Part 9

“Along the half mile on the way to the new house were scattered several farmhouses, then came the church, and churchyard, and, on a rise beyond the churchyard, a pretty house.

“‘_That’s_ it,’ Elsie said, ‘I know the house.’

“The key was in the possession of the white-haired old man with the two horses, and his house was opposite the church.

“Elsie was too shy to go to the door and knock and ask for Mrs. Pettingill’s key, but I was very glad to go; I began to feel that I would like to see the girl who would stay all night with us. She answered my knock, a tall girl, with an encouraging face. She brought the key, saying the wagons were all unloaded; two had come Saturday with things; her father had said my mother and all the family were coming before night.

“‘Aunt Bessie was too ill,’ I replied, glad to have the neighborly subject opened so easily, ‘and she said I might ask you to come over and stay all night with Elsie and me.’

“‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she answered, hastily; ‘I’m going away—I’m all dressed now. I’m sorry, too,’ she added, sympathetically, at something in my face, ‘but I can’t disappoint my grandmother; she sent for me because she is sick.’

‘Then, of course, you will have to go. (Then I began to know what ‘brave’ meant.) Thank you for the key.’

“Up the steep, weed-tangled drive we went to the side door; the boy-driver unlocked the door for us, giving a view of the moving times within. I paid him his dollar, and he drove away, leaving us in the wilderness.

“Elsie stood and looked around as usual.

“It _was_ a wilderness, a wilderness everywhere; the two-story house, painted brown, with red trimmings, was set in the middle of a large field; it had been untenanted for two years; the hedgerows had grown luxuriant, the grass was knee-deep; the house faced the west (the driver told me that), and the west this August afternoon was an immense field of cabbages bordered by tall trees; above it was the sky, beyond that might be anything, or everything; at the east stretched a mown field, dotted with trees, an apple-tree that looked a hundred years old near the fence, then a thick woods, over the top of which ran a line of green, low hills; among the greenness a red slanting roof was visible; at the south stretched other fields, among the trees a white house, with outhouses, a well-sweep; at the north, beyond two fields, in which cows were pasturing, in a grove, a thick, green grove, was the churchyard, with rows and rows of white stones, now and then a white or a granite monument; the brown church-tower arose above the tree-tops. And this was my wilderness for a night, with the sky, the protecting, loving sky over all, and bending down to enfold us all into its sunshine.

“‘It’s pretty,’ said Elsie.

“‘Yes, it is pretty. Now we must go in and go to work.’

“The opened door led into the small dining-room; small and so crowded; as my big brother said, there was a place for everything, and everything was in it.

“The front parlor, back parlor, hall, all crowded; up stairs there was nothing but emptiness and roominess.

“The kitchen, such a pretty kitchen, was crowded with everything, too—and a pine table, a firkin, and an up-turned, or down-turned peach basket.

“I was in a whirl, an ecstasy, an enthusiasm; but as somebody remarks, nothing is done without enthusiasm; now what should I do with mine, that, and nothing else?

“Suddenly, to Elsie’s great perplexity, I gave a shout and rushed out the dining-room door, and down through the tangles into the road.

“I had espied two men, working men, in shirt sleeves, with coats thrown over their arms. Farmers, or farmer’s sons, probably, great, true-hearted sons of the soil, knightly fellows who were ready to—

“‘Are you—do you know anybody—’ I began, breathless, and with flying hair.

“They stopped and gazed at me.

“‘We have just moved in. I would like things moved, and bedsteads put up, and boxes opened.’

“‘We can do it,’ said one promptly.

“He had lost one eye; the other eye looked honest.

“‘Yes, we’re out of the work,’ said his companion.

“He had a stiff neck; he did not look quite so honest.

“‘Can you come now?’ I faltered.

“‘Yes, right off. Come, Jim,’ was the cheerful response. ‘All we want is to be told what to do.’ I could always tell people what to do; at home I was called the ‘manager.’

“For two hours I kept those men busy; Elsie, with grave eyes and sealed lips, followed us about. I tried to forget the stiff neck, and the eye that did not look honest, and had forgotten both, when there was a heavy rap on the open dining-room door.

“There stood the young man from the store.

“I had forgotten that I did not like those two busy men, who never spoke unless spoken to, still I was glad enough to cry when I saw this familiar and friendly face.

“I had known him so long ago I could tell him anything.

“‘H’m. Somebody to help you,’ he said, stepping in, pad and pencil in hand, for an order.

“The men were in the back parlor; one was unpacking a box of books, the other was sweeping.

“Yes,” I replied confidently, “I needed help and I called them in. I don’t believe—” my voice sinking to a whisper, “that they are tramps, do you?”

“Oh, no. They are hatters. They have been about here two or three years; the factory is closed. The worst thing about them is drink. They will drink up all you give them. Still, it was hardly a right thing for you to do.”

“Elsie’s arm was linked in mine, her big eyes fixed on the young man’s face.

“‘A thing is always right—after it is done,’ I said desperately.

“‘Whew! you are a wise one,’ he said quizzically. ‘I’ve brought kerosene—have you lamps for to-night? Oh, yes, I see you have. Sugar, bread coffee, tea, what will you have?’

“I gave the order; he wrote it, then lingered.

“‘They are about done for to-night, I suppose.’

“‘Yes, I shall send them away.’

“He drove away, and I was left with my hatters.

“‘You have worked two hours,’ I said; ‘what do I owe you?’

“The man with one eye looked at the man with a stiff neck.

“‘Fifty cents, eh, Jim?’

“‘That’s about it,’ said Jim.

“I did not bring my pocket-book down stairs, there were two bills in it; I handed each a twenty-five-cent piece with the most reassuring and disarming air (one air was for myself, the other for them), and thanked them, hoping they would soon have work at their trade.

“They said ‘thank you’ and ‘good-night,’ and Elsie and I were left alone.

“‘Aren’t you hungry?’ asked Elsie, ‘It is late and dark.’

“‘So it is: we will have supper in the kitchen—and I will fill a lamp to burn all night.’

“That supper was not quite as much fun as I thought it would be; Elsie munched a sandwich and wished she were home; out the window the fire-flies were glistening in the tall grass; the gravestones loomed up very white and tall and stiff.

“‘We’ll go to bed early,’ I said cheerily, ‘and be up early in the morning to put everything in order. Aunt Bessie will be sure to be here early.’

“Elsie followed me up stairs still munching a sandwich. She, too, had learned what it was to be ‘brave.’

“The hatters had put up a bedstead and laid a mattress on it; the bed clothing lay in a pile on the bare floor.

“I made the bed while Elsie finished her sandwich.

“‘May I brush out your hair and braid it?’ asked Elsie.

“‘Yes, in a minute. Let’s go down stairs and look at all the doors and windows again.’

“The fastening on every door and window was tried anew. We were locked in. The world was locked out. I did not look out again at the fire-flies.

“I sat down before the bureau while Elsie stood behind me and brushed and braided my long hair; doing my hair would comfort her if anything could.

“But what would comfort me?

“My _Daily Light_ I had put in my satchel; I liked to have it open on my bureau; it was bound in soft leather, two volumes in one: I found the date, August XV., in the Evening Hour.

“‘Read aloud,’ said Elsie.

“My glance caught the large type at the head of the page. My heart beat fast, the tears started, but I cleared my throat and read unconcernedly: ‘I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably unto her.’

“‘Read it again,’ said Elsie, brushing softly. I read it again. Elsie undressed and crept into bed.

“‘You didn’t say your prayers,’ I remonstrated.

“‘I like to say them in bed,’ she replied.

“So did I that night.

“I placed the lamp, burning brightly, on the floor in the hall opposite my door, leaving the door wide open, then I lay down, and said my prayers in bed.

“Elsie was soon asleep; my prayer ended with the earnest petition, several times repeated: ‘Please let me go to sleep quick and stay asleep all night.’

“Then I watched the light, and thought about home, and fell asleep.

“A voice awakened me: Elsie was sitting up in bed:—

“‘I’ll do your hair, Marion,’ she said thickly, talking in her sleep.

“I pressed her down, and covered her; she did not waken. But I was awake, wide awake, alone in a great wilderness. There was no sound, no sound anywhere, but a stillness like the stillness of death.

“Then sh—sh—sh—a hush, a soft pressing against something—a padded shoulder against a door, a soft fist at a window; then the stillness like the stillness of death. I was awake; I did not sleep.

“The soft, soft sound came again and again; the softest sound I had ever heard, and then the stillest silence.

“Should I get up, bring the lamp in, and lock the door?

“But suppose there were no key in the door—it was swung back, I could not see the inside key-hole; if I should get up and find no key, and could not lock the door, I should confess to myself that I was afraid—how could I lie there, with the door shut and not locked, and be afraid? _I was afraid to be afraid._ I would rather lie there, and look with staring eyes at the lamp and the wide stairs, and listen, and listen, with my very breath, and know that I was not afraid.”

“Oh, dear!” cried Judith, with a choking in her throat.

“Morning came. Oh, that blessed streak of dawn. I arose and slowly pushed the door so that I could see the lock.

“_There was no key._”

“Oh!” cried Judith, with a sudden, sharp breath, cold to her very finger-tips.

“That day was the happiest day of my life. I never knew before how happy I _could_ be. I had learned that I could be kept from being _too_ afraid.”

“Only just afraid enough,” laughed Judith, glad that the laugh was not frozen in her throat.

“How I scampered around that day and helped, and scampered around and didn’t help. That was years ago, and I haven’t told the story yet. That _no key_ was one of my turning-points.”

“I wish I might have a turning-point,” said Judith, “only I never could bear to be afraid.”

“Being afraid doesn’t hurt,” consoled Aunt Affy; “you are glad you were afraid after you get out of the wilderness.”

“What did your point turn you around _to_?” questioned Judith, who had learned from her mother that something always happened next.

“To knowing I would always be safe,” said Marion, “no matter how deep I get into the tangles in my wilderness.”

“Yes,” responded Aunt Affy, “we only _think_ we are hurt.”

“Was it all wilderness?” asked Judith.

“It appeared so to me. We took a drive one day into another wilderness—Meadow Centre; that was almost more a wilderness.”

“I know Meadow Centre,” said Aunt Affy; “Cephas has a cousin there, a kind of cousin by courtesy, and he is always promising that he will take me over there. His name is Richard King; he has just come to take charge of the church. Cephas says he is a splendid worker, as big as a giant and as simple-hearted as a child.”

“Is he old like Uncle Cephas?” Judith inquired.

“No, child, he’s young like our minister. He preached here before your brother had the call, Miss Marion; Cephas wanted him, but he wouldn’t leave that going-to-pieces church and congregation over there. Cephas told him he was staying by the ship to see it go to pieces, and he said he wanted to see it go to pieces, then.”

“Meadow Centre is a part of my wilderness; I would like to see the place again. I have a very warm feeling for my wilderness.”

“And now you are in the Promised Land,” said Judith; “do people have to go through the Wilderness first?”

A warning voice came from across the hall: “I’d like to know if your ball is getting bigger, Judith.”

Judith’s guilty fingers snatched her needle, and she began stitching a black strip to a brown strip as Aunt Rody had expressly forbidden her to do.

“They don’t have to _stay_ in the Wilderness,” replied Aunt Affy, “their own naughtiness kept them there.”

“H’m,” sniffed the voice across the hall. “I think some people who behave pretty well are kept in the Wilderness.”

“I like wild places,” said Judith, forgetting her ball again.

“And naughtiness, too,” snapped Aunt Rody.

“Oh, we all like that,” laughed Marion; “Aunt Rody, I am coming in there to tell _you_ a story.”

“Don’t want you,” grumbled Aunt Rody, in a relenting voice.

But Marion went.

“I’m sure you have a story to tell me,” Judith heard Marion say, in the tone Roger Kenney called “wheedling.”

“My story is all hard work, privation, and ingratitude,” was the ready response.

As Aunt Affy sewed a tear fell on her coarse work, which Judith tried not to see.

Judith sewed diligently, wondering the while how she could make a turning-point for herself.

“Yes,” groaned the voice across the hall, “my past is not pleasant to dwell on, the present is full of contradictions and being opposed, and the future—well, I _hope_ I am a Christian.”

“I don’t believe you are,” whispered Judith softly over her rags.

A heavy step on the sod under the bedroom window brought sudden color to Aunt Affy’s old cheeks; with her sister’s groanings in her ears she was meditating if it were her duty to ask Cephas to go away again. Was the Lord asking her to choose between the two?

Pushing back his straw hat and leaning his shirt-sleeved arms on the window-sill, the old man stood, with his lover’s eyes on the delicate, sweet face of the woman he had loved thirty years.

“Well, Affy, how’s things?” he asked, joyously.

“Just as usual,” she half sighed.

“No worse, then?”

“Not a bit,” she answered, smiling.

“Then I’ll get a bite and go back to work again. It does me good to come and have a look at you and know you are here.”

“Oh, I shall always be here.”

“And so shall I,” he answered, confidently.

After that, how could Aunt Affy but decide once again, and for ever, that he _should_ always be here.

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.