XVIII. JUDITH’S TURNING-POINT.
“No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its power may be,
Nor what results infolded dwell
Within it silently.”
Judith stood in her night-dress and bare feet on the rug of rag-carpet before her bed; she was afraid; she was afraid because of Miss Marion’s story; would she go to sleep, and wake up, and wish she had a key in her door?
After another hesitating moment she decided to go down stairs to Aunt Affy’s bed-room and linger around, hoping Aunt Affy would ask her to sleep just one night in that cunning room in that old-fashioned, tall-posted bed, with ever so many small pillows, and that red and green quilt of patch-work baskets with handles.
Slipping on the blue wool shoes her mother knitted, she went softly down stairs to the entry bedroom. Aunt Rody’s door, for a wonder, was shut; that was one danger past, for if Aunt Rody heard one foot-fall, without inquiring into it she would certainly send her back to bed. If she were dying of a broken heart Aunt Rody would never know or care. But she did not think it was because she would never care to tell Aunt Rody about her broken heart.
Aunt Affy’s door, like the gates of Heaven, was wide open; by the light of a small lamp she was reading her “chapters” in the Bible.
One of Judith’s names for Aunt Affy’s Bible was “My Chapters.”
“Come in, dear,” welcomed the angel within the gates of Heaven. On the threshold stood the white-robed figure, with her long hair braided loosely and ending in one curl.
“Just a minute,” pleaded the rather tearful voice; “shall I disturb your chapters?”
“No, indeed, you are a part of them, as your mother was before you,” said Aunt Affy, shoving her gold-rimmed spectacles into their case.
These gold-rimmed spectacles were her last birthday present from Cephas.
Judith thought it was funny, but very lovely for such old people to have birthday presents. Aunt Affy was so choice of these spectacles that she kept them to read the Bible with.
“I wanted to come a little while,” said Judith, perching herself on the side of the high bed, her blue-slippered feet not touching the carpet.
“I wish you had a sister,” began Aunt Affy in the tone that ran on a long while. “You must have some one to grow up with. You have never had any one to grow up with.”
“I have Nettie, and Jean, and Miss Marion, and Mr. Roger, and everybody else, and you and my cousin Don.”
“And we are all growing up together,” laughed Aunt Affy with her soft laugh. “When I was a little girl I had my sister Becky. The other sisters were all grown up. Eight sisters we were. But some were married. Father would have us all home on Christmas Days. Such a merry houseful. Cephas was like the brother we never had. He came a boy to work for father, just as Joe works for him. Becky and Cephas and I were always growing up together. Becky was the friskiest thing, always getting into scrapes and out of them. Rody used to be hard on us, we thought then; but I’ve no doubt we were wilful and disobedient, and gave her heaps of trouble. She always worked hard; she always would.”
“Why?” asked Judith, with thoughtful questioning.
“Because it is her nature to put her shoulder to the wheel. She pushes other peoples’ shoulders away. She does not know how to be helped—not even by the Lord himself. She married off her sisters, she said, and then all she wanted was to settle down to work and to peace and quietness. She likes to see people at church; but it frets her wonderfully to have people come here. If it hadn’t been for that I should have brought your dear mother back here years ago to stay, but Rody wouldn’t hear of it. She can’t bear to have her ways interfered with. She wouldn’t sleep one wink to-night if she thought that pile of papers on the round table wasn’t just as she put it. And it would give her a fever for me to sleep in her bed.”
“But it wouldn’t you,” interrupted Judith, eagerly.
“Oh, not a bit. Still I never try it. I like my own bed, and own side of the bed. But I was telling you about Becky; she used to sleep with me, and no one has since.”
Judith’s heart sank. The room up stairs grew desolate and afraid and homesick.
“Cephas always liked Becky; they used to do their lessons together, and when he went to town to learn his trade he asked her to be his wife as soon as he could build a house to put her in. Father gave Becky twenty acres on her twentieth birthday, and Cephas was to build the house.”
“He wasn’t bald and white-whiskered then.”
“Well, I think not. He was the handsomest young man in the country, and the best. And a master workman, too.
“Then father died; he had been queer some time. Rody broke off a match for him; the old minister’s sister, a widow, a good and lovely woman, and he had mourned years for mother, and Becky and I were glad to have him comforted; but Rody would not give up her place to any stepmother, trust her for that; and she broke it off somehow, and the widow married a minister, and father grew queer and then died.
“Rody had something to repent of, if she only thought of it; only she never does think. She worked on Becky’s feelings about Cephas, but Becky held on, and wouldn’t give him up; so she and I together, when Rody wasn’t looking on, made her wedding things, such piles. I enjoyed it as if it were to be my own house-keeping; I loved them both so, and Rody worked hard and was dreadfully cross to us all; and the cellar for the new house was dug, and Becky was as happy as a queen. How she sang about the house. Cephas had a shop of his own in town by this time, and journeymen and apprentices; he was a rusher; he expected to drive in every day. He wanted a house in town, but Becky loved the old place and she was always delicate, and he couldn’t bear to cross her. And, then, it’s a sad story for young people, but you must know there’s sadness in the world as well as joy—she died suddenly with fever. I watched her night and day. And Rody. She was a ministering angel. She died in Rody’s arms. Rody had been like a mother to her. Her things, ‘our things’ she used to say, were all packed away. Cephas failed in business—I think he didn’t care much whether he failed or not, and came back to the farm. Flowers and weeds began to grow in the cellar of Becky’s house; it’s only a big green hole now. Cephas wanted me to use her things; he said Becky would like it, and I knew she would. He comforted me and I comforted him. Rody didn’t like that, and sent him away. We comfort each other now, and always will. Rody can’t hinder everything. Why, child, don’t have such big eyes over my story. Becky has been happy all these blessed years, and Cephas and I talk over old times and look forward to new times; and, we would like to build a house over Becky’s cellar if Rody didn’t fume so.
“This is her ring that I wear—this plain gold, the only ring I ever had; she put it on my finger and asked me to be good to Cephas. He wouldn’t take it back. But isn’t it your bed-time, Deary?”
“I wish I might brush your hair,” said Judith, slipping off the high bed.
But a door creaked, was flung wide open; a night-capped head appeared in the opposite doorway.
“You up, Judith Grey Mackenzie. Go right up to bed this minute. It’s just like you, and it’s more like Affy. No wonder I couldn’t sleep with voices in the house at this unearthly hour. There! It’s striking nine o’clock. Affy, you go to bed.”
Aunt Affy laughed softly as the creaking door was closed again.
“I am not grown up either, you see. Perhaps I shall grow up with you. She wouldn’t let me mix the bread to-night, and she never lets me take the butter out of the churn. And when we go to town shopping she always carries the money.”
Judith laughed a doleful little laugh, and went bravely up stairs to her turning-point.
It was moonlight, but she must light the candle for company; she would keep it burning all night, or as long as it would burn, if she dared.
She would scratch the match where she liked; Aunt Rody had no right to order her about so; she did not belong to Aunt Rody. She wished Aunt Affy would let her go to live always at the Parsonage.
Perhaps Cousin Don would if she wrote and told him all about Aunt Rody.
One night last week Aunt Rody had put her head in at the door and found her scratching a match on the bureau along the crack on its upper edge; she often did it; but Aunt Rody gave a scream and seized her by the arm and said angrily; “Judith Grey Mackenzie, don’t you do that again; I’ll whip you as sure as you live if I ever see you do it again. You might set the house on fire. Suppose a spark should fall into the upper drawer.”
But a spark never had. The upper drawer was shut tight; Aunt Rody had no right to catch her by the arm like that. And whip her! She wouldn’t dare. She would go to the parsonage and stay until Cousin Don came after her.
She was old enough to scratch a match where she liked.
With a sudden indignant stroke she drew the match under the top edge of the bureau: a snap and a flash.
“There,” she said aloud, triumphantly.
She lighted the candle and dropped the burnt match in the tin pail that served as slop jar.
It was very quiet down stairs; Joe had gone to bed, Uncle Cephas had not come home from the session meeting at the parsonage; she wished he would come.
Then, the tiniest curl of smoke caught her eye—out of the top drawer; no, that was tight shut; the curl grew and grew; it came from the crack under the top edge of the bureau.
Paralyzed with terror she stood and looked. It was smoke. And it grew and grew. Should she run down and tell Aunt Affy? But Aunt Rody would hear and come, too. Might she call Joe? But he might tell Aunt Rody the next day; he looked cross at her at supper time because she said she would not read aloud to him all the evening. If Uncle Cephas would only come. But he always stayed late at session meeting—there it was, slowly, so slowly curling up.
It was real smoke, and there had to be fire to make smoke. The bureau would burn first and then—after a long time she remembered that water would put out fire; what a goose she was to stand there and see the smoke grow.
She poured water into the wash-bowl, soaked the wash-cloth, and ran it carefully all along the crack.
There, it was out. Nothing to be frightened about. But she would never do it again. Aunt Rody did not know about that.
Sitting down on the foot of the bed opposite the bureau, she leaned over the red rail that formed the foot-board and watched and waited. Of course the fire was out. Yes—no—yes, there it was again—the curl of smoke; the water had done no good; the fire was too deep in for water to get through the crack; the spark had fallen away down in.
In despair she burst into tears; but the tears kept her eyes from watching the smoke; she brushed her eyes clear and looked; it was there, and it grew and grew, not dense, not black, but real smoke, and it kept coming and coming.
“O Father in Heaven,” she cried aloud, “please stop it; please stop it. I don’t know what to do.”
Still the smoke was there. Did God see it? Didn’t he care? Would he not answer because she had been so disobedient and because she had hated Aunt Rody?
“I will be good after this,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be hateful. I will give up my will to Aunt Rody when she is right.” It was fainter; no, there it was again. Would the fire never go out?
Aunt Rody knew best. Perhaps Aunt Rody knew best about other things. Perhaps she was a Christian, a real disciple, only a very queer one.
Now it was so faint, so faint she could not see it at all. It was not because the tears were in her eyes; it was gone. It was gone. She felt all along the crack with her finger. It was not hot. And the smoke was gone. The fire was out; it was all burned out inside that crack.
And Aunt Rody need never know. And she would never, never, never disobey Aunt Rody again. Her mother had always told her she loved her own will too much; she would never love it so much again; she would say—what would she say? She knelt on the strip of rag-carpet where she had seen the girl kneel in her “picture” and repeated softly, through fast falling tears: “Our Father, who art in Heaven; Hallowed be thy name; Thy Kingdom come: Thy will be done; that was it; Thy will be done, Thy will be done,” she repeated joyfully over and over. “Make me love Thy will best. Make my will a good will, a sweet will, an obedient will.”
She did not know then that it was her turning point. The next day she loved to obey Aunt Rody. Aunt Rody did not ask her to do one disagreeable thing; and it was the queerest thing, Aunt Rody said, when she asked if she might sweep the sitting-room, “That’s a good girl.”
She did not tell any one about her fright over the match excepting John Kenney, Miss Marion’s brother, and Jean Draper. He had come to the parsonage for vacation. He was a big, handsome boy, as manly as the minister himself, and as gentle as a girl; one afternoon, when she and Jean Draper went off on a long stroll with him, and they began to tell stories of adventure of what they had read, or of what happened to them, she told her story about how the smoke got in a crack.
She only said she liked Aunt Rody better after that. She could not tell about her prayer. But John would have understood, she was sure.
He always looked as though he understood everything you meant, but did not know how to say.