GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE
In all this time Judith dwelt with us by the Lost Soul. When my uncle fetched her from Whisper Cove, he gravely gave her into the care of our maid-servant, long ago widowed by the sea, who had gone childless all her life, and was now come to the desolate years, when she would sit alone and wistful at twilight, staring out into the empty world, where only hopelessly deepening shadows were, until ’twas long past time to light the lamp. In the child that was I she had found no ease or recompense, because of the mystery concerning me, which in its implication of wickedness revolted her, and because of my uncle’s regulation of her demeanor in my presence, which tolerated no affectionate display; but when Judith came, orphaned and ill-nourished, the woman sat no longer in moods at evening, but busied herself in motherly service of the child, reawakened in the spirit. ’Twas thus to a watchful, willing guardianship, most tenderly maternal in solicitude and self-sacrifice, that Judith was brought by wise old Nick Top of Twist Tickle.
My uncle would have no misunderstanding.
“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’ll be havin’ a chair set for Judy in the cabin?”
“No, lad,” he answered; “not for little Judy.”
I expostulated most vigorously.
“Dannie, lad,” said he, with a gravity that left me no stomach for argument, “the maid goes steerage along o’ me. This here little matter o’ Judy,” he added, gently, “belongs t’ me. I’m not makin’ a lady o’ she. She haves nothin’ t’ do––nothin’ t’ do, thank God!––with what’s gone afore.”
There was no word to say.
“An ye’re wantin’ t’ have Judy t’ dinner, by times,” he continued, winking a genial understanding of my love-lorn condition, “I ’low it might be managed by a clever hand.”