THE NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY.
Gillian stole softly up to her room, for, in a strange house, and with
darkness all around, she grew timid, and was glad to cover herself up in
bed. But she could not sleep. This conversation about her mother, the
strangeness of every thing around, kept her wakeful and restless.
Her bed stood opposite a window which looked into the orchard where her
mother had played when a child. The mellow autumn-moon had risen, and
she could almost discern the apples as they fell over-ripe from the
boughs, disturbing a stillness otherwise profound.
As she lay thus, dreamy and sad, a noise at the door startled her. At
first she rose from the pillow, and looked keenly that way; but sank
down on the instant, as almost any girl would have done, huddling the
clothes about her head.
The door opened very softly, and a small figure, clad in white, stole
across the floor, with her head bent forward, as if listening at each
step. As the figure came opposite the window, Gillian, who, fascinated
even in her terror, had drawn the sheet from over her eyes, saw the
features of Aunt Hetty, who came toward her like a shadow, evidently
afraid of her own breath.
Curiosity overcame all fear in Gillian, who lay still, with her eyes
half closed, watching her strange visitor. Aunt Hetty came close up to
the bed, sunk on her knees, and seemed to be searching for a clear view
of Gillian’s face, which was a little in shadow even if it had been
uncovered.
At last she put her hand softly down, drew away the counterpane, and a
kiss fell on Gillian’s forehead, so light and tremulous that it seemed
but a shadow passing over her.
Gillian closed her eyes, for there was something in this act that
brought dew into them, and with great difficulty she suppressed an
unequal breath. Then, emboldened by her first effort, Aunt Hetty bent
down and pored over that young face till a heavy tear fell upon it.
Unconsciously Gillian started, and shrinking together as if she had
committed some crime, Aunt Hetty slid down to her knees, and burying her
face in the bed-clothes, waited.
But Gillian controlled herself, and directly sobs came at slow intervals
from the bed; then the whispered words of a prayer; and after that wild,
uncontrolled bursts of anguish, in which Gillian heard her mother’s name
repeated over and over again.
At last this sorrow seemed to wear itself out, and exhausted its force
in faint sobs, ending in profound silence. After a little, Gillian felt
that her aunt was sitting on the bed again, striving to search out the
lineaments of her face in the shadows. The restraint became painful, and
at last the young girl opened her eyes, meeting the mournful gaze of her
aunt, upon which the moon shone brightly.
Aunt Hetty did not move; but her eyes wavered like those of a person
suddenly detected in a crime.
“Aunt Hetty!” said Gillian, very softly, “Aunt Hetty!”
Her little hand stole out of the bed-clothes and touched that which lay
helplessly on her pillow. There was something in that gentle voice, and
the clasp of those fingers, that soothed the timid woman. Her fingers
closed over Gillian’s, and though she trembled, it seemed with kindly
feeling.
“Aunt Hetty,” repeated the young girl, “did not my mother come in this
way to my bed one night, and you with her, when I was a little child?”
“And you remember her? You remember that noble, noble mother, and that
night when we two prayed over you for the last time on earth?” she
answered, in a whisper full of tender regrets.
“As I remember dreams—dreams of angels hovering near me,” said Gillian.
“Your coming to-night made it a reality.”
“And she is dead—gone from us without a word of farewell—a word of—ah!
my child, if you could but remember any word, any little thing by which
I might know she thought of us with the old kindness!”
“How I wish so, too, dear aunt; but it is impossible. They took me from
her so early: and, in the convent, I had so much kindness, that it made
me forget easily. I remember there was one lady there, a boarder, who
came to my cell every night, as you are here now, with a thousand gentle
words and sweet kindnesses, and then the convent was so pleasant; that
was when I was about five years old. She did not stay at the convent
altogether; but came with other sisters of charity; sometimes staying a
few weeks; sometimes three or four months.”
“And this lady was kind to you? God bless her for that!” said Aunt
Hetty, quietly. “If it would benefit her, I would give an hour of my
life for every consoling word she said to you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gillian, reflectively, “it was a sweet voice, motherly
and soft—sweeter than any I ever heard in the convent. I wonder what
became of her?”
The young girl sighed as she spoke; while Aunt Hetty tightened her clasp
on the little hand.
“I have heard of sisters of charity: they must be happy woman, and good
ones too, let them belong to what church they will,” said Aunt Hetty.
“Perhaps this lady is one of them still: for they travel about, I am
told. I am not sweet-toned, as you say she was; but, if you will not
think it strange for me to come into your room now and then, I should be
very thankful. Your mother and I slept in each other’s arms till she was
more than your age. I have grown old and lonely since then—no one cares
for my love; but, if you would not feel it a burden, there are some
things that I might do in a quiet way. Don’t you think so?”
She looked down into Gillian’s face with wistful earnestness as she
spoke; and the young girl, lonely in her half orphanage, and searching
for affection everywhere, rose up, and threw her arms around that
drooping neck with a fervor that brought fresh tears into Aunt Hetty’s
voice.
“Don’t mind if I seem silent and stiff before folks,” she said, folding
the young girl close in her arms: “it is my way; but if I can save you
one pain by laying down my life, speak, and I’ll do it.”
Before Gillian could answer as her warm heart dictated, the arms that
had so closely embraced her fell away, and her aunt glided from the
chamber, shadow-like, as she had entered.
And this was Gillian’s first night under the maternal roof. Perhaps the
first deep feelings that she had ever experienced sprang into existence
during those few hours. It seemed as if her father, too, was haunted
with unrest; for, all night long, his step was heard by the master of
the house, who slept beneath his room, walking to and fro.