A CHRISTMAS EVE GUEST

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 51, 21 December 1905, Page 13

A CHRISTMAS EVE GUEST

Aunt Jean, arrayed in her finest lace cap and an immaculate white apron, was in a low rocker before the dining room fire in her own home. She sat bolt upright, in spite of her sixtyfour years. Her fine face, although marked with lines of care, was still fresh to see. The table, at her right, was laid with a snowy cloth, and was gay with some of her best china. It was Christmas Eve. Egypt, the cat, was stretched out at length on the hearth purring in sleek content, regardless of the fact that it was just eleven o'clock at night. 'It doesn't seem light to take this cup of tea,' said the old lady to herself aloud, ' and I going to Communion at the early Mass. But, indeed, I'm not only lonesome to-night, but also strangely faint at heart, and the night is bitterly cold. The dear Lord will not mind if I take a hot drink before starting out.' She might well feel melancholy. She was alone in the house, as her one maid Jennie, had left that day to spend the feast with relatives in the country. And she was alone in the world also; for her nearest' kindred were all dead. Parents-, brothers, sisters, husband, children, — all gone before. Well, no, not quite all. There was Deborah. Aunt Jean had been thinking of Deborah off and on all that evening. That was partly the reason why she was so sad. Deborah Dalton was the orphan niece of Mrs Mary Kegina Brady, who in her cheery old age was known to all her friends as 'Aunt Jean.' The girl had been adopted by her in her fifth year, shortly after the death ol her mother, the young widow of Aunt Jean's only brother. Mr Brady was living at the time, and so were two of his children. After their death Mrs Brady poured out all her affection on Deborah. She worked for her and saved for her and planned for her. She sent her to an excellent school and gave her every accomplishment taught there. She expected to leave to her her own frugal competence, and hoped to see her safely settled in life. And Deborah responded to this love. She was an impulsive creature, in whom the slightest kindness aroused a gush of tender feeling, and who was easily led through her emotions. She was devoted to her aunt, and said to her a thousand times, ' I intend to spend my days to the end with you.' In her eighteenth year Deborah came home from the boarding school where she had received the finishing touches to her education. She was a pretty, plump, and -vivacious young girl. She earned herself jauntily; and, dressed in the simplest gown, with a bright bit of nbbon in her hair, she looked like a princess. She was like a sunbeam in the quiet home. Naturally, Deborah soon began to attract some notice in the parish, and two or three of its younp; men felt ddramw m to pay her attentions. But although charmed at the evidence of her own magnetism, and delighted with tho couitosies shown to her, she kept her heart to lieiself. ' I don't intend to get married, aunt,' she said to th.it lady when the latter once quest loned her on the prospects of a favoured suitor, — 'at least not for ever and ever so many years to come. I'm engaged to you, you know, and that's enough for me.' This reply gratified Aunt Jean, even while she knew that her affectionate niece would most likely sometime bestow her heart's best love elsewhere. And, indeed, that time came sooner than they expected. Only a fow wee^s after the abovementioned conversation a stranger entered the orbit of their lives and led them both to misery. What need to say who he was' Enough to know that he came of a respectable family, that his acquaintance v\as properly made, that he was engaged in decent employment as a commercial traveller, and that he behaved with due decorum. Fiom the moment that Deborah laid o\,cs on his tall figure and dark face she was fascinated. Her character was too light to resist the spell. Her emotional natuie followed its surging impulses and considered the question of principles too late. Her intentions were perfect, but her feelings huuied her br\ ond them. The stranger reciprocated her aifection. It was for both of them a case of love at first sight. He promptly pressed his suit, but clandestinely; for he was not of her faith, and this he knew would be an objection; and, as ho could readily suppose, her aunt would not let her grow fond of him without close inquiry into his antecedents and principles. What his arguments were and how he persuaded Deborah with them,

no one knew ; but one evening, only a few months after he first met her, he hurried her before a minister, and had her with him at Niagara Falls before even her aunt had the slightest inkling of the marriage. Poor Aunt Jean was wounded to the quick. Was this the end of all her pains? Was this the return for her years of care ? However, sorrow was too familiar for her to let it fester in her heart. What really grieved her most was the sacrilege, — the fact that Deborah had not only married a man who was outside of the Church, but had also put herself out of it bjj going before a preacher for the ceremony. The young girl wrote from the Falls a passionate entreaty for forgiveness, to which her aunt replied that as soon as the pardon of God had been obtained, her forgiveness would be granted. But the masterful husband would not permit hi 3 wife to make reparation for the scandal. Still worse, he would not allow her to practise her religion. Right at the start he laid down his law most emphatically : ' My wife shall not go near the priests nor shall any of them ever enter my door.' It was a clouded honeymoon and a desolate home that had been left. The newly-married couple did not return to the bride's former place of residence. Instead, the groom got transferred to the agency in Chicago. Afterward he moved to Denver, and subsequently to San Francisco. There trace of him and his was lost. One rumour asserted that they had gone to Australia, while another was positive that they had migrated to South Africa. On this Christinas Eve it was just twenty-three years and one month since tho unhappy marriage, and in all that time no one of her own blood had seen Deborah; and no further word had come from her, except a hurried message sent on a postal-card from Omaha. It was without date or signature, but in the well-known handwriting. It said, 'If ever I come back to God, I'll come back to you!' The words were burned into the memory of Aunt Jean. She had uttered them over and over a million times : ' If ever I come back to God, I'll come back to you!' She did not need the postal-caid to remind her of them, although, somehow, she carefully treasured it in her prayer book. That was the grief of Aunt Jean's life — the falling away of Deborah. Fast and piayer and almsdeed had been offered up by her for years for the return of her niece to the practice of religion. Continually she said, ' Dear God, let her not die in her sins !' And next to this 111 frequency was the ejaculation, ' Lord, when she comes back, if it be not against Thy will, giant me the torn fort of knowing of her leturn !' Aunt Jean was thinking of all this as she sat before the fire with the tea brewing beside her. All her best beloved weie dead, — all but Deborah ;— and she sighed as she said, 'Would to God that she, too, like my own darlings, had died in the innocence of her childhood 1 ' The clock ticked noisily at this and tho wind without blew, shrill. ' We'ie all alone, puss,' lemarked the old lady, as she stiokod the black coat of Egypt. 'If it wasn't for the giving ot gilts to Jennie and the poor, for the midnight Mass, and tor the little Christmas-tree that I trimmed this evening for Deborah's sake, because she loved it so, it wouldn't seem like Chiistmas at all for me.' The cat looked at her as if he quite understood it all and sympathised with her in her distress. ' I've got a bright new ribbon for you, Egypt,' she went on, — ' scarlet, you know ; Deborah's favouiite colour. But I won't tie it on \om neck until to-moriow. However, so that \ou won't feel slighted I'll give you a saucer of milk now.' She filled a saucer from the china pitcher and set it upon the shiny oilcloth beloie the fire. But Egypt was too comfortable to stir, lie blinked at the milk sleepily once or twice; then las eyes closed in the rapture of his coziness, and he purred even hauler than before. Aunt Jean, smiling at his laziness, s.it down again and poured out the .smoking tea into her dainty cup. ' I must hurry,' she said, ' for it's getting on toward 12.' She had still some time to spare, for tho church was not far off. So she shut her eyes, like Egypt, to enjoy the warmth and comfort of the moment. She felt strongly inclined to give way to drowsiness. What was it that made her push the steaming cup away? What was it that urged her to take up her losary and fall to sayinu, a decade lor the souls who were then in tho agony of death? She was at the last bead when a stumbling step sounded on the icy walk without and a sharp knock struck the front door.

Aunt Jane started and shivered as with an ague. She was fearful of a caller at that hour, and a feeling of dread made her blood grow cold. Hastening into the entry, she demanded : •Who's there?' ' It is I,' answered a woman's voice faintly. * It's some poor creature in distress,' said Aunt Jean. She hesitated no longer, but, turning the key in the lock, drew back the bolt and opened the door. An icy breeze swept in, and the moonlight streamed for a space on the hall carpet. A thin, wan, haggard, middle-aged woman staggered in. She looked as if trouble or sickness had broken down her beauty and made her prematurely aged. She seemed fitter for bed than to be out on such a night. 'Please let me in for a moment!' ske pleaded. 'It is bitterly cold out here.' Aunt Jean closed the door and led the way into the dining room. There she bustled about and set a second place at the waiting table. The kettle was singing merrily and the aroma of the tea in the pot filled the room with a mild fragrance. ' To think of your being out so late !' Aunt Jean murmured sympathetically, with a hint of woman's curiosity, as the stranger tremblingly took a seat at the table in a way that threw her face into shade. 'Have you come far?' she added presently. ' A long, long way,' answered the woman ; ' and a longer way lies yet before me.' ' Poor thing ! I'm sorry for you. I'll have you some tea in a minute. Must you go on to-night?' ' Yes, without fail.' ' Fortunately, the station is not far from here,' said Aunt Jean, with a tone of interrogation. ' I did not come by train, and I'll not go by train,' was the reply. ' Well, sit here and have some tea. I'll have you some toast and a poached egg in two seconds.' The stranger drew closer to the table, saying in a low voice that thrilled the listener : ' Thank you !— l do not need food. I can stay but a moment, and shall trespass no further on your hospitality.' ] Aunt Jean sat on the other side of the table and drew her own steaming cup toward her. She was glad of company and began to talk, rattling on about the weather and Christmas and everything else. Something about her guest disposed her to awe; but a stronger influence— a magnetic wave of good-will — seemed to hearten her with a sense of consolation. With the singing of the kettle, the ticking of the clock, and the chatter of Aunt Jean, the little room waxed cheery. The lamp shone brighter and the stove threw out more heat. The stranger looked around the apartment with an air of puzzled familiarity, and -ft hen her eyes lighted on the little Christmas-tree she smiled. The hands of the clock were almost on the stroke of midnight. ' I must go now,' she said, getting up. ' I have a message for you.' Aunt Jean stared with frightened eyes. 'One whom you once loved,' went on the woman, gliding rather than walking toward the door, 'and whom I see you still remember with affection, has at last come back to God.' The room swam before Aunt Jean, and through the ha/,e she seemed to recognise in the face of the stranger the unfor gotten lineaments of her young niece. She tried to call out 'Deborah!' but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She was beginning to swoon, when the door opened and the figure passed out into the night. With an effort of the will she kept her senses, and, struggling to her feet, tottered to the door. There was no one to be seen. She peered up and down, but the untrodden snow showed no footprints. The clock struck twelve, and from the neighbouring church steeple the chimes began the anthem : ' Glory be to God in the highest, And on earth peace to men of good-will ! ' Aunt Jean shivered. She hurriedly closed the door and went in. As soon as she regained her chair she fainted away. It was half-past four o'clock before she came to herself. The lamp still shone bright and the fire glowed in the stove. She could not recall at first what had happened. Had she fallen asleep in her chair? It all came back upon her like a flash. She shuddered with awe at the memory of it. Then she arose, went to the door, and looked out. The pavements were covered with unspotted snow.

'Who was that woman?' Aunt Jean asked herself. 'Could it have been Deborah's self V A strange peace filled the old lady's heart. She got on her knees to give thanks for what she felt was the good news of her niece's conversion. Then she vividly recalled the words, ' If ever I come back to God, I'll come back to you !' If Deborah were still living, where was she? That probablj would be learned in due time. And Christmas for Aunt Jean was no longer sad. Whethei dream or vision, the hope of Deborah's reconciliation with God was in her heart. She was grateful for the comfort that it gare her. As she arose from her knees, thinking to go to the five o'clock Mass, the door bell rang. A messenger handed her a telegram. It was signed by Deborah's husband, and ran thus : ' Deborah died to-night near midnight. We were coming back for good fro.m Apia, expecting to give you a surprise by spending Christmas with you, for whose love she pined ever since her marriage. A priest was on the train, going to a sick call, when the hemorrhage came upon her. He ministered to her. She died in peace, — yes, with radiant joy ; hoping to find mercy, begging your forgiveness and blessing God.' ' May the Lord be praised ! May God have mercy on her even as she hoped !' murmured Aunt Jean ecstatically. 'It's a sad and happy Christmas for me. The telegram explains it. But did I dream it or did I see it? Could it have been Deborah's self?' — ' Aye Maria.'