AUNTIE

No one would suppose that Auntie had once been pretty. Yet Mrs. Estcourt, the Squire’s wife, said that she was so at one time, and Mrs. Estcourt had known her from a girl and ought to be an authority.

No one without a moment’s thought would suppose that she had once been young. Of course, when you considered, you knew that in the order of nature young she must have been; but her entire appearance and cut of figure and dress seemed to proclaim that she had been born old, and had remained at a standstill whilst the world moved on.

She was short, carried little curls like beer barrels arranged on each side of her forehead, had mild benevolent eyes of no particular colour, wore an old-fashioned bonnet, and gowns still older in fashion, for they were leg-of-mutton sleeved.

When tight sleeves came in, Auntie continued to wear her old-fashioned full sleeves. “My dear,” she would say to one who objected that they were antiquated, “my dear, leg-o’-muttons will come in again.”

Come in they have, but after Auntie had closed her eyes and could not see her prediction verified. Her skirts, flounced and full, saw the crinoline come in and go out, saw the tight straight skirt, and saw fulness again become fashionable.

Auntie’s gowns were mostly of dark grey, but she had one for the evening of good silk that was silver-grey, and in that, at night, Auntie looked quite presentable. But Auntie rarely wore it. She could not dine out, as she had no carriage or conveyance of any sort, and the risk of marring her one silk evening dress, by going on foot in such an unsettled climate as is ours in England to the house where the festive board was spread, that was too serious to be undertaken. But she did, once, dine in it at the Hall, without having been fetched. Then she had hired a farmer’s butter-cart, that in which he sent some of the home produce to market. It was without springs, it was without seats, and it was sans steps. The cob that drew it was white and ungroomed, brought in for the occasion from the field in which it lay and rolled. Auntie’s maid had put a chair in the cart and a chair beside the cart. By this means the old lady mounted into it, without the necessity of scrambling up the spokes of the wheel, or leaping on to the shaft, and thence somersaulting into the cart.

But this conveyance of two wheels so shook up Auntie internally that she had no appetite for her dinner, and no enjoyment of the social evening. Mrs. Estcourt, after that, sent the carriage for her, but Auntie could rarely be prevailed on to accept it. She was poor in pocket and large in heart, and she tipped the coachman on such occasions half-a-crown, and half-a-crown to Auntie was a sum of money that she could ill afford to miss.

No one in the parish, rich or poor, secular or clerical, thought of calling the old lady by other name than “Auntie,” yet was she aunt to no single person there, nor indeed remotely connected with any. Those who wished to be respectful called her Miss Jane, or Miss Auntie. Yet was there a tie, not of blood, that bound her to all and all to her, a tie even stronger than that of blood—the tie of infinite charity.

Never was there a woman with a kinder, more unselfish heart than old Auntie. Her mind was ever active, but occupied only with thought of others.

Unhappily we know by experience that this world of ours is full of selfishness, that among a hundred persons we meet, scarce one is not infected with this vice; nevertheless there is a salt of fresh unselfishness to be discovered. But among the many of these elect, the very crown and acme of all was, I verily believe, Auntie.

The parish knew her story, yet no one ventured on an allusion to it in her hearing, except possibly Mrs. Estcourt, who had been her schoolfellow, and with whom she did sometimes speak of the past, and open that old, but unwithered, heart.

The story was this.

When Auntie was young and pretty and little, for a little body she had ever been, she had been engaged to a handsome young fellow in the service of the East India Company. He had come to England for a holiday, happened to see her, had been attracted by her, as well, perhaps, as by the fact that she had some money of her own, and he proposed to her to accept him and go out with him to India.

She certainly was greatly attached to Mr. Warnacre. She had never cared for any man previously, never had gone into a gentle flirtation even.

Her younger sister was at school, finishing her education, but when the day of the marriage was fixed, she was brought home that she might serve as bridesmaid to her sister.

Emily—this schoolgirl—was far prettier than Jane who was to be married, and what money there was, left by the mother, went equally in shares to each sister.

The cares of trousseau weighed heavily on Miss Jane, and were undertaken with that thoroughness that characterised all she did. So occupied was she over the preliminaries, so necessarily occupied was she, as her mother was dead and she had no elder sister, that she could not be as much as she wished with her intended, and was constrained to leave him to walk and talk and lounge about with Emily.

On the day before the marriage, bridegroom and sister had disappeared. They had eloped together and were married before it was discovered whither they had gone.

The blow was acutely felt, how acutely no one knew. Mrs. Estcourt, who was not Mrs. Estcourt then, hastened to her friend to show sympathy and love.

“My dear,” said Jane, with her eyes full, “it was only natural. I ought not to have thought of keeping him. Emily is so beautiful. He naturally only cared for me till he saw her. I hope, please God, they will be happy together.”

Mr. Warnacre did not venture back to the village, but carried off his wife at once to India.

After a while Auntie’s friend became Mrs. Estcourt, and then this latter lady insisted on Jane taking a cottage on her husband’s estate, so as to be near her. She desired to befriend her, and befriend her she did. But the condition of life of a great country squire’s wife, the wife of a man who aimed at becoming representative of his county in Parliament, and that of a solitary lady with moderate means, in a cottage, and without connections in the place, were so diverse, that much as Mrs. Estcourt desired to see a great deal of her friend, she was not able to do so.

As time went on, and the Squire was elected, and a large part of Mrs. Estcourt’s life was spent in town, the opportunities for social intercourse with Auntie became less, and when the family was at the Hall there were so many visitors, friends made in London, and political allies and acquaintances, who crowded the house, who were there to dine, and dance, and shoot, and attend political meetings, that even whilst in the country, Mrs. Estcourt could not see much of her old school friend. Moreover, when Jane did dine at the Hall, it was with persons whom she did not understand, who belonged to another order of existence to herself, persons with whom she had no common topics of conversation, consequently she declined invitations and remained at home.

As yet she had not acquired the title of Auntie; that accrued to her in this way.

Before many years had elapsed Mrs. Warnacre sent home her only child, a little boy, to be brought up in England, as the Indian climate is fatal to growing European children. And to whom else could she confide her treasure but to Jane? She must have been an easy-going, shallow creature, this Emily, unable to understand the wrong she had done to her sister, and without an expression of regret, without a word of apology, sent her the child; and easy-going, unscrupulous must Warnacre have been, for he sent remittances for his son’s clothing and education but rarely, so that the cost of the maintenance of the child fell on Jane. Then Emily died of cholera, and after that no more money was sent, no inquiries were made; she found herself burdened with this nephew—and then it was that the title of Auntie attached itself to her never to be lost.

Young John Warnacre grew up under Auntie’s eye, and at her charge. She was obliged then to deprive herself of many little comforts and pleasures. Hitherto she had kept a pony-chaise, and a useful man who attended to her cob and the garden. Now she did without, abandoned the drives that once afforded her so much pleasure and had given such a healthy glow to her cheek, and reduced her garden to a couple of flower-beds that could be attended to by an occasional man.

As young John Warnacre grew up, he proved wayward, headstrong, and selfish. She yielded to him too much, but it was in her nature to yield. She had neither the moral nor physical strength to control a turbulent, self-willed boy.

When he was too old and too ungovernable for her, he was sent to school, and schooling, if good, is costly. Auntie was too conscientious not to send the boy to a school for gentlemen, and one that was expensive, and might therefore be supposed to furnish a thorough education.

So matters rubbed on. In his holidays John was with his aunt, tormenting her cat and dog, running over her flowers, breaking her windows, making for his aunt boobie-traps and apple-pie beds; in a word, leading her such a life that she sighed for the holidays to come to an end, but was too tender at heart to admit, even to herself, that she wished them over.

At last the Squire was obliged to complain. John had been laying snares in his preserves, and was getting into association with some of the worst characters in the place. After a struggle he was sent back to school for the rest of the holiday, but he never arrived at the tutor’s: he ran away, and was heard of no more. Many tears did Auntie shed over the prodigal, and bitterly did she reproach herself for having been so severe as to send him away.

It was ascertained at last that he had gone to sea, with the intention, if possible, of getting to India to his father.

But, if he ever got to India, he did not find Mr. Warnacre there, for this gentleman arrived at Auntie’s and quartered himself upon her. He had left the service of John Company, as he saw no prospect of advancement, and he believed he could better himself elsewhere, with his capacity for business, his knowledge of the world, and his faculty of speaking several languages.

Auntie was pleased rather than the contrary that Mr. Warnacre should come to her. It showed that he had forgotten the past and bore her no grudge. Alas! poor humble soul, it did not occur to her that it was she who should resent his conduct, not he hers, and that his throwing himself upon her showed singular moral insensibility.

He was very desirous that his sister-in-law should see the Squire, who as M.P. might be able to use influence to obtain him a post under Government.

Auntie was shy of asking a favour. Shy and retreating, she would have asked nothing for herself, but for another she would do a great deal. After a battle with her timidity, she did go to the Hall, and had an interview with Mr. Estcourt, who valued and admired the dear old lady, and he readily promised to see what could be done for Mr. Warnacre. All he desired were the testimonials of that gentleman.

But here precisely arose a difficulty. He could not produce them, and when inquiry was made into his antecedents, it was discovered that Mr. Warnacre had been dismissed from the service of the Company. This, Mr. Estcourt did not tell Auntie, but with many apologies expressed his regret at being unable to serve her.

Somehow—it is hard to say how—the rumour circulated that Auntie was about to sell out of the stocks so as to set up Mr. Warnacre in some business he had in view, in which great profits were certain to be made.

The rumour came to the ears of Mrs. Estcourt, and without ado that good, somewhat peremptory lady called on Auntie, and happily found her alone.

The Squire’s wife proceeded at once to attack the old lady on the topic. Was it true that she was about to place her little fortune in the hands of this brother-in-law? For if Jane meditated doing this, Mrs. Estcourt said it would be her painful duty to inform Auntie of certain matters concerning Mr. Warnacre that in kindness had been kept from her.

Auntie coloured and trembled, and raised her bemittened hands in deprecation of the interference and the revelation. Then she began to explain:

“Mr. Warnacre really was a surprisingly clever man. He had met with misfortunes, he had made enemies, who had not scrupled to blacken his character. It was too sad to see a man of his ability and acquirements without an opening in which to display his activity.”

“But, my dear Jane, he has been dishonest!”

“O Maria, we are all guilty of doing wrong sometimes, and I am sure we ought not to be hard on those who have. Even supposing he has made a mistake, we ought to give him the helping hand, and put him in a position where he can make amends.”

“My dear Jane,” said Mrs. Estcourt, and she set her lips. “Excuse me if I speak unpleasant truths. How do you know, how does Mr. Warnacre know, that what he proposes to undertake will be successful? There is many a slip between the cup and the lip. With the very best and most honourable intentions, he may miscarry. Then what will become of you?”

“Oh, my dear Maria, he is certain to succeed. He has shown it me so very plainly.”

“He may not. Always be prepared for a not.”

“But for his sake I must risk something. He was my dear Emily’s husband, remember that. And he has had such trials and troubles—he has lost her, and does not know where poor John is.”

“Jane, it won’t do. Excuse my bluntness. Suppose the whole thing fails. Where would you be? If your little income is gone, then you will be penniless in your old age. Now that means—” Mrs. Estcourt moved uncomfortably in her chair. She was going to say a harsh thing, but did it only because she believed that nothing else could save Auntie. “That means, Jane, that you will come upon me. I will not see you turned out of your cottage to starve. When all your income is gone, I shall have to furnish you with an annuity. Now, mind, I should not object to that, if the result of an accident, a bad investment, or failure of a bank. But that you should deliberately and with your eyes open throw this upon me is not fair; no, it is not fair to me.”

Poor little Auntie crimsoned to her temples. She tried to speak, but could not. Then she broke down, covered her face with her kerchief and wept. Mrs. Estcourt held to her point.

“I have promised it him,” sobbed Auntie.

“You may, if you will, give him something. But I insist—I insist for my own sake as well as for yours—that you do not give him all. Reserve to yourself so much as you can live on. Say, keep as much as was expended on yourself when you were sending that boy to school. That alone will satisfy me.”

At length Mrs. Estcourt carried her point. She extorted a solemn reluctant promise to that effect from the old lady, and that she would not go beyond her word Mrs. Estcourt knew very surely.

And well was it for the little Auntie that this interview had taken place, for within a twelvemonth all she had given to Mr. Warnacre was gone, and gone without return of interest or principal. With it also Mr. Warnacre had disappeared. Then she lived on, in the same house, on her shrunken means, doing good to all around—knitting crossovers for old women, making mittens for children, warm woollen caps and mufflers that she sent to the engine-drivers on the line to keep them comfortable on a winter’s night, busy before Christmas in contriving presents for all around, forgetful of no birthday, visiting and sitting with the sick and aged, and although her gifts were never costly, yet they were always valued highly by the recipients, for the love and kindly thought that was worked into them. She manufactured little book-markers, with crosses on them, of perforated card; she did embroidery for the church; she painted little pin-cushions, and her flower-painting was tasteful. These she was glad to sell, and Mrs. Estcourt came to her assistance and disposed of an astonishing number at sixpence each. They were so useful for gentlemen, would go into a breast pocket, and gentlemen were always wanting pins. But Auntie would use none of the money thus acquired upon herself; it was spent in the purchase of material for making her little gifts to the poor, or for the church.

The parson had his daily service, but the most constant of his congregation, certainly in the mornings, was Auntie, who never failed.

Mrs. Estcourt brought visitors from the Hall to see her, not such as were unable to appreciate the goodness and sweetness of the old lady, but kindly-hearted ladies and gentlemen, and somehow these visitors afterwards in town, or wherever else they met the Squire, always inquired after Auntie. They felt they were the better for having seen and spoken with her.

To some it was a revelation that there were, in this self-seeking and somewhat coarse world, some highly-refined, unselfish spirits, the violets of the moral world.

As already said, every one in the place knew her story, but to her face no one alluded to it. Among the English peasantry there is a wonderful and beautiful delicacy of feeling such as often puts to shame those who belong to highly-cultured grades. The utmost done was to ask, “Please, miss, have you heard anything of Master John?”

Then a quiver would pass over the old face, the lip would tremble, and the eye fall, and she would shake her head, unable to give the denial in words.

Often and often did Mrs. Estcourt send to her grapes or peaches or melons from the conservatories at the Hall, and yet she knew that most of these good things were at once distributed by the old lady among the children as they swarmed out of school, or given to some sick body with a capricious appetite.

The farmers also or their wives sent her poultry, the children picked for her watercress, the poor women gave her eggs, and then Auntie had no rest until she had proclaimed to the parson and his wife, to the squiress, to all she knew, how good and generous these poor bodies had been to her.

And every day she sat at her window painting her pin-cushions or making the little crosses for book-markers, or setting them up on little card stands, or illuminating texts, and nodding and smiling to all passers-by in the road, and to the children as they came to school. Between school hours in wet weather many a little girl found a refuge in Auntie’s kitchen, there to eat her dinner and have warm milk or tea.

It was a sad prospect to Auntie when her sight began to fail. Resigned to the will of Heaven she ever was, but she regretted the inability into which she would fall of manufacturing comforting articles for the poor.

So years passed.

Nothing was heard of Warnacre, nothing of John. No word of reproach passed her lips. I believe no resentful thought arose in her mind against her brother-in-law, and I am sure that both he and John were daily mentioned in her prayers.

Then, one stormy evening, a knock came at the door, and she heard some one coughing without. The little maid opened, and a wretched, wet, and draggled man staggered in. It was Warnacre, returned, but returned destitute, a wreck in health, and a beggar.

The little maid who had gone to the door at the rap was frightened, and thought that the man was drunk; she had never seen Mr. Warnacre, and her exclamations of distress and alarm brought the old lady to the passage.

Warnacre had thrown himself into a chair, the rain had sodden his battered hat, and his shapeless and napless greatcoat, and ran over the floor. The man was grey in face, his scanty hair dishevelled, and his eyes dull and sunk in his head.

A fit of coughing prevented him from speaking.

“Oh, please, miss, what shall we do? It’s a tipsy, it is. Shall I run for the police?”

“No, Kate, no, the gentleman is ill.” Auntie had not as yet recognised him, but she brought the light near, and with an exclamation of pain and surprise cried, “O William! William! you here again?”

“What,” said he, “are you like the rest, ready to turn against me? It is a bad and selfish world; no one has a hand to hold out for a fellow who is down on his luck. I’ve walked——”

Again the cough overtook him, and he put a soiled handkerchief to his mouth.

“I have walked, I suppose, fourteen miles in this cursed weather—haven’t had anything to eat. I’d turn out my pockets and prove to you I have not a stiver, but my hands are too cold, and my clothes cling to me with wet.”

“O William! how have you come to this?”

“Ill-health—breakdown—overmuch brain-work. And the world is dishonest; cursed cheats men are. It is no place for a man of genius and integrity.”

“But what will you do?”

He coughed again, and sank back, looking deadly in his exhaustion.

“It is a shame, my troubling you with questions. Kate, Kate, get hot water, and bread and meat, and a tumbler, and I will unlock my cellaret.”

Then, as the little maid bustled about fulfilling commands: “O William! I am so sorry, and why, why did you walk so far?”

“Because I wasn’t going to the workhouse. No, thank you, I am a gentleman. I thought you would give me food and a shake-down.”

“O William, how good of you to think of me. Oh, this is kind, and like a brother-in-law. Of course you could not go to the Union. I would have died of shame to think that you had, and of self-reproach to think you had not come on to me. But you forgive all that is past. That is dear of you, William.”

She took him in; of course she did.

She opened to him her heart as well as her home. And there he remained. He made no movement to leave. Perhaps he perceived that nowhere else would he be so kindly and forgivingly dealt with. Not one word of reproach came from her.

Then it became clear that his stay would not be for long, not that he desired and purposed leaving, but that a hand was pointing sternly to him to move on, to move on from a world in which he had done no worthy act, into another in which he would have to account for his worthlessness.

Auntie fought against the conviction that he was dying. She sent for the best doctors, she provided the most nourishing diet she could procure for him. Her great sorrow was that her means would not allow her to send him to Davos or to some other place of cure.

Warnacre was not a pleasant person to have in the house and as a patient. He grumbled at the wine provided—it came from the grocer, he said; it was without bouquet, mere made-up stuff. He grumbled at his meat, it was tough and overdone or underdone. He bragged about the great people with whom he had dined, whom he had known familiarly; or he whined over the ingratitude and heartlessness of the world, or murmured against that Providence which had thwarted him in all he had taken in hand.

Yet, through all, patiently, lovingly, cheerfully, the old maid ministered to him, bore with his meanness, turned aside his sarcasms, apologised for his ungraciousness when visited by any from the Hall or rectory.

She treasured up every imaginary sign of returning health and shut her eyes to the tokens of decline. At length he was dead, and was laid in the churchyard, unlamented save by Auntie.

Of his son he professed to know nothing. He had not run across him in his meanders through the shady world in which he had moved. But in the heart of Auntie there was still a root of love and expectation that concerned John.

Above Mr. Warnacre’s grave, Auntie, by stinting herself, was able to erect a costly monumental stone, on which was represented a broken lily, the symbol of Warnacre’s stainless life. The inscription recorded his merits in somewhat fulsome terms that were, however, not unreal and untrue to Auntie, or she would not have sanctioned them, for over that wretched creature still hung some of the halo of her first love and idealisation.

And after that her sight failed, and happily not long after that, gently, without pain, old Auntie’s eyes closed altogether.

But then Mrs. Estcourt was gone. Her husband had predeceased her, and at the Hall reigned a nephew, a man of sport, who knew not Auntie.

A year later there appeared a stranger in the place, who after some inquiries went to the churchyard and asked the sexton to point out to him where Auntie was buried. There was no headstone, only a green mound. But there were flowers strewn on it; the poor whom she had loved and to whom she had ministered had not forgotten her.

The stranger signed to the sexton to leave him. Then he stood, with folded hands and bowed head, looking at the little heap. He was a young man, but with a seamed face. Presently the tears came into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Poor, dear Auntie,” he said in a whisper, “imposed on, ill-treated—only appreciated by me—and that too late.”

He drew out of his pocket a little cross made of perforated cardboard. It had been given years before to young John.

Then he went to a monumental stone-cutter and said: “Make me a marble cross, just like this.”

“And, sir, what shall I cut on it?”

“Only this—Auntie.”