CONCLUSION.
Six summers has the green grass waved and sweet flowers bloomed over
Aunt Judith's grave; six long, long years have come and gone since Miss
Deborah entered that silent room and found the death-angel casting his
dread shadow there. And what have the seasons brought? Ease to the
sorrowing heart and laughter to the weeping eyes. "Time heals all
wounds; one cannot mourn for ever," say the wise people, and in nine
cases out of ten their words hold good, though I think there are some
sorrows which no lapse of time can cure--sorrows which deepen and
intensify as the years roll on; only the wound, bleeding inwardly, is
hid with a sacred reverence from the gaze of the outside world, and is
known to the sore-stricken heart alone.
Be that as it may, however, Miss Latimer's friends could afford to
laugh and smile now, and joy as she had done in God's beautiful
sunshine. The earth is still as fair, the skies as blue as they were
in the bygone days when her quiet voice drew the thoughts of those
around her to the nature-world with all its wondrous beauty, and each
can say with glad accord,--
"Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,
Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give;
The world is very lovely. Oh, my God,
I thank thee that I live."
Let us take one more look at them ere we close the book and lay it
aside reverently and tenderly as we would the folded page in a closing
life.
It is a cold, wintry evening. Outside the wind is sweeping up and down
the streets, wailing like a soul in pain. The rain is dashing against
the windowpanes, and beating with wild, ungovernable fury on those
exposed to the disturbing elements. But inside warmth and comfort
reign supreme. The oak parlour is all ablaze with light, and the
laughter and merriment filling the whole room betoken the happy, genial
spirits of the occupants. Let us see if we still recognize one and
all--if six years have wrought no ravages or particular change on those
we knew in their happy childhood days.
Close by the fire, lying on a luxuriously-cushioned couch, is a young
lady, whose pale, thin face bears traces of weary pain. Yet the dark
eyes are bright and smiling, and the voice has still its own merry
ring, which plainly betrays the old Winnie of bygone days. Surely Aunt
Judith's words are coming true, and she is learning beautiful lessons
in the school of pain; for the pale face shines with a peaceful calm,
and the words which fall from her lips are the words of one who has
been in the furnace of affliction and come forth tried as silver.
Seated near on a low stool, with legs stretched forth in lazy comfort,
is Dick, newly home from a long, perilous voyage. He is very much
improved and changed, but in the gallant young officer one can still
discover traces of the bluff sailor boy whose kind, honest heart won
for him the love and friendship of all with whom he associated. He has
continued to rise steadily in his profession, and Mr. Blake is proud of
his scapegrace son at last.
A little further away, at the other side of the fire, sits Edith,
smiling and light-hearted as ever, and with the same fair, sweet face;
but a plain golden band, circling one white finger, proclaims that the
gay, laughing girl has found a woman's true place in the world, and
that the grave, gentlemanly captain has won his suit in the end.
And now we have come to the last occupant of the room--a young lady,
seated in very unladylike fashion on the rug, and so little changed
that in the fresh bright countenance we have no difficulty in
recognizing our old friend Nellie Latimer. She is spending a few weeks
in town with Winnie, and if report speaks true, there is a possibility
that in the dim future Winnie may find a sister in her old school-mate
of past years.
"How nice and cosy we all look!" she is saying in her blithe young
voice; "one values light and warmth on a night like this. Hush! do you
hear the wind? I pity those on the sea to-night."
Dick looks grave. "Ah, Nellie," he replies quietly, "pity hearts that
are watching and praying in their lonely homes."
"The wind," says Winnie in a low whisper, "always makes me think of
Aunt Judith in her quiet grave. I suppose it is a stupid feeling, but
I hate the thought of the rain dripping and making a wet, wet sod above
her. I should like the sunshine to be always lingering on her quiet
resting-place."
The laughter has died out of each face, and eyes become a little misty,
showing the dead friend is still near and dear to the hearts of those
who loved her.
"Dear Aunt Judith," murmurs Nellie sadly, "we never realized how good
she was till we lost her. Every one with whom she came in contact
seems to have felt the benefit of her influence; and I--why, I owe her
more than I can ever tell."
"I think we may all say that, Nell," adds Dick. "It was she who first
inspired me with a reverence for all women, and helped to make me what
I am now."
"As for me," says Winnie with a sad, sweet smile, "she showed me the
way wherein I should walk, and taught me the great beauty of the
Christ-life."
Then Edith's clear voice broke in: "And I--I have learned from Miss
Latimer lessons that will help me throughout all my life. She has
been, I think, as an angel of light to us all, and I shall never forget
what we owe to her goodness and love."
"I have always been going to ask some of you girls," says Dick, "if
Aunt Judith knew she was likely to die in such a sudden manner. Every
time I came home I had that question on my mind, and yet never managed
to ask it."
Nellie replied: "Oh yes! and Aunt Debby knew also. That was why Aunt
Judith lived so humbly and simply. She felt she was the mainstay of
the family,--that both Aunt Debby and Aunt Meg looked to her for their
livelihood; and so she strove hard to win and lay aside money, with the
hope that if she were called away suddenly there would be sufficient to
keep them snugly and comfortably after her death. She suffered from
severe paroxysms of pain at intervals, and each attack left her weaker
and feebler. Then, besides, she seemed to have had some great sorrow,
though Aunt Debby never told me what it was. Oh! they missed her
dreadfully at first; but since they left Dingle Cottage and came to
settle down beside my father, they have been more cheerful."
"Do you like having them so near you?" inquires Edith; and Nellie
answers truthfully,--
"I like being beside Aunt Debby, she helps us so much; but Aunt Meg is
very trying at times."
At that moment Captain Inglis, who has been closeted with Mr. Blake in
the library, enters, and then the conversation changes. The old
school-days are talked over, pranks and punishments described amidst
shouts of laughter; and by-and-by the talk drifts on to Ada Irvine and
the prize essay.
"Have you ever heard of or seen Ada lately?" asks Dick curiously. "I
suppose she is quite a young lady and a great beauty now."
"Agnes Drummond called the other day," replies Winnie quietly, "and
said she had met Ada last week at a friend's house. It seems she is
just as haughty and proud as ever; but, O Dick, I am sure you will be
sorry when I tell you that all her beauty is gone. The whole face is
completely marred by small-pox, which she caught when abroad with her
father."
"Serves her jolly well right," cries Dick, the old man in his nature
coming to the front. "A girl who can act as she acted deserves a
righteous punishment. I don't suppose she has ever eaten humble pie to
you girls yet?"
"No, and never will," puts in Nellie. "She persists to this day in
saying Win gained Mr. Corbett's medal through Aunt Judith's help, and
that I never learned a single lesson without assistance."
"Hark!" says Captain Inglis, "there is the carriage.--Edith, my dear,
it is time we were going home." So the merry party breaks up, and soon
the silence of midnight settles over the city.
Slowly the wind lulls itself to rest; the storm is over; the
rain-clouds sweep back from the sky, and the stars gleam forth with
softened brilliancy over the sleeping world; while the fair, placid
moon, rising from a mist of vapours, shines down on the sodden earth,
and lingering near a quiet churchyard lays her tearful beams, fondly,
tenderly, on a peaceful grave marked only by a marble cross and the
simple words,--"Aunt Judith."
THE END.