Deep Summer by Gwen Bristow Page B

stop spending so much money on French wines he’d have more to spend on keeping the house clean—did he want to wake up some morning and find vermin in David’s cradle? Philip asked if she wanted to serve nothing but domestic orange wine at her dinners, and nice people didn’t have bedbugs anyway, and Judith said that was because nice people took pains to keep them out, and Philip exclaimed that she was getting a little bit insane on the subject of bugs.
    Judith, who was thoroughly angry by this time, snapped at him that if he had ever spent a night enduring not only childbirth but the added frightfulness of being eaten by ants and cockroaches he might be a little bit insane too. Philip went out and banged the door. She looked after him with a certain indignant satisfaction. That was a weapon she could always use against him. At that instant she was glad she had it.
    But in the fall, when she found she was going to have another child, she remembered her first delivery with such horror that it was hard to make any pretense of bravery about facing another. She thought Philip was quite unsympathetic to be so frankly glad of it when she told him.
    “What makes you so cross?” he asked her. “You don’t want to spend your life clucking over one baby, do you?”
    They were in their room getting ready for supper. Judith twirled a little china snuff-box on the bureau with such force that she spilt some of the snuff. It blew up her nose and made her sneeze.
    “I think you might at least say you’re sorry,” she retorted when she could speak again.
    “But my dear sweetheart,” Philip exclaimed, “I’m not. I’m sorry having children is such a miserable business, but not half as sorry as I’d be if you were barren.”
    “Oh, all right,” said Judith shortly. She replaced the cover of the snuff-box and added without looking up, “At least when this one is born I’ll have a roof over me.”
    There was a pause. “Any time you decide to stop talking about that,” said Philip, “I’ll be grateful.”
    She turned around impulsively and went to him. “I’m sorry, darling. I really am. Philip, I’m truly not as horrid as I sound.”
    “I know it,” he said, and laughed down at her. “You’re—let me see, how old are you?”
    “Seventeen in November.”
    “Do you think you can learn to hold your tongue by the time you’re twenty?”
    She nodded seriously. “I’ll try.”
    After that she made up her mind to keep her temper and pretend to be tranquil, though she did not always succeed. She had so much to do! Besides attending to her own house and getting clothes made for the baby she tried to keep a supervising eye on housekeeping arrangements at Silverwood. She knew her father and Caleb appreciated her interest, but when the winter rains came and turned the roads into streaks of marsh she was afraid to travel, and had to send Angelique in her place. Angelique reported that Mark and Caleb were living comfortably, and were talking of building a moss house as soon as the worst rains were over.
    “I wish to heaven Caleb would get married,” said Judith. “There ought to be a woman at Silverwood.”
    Angelique chuckled. “Mr. Caleb will get married when he’s good and ready and not before. If I were you I shouldn’t be trying to give him any advice.” Angelique’s English was improving fast, and she was careful to avoid the dialect of most of the slaves.
    David’s mammy brought him in, and Judith pulled him to her and kissed the top of his golden head. “Do you suppose I can possibly have another baby as beautiful as this one?”
    “That’ll be the Lord’s doing, Miss Judith.” Angelique reached into her dress and took out a rabbit’s foot. “One of the girls at Silverwood sent you this. It’s the left hind foot of a rabbit killed in a graveyard on a Friday midnight. She says put it under the mattress after the pains start and you’ll come to a good delivery.”
    “Thanks.” Judith laughed in