Judith Mackenzie

“ She doesn’t know how to get outside of her poor little self. But then, who of us does, until we are pulled out?” she asked, with cheerful philosophy, as Miss Affy went away past the syringa bushes.
Miss Affy spent an hour in Nettie Evans’s chamber, telling the little girl stories about her great-niece, Judith Mackenzie, who lived in the city with her dear, sick mother, and they both were soon coming to Bensalem, and Judith would love to visit her often, and Judith told stories, that were worth telling ”

“ Marion looked ashamed; frightened at herself, and ashamed.
“How could I be so proud?”
“Oh, we all can,” said Aunt Affy, smiling. “And this brings me to my own story.”
“The new Bible,” said Judith, eagerly.
“One day I asked our Father to bring some one to me; my life has never been a going out, for Rody could never spare me, it has been a bringing in, instead; then I came in here and read about Judah and Simeon, and waited. The waiting is always a part of it.” ”

“ The girl’s eyes filled, and her lips trembled; was it that she had done?
“It’s time to set the table,” were Aunt Affy’s next words, in an unconcerned tone, polishing her glasses with a corner of her white apron. That small, clean old kitchen; how Judith loved it. She loved every kind of work that was done in it, even the wash-tubs, the smell of the suds was exhilarating, and baking and ironing days were her delight. Every nerve and muscle responded to the call to labor. ”

“ She died in Summer Avenue before she could be taken to Bensalem. Judith has written herself, the bravest child’s letter. She is in Bensalem with two old aunts of her mother.
Roger hopes to have you for his housekeeper; you will be near Judith; will you take her under your wing? Her mother especially wished her not to go to boarding-school. She has always been a child of promise; she may fizzle out as promising children do and become only an ordinary girl; but she will always be sweet and brave, which is better than being brilliant. One sweet woman is worth a thousand brilliant ones ”

“ I would rather die than not be true,” she burst out.
“H’m, you haven’t been tried.”
Judith thought she had; did not this grim, hard old woman try her every day of her life?
The long village street was lined with maples and locusts; inside the yards were horse-chestnut trees, lilacs, and syringas.
All over the beautiful country the fruit trees were in blossom; Judith revelled in the fragrance and delicate tints of the apple-blossom; she called it her apple-blossom spring.
The story and a half red farmhouse, with its slanting roof and long piazza, marked the “Sparrow place” ”

“ After that how could she feel faint-hearted?
“O, Judith,” said Aunt Affy, meeting her on the piazza, “how did you know I couldn’t do without you any longer? Joe has gone for the doctor; Rody has had another spell.”
In her own little room that night the girl knelt on the strip of rag carpet, and, with her head buried in the pink and white quilt, prayed that the voices of her self-will might be lost in the voice of the Holy Spirit. The coming back was even harder than she feared; Mr. King had not told her God’s truth when he said: “His way is always easier than we think.” ”

“ In the afternoon Marion and Nettie had their weekly history talk, and, Judith shut herself up in the study and wrote a story about a girl who learned a new lesson in the way of obedience. The story was from a child’s standpoint; in writing for children she was keeping her heart as fresh as the heart of a little child.
“Judith,” said Roger that evening as the “quartette” were together in the study, “I have a thought of work for you; you smell work from afar as the warhorse scents the battle; how would you like to write up the childhood of a dozen famous women? ”

“ I think I have grown old since you saw me; life has grown old if I have not. I know from the letters of Roger and Judith that you are just the same. Unless you are just the same I would not care to see you again. Your old friend, Don.”
She opened a drawer and laid the letter away; she would understand the rest of it when she was not in such a tumult. Did Roger know he was coming home? Judith had not told her. Had he told no one but herself? Did he expect her to tell the others? She had to take her eyes and burning cheeks down stairs, but she did not have to speak of her letter yet. ”

“ It is the own that makes the difference,” replied the girl-wife contentedly, nodding and smiling out the window to the man in shirt-sleeves and leather apron who stood in the doorway of the shop talking to the minister on horseback.
How could she ever tell Judith that Bensalem was gossiping about her staying at the parsonage?
“Your work is your own; it comes to be your own, whatever it is. Every girl cannot marry a blacksmith, Jean, and have a small home of her own.” ”

“ 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 ”

“ The small parlor was in its usual pretty order; in the sitting-room were a flower stand, and a canary’s cage; Mrs. Lane preferred the sitting-room, but with her instinct that “company” should have the best room, Jean had urged her into the parlor, drawing down the shades a little that the sunlight should not fade the roses in the new carpet.
“Judith is the craziest girl about doing things,” replied Jean; “she is ambitious, and she thinks she must earn money. I told her you wrote for a paper that was full of business for women, and could tell her what to do.” ”

“ With a light tread she went up stairs: she would not have her mother know that she had overheard the remark made to her father—her mother could not know all, only herself and Don Mackenzie knew her cruel secret; he would never tell, not even Roger, and she could sooner die than let the words pass her lips to any human creature. Girls had gone through terrible things before; but no girl ever had gone through this; no girl could, unless she were like herself, and no girl was like herself, so impetuous, so headlong, so frank that frankness became a sin. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ I hate Bensalem,” she burst out with anger and contrition.
“What has Bensalem done now?”
“Nothing unusual. Will you tell Marion I am going—home to stay to-night? Martha will come and help her in the housekeeping.”
“Judith, has any one hurt you?”
“No,” said Judith, smiling with the tears starting; “you are all too kind.”
“Is it for Aunt Affy you are going? Judith, you cannot deceive me.”
“No; I do not think I can. I am going for Aunt Affy’s sake, Roger.”
“Because she misses you?”
“Yes, because she misses me, and needs me. People think and say—she is not taking good care of me. ”

“ As he returned to his house in peace, a seer met him, and said, ‘For this thing wrath is upon thee from the Lord.’”
“‘For this thing,’” repeated Judith. “For inquiring of the Lord, learning his will, and then believing the voice of the four hundred who gave him his own way. Oh, dear, I wish those four hundred would never speak.”
“There is but one way to silence them; listen to God’s voice above them all.”
“But it is so hard,” cried Judith, impetuously.
“Do not choose the easy way of obedience. ”

“ She would never be proud with him again.
“I will not kiss you again,” said Roger to himself, “until you promise to be my wife.”
That afternoon Roger asked Marion to drive to Meadow Centre.
“I am glad you did not ask Judith,” replied Marion, with something in her voice.
“Why not?” he asked, indignantly, “why shouldn’t I ask Judith to drive with me?”
“My point was not driving with you, but driving to Meadow Centre.”
“I confess I do not understand you.”
“I knew you didn’t. Men are blind creatures.” ”

“ With a sensible education, literary and musical tastes (not talents) , a sweet temper, a pretty manner, and the tact that brings out the best in a man, if that is humdrum”—he broke off abruptly, for he had kindled a light in her face that he had no right to see.
“Have I told you about my little cousin Judith? But I know I have. She’s a womanly little thing—too womanly. She’s the sweetest prophecy of a woman. Oh, I remember I promised to take you to see my Aunt Hilda. But that’s another thing to be laid over. If I live to keep all my promises I shall live forever.” ”

“ Power shall fall short in or exceed!”
—Robert Browning.
On the lounge in the sitting-room, Judith lay cuddled up with a rare ailment for her, a throbbing headache; Aunt Affy had brought a pillow from her own entry bedroom, and bathed her forehead with Florida water; then brushed her hair for a long time and told her a story about her far-away girlhood, “when Becky and Cephas and I had our good times. Not that we don’t have good times now; Becky has hers up yonder, and poor Cephas and I do the best we can for each other down here.” ”

“ And I believe in other people plodding. I believe that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. I have sermons laid away to mellow that I’ve been six months on.”
“But you do other writing and studying in the mean time,” said Judith.
“Oh, yes, while the seed is sprouting.”
“Kenney, you are planning something.”
“Yes, I am planning to salt down a barrel of sermons before I take a new charge.”
“Mellowing, salting, sprouting,” laughed Judith.
“Roger, a new charge!” exclaimed Marion, startled.
“A new charge, my dear sister. I am too small for Bensalem, they need a bigger man here.” ”

“ Nobody need ever know, I will never be pitied.”
Judith pitied him then.
“I am not bound in any way. I haven’t promised, John.”
“No; you haven’t,” he said, touched by the sorrow in her face. “I am sorry to trouble you so; but I had to say it. I came to Bensalem to say it.”
“Are you sorry you came?”
“No; I had to have it out. Perhaps it will make a man of me. Something will have to. A man needs some kind of a fight.”
Judith thought that it was not only his “fight.”
“I am going home; I can’t stay here. I’ll tell Roger I decided not to stay over Sunday. I don’t care what he thinks. ”

“ The red farmhouse was built one hundred years ago; the Sparrow girls, the eight sisters, were all born there long before many of the village people could remember.
As Judith stepped up on the piazza the bowed gray head at the window was lifted; the girl went to the open window and stood; Aunt Affy took off her spectacles and laid them in the book she was reading.
Judith thought Aunt Affy read but one book. How could anyone be wise and read only one book?
“Well, dear,” said Aunt Affy in her welcoming tones. To Aunt Affy Judith Grey Mackenzie was the sweetest picture of girlhood in all the world ”

“ In truth, I suspect little else do we learn
From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn,
Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace,
What we learned in the horn book of childhood.”
—Owen Meredith.
Judith’s mother sat in her invalid chair before the grate; she looked very pretty to Judith with her hair curling back from her face, and the color of her eyes and cheeks brought out by the becoming wrapper; the firelight shone upon the mother; the fading light in the west shone upon the girl in the bay-window, the yellow head, the blue shoulders bent over the letter she was writing. ”

“ 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. ”

“ It was a pretty laugh, with something in it I didn’t understand; it was a laugh—that—didn’t—tell—everything. I told Don so. He said: ‘Nonsense!’ I don’t know what he meant.”
“That was Marion Kenney, and the old house on Summer Avenue,” guessed Judith’s mother, who knew the story of the brown girl from Don’s enthusiastic recitals.
Her mother’s voice was more rested; Judith pondered again.
“That was a city picture; this is a country picture. It is the beautiful, beautiful country, even if the grass is dead, and the trees bare; it is the February country in New Jersey ”

“ Her mother was sitting in the firelight with her head resting upon her hand.
“Mother, Don’s gone,” burst out Judith.
“Yes, for a while. He will never forget his little cousin.”
“Genoa is a long way off.”
“Only a few days’ travel. It is good for him to go. He is engaged to do some work on a paper, and he has always desired to see the world afoot. It is good for him,” Don’s Aunt Hilda repeated.
“But it isn’t good for us, mother.”
“I hope it is not bad for us.—But I would be glad for him not to go—just yet,” she sighed.
“Will Miss Marion, his brown girl, like it?” inquired Judith, unexpectedly. ”