had told him she was with child, and Mark said he was sorry he had not known it before her mother died.
“I should have thought of that before I asked you to come here and do so much,” he added.
“It was all right,” Judith answered, though all she could think of was that now at last he knew what she had been going through this summer and understood why she had not done as much for them as she might have done. “I’m sorry to be leaving, sir. There won’t be anybody to do for you.”
“Philip says he’ll send back that black woman of his,” said Mark. “Don’t you worry about us. We’ll manage fine.”
He put his arm around her and gave her awkward little pats on the shoulder. Judith remembered that her father had had a great deal of sorrow in his life. There had been four children older than herself and Caleb, who had died of smallpox the year before Caleb was born. And now her mother was dead too, and she who might have stood by while he had to work so hard in this forest hadn’t brought him anything but more concern.
She said, “Father, I’m sorry I ran away with Philip without telling you. I won’t ever do anything to worry you again.”
“You were always a good girl, Judith,” said Mark.
Philip came out of the house and greeted them both. “Ready?” he asked Judith. He lifted her into the wagon and shook hands with Mark. “I’ll send Tibby back tomorrow. I wouldn’t be taking her off now, but I’ve bought a new girl for Judith and Tibby’ll have to show her around. Good day, sir.”
He sprang into the wagon and clucked at the mules. Judith glanced up at him as they started. Philip was so different from the men of her family. How wonderful it must be to have a temperament like his. Philip was sincerely sorry when her mother died, but now that it was over it was over—he seemed blithely incapable of concerning himself with any demands but those of the day he was living in. Judith caught at the seat on both sides of her to keep from being jolted out. “Don’t let them go so fast!” she exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, honey.” He pulled back on the reins and smiled down at her. “Now then, we won’t bump so. It’s going to be good to have you back,” he added. “Every time I came over I missed you more when I went home.”
She smiled at him, wondering what had happened to the cabin while she was away. Probably the ants had taken possession entirely. It had been hard enough to keep them out of her father’s kitchen, though it was built so tight.
How hot it still was, though it was already September. The trees in Connecticut would be turning red and gold before long, and the mornings would have a frosty nip. The men were gathering the harvest and the women spinning wool and knitting warm stockings against the winter—wool and heavy stockings! The thought made her legs get crusty with goose-bumps.
“With this good weather,” said Philip, “we ought to get in a lot of indigo.”
“Is this good weather for indigo?” Judith asked.
“Oh yes. We’ll put in a little cotton too, next spring. Most planters won’t put in cotton. They say it costs as much as they get for it to have the slaves pick out the seeds. But we’ll set the children to that. It’s easy work.”
“I—suppose so,” said Judith. She held tight to the seat. With this jolting her bones would be thrown out of place and her baby shaken to death. No wonder Mr. Purcell made Gervaise stay at home when she was carrying a child. Philip took one hand from the reins and steadied her.
“Did you hear me tell your father I’d bought you a new girl?”
She nodded. “That was good of you. Then I won’t have to do the work myself?”
“I wouldn’t let you. You’re white about the eyes now from working too hard. She’s a nice girl from New Orleans. Her master was a man named Peyroux, and when he died they sent some of his Negroes up the river to settle the estate. Her name is Angelique.”
Judith glanced back to
“I should have thought of that before I asked you to come here and do so much,” he added.
“It was all right,” Judith answered, though all she could think of was that now at last he knew what she had been going through this summer and understood why she had not done as much for them as she might have done. “I’m sorry to be leaving, sir. There won’t be anybody to do for you.”
“Philip says he’ll send back that black woman of his,” said Mark. “Don’t you worry about us. We’ll manage fine.”
He put his arm around her and gave her awkward little pats on the shoulder. Judith remembered that her father had had a great deal of sorrow in his life. There had been four children older than herself and Caleb, who had died of smallpox the year before Caleb was born. And now her mother was dead too, and she who might have stood by while he had to work so hard in this forest hadn’t brought him anything but more concern.
She said, “Father, I’m sorry I ran away with Philip without telling you. I won’t ever do anything to worry you again.”
“You were always a good girl, Judith,” said Mark.
Philip came out of the house and greeted them both. “Ready?” he asked Judith. He lifted her into the wagon and shook hands with Mark. “I’ll send Tibby back tomorrow. I wouldn’t be taking her off now, but I’ve bought a new girl for Judith and Tibby’ll have to show her around. Good day, sir.”
He sprang into the wagon and clucked at the mules. Judith glanced up at him as they started. Philip was so different from the men of her family. How wonderful it must be to have a temperament like his. Philip was sincerely sorry when her mother died, but now that it was over it was over—he seemed blithely incapable of concerning himself with any demands but those of the day he was living in. Judith caught at the seat on both sides of her to keep from being jolted out. “Don’t let them go so fast!” she exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, honey.” He pulled back on the reins and smiled down at her. “Now then, we won’t bump so. It’s going to be good to have you back,” he added. “Every time I came over I missed you more when I went home.”
She smiled at him, wondering what had happened to the cabin while she was away. Probably the ants had taken possession entirely. It had been hard enough to keep them out of her father’s kitchen, though it was built so tight.
How hot it still was, though it was already September. The trees in Connecticut would be turning red and gold before long, and the mornings would have a frosty nip. The men were gathering the harvest and the women spinning wool and knitting warm stockings against the winter—wool and heavy stockings! The thought made her legs get crusty with goose-bumps.
“With this good weather,” said Philip, “we ought to get in a lot of indigo.”
“Is this good weather for indigo?” Judith asked.
“Oh yes. We’ll put in a little cotton too, next spring. Most planters won’t put in cotton. They say it costs as much as they get for it to have the slaves pick out the seeds. But we’ll set the children to that. It’s easy work.”
“I—suppose so,” said Judith. She held tight to the seat. With this jolting her bones would be thrown out of place and her baby shaken to death. No wonder Mr. Purcell made Gervaise stay at home when she was carrying a child. Philip took one hand from the reins and steadied her.
“Did you hear me tell your father I’d bought you a new girl?”
She nodded. “That was good of you. Then I won’t have to do the work myself?”
“I wouldn’t let you. You’re white about the eyes now from working too hard. She’s a nice girl from New Orleans. Her master was a man named Peyroux, and when he died they sent some of his Negroes up the river to settle the estate. Her name is Angelique.”
Judith glanced back to
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