Once they rapped on the door. The Judge did not move, so I opened it a crack and motioned them away, and sat down again, watching the light turn from pink to the glare of full day, and then a path of warm summer sunlight stretch out across the rug and climb down the wall till it fell onto a basin of water sitting on the floor, and the reflection jumped up to dance its jigs on the ceiling.
I heard the Judge move often enough, but I did not know he was on his feet until I looked up at last, and there he was standing in front of me, with his wild eyes staring down at the child.
He pointed at the little thing with his long forefinger.
“Julianna,” said he.
“You are mad, sir,” I cried.
“No,” said he. “My wife! It must be done to save her happiness. Yes! To save her life.”
“To save her?” I repeated after him.
“Yes, a lie,” he whispered bitterly. “She has not seen the baby for weeks and weeks.”
“She could never know,” I cried, understanding what he meant. “That is true, sir. No one could ever tell. The two of them were not different anyway. But you—! You could never forget.”
“I know,” said he. “Yet it is my happiness against hers, and I have made up my mind. No living soul can ever learn of this. I am safe there. Chalmers will never come back. Nor could he ever know if he did. And so—”