University of Virginia Library

MY AUNT PATIENCE.

It was a beautiful summer day. It seemed to me that Ryefield
had never looked half so fair. The summer roses blushed and
trembled like bashful maidens; and over the tall trees flitted
gay, happy birds, all singing love-songs. But, perhaps, you
have seen just such days, dear reader, when the blue sky seemed
bluer, and the green fields greener, and your heart sang anthems
of joy, to which all the world went keeping time. You have
seen them, if you have loved as I loved, and known as I knew,
that, when the earth slept in the peace of the summer afternoon,
another shadow would fall beside your own, and a voice you
loved make music in your ear.

That morning I had risen early. I wandered here and there,
with the one dear name on my lips, gathering the lush-red
strawberries, and sorting the pale, fragrant flowers into Grandmother's
rich, old-fashioned china vases. At last I dressed myself,
and descended to the library. It wanted yet four long hours
of the time when he was to arrive; and I threw myself on a
lounge, and closed my eyes, to spend the time as best I might
in weaving dreams and fancies wherewith to furnish my hereditary
“Castles in Spain.” A light foot-fall, so light that it did
not arouse me, passed over Grandmother's Wilton carpet; a soft
hand was laid upon my brow, and, looking up, I saw that Aunt
Patience was standing beside me.

She was a singular, and yet most interesting woman; and,
hitherto, she had seemed to me as one dwelling apart from our
common sympathies, and had won from me even more of curiosity
than love. She was tall, and very slight, with soft, brown hair,
banded smoothly about her pale face. She seldom spoke, and,
when she did, her voice was low and calm, and her words fell
upon the ear like the measured cadences of mournful music.
And yet Aunt Patience had not always seemed thus. Grandma
had told me of a time when her face looked less like the pictures
of the saints, and more like one of Sir Joshua Reynolds' court
beauties, full of human love and joy, ay, and of human error,
too. She had told of a fair, smooth brow, shaded by masses of
curls; of a slight, swaying, and graceful figure; clear, starry
blue eyes; dainty little fingers, and a voice like civilized bird-notes.
But Aunt Patience was very different now. I had
never known what had occasioned the change; but, like those
buried cities, round which not even tradition has wove her garment
of memories, leaving them to the sceptre of that mightier
potentate, the Imagination, I felt sure that Aunt Patience had
a history.

Her very name seemed strangely appropriate. I don't think,
in her whole life, she had ever been known to utter a murmur or
complaint; and the very expression of her face was that of one
who had suffered much, and grown purer under the pressure of
the crown of thorns. I had many times thought she seemed to
regard me with unusual tenderness; but I had judged only from
the inflections of her voice and the brooding warmth in her quiet
blue eyes. I knew it on this pleasant summer morning, when
she stood beside me, with her hand upon my hair. “So you

think you love Wilton Mowbray, my little girl?” she said,
inquiringly, yet very gently.

“Think! O, Aunt Patience, I know I love him! I would
give my whole life to make him happy!”

“Well, child, I believe it; and yet I have seen in you a
disposition to try his love, to excite his jealousy, to tyrannize over
him; and I have felt that, loving him as you do, and acting thus,
you were standing on the verge of a fearful precipice, and I have
longed to warn you. My own heart has a history whose leaves
no human eyes have ever read. Shall I tell it to you, this
morning?”

There was a kind of dimness gathering in Aunt Patience's
eyes, as she drew an easy-chair to the library-window, and commenced
her story. I was lying upon the lounge, with my head
in her lap, and her hand upon my hair.

“I have been much interested in your friend, Wilton Mowbray,”
she commenced, “very much interested, because he bears
so close a resemblance to one I used to know and love. In his
character and disposition, I mean, for his face is not at all similar.
You have never before heard me speak of Walter Harding,
the lover of my youth. He had precisely your Wilton's quick,
sensitive, impetuous disposition; and I, though you would never
guess it, was the exact counterpart of what you now are, — gay,
lively, impulsive, and a little inclined to flirt. Withal, I had
more than your share of pride; and yet I loved Walter as well
as woman ever loved the one whom she chose from all the world
to guide her trembling steps along the uneven paths of life,
toward the great end. He was very fond of me, — much more so
than I deserved. I saw that I had it in my power to annoy him,

and I think I used to take advantage of it. Many were the
bouquets I accepted, and the smiles I returned, from others; and
I have seen his cheek flush, and his lips tremble, until any other
girl would have feared his anger; but I knew no fear, in those
days. When it came time to return, I used to step up to him,
and say, `Are you ready, Walter?' He would look at me a
moment, and then the frown would pass from his brow, and,
drawing my hand through his arm, he would exclaim, in those
dear, good tones of his, that it made one's heart rejoice to hear,
`God bless you, Patience, for a dear, cruel, tormenting little
angel, as you are!' and then he would walk away with me, just
as kind and tender as if I had been the best girl in the world.

“But there came a time when I tried my strength, and found
it wanting. There was a young law-student in the village.
Most persons called him handsome, far handsomer than Walter,
though to me he certainly was not. All his airs and graces,
clear, white complexion, and delicate hands and feet, were not
worth to me one single, beaming, truthful look from Walter's
dark eyes. And yet it suited my purpose to flirt with him, to
appear fond of him. I always — that is, always when Walter was
by — welcomed him with empressement, wore the flowers he gave
me in my hair, and played his favorite songs. At last, one
evening when Walter was with me, he came with a card for me
to attend a ball, which was to come off the next evening. Cotillons
were much more fashionable then than now, and this ball
was to be a brilliant affair. Dancing was my passion; but Walter,
who was studying for the ministry, never danced, and since
I had known him I had almost entirely abandoned it. But here
was afforded a fine opportunity to tease him, gratify my inordinate

love of fun, and constitute myself once more the belle of a
ball-room. Heedless of Walter's sad, imploring face, I accepted
the invitation, and Frank Stanley (that was the student's name)
left almost immediately. After he had gone, there was silence
between us for a long time. At last Walter broke it.

“`I am sorry, Patience,' he said, mildly, `that you should
have carried your trifling quite so far. Of course you will not
go to this ball, and it will disarrange Mr. Stanley's plans, and,
perhaps, mortify him, to receive a note of regrets now!'

“`And who says I shan't go to the ball?' I asked, angrily, for
my naturally quick temper was aroused by his tone of unwonted
authority.

“`Who says it, Patience? Why, I think your own innate
good sense will say that the betrothed bride of a minister of the
Gospel should not be found in the ball-room!'

“`Well,' I retorted, `my own good sense says nothing of the
kind. It does say that, even if I 've got to wear the surplice
after marriage, it's very ridiculous of you to expect me to assume
ministerial obligations beforehand. And it does say that nobody
knows of our engagement now, and I don't want they should, for
we can't be married in any reasonable time; and so it becomes a
matter of necessity that I should go to this ball, for, of course, I
could not give any excuse, without giving the true one.'

“`Well, Patience,' he said, with a calmness and forbearance
that I hated then as much as I admired it afterwards, `well,
Patience, I had not thought to learn that you are so much
ashamed of your betrothal to me that, rather than have it known,
you would commit what seems to me a sin, and what even you
cannot regard as less than an impropriety; but, darling,' and, as

he spoke, he gazed tenderly into my face with his dark eyes,
and drew my proud, rebellious head to his bosom, `my own
darling, I will not chide you; I am so sure you did not mean
it. You shall drive with me into the country to-morrow, and we
will not return until it is too late for this affair.'

“`Shall I, indeed, Mr. Harding? Is it you who says “shall”
to me? Pray remember the vow to obey is yet in the future.
But surely you don't mean it, now? You would n't take my
humble self into the country, would you? What a pity that I
shall have to decline the honor!'

“`Patience,' he said once more, and this time his tone was
very serious, `Patience, answer me truly, do you mean to attend
this ball?'

“`Yes, sir; I truly do mean to attend this ball!'

“`Then, Patience, I must tell you candidly what the result will
be. It will terminate our engagement. I have loved you, God
only knows how well, — to idolatry, I have feared sometimes. I
have borne patiently with your caprices for a long time, suffered
you to follow in all things your own inclinations, because I had a
firm faith that your heart was right, and that, in spite of all, you
truly loved me, and would seek to make me happy. But, if you
cannot give up so small a thing as this foolish ball for my sake,—
if you prefer its gaud and glitter to a day of quiet pleasure
with me in the country, — then, alas! I must yield to the conviction
that you never loved me, and go my own way in solitude.'

“Louise, can you comprehend the enigma of my behavior? At
that moment he seemed to me truly noble. I loved him more
than ever. I would have given worlds to have thrown myself
into his arms, and told him the simple truth, that one word of

love from him was worth more to me than all the balls and
gayeties in the world. But, alas for it! that evil spirit of pride
was regnant in my heart. I had tried his love before. I wished
to test it yet once more, to make still another display of my
power over him. So I masked my aching heart, with an air of
haughty coldness, and answered, `Well, sir, if I am henceforth
to enter a state of serfdom, to have no will of my own, and if
your boasted love for me is merely a desire to reduce my spirit
to subjection, the sooner we part, and you go your own way, the
better.'

“`Nay, Patience, my poor proud child, I will not take your
answer now. You will see all this differently to-morrow. I do
not think you will go to the ball; and I fancy we shall have, if
not the ride into the country, at least a happy evening at home.
I can't help thinking you love me, Patience; for I have a pleasant
memory of a light step by my bed-side during the weary
watches of a terrible illness, of a gentle hand upon my brow, and
sorrowful blue eyes full of tears. Patience, your love has been
more than life to me. I cannot give you up to-night. To-morrow,
— we shall see, when it comes, what fate comes with it.'
And he would have raised my fingers to his lips, but I crushed
the dear hand and threw it from me; and he went out.”

My Aunt Patience paused in her recital, and her tears fell fast
upon my brow and my braided hair. “But you did n't go to
the ball, Aunty?” I inquired, with eager interest.

“Yes, Louise! Morning came. I had passed a sad, restless
night; but my pride was not one whit abated; and hardly to
purchase my salvation would I have sat down and written to
Walter that I would accept his invitation to go into the country.

He never came near me all day, and toward night I began
to dress for the ball. I brushed out the long curls which Walter
so loved to twine around his caressing fingers, and crowned them
with a wreath of starry cape-jasmine. I put on a dress of deep
azure silk, which suited my complexion exquisitely. My arms
and neck were bare, and a glance at my mirror assured me that
I had never before looked so beautiful. Well, Frank Stanley
came for me, and I went. I do believe I hated him then.
Somehow my purblind vision could not or would not see my own
faults, and unjustly I blamed him for coming between me and
Walter. But I determined that I would at least seem happy; so
I exerted myself to appear as lively as possible. My hand was
engaged for every set, and I danced as gayly as if my heart had
never experienced a single pang.

“It was nearly midnight when I threw a shawl over my shoulders,
and wandered out by myself into the conservatory. My
heart throbbed with a wild longing to hurry home, to seek Walter,
and implore him to forgive the wanderer, and take her to his
heart once more. Had I obeyed the impulse, all might yet have
been well. I drew my shawl around me, and in a moment more
I should have started; but I heard footsteps near at hand, and,
looking up, Frank Stanley, my gallant of the evening, stood
beside me. I did not hear half he said, but I managed to understand
that he wished me to marry him. In the mood of remorseful
tenderness toward Walter which then possessed me, I could
scarcely listen to him with civility and, though I well knew that
I had given him sufficient encouragement to warrant his proposal,
my rejection was brief, haughty and almost bitter, unsoftened by
a single word of esteem or regret. He stood before me for a

moment with compressed lips and frowning brow, and then
recollecting himself, he smiled bitterly, and, offering his arm,
said, `At least I may hope for the honor of conducting you to
supper, Miss Evelyn?'

“I took his arm in silence. His tone convinced me that I had
made for myself a bitter, life-long enemy; and my conscience
said, justly. O, that was a weary, wretched evening for me! I
got home at length, and, tearing off the ornaments which mocked
my misery, I threw myself upon a lounge, and sobbed myself to
sleep.

“The next morning I heard the door-bell ring, and in a moment
the servant entered my room. She held in her hands an exquisite
little ebony casket, such an one as I had long desired to
possess. I took it from her, and eagerly opened it. It was very
beautiful, lined with quaintly-carved satin-wood, and soft, rose-colored
satin; but I did not heed its beauty, or rejoice in its possession.
It contained a little locket, with my miniature, which I
had given Walter, and a few letters I had written him from time
to time, when we chanced to be separated for a day or two.
`Mr. Harding bade me give you this,' said the girl, as she
handed me a little note in his well-known chirography. I tore it
open.

“`Patience,' it said, `Patience, I have loved you as no other
will ever love you again. But why do I use the past tense? I
do love you as fondly as ever; but your course last evening has
shown me that you do not wish to be my wife, and far be it
from me to claim an unwilling bride. You will accept this little
casket, won't you, Patience, as a parting gift? I have heard you
wish for one like it, and I could not bear to see it, when far

away from her for whose use I intended it. I would fain have
kept your picture and your letters, but I dared not. They were
too dear. I leave town to-day, and I want to bid you good-by.
Will you come down and speak to me? Dear, beautiful
Patience, — treasure I once thought to call my own, — God bless
you!'

“For a single brief moment of indecision, I held the letter in
my hands. My heart pleaded wildly to go and kneel at his feet,
and weep out my wrong and my penitence, and see if haply, even
then, I might not be forgiven; but pride triumphed. I drew my
writing-desk toward me, and wrote:

“He left the house. I heard his quick tread upon the gravelled
walk, and, throwing myself upon the bed, I wept such tears of
heart-breaking love, and anguish, and penitence, as one can weep
but once in a lifetime. He left the casket upon the table. It is

the only token I have of the fair past, whose paths my feet once
trod. His letters, his miniature, the engagement-ring, all were
gone. I have never seen him since. Others, rich and noble,
knelt at my feet; but the love of my heart was crushed, and it
never bloomed again. It is twenty years since that day, Louise,
— twenty long, sorrowful years, — and not once have I failed to
whisper his name in my prayers, though for half that time he has
been the husband of another.”

“But surely, surely,” I cried, “he cannot love her, after all
his love for you!”

“I do not know,” said my Aunt Patience, sadly. “I hope he
loves her; I hope they are happy. I have prayed that they
might be. He must have deemed me unworthy of a thought. I
have told you this sad story, dear child, that you might take
warning by my errors. I have seen in you the same spirit that
has ruined the happiness of my own lifetime. Pray God that
you may never carry with your own hands such desolation into
all your future.” And, with a soft kiss upon my brow, Aunt
Patience glided from the room. How I had wronged her! — I,
who had thought her cold, thankless and unloving. How my
heart did homage to the mute, uncomplaining forbearance of her
mighty sorrow!

Reader, my story has a sequel. That afternoon, as we sat in
the dining-room, luxuriating over Grandmother's delicious early
tea, Wilton Mowbray said, as he thoughtfully swayed his teaspoon
back and forth, “Louise, did I ever tell you of a kind
friend of mine, the Rev. Walter Harding? He is such a gentleman,

I 'm sure you 'd like him, — a nice, middle-aged man. He
lost his wife a few weeks since; a noble, excellent woman she
was; but I don't think he feels her loss as much as if they had
had more sympathies in common. He knows of our engagement,
you mad-cap, and somehow he has got the idea in his head that
you have common sense, and know enough to choose a companion
for his only child, a sweet little girl, with large, thoughtful eyes,
like her father's own.”

“How would I do?” said Aunt Patience, looking up from her
tea, with her calm, pale face.

“You, Aunt Patience!” and Wilton smiled; “why, you
would do capitally; but surely you would n't leave your home,
and go there in the position of half-governess and half-companion?”

“Yes, Wilton. I used to know Walter Harding, and for the
sake of our old friendship, I will gladly take care of his child;
on the one condition, that you will not let him know who I am.
My name is Patience Cleveland Evelyn, and he must only know
me as Miss Cleveland.”

When we chanced to be left alone, I clasped my arms round
my aunt's neck, and exclaimed, joyfully, “O, I am so glad!
Now you will marry Walter Harding, after all; and O, you 'll be
so, so happy!”

But it was a pensive smile with which my aunt answered me,
and she said very calmly, “O, no, Louise. You have jumped at
a very unwarrantable conclusion. When I parted with Walter
Harding, I was eighteen years old, — almost a child, — and very
handsome. Twenty years have passed since then, and the faded
and sorrowful woman of thirty-eight bears no trace of the

maiden of eighteen. No, dear child, Walter Harding will never
recognize me. I am going to him because I did him a great
wrong once; and, if I can make some slight amendment by
bestowing on his child a mother's care, I will bless God for the
privilege!”

Walter Harding met his old love without one single faint suspicion
that the quiet, middle-aged lady before him had ever
crossed his path in earlier years. He never dreamed that head
had lain in other days upon his breast, or that small hand
trembled in the caressing love-clasp of his own. To him, she was
his daughter's governess, and no more. And yet she was ten
times worthier of his love than in those other days, when it had
been his proudest ambition to call her his own. Her heart had
been chastened and subdued by suffering, her mind matured and
expanded by time and culture, and her whole character elevated
by the beauty of holiness. She devoted herself to her little
charge with all a mother's tenderness, and Winnie Harding soon
learned to love the gentle stranger even more fondly than the
lost mother, who had manifested far less sympathy in her childish
joys and sorrows.

One night, when my aunt had spent about six months in the
family, she rose from her seat at the usual hour, to put the little
Winnie to bed, when her old lover laid a detaining hand upon
her arm. “Miss Cleveland,” he said, “will you not return again
to the parlor? I have a new poem I wish to read you.”
“Certainly, sir, if you would like,” was the reply; and she
passed out of the room. I believe there was a thrill at her
heart, that night, as she heard the little one say her prayers, and
then sang her to sleep. I think her hand trembled as she lifted

the latch, and, for the first time in years, entered alone the presence
of him she used to love so fondly. The poem he wished to
read was Evangeline, and his masterly intonation made that
beautiful history of a faithful love, long disappointed, and
rewarded at last only in death, strangely musical. When he
concluded, he looked at his companion, and her eyes were dim
with tears.

“Do you know, Miss Cleveland,” he asked, suddenly, “do you
know those blue eyes of yours have a look in them strangely like
those of one I knew and loved once? Once, did I say, — I love
her yet, — I have always loved Patience Evelyn, and always
shall. I heard, years ago, that she was married to another, but I
have never ceased to love her as of old; and sometimes I have
felt almost sure that she would come back to me. You remind
me of her in more ways than one. It is singular, very singular,
is n't it? but sometimes I have fancied your voice was like hers,
particularly when you were animated at anything. I have
dreamed, too, that, if you would promise to stay with me, and
share my life always, I might be happy once more, — as happy,
almost, as she would have made me. I suppose we are both too
old now for vows and protestations, but I do believe I love you
truly; and you, Miss Cleveland, — will you share the old man's
home?”

My aunt had listened in joy and wonder; but when he closed,
her cheek was suffused with blushes, her eyes with tears. She
threw herself at his feet, and, when he would have raised her, she
cried, impulsively, “No, no; let me kneel! It is time I knelt at
Walter Harding's feet, and besought forgiveness of the true
heart I have twice won. Walter, do not hate me! I am

Patience Cleveland Evelyn! I never married, never loved
another, Walter; and even when we parted, my heart was breaking
for your love. Can you forgive me, Walter?”

I suppose my Aunt Patience pleaded not vainly, for when next
I saw her she was Walter Harding's wife; his child was clinging
to her knees and they were happy!