AUNT JEMIMA.
It was Aunt Jemima who stepped into the vacant place of Marian's mother.
She was the only sister of "Cobbler" Horn, and, with the exception of a
rich uncle in America, from whom they never heard, and a wandering cousin,
a sad scapegrace, she was her brother's only living relative.
"Cobbler" Horn's sister was not the person to whom he would have chosen
to entrust the care of his motherless child, or the management of his
house. But he had no choice. He had no other relative whom he could summon
to his help, and Aunt Jemima was upon him before he had had time to think.
She was hurt that she had not been called to the death-bed of her
sister-in-law. But the omission rather increased, than diminished, the
promptitude with which she wrote to announce that she would come to her
bereaved brother without delay, and within a week she was duly installed
as mistress of his house.
"I thought I had better come at once," she said, on the night of her
arrival. "There's no telling what might have happened else."
"Very good of you, Jemima," was her brother's grave response.
And so it was. The woman meant well. She loved her brother sincerely
enough; and she had resolved to sacrifice, for his sake and his child's,
the peace and freedom of her life. But Aunt Jemima's love was wont to
show itself in unlovely ways. The fact of meaning well, though often a
good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute
for the doing of that which is well. Your toleration of the rough
handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not
counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the
tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. It is, therefore,
not strange that, though "Cobbler" Horn loved his sister, he wished she
had stayed away. She was his elder by ten years; and she lived by herself,
on the interest of a small sum of money left to her by their father, at
his death, in a far off village, which was the family home.
"You'll be glad to know, Thomas," she said, "that I've made arrangements
to stay, now I'm here."
They were sitting by the fire, towards supper-time; and the attention of
"Cobbler" Horn was divided between what his sister was saying and certain
sounds of subdued sobbing which proceeded from upstairs. Very early in the
evening Aunt Jemima had unceremoniously packed Marian off to bed, and the
tiny child was taking a long time to cry herself to sleep in the cold,
dark room.
"Never mind the child," said Aunt Jemima sharply, as she observed her
brother's restless glances towards the staircase door; "on no account must
she be allowed to have her own way. It was high time she went to bed; and
she'll soon be fast asleep."
"Yes, Jemima," said the troubled father; "but I wish you had been more
gentle with the child."
"Fiddlesticks!" was the contemptuous exclamation of Aunt Jemima, as she
regarded her brother severely through her spectacles; and she added,
"Since you have wished me to take the oversight of your house and child,
you must leave me to manage them as I think fit."
"Cobbler" Horn did not venture to remind his sister that he had not
expressed any such wish. Being so much his senior, and having at least
as strong a will as his own, Jemima Horn had always maintained a certain
predominance over her brother, and her ascendancy still prevailed to some
extent. Making no further reference to the child, he sat listening by
turns to a prolonged exposition of his sister's views on the management of
children, and to the continued wailings which floated down from the room
above, until, at length, as a more piteous cry than all frantically voiced
his own name, "faver," his self-restraint gave way, and he rose hastily
and went upstairs.
Aunt Jemima watched him in grim silence to the foot of the stairs.
"Mind," she then called after him, "she is not to come down."
"Cobbler" Horn did not so far set his sister at defiance as to act in flat
contradiction to her decree. Perhaps he himself did not think it well that
the child should be brought downstairs again, after once having been put
to bed. But, if Marian might not come down, Marian's father might stay up.
As soon as his step sounded on the stairs the child's wailing ceased.
"Zat zoo, daddy?" and the father felt, in the darkness, that two tiny arms
were stretched out towards him in piteous welcome. Lighting the candle,
which stood on the table by the window, he sat down on the edge of the
bed, and, in a moment, Marian's little brown arms were tightly clasped
about his neck. For a brief space he held the child to his breast; and
then he gently laid her back upon the pillow, and having tucked the
bed-clothes well about her, he kissed the little tear-stained face,
and sat talking in the soothing tones which a loving parent can so well
employ.
Leaving him there, let us make a somewhat closer inspection of Miss
Jemima, as she sits in solitary state before the fire downstairs. You
observe that she is tall, angular, and rigid. Her figure displays the
uprightness of a telegraph pole, and her face presents a striking
arrangement of straight lines and sharp points. Her eyes gleam like points
of fire beneath her positively shaggy brows. Her complexion is dark, and
her hair, though still abundant, is already turning grey. Her dress is
plainness itself, and she wears no jewelry, all kinds of which she regards
with scorn. Her old-fashioned silver watch is a family heirloom, and a
broad black ribbon is her only watch-guard.
Yet there is nothing of malice or evil intent in Aunt Jemima's soul. She
is no less strictly upright in character than in form. She cannot tolerate
wickedness, folly, or weakness of any kind. So far well. The lack of her
character is the tenderness which is woman's crowning grace. When she is
kind it is in such a way that one would almost prefer for her to be
unkind.
Such is Aunt Jemima, as we see her sitting in front of her brother's fire,
and as we know her to be. Need we wonder that, "Cobbler" Horn's heart
misgave him as to the probable fate of his little Marian in such rough,
though righteous, hands?
When "Cobbler" Horn at length came downstairs, his sister was still
sitting before the fire. On his appearance, she rose from her seat.
"Thomas, I am ashamed of you," she said, as she began, in a masterful way,
to make preparations for supper. "Such weakness will utterly spoil the
child. But you were always foolish."
"I am afraid, sister," was the quiet reply, "that we shall hardly agree
with one another--you and I--on that point."