AUNT JUDITH.
The October night closed in dark and wild. The wind, rising in fierce
gusts, swept along the streets with relentless fury, whirling the cans
on the roofs of the houses, and whistling down the chimneys with
relentless roar; passers-by drew up the collars of their coats and bent
their faces under the pitiless blast; while the rain, falling with its
monotonous splash, splash, added to the gloom and rawness of the night.
Up and down the platform of one of the principal stations in the town a
lady paced, every now and then peering into the murky darkness, or
waylaying a passing porter to ask when the down-train was due. She was
tall and slender, but the huge bonnet and thick veil which she wore so
effectually concealed her face that it was impossible to make out
whether she was young or old.
At last a whistle and the loud ringing of the bell proclaimed that the
train was close at hand, and in all the glory of its powerful mechanism
the great locomotive swept into the busy station. The lady, stepping
nearer the edge of the platform, gazed into the windows of the
carriages as the train passed, slackening speed; then with a quick
gesture of recognition went forward and turned the handle of one of the
doors at which a young girl was standing looking wistfully on the many
faces hurrying by. "Nellie Latimer, I am sure," she said in a kind
voice; "'tis a dreary night to bid you welcome. I am your Aunt Judith,
dear," and assisting the girl out of the carriage, she lifted her veil
for a single moment and laid a kiss on the fresh, young cheek. "What
have you in the way of luggage? One trunk. Well, stand here while I
go and find it," saying which she glided away and was lost to view in
the bustling crowd. In a few moments she returned, followed by a
porter bearing the modest, black box; and bidding the young traveller
come with her, left the platform, hailed a cab, and was soon driving
with her tired charge along the wet streets.
Aunt Judith gazed at the lonely little figure sitting so quietly facing
her, and mentally deciding that, wearied out and home-sick, the child
would naturally be disinclined for conversation, she leaned back on the
carriage cushion and fell into a long train of thought.
Nellie Latimer was thankful for the silence. She had left her home
early that morning for the purpose of wintering in town with her aunts,
and, as it was the first flight from the parental nest, her heart was
sore with grief and longing. She was the eldest daughter of Dr.
Latimer, a poor country practitioner, whose practice brought him too
limited an income with which to meet the expenses of the large family
of hardy boys and girls growing up around him. He had sent Nellie to
the village school, and when she had mastered all the knowledge to be
gleaned there, endeavoured to instruct her himself; but he could ill
spare the time, and so hailed with feelings of the deepest gratitude a
letter from his eldest sister offering to take Nellie and give her all
the advantages of a town education, "Let the child come, John," she
wrote in her simple, kindly style; "she will help to brighten the
hearts of three old maids, and a young face will be a cheery sight in
our quiet cottage home. She will have a thorough education, and we
shall endeavour to bring her up so that she may be a fitting helpmate
to her mother on her return home." Dr. Latimer showed the letter to
his wife, who read it thankfully. "Your sister is a noble woman,
John," she said brokenly; "let us accept her offer, and may God bless
her."
Thus it was that Nellie had left the home nest and come to live her
life in the busy town. She knew almost nothing about her aunts, and
had never seen them; for Dr. Latimer dwelt in a far-off country
village, and the distance from it to the city was very great. The
postman would occasionally bring a letter, book, or paper to the
doctor; and every Christmas a hamper filled with choice meats and other
dainties would find its way to the house, showing that the young
nephews and nieces were not forgotten by the aunts they had never seen.
Those "good fairies," as the little children styled them, were three in
number: Aunt Judith, the bread-winner--though how, Nellie as yet did
not know; Aunt Debby, the Martha of the household, hard-working and
practical; and Aunt Margaret, an invalid, seldom able to leave her
couch.
"I cannot tell you much about them, dear," Mrs. Latimer had said one
night when talking with her eldest daughter over the coming parting.
"They (meaning the aunts) were abroad on account of Aunt Margaret's
health when I first met your father, and did not return home till some
time after our marriage. Aunt Margaret was not any better, and had
settled down into invalid habits, requiring the constant attention and
care of both sisters. Aunt Judith spoke at one time of coming to spend
a few days with us; but Aunt Margaret could not spare her, and so she
never came. Your father says Aunt Judith is a brave, true woman, and
keeps the little household together, besides the many kindnesses she
bestows on us. I trust you will like your aunts, my child, and be
happy with them, even though you are away from us all."
Nellie had been thinking all this over while the cab was quickly
whirling her along the now deserted thoroughfares, and so deeply had
her mind been occupied with these thoughts that she started in
amazement when the driver drew up before the entrance of a small
cottage, and she saw a bright flood of light streaming out from the
hastily opened door.
"Here we are, dear," said Aunt Judith's kind voice breaking in on her
reverie; "this is your new home, and there is Aunt Debby waiting to bid
you welcome. Run! I shall follow you immediately."
Nellie, obeying, hurried up the little gravelled path, and reaching the
door, found herself folded in Aunt Debby's motherly embrace, with Aunt
Debby's arms round her, and Aunt Debby's round, rosy face pressed close
to her own.
"Dear, dear! to think I should be holding one of John's children to my
heart," said the good lady, wiping away an imaginary tear from her
soft, plump cheek. "There, come in, child, you are thrice welcome.
How strange it all seems, to be sure;" and chatting away, Aunt Debby
led her weary niece into the cosy parlour, where the bright fire and
daintily spread table seemed to whisper of warmth and home comforts.
"There, sit down, dear, and let me unfasten your cloak," she continued,
placing Nellie on a chair and proceeding to take off her hat with its
well soaked plume. "Dear heart! how the child resembles her father!
John's very eyes and nose, I declare. Well, well, I'm getting an old
woman, and the sight of this fresh, young face warns me of the passing
years."
"I think, Debby, you should show Nellie her room and let her refresh
herself; there will be ample opportunity for talking to her later on,
and the child is wearied with travelling."
Aunt Judith, who had just entered, said this in such a kind voice that
it was impossible to take offence, and Miss Deborah, raising her
little, twinkling eyes to her sister's face, replied, "Ah! Judith, I
need you to look after me still.--I have a sad tongue, my dear (to
Nellie), and am apt to chatter when I ought to be silent; come, let me
take you to your room now," and off trotted Aunt Debby with an air of
the utmost importance.
Nellie followed wearily up the tiny stair with its white matting, and
then paused in glad delight as her guide, throwing open a door on one
side of the landing, ushered her into a small room. It was simply and
plainly furnished, as indeed was everything else in the house; but oh!
the spotless purity of the snowy counterpane and pretty toilets. The
curtains, looped back with crimson ribbon, fell to the ground in
graceful folds. Light sketches and illuminated texts adorned the
delicately tinted walls, and on a small table stood an antique vase
filled with fairest autumn flowers.
"Are you pleased with your little bedroom, Nellie?" asked Aunt Debby,
noting the girl's look of genuine admiration; "there's not much to be
seen in the way of grandeur, but it's clean," and practical Miss
Deborah emphasized her words by nodding her head vigorously.
"Pleased, Aunt Debby! Why, everything is beautiful. I never had a
room all to myself before, and this one is simply lovely. How can I
thank you sufficiently for being so good to me?" and there were tears
in Nellie's eyes as she spoke.
"Nonsense, my dear," replied the kind woman in her brisk, cheery way;
"we are only too pleased to have you with us, and trust you will be
happy here;--now, if my tongue is not off again. There--not another
word; wash your face and hands, child, then come down to the parlour,"
and Aunt Debby hurried from the room.
Nellie found the cold water very refreshing, and made her appearance
downstairs with a much brighter, cleaner countenance. She found Miss
Deborah already seated before the urn, sugaring the cups and adding
cream with a very liberal hand; while Aunt Judith lay back on a low
rocking-chair looking dreamily into the glowing embers. Both started
as the girl entered, and Miss Latimer, rising, placed a chair before
the table and bade Nellie be seated, patting her niece's head gently in
her slow, kindly fashion, ere she sat down herself and prepared to
attend to the young traveller's wants.
Nellie, though tired and home-sick, felt very hungry, and did ample
justice to the savoury meal, greatly to Aunt Debby's delight; for that
good lady had spared no pains, and had burnt her merry, plump face over
the fire, in order to make the supper a success.
Neither aunt troubled her niece with questions, but each talked quietly
to the other; and thus left alone, as it were, Nellie found sufficient
time to study both faces, and jot down mentally her opinion of each at
first sight. One glance at Miss Deborah's rounded contour and
twinkling eyes was quite enough; but Miss Latimer's peaceful
countenance fascinated the young girl, and seemed to hold her
spell-bound. Yet, from a critical point of view, Aunt Judith's was not
a pretty face. It was defective in colouring and outline, and there
were lines on the quiet brow and round the patient lips; but the look
in the eyes--Nellie never forgot that look all her life--it seemed as
if Miss Latimer's very soul shone through those dark blue orbs, and
revealed the pure, spiritual nature of the woman. A keen physiognomist
might have traced the words "I have lived and suffered" in the calm,
hushed face with its crown of silver-streaked hair; but Nellie, only a
simple child, merely gazed and wondered what it was that made her think
Aunt Judith's the most beautiful face she had ever seen.
"Now, dear," said the object of her thoughts, smiling kindly and
turning towards her when the dainty repast was over, "I think we shall
send you to bed, and after a good night's rest you will be refreshed
and ready for school-work to-morrow. Don't trouble removing the
plates, Debby; we shall have worship first, and that will free Nellie."
Aunt Debby rose from her chair, handed Miss Latimer the old family
Bible, and placing a smaller one in Nellie's lap, reseated herself and
waited for Aunt Judith to begin.
A chapter slowly and reverently read, a prayer perfect in its childlike
simplicity, then Miss Latimer laid a hand on her niece's shoulder and
bade her "Good-night;" whilst Miss Deborah, lighting a candle, led the
way as before, and after seeing she required no further service,
treated the girl to a hearty embrace, and prepared to depart.
"A good sleep, child. You'll see Aunt Meg tomorrow; this has been one
of her bad days, but I expect she will be much better in the morning."
These were Aunt Debby's last words, and she bustled away as if fearing
to what extent her tongue might lead her.
Nellie undressed, jumped into bed, and then, safely muffled under the
warm blankets, cried her homesickness out in the darkness. "O mother,
mother," she sobbed, "how I miss you! it is all so strange and lonely.
What shall I do?" But even as she wailed in her young heart's anguish,
the blankets were gently drawn aside, and a stream of light shining
down revealed the flushed tear-stained face on the pillow, and showed
Aunt Judith's gentle form bending over the sobbing figure.
"Nellie," she said in that kind voice so peculiarly her own--"Nellie,
my child, I was afraid of this;" and putting her arms round the
trembling girl, she drew the weary head to her breast, and smoothed the
tangled hair with soothing touch. By-and-by the sobs became less
violent, and when they had finally ceased Miss Latimer spoke, and her
kind words were to the lonely heart as dew to the thirsty flowers.
In after years Nellie found what a precious privilege it was to have a
talk with Aunt Judith; and long after, when the brave, true heart had
ceased to beat, and the quietly-folded hands spoke of a finished work,
she drew from her treasured storehouse the blessed memory of wise,
loving counsels, of grand, beautiful thoughts; and carrying them into
her daily life, endeavoured to make that life "one grand, sweet song."