separate room for the cooking and no mud in the cracks. She went softly into her mother’s room, feeling a pang at the sight of the spinning-wheel that had stood by the hearth at home, and the rag rugs she had helped braid. Her mother was on the bed. The mosquito bar blurred Judith’s eyesight, already dim after the glare outside. Mrs. Sheramy lifted her head a little way from the pillow.
“Judith?” she said faintly. “My dear little girl.”
Judith lifted the mosquito bar and took her mother in her arms and kissed her. But when she felt how slowly her mother’s arms went around her and how hot her mother’s cheek was under her kiss, Judith knew she wasn’t going back to Ardeith tomorrow, and she knew too with a feeling of sudden terror that it would be a long time before she could ask any questions.
Chapter Three
T hey did not tell her Catherine Sheramy had troubled herself into her bed, but Judith told herself so. Walter and Gervaise Purcell rode over, bringing gruel and good advice, and Gervaise, her ruffled fragility more incongruous than ever among the rag rugs and crazy-quilts, touched Catherine’s forehead with cool presses and said it was the sort of fever that crept up from the swamps and struck people who weren’t used to the summers, but Judith could not help believing that her mother might have stood the fever if she had been easy in her mind. She tried to imagine what her parents must have thought when they woke up that morning and found Philip’s boy Josh waiting with a letter to tell them Judith had run away.
The letter they had sent back had been so simple that until now Judith had never tried to think what it might have cost to write it.
My dear daughter Judith:
While we would wish that you had dealt with us differently, your mother and I desire nothing but your happiness. Since as you say Mr. Philip Larne has been joined to you in honorable marriage, we offer our prayers that you may be to him a dutiful and obedient wife, and he to you a kind husband. May the Lord ever keep you, nor permit you to depart from his just precepts.
Your devoted father,
Mark Sheramy.
“There now!” she had exclaimed jubilantly to Philip. “I knew they wouldn’t mind when I told them how much I loved you.”
“Of course they don’t mind,” said Philip laughing. “And I really wouldn’t care if they did.”
Now that her mother was ill they still made no reproaches. Catherine murmured that she was sorry to be such a bother, and Mark asked, almost timidly, “You have been happy with your husband, Judith?” When Judith answered, “Why of course, father!”—Mark said, “I am glad he is good to you, daughter.” But he never reminded her that he had been, and might still be, afraid for her.
Judith did the best she could. But there was so much to be done. There were meals to be cooked and the house to be cleaned, and soup and gruel to be prepared for her mother, who did not seem to rally no matter what was done for her. Philip came over, protesting, “But Judith, you can’t work like this. Do you feel quite well?” She insisted that she did, though cooking at the fire made her so ill that sometimes she wanted to crawl into bed by her mother. Philip sent Tibby over to help her, and he ate what the field-Negroes cooked in the tents at Ardeith.
Sometimes Catherine would have chills, and even in the breathless heat she would lie shaking, her teeth chattering with cold, and all the blankets they had brought from Connecticut failed to warm her. Then the fever would return. There were days when she seemed better, with the chills and fever alike gone out of her, and Judith would hope that now her mother would be well and she herself could ask for advice about her baby, but before Catherine had gained any strength the fever would be back and Judith did not dare ask her anything. She tried not to worry. Nearly all women had children and most of them seemed to get along all right. She remembered that now
“Judith?” she said faintly. “My dear little girl.”
Judith lifted the mosquito bar and took her mother in her arms and kissed her. But when she felt how slowly her mother’s arms went around her and how hot her mother’s cheek was under her kiss, Judith knew she wasn’t going back to Ardeith tomorrow, and she knew too with a feeling of sudden terror that it would be a long time before she could ask any questions.
Chapter Three
T hey did not tell her Catherine Sheramy had troubled herself into her bed, but Judith told herself so. Walter and Gervaise Purcell rode over, bringing gruel and good advice, and Gervaise, her ruffled fragility more incongruous than ever among the rag rugs and crazy-quilts, touched Catherine’s forehead with cool presses and said it was the sort of fever that crept up from the swamps and struck people who weren’t used to the summers, but Judith could not help believing that her mother might have stood the fever if she had been easy in her mind. She tried to imagine what her parents must have thought when they woke up that morning and found Philip’s boy Josh waiting with a letter to tell them Judith had run away.
The letter they had sent back had been so simple that until now Judith had never tried to think what it might have cost to write it.
My dear daughter Judith:
While we would wish that you had dealt with us differently, your mother and I desire nothing but your happiness. Since as you say Mr. Philip Larne has been joined to you in honorable marriage, we offer our prayers that you may be to him a dutiful and obedient wife, and he to you a kind husband. May the Lord ever keep you, nor permit you to depart from his just precepts.
Your devoted father,
Mark Sheramy.
“There now!” she had exclaimed jubilantly to Philip. “I knew they wouldn’t mind when I told them how much I loved you.”
“Of course they don’t mind,” said Philip laughing. “And I really wouldn’t care if they did.”
Now that her mother was ill they still made no reproaches. Catherine murmured that she was sorry to be such a bother, and Mark asked, almost timidly, “You have been happy with your husband, Judith?” When Judith answered, “Why of course, father!”—Mark said, “I am glad he is good to you, daughter.” But he never reminded her that he had been, and might still be, afraid for her.
Judith did the best she could. But there was so much to be done. There were meals to be cooked and the house to be cleaned, and soup and gruel to be prepared for her mother, who did not seem to rally no matter what was done for her. Philip came over, protesting, “But Judith, you can’t work like this. Do you feel quite well?” She insisted that she did, though cooking at the fire made her so ill that sometimes she wanted to crawl into bed by her mother. Philip sent Tibby over to help her, and he ate what the field-Negroes cooked in the tents at Ardeith.
Sometimes Catherine would have chills, and even in the breathless heat she would lie shaking, her teeth chattering with cold, and all the blankets they had brought from Connecticut failed to warm her. Then the fever would return. There were days when she seemed better, with the chills and fever alike gone out of her, and Judith would hope that now her mother would be well and she herself could ask for advice about her baby, but before Catherine had gained any strength the fever would be back and Judith did not dare ask her anything. She tried not to worry. Nearly all women had children and most of them seemed to get along all right. She remembered that now
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