XXII. AUNT AFFY’S EVENING.
“When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?”
—Job xxxiv. 29.
“I don’t want any supper,” complained Aunt Rody, rising from the supper table and staggering toward the sitting-room door. “I’m too full to eat; too full of deceit; you are all deceiving me.”
“Now, Rody,” protested Cephas, buttering his big slice of bread, with a vigorous touch.
“All, every one of you,” she said with a wail, turning with a slow effort to face the supper-table; “you have deceived me all your life, and Affy has, and Joe, and Judith, and Doodles would if he knew how. Perhaps he does in a dog’s way, which isn’t half so tremendous as the human way.”
Joe burst into a laugh, which Aunt Affy’s look instantly silenced.
“Poor Rody,” she sighed.
In the twilight, after the dishes were done, the two old sisters sat together on the piazza; Rody had insisted upon wiping the dishes, and as she sat upright in her straight-backed chair, she rubbed her fingers dry with the brown gingham apron she had forgotten to take off.
She rubbed her fingers with an unceasing motion, muttering to herself. Affy looked off into the twilight, her hands still in her lap. Joe went whistling up the road to the village; Cephas, in meditative attitude, in his shirt-sleeves, with his straw hat pushed to the back of his head, leaned over the gate.
“All of you, all of you,” mumbled the breaking voice, “from my youth up.”
“Cephas thinks it would be a good thing to sell the milk to the Dutchman that has bought the Elting farm,” began Affy, watching the effect of her words. “Four cents a quart. And we would be saved the churning and washing all the milk things. If Joe goes away to learn a trade we shall have nobody to churn. What do you think, Rody?”
The drooping head lifted itself, the fingers with the gingham fold were held with a loosening hand; sharply and shrilly Aunt Rody replied: “That’s always the way; you and Cephas are always putting your heads together to cheat me out of something. Not a quart of that milk shall go. Joe shall stay and churn. Mother never sold her milk to a Dutchman for four cents a quart. What would we do for butter, I’d like to know.”
“Buy it.”
“Buy it,” she repeated, mockingly; “nobody on the Sparrow place ever paid money for butter.”
“But Cephas thinks—,” began Aunt Affy, patiently.
“Tell Cephas to stop thinking,” replied the weakly imperative voice.
Twilight darkened into night; but Rody refused to go in and go to bed; she was comfortable, she liked that chair, she liked the stars, she could breathe better out here in the night air; she did not want to go into her bedroom, somebody had struck her a blow in there.
So they stayed, the air blew damp, Aunt Affy brought a shawl and pinned it about the stooping shoulders; Cephas came and sat down on the step of the piazza with his hat on his knee, giving uneasy glances now and then at the muffled, still figure in the chair.
“It’s getting dark,” suggested Affy, rising and standing before the bent figure with its head turned stiffly to one side.
“And damp—these nights are chilly for old bones,” replied Cephas.
“There’s a light in the house,” persuaded Affy, “and it’s dark out here.”
“And the bed is so comfortable,” added Cephas; “guess I’ll go in.”
He arose and went in.
“I’m going, too,” encouraged Affy. “Come, Rody, you may sleep in my bed.”
“I won’t sleep in my bed; are you sure there’s nobody to strike me in your room?” she questioned like a frightened child.
“Nobody but me. Come, Rody,” she urged, gently.
Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, the old woman lifted herself to her feet; then she felt out in the darkness for something to lean on; Affy took her arm and led her in. The lamp was burning on the round table where the New York Observer was piled; Doodles slept on his cushion on the lounge.
“I’ll sit here awhile,” said Cephas, pulling his spectacle case from his vest pocket. “I haven’t read the paper to-night.”
“I’ll sit here, too,” said Rody, rousing herself to a decision. “Somehow I don’t want to go to bed. I don’t believe it’s nine o’clock yet. I wish the clock would strike. I wish something would make a noise.”
“It’s a quarter of nine,” replied Affy, lowering her sister slowly down into her chair. “It will soon strike.”
“Take this thing off,” commanded Rody, tugging at the shawl with her weak right hand. “You bundle me up as if I was a baby.”
“There’s a carriage coming,” said Cephas, bending his head and half shutting his eyes to listen; “he’s come, Affy.”
“Who’s come?” demanded Aunt Rody, in shrill tone. “Who comes at this time of night?”
“The minister; he was coming to bring Judith for an hour or two,” Cephas answered, reassuringly. “She didn’t come yesterday. Don’t you want to see her?”
“Just for a look; I don’t want her to stay, I don’t want anybody to stay.”
Roger Kenney and Judith entered quietly; Judith shrank from the old woman as she stood for an instant beside her chair. Roger drew a chair nearer and took Aunt Rody’s hand into his own. The nerveless hand lay in his as if glad of the warmth and strength; as he talked, Roger clasped and unclasped his hand over hers that she might feel the motion and life of his fingers.
“I’m glad to see you, Aunt Rody,” he said in a voice which was a tonic.
“I’m glad to see you,” she replied, with the flicker of a smile about her lips.
“‘Let not your heart be troubled.’”
“It is troubled; it is full of trouble. It’s Affy and Cephas; they are deceiving me. They want to get married and deceive me more and more.”
“Shall I tell you how we’ll stop that?” asked Roger, bending confidentially toward her.
“Yes, do. Tell me quick.”
“Let me marry them, and then you will never think they are deceiving you again. What is the reason they are deceiving you now?”
“Because they think I stand between them; they think I’ve always stood between them,” she said, piteously; “but I never did. I was seeking their good.”
“But don’t you think you have sought their good long enough?” he asked persuasively.
“Yes; I’ve worn myself out for their good. I’m worn out now; they’ll have to do for themselves, after this.”
“Who will take care of Affy after you are gone?”
“I don’t know; I’m sure I don’t know. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself.”
“But she was your little baby; you are sorry not to have her taken care of.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry; I’m very sorry.”
Affy dropped on the lounge beside Doodles, and was crying like a child; Judith went to her and put both her strong young arms about her and her warm cheek to hers. Cephas cleared his throat, then busied himself burnishing his spectacles with a piece of old chamois.
“Somebody must take care of her, Cephas knows how best,” said the minister with firmness, rubbing the cold, limp fingers.
“Yes, Cephas knows how best,” she quavered “Come here, Cephas, and promise the minister you will always take care of Affy.”
“Go, Aunt Affy,” said Judith, in her strong, young voice, “go and be married while Aunt Rody knows it. She’ll change her mind to-morrow—”
“Oh, I can’t, I can’t,” sobbed Aunt Affy, “with Rody so near dying, how can I? It’s too hurried and dreadful.”
“It’s too beautiful,” said Judith; “that is all she can do for you; do let her do it, dear Aunt Affy.”
“Come, Affy,” said Cephas solemnly, “the Lord’s time has come.”
“Perhaps it has,” sobbed Affy, trembling from head to foot, as Judith led her across the room.
Roger arose and stood before the old man and the old woman; her head drooped so that one long curl rested on his shoulder.
“I’d ought to have a coat on,” said Cephas with an ashamed face; “it isn’t proper for a man to be married in his shirt-sleeves.”
“And let me fix up a little,” coaxed Aunt Affy; “this is my old muslin, all faded out.”
“Oh, don’t spoil anything,” Judith besought; “see how she is watching you. Aunt Rody, don’t you want Uncle Cephas to take care of Aunt Affy?”
“Yes, yes, oh, yes. Has he promised the minister?” she asked with tremulous anxiety.
“Listen, and you will hear him promise. Joe, come here,” Roger called to the step in the kitchen.
Joe came to the threshold, threw off his hat, and stood amazed.
“Aunt Rody, put their hands together,” said Judith, taking Aunt Rody’s hands as the old bride and bridegroom stretched their hands toward her.
“Did I do it?” she asked, as she felt the touch of both hands. “Is it done for always?”
“Yes,” said the minister, “you’ve done it. Now, listen to every word.”
“Has he promised to take care of Affy?” Rody asked, peering up into Roger’s face.
“Yes, Rody, with all my heart and soul and strength,” answered the old man, with the light of communion Sunday in his face.
The curl drooped lower on Cephas’ shirt-sleeve; Judith stood near Aunt Affy.
The solemn, glad words were spoken, the prayer uttered, the benediction given; Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas were married.
“Let me kiss you, Rody,” said Affy, through her tears.
“I kissed you when you were a baby,” said Rody. “You were a nice little baby. Mother said I must always think of you first.”
“Now, you will go to bed,” said Affy. “It’s after nine o’clock.”
“Not in my room. I’ll go in your room. Don’t you go away all night. Keep the light burning, and don’t you go.”
“No; I’ll stay, Rody; we will take care of you always, Cephas and I.”
Judith stayed that night; Aunt Rody slept well, and arose in the morning at her usual early hour. She made no allusion to the marriage that day, nor as long as she lived.