“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.