“Green pastures are before me,
Which yet I have not seen.”
“I suppose King will ask me to exchange with him Sunday,” remarked
Roger, putting the reins into Judith’s ready hands, after turning out
of the parsonage lane. “Which sermon shall I take?”
“The cubit one,” was her unhesitating reply; “it has been in my mind
to ask you to preach that again for me.”
“But you will not hear it.”
“Unless you take me with you,” she suggested with a merry laugh.
Roger believed that Judith Grey Mackenzie was the merriest maiden in
Bensalem.
“I would if I were going to dine at the parsonage, but there’s no
housekeeper there, more’s the pity, I shall take dinner and supper
with one of the deacons, and drive home in the moonlight. You would
like that.”
“All but the deacon.”
“And you wouldn’t endure the deacon for the sake of the cubit sermon.”
“Indeed, I wouldn’t. What would they think of me?”
“That you are a very nice little girl.”
“I’m too big a girl, that’s the worst of it.”
“That’s the best of it—for me.”
“I don’t know whether I’m glad of it or not,” she said, as frankly as
if speaking to Marion. “The only trouble I have in the world is that
I’m growing up away from being your little girl.”
[Illustration: “The only trouble I have,” said Judith, “is that I’m
growing up away from being your little girl.”]
“Don’t you dare,” he said with playful threatening.
“I don’t dare.”
“As if you could, Lady-Bug.”
“Oh, how that brings back dear old Don. It is the last name he ever
called me—outside of a letter. Don’t you believe that he’s coming
home soon?”
“I know it.”
“Do you know how soon?”
“That is his secret.”
“Oh,” drawing a long breath, “I’m too glad. But I don’t want to go to
the city and keep house for him, and go to college and have every
advantage, as he says I must do. I’ve _had_ every advantage; you and
Marion have been my ‘liberal education.’ Nothing will ever take me
away from Marion.”
“Or your brother Roger.”
“Oh, you two are one. I always mean you both.”
“But hasn’t your Cousin Don the best right to you? Isn’t he your
guardian or something?”
“He is my everything—beside you and Marion and Aunt Affy.”
“Then he must do as he thinks best.”
“Am I not to be consulted? I belong to myself first of all.”
“You will be much consulted, no doubt.”
“Then I hope I shall not have to do anything I don’t want to. I’m
afraid Don will be like a stranger. I was only a little girl when he
went away. I do not feel at home with _him_, only with the thought of
him.”
“With your thought of him?”
“And my thought may be very far wrong. O, Roger, do you believe it
is?” bringing her earnest face within range of his too sympathetic
eyes.
“Tell me what is your thought of him,” he said, gently, taking the
reins from her hands. “You see you cannot talk and drive, too. Daisy
was walking into a fence.”
She gave up the reins without any consciousness of the action; she
was looking at her Cousin Don’s face as she had told a “picture” of
it to her mother.
“He is so fine, so unselfish, so true, so considerate, a refuge from
everything that troubles me, a part of my mother to me—I have saved
all his letters, they are my chief treasures. If I should be
disappointed in him the sun would drop out of the sky.”
“Poor little girl,” thought the man beside her, tenderly. “Suppose
you are disappointed in me,” he asked, lightly; “have you ever
thought about that?”
“No. I cannot even _think_ that,” she said, impulsively.
“Because you have not placed me on any such pedestal?”
“Perhaps so,” she laughed.
“_Is_ that the reason?”
“No, for when I was a little girl I placed my Cousin Don and his
friend Roger on the same pedestal. You haven’t tumbled off yet, and
I’ve been with you ever since.”
“Judith, I do not like that,” he answered, seriously; “you shouldn’t
look at people like that.”
“I don’t. At people. But I do at you, and Don, and Marion, and Aunt
Affy and Ruskin and George Macdonald and Miss Mulock and Tennyson
and—”
“Then I will not be frightened if we are all there. If one of us
fail, you will have all the others to keep the sun in your sky.”
“Now, give me back the reins, because I have told you.”
He laid the reins in her hand, asking what she had been doing with
herself all the morning.
“Writing a story.”
“O, Judith, not another one,” he exclaimed in pretended dismay.
“I had to. It was burning in my bones. Don’t you know I got five
dollars for the last one?”
“Can nothing but a five-dollar bill quench the burning in your bones?”
“Oh, yes; the burning is quenched by writing it. I am quenched now for
quite a while.”
“What was your inspiration this time?”
“Something you said Sunday evening.”
“Tell me.”
“I will read it to you in your earliest leisure.”
“Do you intend to keep this thing up and be a dreadful literary
creature?”
“Only as long as the burning lasts.”
“But while you muse the fire burns; you must give up musing.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, troubled.
“No, dear. Give everything that is _in_ you. That is what it is in
you for.”
“I know that,” she answered, confidently. “In almost all your sermons
I find a thought to make a story of.”
“You illustrate me. I am the author; you are the artist.”
“Then how can I go away and keep house for Don?”
“You mercenary creature, you want to make money out of me.”
“When I was a little girl and thought of writing stories I wanted to
earn money; now I only think of the joy of writing things down.”
“That is creating—like the joy of the Lord. May it last forever—like
his joy.”
Judith was silent from sheer happiness. Her work was so little, but
so dear: Roger and Marion always understood; she was no more shy with
them about her stories than about her thoughts; she gave herself to
them utterly, as she had given herself to her mother.
The parsonage at Meadow Centre was in Meadow Centre; it was not in a
village, or a _ville_; it was not in any place, but its own place,
where it stood; the church was the nearest building, the post-office
was two miles distant; there were farm-houses scattered about for
miles; the most distant parishioner lived three miles from the church.
The parsonage, built of wood and stone, a story and a half, with the
trumpet vine climbing luxuriously to its low roof, had passed its
birthday of three-score years and ten. It was old, and it looked as
if it felt old.
The gate was swung wide open, the path leading to the closed front
door was weed-grown, the flower beds on each side of the path were a
mass of wild, bright bloom.
“How pretty! How like a picture!” exclaimed Judith, in admiration;
“there’s a grape-vine running up an apple tree, and there’s the old
oaken bucket. What a pity for no one to live here.”
“Somebody stays here,” said Roger.
“Is it the parsonage? How can they neglect it so?”
“Whoa, Daisy. The farmers are all busy. King should learn to use a
scythe, and a lawn-mower; he’s a born hermit. If he wanted to he
could find a housekeeper; he forgets he hasn’t any.”
“But there’s no one at home.”
“Oh, yes, he’s at home. He’s expecting me. The study is in the rear;
he lives in that.”
“But where is his sunshine?”
“He finds that. He’s the best man to find sunshine I know. He is the
sunshine himself.”
The “sunshine” came around the corner of the house, a long linen
duster crowned with a soft gray felt hat; beneath the hat a tawny
beard, and the bluest eyes shining through a tangle of eyebrows.
“I had given you up.”
“Never give me up,” said Roger in a sunshiny voice. “I’m always on
hand, when I am not on foot. Miss Mackenzie, Mr. King. But, excuse
me, you have seen each other in Bensalem.”
“I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mackenzie; I hope she has
not forgotten me.”
“Judith never forgets. Will you let her go around and browse while we
have our drive? Judith, you don’t mind staying alone?”
“It is not a very nice place for a lady to stay in,” the bachelor
housekeeper hastened to say; “I fear I forget when sweeping-day
comes, and I always forget to wash the dishes.”
“Judith will do that for you. Don’t forget, Judith,” he warned.
“The woman who comes once a week is ill, and has not been here for
two weeks; I am really ashamed to have Miss Judith come into the
house.”
“She isn’t ashamed, she likes it. Give her your hand, Dick, and help
her out; I must hold Daisy.”
Judith stepped down and stood beside the linen duster and gray hat,
fervently wishing she had stayed at home.
“Roger, how long will you be gone?” she inquired, faint-heartedly.
“Till supper-time—we have business on hand—if you don’t have supper
ready for us I’ll lose you on the way home.”
“There’s bread in the house, and butter and milk and eggs—but the
dishes—,” excused the embarrassed housekeeper.
“Trust a girl to wash dishes. Will you wear that duster?”
“I have a coat under it. Wait until I show Miss Judith in; my study
is the only fit place.”
“Show her the kitchen, there’s where you need a visitor.”
“The front door is locked,” apologized Mr. King. “I am sorry to take
you to the back hall door.”
Judith’s courtesy and kindliness failed her; Roger deserved a
scolding for bringing her to such a forlorn place; what could she do
with herself two or three hours?
The doorway into which she was shown led into a narrow carpeted hall;
the study door stood open; books in book-cases, on the floor, on a
table, books and dust, a coat on a chair; the light from two windows
streamed in.
“If you care for books you will find something to do—the latest
magazines are somewhere. My housekeeper had to leave suddenly, and to
get another has been impossible. I wish I might make you comfortable.
I’d like to put Kenney under the pump for bringing you. Would you
rather I would take you to a neighbor?” he asked, brightening.
“Oh, no; I like it—I shall like it,—here, in a few minutes,” she said
with fervent kindliness.
“Don’t get us any supper; Mr. Kenney was only joking,” he added as he
disappeared.
It was rather a cruel kind of a joke, she thought, as Daisy sped down
the road; she would run away and walk home, seven miles, if she
dared. But Roger would be hurt; he had brought her for the drive, and
had no idea of the dismalness of the desolate old place.
She threw off hat and gloves, and braced herself for action of some
kind. Roger would expect supper. It was not difficult to find the
kitchen; there was no fire, a fire could hardly be expected; there
appeared to be nothing in the room but piles and piles of dirty
dishes. There were kindlings in a basket near the stove, and wood in
the box behind the stove; there was a sink and a pump; with fire and
water she could wash dishes.
If Marion had only come, too, what fun it would have been. It would
be rather desolate fun all alone.
She discovered soap in a dish on the sink, and towels, clean towels,
hanging on a heavy cord behind the stove. The room, like the study,
was flooded with the afternoon sunshine. And there were pictures out
of the window; she had never yet found a window that did not frame a
picture. She could not be lonely with pictures and sunshine.
In five minutes the wood fire was crackling; the sunshine and the
fire were two companions she loved, and then, Marion often laughed at
her enthusiasm for washing dishes. For once in her life, she would
tell Marion, she had dishes enough to wash.
If she might only heat the oven and make biscuits. That would be a
surprise. With a feeling that she was intruding she opened a closet
door; a loaf of bread, a plate of butter, a paper of soda crackers, a
small basket of eggs, a tin quart of milk, a bag of salt was the
quick inventory she made—then she found a bag of flour on the floor,
a basket of potatoes, a ham from which slices had been cut, and a jug
of molasses. Hot biscuits, ham and eggs, coffee, there must be
coffee; what a splendid supper she might have. There were no remains
of a dinner; perhaps he had forgotten to get any dinner, or he might
have been invited out; he should have one supper—if there were only
time.
Roger told her once that she had the feet and fingers of a fairy; she
said to herself that she needed them that afternoon.
At that very moment when feet and fingers were busy in his kitchen,
how her young enthusiasm would have been kindled could she have heard
the story he was telling Roger.
“It has been a tug for me, something to go through with. You do not
know unless you have had something of the sort happen to you. It may
end in my going away. She is everything to be desired, and more than
I deserve. A splendid looking girl, a college graduate, just the wife
for a minister, keen as a flash, quick at repartee, as spicy as a
magazine article, born to command, a perfect lady, with a winning
manner, and I can’t love her if it kills me. I’ve been down on my
knees begging the Lord to make me love her: and she is no more to me
than a picture, or a statue, or a character in a book. It unmans me
to feel how her heart has gone out to me. She is as brave about it as
she can be.”
“How, in the name of wonder, do you know it then?” asked Roger, in
astonishment.
“I know it because I cannot help knowing it. If you do not know how I
know it I cannot tell you. Her mother knows it, and how she watches
me. They say Frederick Robertson married in a like way; he was afraid
he had been dishonorable. But this is none of my doing.”
“I can believe that, old fellow.”
“What am I to do?”
“Steer clear of her.”
“All my steering will not keep me clear of her. We are constantly
brought together.”
“Introduce me. You will be nowhere.”
Richard King would not laugh; the very telling his trouble appeared
treason in his eyes.
“I know what is the matter,” ejaculated Roger, suddenly. “You have
seen some other woman, or you would succumb.”
“I have seen several other women,” he said, thinking only of one,—the
girl with a blind mother in Bensalem.
“Don’t let it drive you away from your work.”
“I think she may go away. I think her mother will send her away. I
think I would rather face the cannon’s mouth than be left alone half
an hour with that old lady.”
“Does she blame you?”
“Not if she has the common sense I think she has. I am the last man
for a girl to fall in love with,” he added, ruefully.
“Don’t count too much on that,” advised Roger, gravely.
At six o’clock Daisy was driven around to the stable to be fed;
Judith was taking her molasses cake from the oven and heeded neither
voices nor footsteps.
“I told you so,” cried Roger, delighted, coming to the kitchen
doorway. “See here, King, and look here, and _smell_ here.”
“Well, I think so,” exclaimed the bachelor housekeeper in dismay and
delight.
“Table set, too,” declared Roger, stepping into the tiny dining-room.
“No table-cloth; how is that, Judith?”
“I couldn’t look around for things,” said Judith, flushing; “I was
afraid every minute of intruding. I haven’t looked into places any
more than I could help.”
“Miss Judith, I am ashamed—”
“You are grateful, you lucky dog,” interrupted Roger. “We are as
hungry as tramps, Judith; our host stopped at the store and bought
sugar cakes and cheese to treat us on, not knowing the feast he was
bringing his guest home to.”
Biscuits, molasses cake, ham and eggs and coffee.
Judith’s eyes were demure and satisfied; she had never had such a
good time in her life.
“I can get you a table-cloth if it will not be too much trouble to
reset the table,” proposed the host as unembarrassed as his visitors
could desire.
“Please don’t,” said Judith, “unless for your own convenience.”
“I acknowledge I haven’t seen a table-cloth on my own table since I
have been my own housekeeper: but we must have napkins. I cannot do
without napkins unless I am camping out.”
Judith was placed at the head of the table, she accepted the position
as naturally as she did at the Bensalem parsonage when she was left
to be the lady of the house; she poured the delicious coffee, ate her
biscuits with a perfect relish, and listened to story, repartee,
experiences, plans for work with an appreciation that added zest to
the conversation.
“Well, Judith, what do you think of your afternoon?” inquired Roger,
when Daisy was trotting the second mile toward home.
“I never had anything like it. I didn’t mind washing the supper
dishes with you looking on; but I _did_ mind having him in the
kitchen.”
“He couldn’t stay out; it was nuts for him. He’s a first-rate camper,
but housekeeping is one too many for him. He is one too many for
himself. He wishes to be near the church, so he will not try to find
board anywhere.”
“Hasn’t he a sister, or cousin, or somebody?”
“He hasn’t anybody. He wants to bring a family to the parsonage—he
might have had one for the summer if he had known he would lose his
housekeeper in time. He will make a break and do something. What do
you think of him?”
“If I hadn’t seen that dreadful study, and that kitchen—”
“Did you go up stairs?”
“Why, _no_. Did you think I would do that? I felt myself an intruder
every minute. You didn’t think I _would_ do that, Roger.”
“Well, no; now I come to think of it.”
“If I had met him away—but he is so much a part of that kitchen and
study, that I’m afraid I shall not be fair to him. At first he was
nothing but big, to me; big and ashamed; then nothing but red beard
and eyebrows, and then eyes; his voice is as big as he is. I liked
his sermon that other time you exchanged; he is a man in earnest.”
“A man burning with enthusiasm! He came to Meadow Centre—his parish
covers three miles in two directions,—only because he was needed
there. He refused twice the salary, a pitiful little salary it is,
that he might try to bring that church back,—to keep it from being
swallowed up; his father was born there—he has a love for the church
and people; we passed a deserted church on the way here, a mile ahead
of us; Meadow Centre will be another deserted church before many
years—there are deserted farms in this neighborhood.”
“But the people will find a church somewhere.”
“There’s a new church where we went this afternoon; it is taking his
people, his grandfather’s people.”
“I should think it would. The church is out of repair—there’s nothing
pretty about it. I don’t believe he _can_ keep the people together.”
“Then he will help them scatter. He will do something for them. He
wanted this experience, and he could afford to take it.”
“Did you promise to exchange Sunday?”
“Yes. I will drive home after evening service. He will stay over
night with us. I wish we might keep him a week. He took me to see a
place for a new church. He is a born organizer—”
“Outside of the kitchen,” laughed Judith.
“I wish he had a wife,” said Roger.
“Not for such a reason—to keep house for him,” replied Judith, in a
flash of indignation.
“His grandfather and father were born in Scotland—on his mother’s
side he has Scotch grit. He’ll pull himself through, but it’s rather
tough on him. He makes me feel like a pampered baby. He worked his
way through college; he has fed on thistles and he shows it. I wish I
had,” said Roger devoutly.
“Is it too late?” asked Judith teasingly.
“I feel so small beside him,” Roger went on discontentedly; “he is
the biggest and best fellow I know.”
“Roger, Roger, you tell me not to seek hard things for myself.”
Roger lapsed into silence. Judith wondered if she might not put her
afternoon into her next story. Sometime what a pretty book she would
make out of her short stories. She would call it: “A Child’s
Outlook.” But that would be too grown up for children. Her stories
were _for_ children, as well as about children. Marion had planned a
summer of writing for her; she had the “plots” for five stories in
her head; she had told them all to Marion as she used to tell her
mother pictures; they were, all of them, founded on her own childish
experiences; her childhood had been full of things—Marion said her
own childhood had not been so full. Every day when she was a child
had been a story. Telling her mother pictures had helped make her
stories. She used to tell her mother stories about herself.
“You are too young to look back to your childhood,” Roger had once
told her; “that comes with age.”
“Mother made it so real—she impressed me with its happenings. She
made things happen, I understand now, because she was going away so
soon. She used to say, ‘I want you to look back and remember this.’
And I read aloud to her the journal she asked me to keep the last
three years—I draw upon that now.”
A summer of stories. She laughed aloud in her joy. She wished she
might take her book of stories to Heaven to show to her mother.