudence was looking back on that past time.

"If he had spoken then," she said, absently, "my heart would have rejoiced; and well I knew 'twould have been no harm to you, dear Judith, for who could doubt how you were inclined--ay, through all your quarrels and misunderstandings? And if 'twas you the good parson wished for in those days----"

"Prudence," her friend said, reproachfully, "you do ill to go back over a by-gone story. If you had thoughts of him then, when as yet he had not spoken, why not now, when he would have you be his wife? 'Tis an honorable offer, as I say; and you--were you not meant for a parson's wife, sweetheart?"

Then Prudence regarded her with her honest eyes.

"I should be afraid, Judith. Perchance I have listened overmuch to your grandmother's talking and to Quiney's; they are both of them angered against him. They say he wrought you ill, and was cruel when he should have been gentle with you, and was overproud of his office. Nay, I marked that your father had scarce ever a word for him when he was coming over to the cottage, but would get away somehow and leave him.

And--and methinks I should be afraid, Judith; 'tis no longer as it used to be in former days; and then, without perfect confidence, how should one dare to venture on such a step? No, no, Judith, I should be afraid."

"In truth I cannot advise thee, then, dear heart," her friend said, looking at her curiously. "For more than any I know should you marry one that would be gentle with you and kind. And think you that the parson would overlord it?"

"I know not--I know not," she said, in the same absent way. "But with doubt, with hesitation, without perfect confidence--how could one take such a step?"