15. CHAPTER XV.
AUNT PHILLIS IN HER CASTLE.
It is a strange thing when a poor child's first and most
earnest want in the wide world is a Bible—only a Bible.
Yet this was Lucia's want. Since that morning when
Ellie had put her arms round her neck, and cried, and said
to her, “Not believe in God! Oh, Lucia! how unhappy
you must be!” her heart had felt a new and strange
warmth, a singular and unknown yearning, for that full
belief which was a defence against all woe, and poverty
and suffering. She could not understand the strange sensation
which had accompanied her through wind and cold,
through hunger and grief—the sensation which burned
in her heart like a mysterious fire which nothing could
extinguish;—she could not understand that a higher voice
than any on this earth had spoken to her;—she could not
know that those words “When the Lord turned again
the captivity of Zion we were like them that dream,” described
the state of those whose captivity to a greater
enemy is broken: and who seeing a light, feeling a vital
warmth, are yet doubtful of their meaning, and cry out
for more, more light! more light!
That light which her heart longed for was to be found
only in the Word of Him who had spoken to her—in his
Bible. Oh, if she only had a Bible! Ellie came and read
to her often, and she would take Ellie's volume, and read
it, shivering in the cold, for hours, with nothing but the
tattered counterpane around her; she would retain it
often until Ellie came to get it, sobbing and crying and
praying, as she read—but that was not enough. Oh! for
a Bible of her own, to carry in her bosom always, and
never put away from her—to read, and study, and hang
over day and night, consoled by its promises, and by its
tender words of pardon and forgiveness! Oh, for a Bible
of her own—only a Bible!
She rose and looked around her poor room, as if some
magic would supply the object of her longing. Then
raising her hands to her face, she wiped away two tears
which hung upon her long silky lashes, and uttered a deep
sigh.
Then suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her, and
she turned toward the door, and went out, and descended
the stairs.
The bitter wind made her shiver and shrink, for the
child had scarcely anything but the old worn frock, thin
and flimsy, to protect her from the cold. She uttered no
sound, however, and continued her way toward the steps,
descending into Aunt Phillis' cellar. She paused here a
moment, raised her eyes toward the chill sky, where the
sun was now struggling through mist, and sighed again.
Without further emotion, she then descended the steps,
and knocked at Aunt Phillis' door. A faint voice bade
her come in, and she pulled the latchet, which was made
of a strap, and entered the abode of Aunt Phillis.
Aunt Phillis was sick.
Since the day, when following Ellie through the snow,
we entered with her the humble dwelling of the old negro
woman, Aunt Phillis had continued to go through her
regular occupation of washer and ironer, with little care for
the cold, little regard for the most biting wind. With that
industry which characterizes her class, she had labored
assiduously, and not eaten the bread of idleness—perhaps,
because if she had essayed to do so, she would have been
without any bread at all. In her small room she had carried
on all those numerous ceremonies, which are practised
in the profession of those who prepare the articles of
clothing, in which all classes of the community present
themselves before the world—and, singing at her toil, had
passed the long, gloomy days with hope and content, and
that sunshine which never fails to pour in on the active
spirit, busy at its appointed toil.
But one day, when Aunt Phillis rose up in the morning,
a sort of mist seemed to pass before her eyes, and she
felt a faintness, as she set busily about her morning task,
which she had never experienced before. On the preceding
evening she had been far up to the other end of the
city, with her large flat basket full of clothes, and had
nearly been blown away by the wind upon her return.
The cold blast had penetrated into her blood, and chilled
her through and through—and that old blood, thinned by
so many years of toil, had arrested itself in its flow, and
lingered, and debated whether it should go on as before,
feeding the subtle and invisible essence of life, or flow no
more forever.
A close observer might have seen that the old woman
was treading upon that verge which separates life and
death; going from the real world, in which she had lived
nearly the appointed time, given her by God, to that other
land where there is no appointed time—where there is
neither poor nor rich—neither black nor white; where the
smile of the Saviour welcomes all who are true of heart,
who come to him for refuge. Sitting down, the old
woman thought long, and falling into a waking dream,
saw all her life pass before her—and who knows what
throbs of genuine love and happiness made the old heart
leap again. She remembered everything, but thought
chiefly of her days in church, when the warmth at the old
heart seemed to make her young again, driving back all
the creeping shadows of age and weakness.
For some days her weakness remained much as it was,
and, in spite of all her struggles, she was almost unable
to do any of her accustomed work. She received many
visits from sympathizing friends, and they duly performed
her washing and ironing—for this branch of poor
cling to each other with peculiar tenacity. So the days
had passed, and Aunt Phillis had each morning risen, and
dressed herself with feeble hands, and set about her work,
and then desisted: and it was just as she had taken her
seat, one day, that a sour-faced old gentleman entered
without ceremony, and asked if any one was sick there.
This was Doctor Fossyl—and Aunt Phillis had promptly
replied that nobody was sick, though she was “poorly,
thank God!”—that being the African mode of exhibiting
resignation, and returning thanks for all dispensations.
Dr. Fossyl had rudely made his diagnosis, declared the
patient decidedly unwell, and informed her, that unless she
took care of herself, she would not need him any more.
Then promising roughly to call again, he had departed.
The reader will observe that this was but an hour or
two before the meeting in Lucia's chamber, and accordingly,
when Lucia descended to Aunt Phillis' apartment,
she found that lady still reflecting upon the apparition of
Doctor Fossyl.
Aunt Phillis was seated by the fire, with a white handkerchief
bound around her head, and was regarding from
time to time a clothes-horse, upon which hung a very, very
few clothes—all she had been able to prepare that morning.
Overcome by weakness, she had been compelled to
sit down. From time to time her eyes would wander
from the clothes-horse to the appurtenances of the room;
and this investigation seemed to be for the purpose of
convincing herself that everything was in its place. The
truth is, that Aunt Phillis prided herself upon the adornments
of her apartment.
Over the fire-place and the tall mantel-piece, which
boasted a miscellaneous collection of hymn books, pepper
pods, clothes-pins, cups, saucers and jars—over this mantel-piece,
hung two pictures in veneered frames, the said
pictures being in the most brilliant style of art, and very
striking in design. One represented St. Catherine taking
an æriel voyage, with the assistance of two chubby and
rosy-faced angelic beings—the other depicting Peter, up
to his knees in the sea, and stretching out his hands for
help. In the corner an old press was sacred to the
thousand pet articles which Aunt Phillis set most store
by, and this was never opened in the presence of her most
intimate friends. This was the old lady's mystery—and
she guarded the cracked glass and china, and the old
mugs and knives and forks there—to say nothing of the
apples, cakes, preserves and pickles—with a jealousy which
often caused her to be considered quite “a trial” to her
friends. As to the clothes adornments of Aunt Phillis'
chamber, we have already declared our inability to
describe those miscellaneous articles—which is perhaps a
very fortunate circumstance, inasmuch as we should be
compelled to attempt a sketch of all, which would involve
an examination of those mysteries of the female toilette,
which it is not proper for the profane to consider.
All these objects were embraced by Aunt Phillis'
careful and housewife-like survey; and then her thoughts
returned to the rough winter, and were about to busy
themselves with that unpromising topic, when Lucia's
knock attracted the old lady's attention, and raising her
voice, she had bidden the visitor enter.
