ALWAYS when I think of Auntie May, I remember sunshine, and the wind
blowing, and a lilac bush in purple bloom by the garden gate. We were
standing there together, very quiet and confidential, she, tall and
slim, and I a little girl who liked to cling to her hand. We had on our
best white dresses, for it was Sunday, and her church service was white
and violet, and mine was white and gold. We had parasols just alike, and
we stood waiting until the first boom rang out from the big bell in the
church tower far down the street.
"Now we will go," Auntie May said.
She opened the garden gate, and we passed out, very demurely.
It was seldom that I went into the big world; but when I did I enjoyed
it so! The parasols cast a pleasant shade, and I had a big five-cent
piece in my right hand that meant church, and another clutched tightly
in my left that meant Sunday school. There were other family parties to
be met on the street, elderly ladies carrying Bibles, and little girls
and boys walking with careful precision, and down near where the big
bell boomed there was another church which commenced after ours did
where Burton Raymond played the violin. I could not remember when I had
not known Burton Raymond and his violin, for they were one person.
"When Burton Raymond goes to bed," I had heard my mother say, "he always
puts the violin to bed, too."
"In a bed, mother?" I demanded.
"No. In a box by his bed, wrapped in his pocket handkerchief, poor
fellow."
It was after this time that Auntie May embroidered an oddly shaped
velvet mat quite secretly. It had forget-me-nots on it, and when it was
finished she tied it up in a beautiful white paper, and slipped it in
the mail box down at the corner. And, once, months afterwards, when
Burton Raymond played one evening at our house, he put his violin to bed
in a velvet jacket just like the one which Auntie May had made.
We were great friends. When we met down by the church steps he would
call to me, cheerfully.
"Good-morning, Rhoda."
"There he is, Auntie May!" I would cry. "Don't you see him? Look, Auntie
May!"
Somehow, or other, although he never called to her, I always wanted her
to see him, too.
He looked very pleasant in the bright sunshine. His hair was nicely
brushed, and his shoes were blacked. There was a patch on his right
elbow; but you could not see it unless you looked closely. There was
something noble in the way in which he carried his dark head. Somebody,
perhaps it was Norah, had told me that one of his ancestors had been a
great lord, back in the days when the lords were crusaders, and I liked
to think of Burton Raymond in chain armor killing people, recklessly.
Little Dick and I used to act it out sometimes in the dark end of the
hall. We killed a number of things there, Saracens, and lions, and
tigers, and the rocking-horse, and little Trixie, and would come in
quite breathless afterwards to the sitting room where the family sat in
the lamplight. Sometimes we found them talking about Burton Raymond.
"Every time that I walk down our block I seem to meet Burton Raymond,"
my father grumbled, one evening. "It's getting to be a nuisance.
Especially since May has been visiting here," he added, after a serious
moment's pause.
"He passed the house fifteen times to-day," my mother said, quietly.
She said it with a blush, and then, suddenly, she made an impulsive dive
at my father's hand and squeezed it.
"We were young ourselves once!" she cried.
"The lad hasn't a cent to bless himself with," grandmother demurred.
"But he has genius!" my mother cried again. "There is a great future
opening before him. And when we were married we had very little, Robert.
There was just one small twenty-five cent piece left after the wedding
trip. Do you remember, Robert? And you spent it in flowers--for me! They
were roses. I have some of them dried yet."
My mother's voice had sunk lower and lower, falling almost into a
whisper, as it always did when she was greatly moved. Sometimes I used
to fancy that my mother was not so clever as my father. He could add up
sums for you, and tell you about the presidents, and who were the
greatest generals in the world; but my mother knew quite different
things, the kind that stay with you forever. To her life was a poem and
a dream. She was her happiest when she could help somebody, so that for
any one to be poor, and very unfortunate, was an open sesame to her
heart.
I heard a good deal about Burton Raymond that night, and when I went to
bed I asked a sudden question, staring with wide open eyes at my mother
over the white coverlet.
"Mother, how poor is Burton Raymond?"
She was taking away the light; but she came back again.
"He is so poor," she said, dramatically, "that he lives in a garret
room at Widow Denton's. It is quite a cold room, without a fire, and the
bed is not soft like yours, Rhoda. He has a few books on the end of the
shelf by his violin box. He plays whenever he can get a chance.
Sometimes, perhaps, he is hungry! Yes, sometimes he is hungry!"