LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1976, 24 June 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HOW WE BEAT THE DOCTORS AND BESTOBED AUNT MONA. [Abridged from the "Argosy. "2 (Concluded) In a little room opening from, the dining parlor I fonnd aunt Mona, an oid woollen shawl around her shoulders, and crouching disconsolately over the grate, in which roared a fire more benefitting January than June. ' How do you do, aunt?' I said; 'are you any worse than usual ?' She turned towards me a face of despair and woe. Beally it was enough to give one the bluea only to look at it. ' Ah, my dear, don't ask; I am. miserable.' * Bat what makes you so ?' Aunt Mcna gave a deep sigh, and bent over the fire again ; on the trivet stood a porcelain saucepan, whose contents she was languidly stirring with a spoon. • Why, aunt, what are you doing there; is that a witch's cauldron?' 'lt is a decoction of herbs, to be taken inwardly,' meekly sighed she. 'I got the recipe from the old herb doctor ; I sent for him here yesterday, and he gave it me. I am going to try it,' she added resignedly ; ' and if it does not cure me I shall just give up medicine and lie down and die.' ' Give up medicine and arise and live,' I answered. * I firmly believe, aunt, that medicine is killing you; medicine and groaning together " This aroused aunt Mona.

• Maria, how can you talk so, when nothing bat medicine has kept me alive these twenty years V she exclaimed, in righteous indignation. * You have lived in spite of medicine, aunt Mona, and because your constitution fs so thoroughly good. Papa says ' ' I don't want to hear what your papa says, Maria. Brothers always choose to be rude ; even when I was a child he'd hurt my feelings. He is so healthy himself that he has no pity for me.' 1 You have no pity for yourself, aunt Mona. Who but you would sit over a lira this lovely June day ?' ' I am cold, Maria.' ' Get up, then, aunt, and run about out of doors in the sunshine.'

* It's cruel of you to talk so,' she whined ; * how can I stir with that awful spine in my back ? I can stand it from your unole—he talks to me so like your papa—but I can'c from you. Men are so hard-hearted ! Don't you ever marry one of them, Maria.' She tapped her foot on the ground, and stirred on, and sighed. Chancing to look out at the window, I saw uncle Butterfield coming down the garden path with that pretty widow, Mrs Berrow, who was one of aunt's great friends, and had no patience with her. Aunt looked up also. ' There's your uncle, Maria, and that widow Berrow as usual I If he is setting up her husband's property, it's no reason why she should be running after him always. If I wasn't the most unsaapscting woman on earth, I should bo jealouß; but I shall not be in the way long, that's one comfort.' A burst of clear, ringing langhter at this moment reached us; it was soon followed by that most comely woman's entrance, 'fair, fat, and forty.' As she stood by aunt Mona's side, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, in the exuberance of health, and the prime cf a beauty which time had improved rather than impaired, the contrast was too painful; I think my uncle must have felt it, for he sighed as he turned away. ' Mrs Butterfield,' said the widow, in her soft, musical voice—' that' excellent thing in woman'—'l was hoping upon this beautiful morning to find you belter,'

Aunt Mona gave no immediate save a glance that was not a friendly one; it said an plainly as glance could say —' You don't hope anything of the sort; you want ma to die, and be out of the way.' • My wife seems to bVgrowing worse,'said uncle Butterfield ; ' that two sovereign fee, paid to the great magnetic what-d'ye-call-him, a month ago, didn't seem to do you much good, did it, Mona ? It had better have been put into the church poor-box.' 'A kind, loving husband ought not to speak of money paid to relieve the sufferings and to save the life of his poor, dying wife,' replied aunt Mona reproachfully, 'you know that Johnny, dreadful child, drank the elixir up ; but I shall not be a trouble or expense to you long, Thomas, I feel that my days are numbered.'

* They have been numbered ever since I knew you,' smiled uncle; 'the days of all of us are, for that matter.' His wife did not condescend to notice the words. Every now and then she had these mournful fits, and liked to talk them out.

' And when I am gone, Thomas, you can marry some strong, healthy woman, whose ailments won't trouble you ; one that's got money, too,' she added, significantly and spitefully; ' yes, money to make up for all you've had to pay for me ' ' I am glad to see you in so desirable a frame of mind,' s»id Mrs Berrow. laughing merrily : * you show a truly noble, unselfish nature, in providing, even before your death, for your husband's second marriage.' ' Now, Caroline Borrow, I think you had better not say more,' spoke aunt; ' I know how unfeeling you can be; it is not the first time you have maie game o£ my illness ; as to you, Thomas, you can be looking out for somebody to replace me ; I and my sufferings will soon be released from this world of trouble.'

• Have you any particular person in view?' asked nncla gravely, 'any one you would like as a mother to yonr children ? Of course I should have to think a little of them in choosing a secmd wife ' I don't much think aunt Mona expected the ready acquiescence; she looked startled; Mrs Berrow ran out to Kate and Louisa, who were coming in with the basin of peas, and uncle followed her. Presently the two girls came in.

Aunt Mona was then growiug hysterical. ' Listen, children,' she cried—and proceeded to tell them what had passed; ' yon see, your father is bo anxious en your account," she added sarcastically, ' that he can't even wait for me to die before providing yon a step-mother. I will let you choose. How would you like Mrs Berrow ?' * "Very much indeed,' said Kate.

' I think she is j ust as good, and sweet, and pretty as she can be,' cried Louisa. ' Mamma, I like Mrs Berrow almost as well as I like you. But I suppose this is all nonsense, ' broke off the girl, laughing. ' To tell you the truth. Mom,' interposed my uncle, who had again come in, 'I have thought of Caroline Barrow. It is impossible to keep such ideas away when one's wife is in your state of health,' he added with deprecation ; ' she would make a most excellent stepmother." ' Yes, I see you have been thinking of her,' returned Aunt Mona, rising from her chair in a fever of hysterical anger; ' you have got your plans well laid out. husband, and you have infected the children with them. Oh, that I should live to be insulted like this. Maria, you are a witness to it. It is cruel, cruel ! And I will live a hundred years if I can, just to spite you.' With the tears streaming down her still pretty face, sunt Mona, leaving her decoction of herbs, to its fate, sailed away. I felt moßt uncomfortable. The young girls must have been jesting, but for the first time I thought my uncle heartless. Mrs Berrow. standing now outside the open window, had partly heard what passed. ' Mona only told me yeste-day that she oculd not live a week.' quoth she. 'She kissed me last Sunday when I was going to church and said she should not live to Bee another.' spake uncle. •Yes, and she has not yet bought us new dresßes, or hats, or ribbons this summer,' chimed in Kate ; ' she said it would be useless, we should so soon havoto go in mourning for her; it is too bad for mamma to be so melancholy.' ' And now she is going to live a hundred Tears,' sighed Mrs Berrow, in anything but a pleasurable tone ; ' but I must wish you all good morning ; I have not ordered my dinner at home yet.' « Uncle Batterfield,' I said, feeling indignant, as the echo of her light footsteps sounded on the path and the two girls ran after her, ' I—l have no right, I know, to speak so ; but do you not think you are heartless to aunt Mona—unfeeling V ' I am sorry for it, if I am,' replied uncle, ' but I'm only taking your aunt at her word; for years she has been telling me she was going to die, and that I had better be looking out for a second wife. I don't Bee that I could choosa a nicer one than Mrs Be»row.'

' Has she bewitched you, uncle Butterfield?' ' I don't think so, my lass. All the world recognhes her for a delightful woman. The children must have a mother, if their own is taken from them. What should Ido without a wife in a house like this ? As to planning beforehand—you must thank your aunt for that.'

He set off down the garden with his long strides to overtake Mrs Berrow. Sending the girls back, he accompanied her home. I conld have beaten them hoth.

Upstairs ran I, somehow not caring to face the girls, to aunt Mona's room, expecting to find her drowned in hysterical tears, and sorely in need of consolation. Not a bit of it. She sat before a mirror, arranging her still abundant and beautiful hair, which, during these years of illness, real or imaginary, she had worn plainly tucked under a cap. There was a Are in her eye, a flash upon her cheek, and a look of determination in hfr face, which augnred anything but well for the prospects of the widow Berrow. ' I've heard every word you have been saying below,' she exclaimed angrily, glancing at the open window; '.I thank you for taHng my part, Maria. You seem to be the only friend I have. The idea of that mean, low-lived, contemptible widow Barrow being here in my place, and the mother of my children ! If I were dead and_ buried, and she came a 3 Thomas's wife, I'd rise from my grave and haunt her. But I'm not dead yet; no, and I don't intend to be, while that miserable jade walks the earth. I suppose she paints and powders to make heraelf look young and fair, for she's every day as old as I am ; and when we wera girls together she wa3 not half as handsome as I was. Mark you that, Maria.' 1 She does not paint or use powder, aunt; lam snre of that; though she does look eo fresh and young.' ' She iB eight-and-thirty this summer, and she does not look eight-and-twenty.' snapped aunt Mona; 'and I, with my years of suffering, look eight-and-forty,' ' Yes, aunt, and your perpetual sufferings have brought on the look of age. If I were you I'd throw them off and grow young again. You might if you would. I remember how fresh and pretty you used to be, and how proud uncle Thomas w*s of yon.' • I will be so again,' cried aunt resolutely, in an excess of temper —* if it's only to disappoint that upstart woman. I'll throw off all my ailments, though I die in the effort, and be as young as she is.' 'Aunt—aunt Mona —I want to ask you not to be offended at Borne plain truths I am going to tell you. Your illness, during all these years, has been more imaginary than real, your natural nervousneis has rendered you an easy prey to quack doctors and patent medicine vendors, who have had no regard to your hsaltb, but only to your husband's mouey. You have given way to your fancies and gone about like an old woman, the greatest figure imaginable. Look at your gown this miming ; look at the cap you have now put off. "Sou might be well if you would.' « Perhaps, after all, old Stafford may be right when he tells me I have no organic disease,' said she sadly, • Yeß, indeed he is ; and now I want you to promise me never to take another drop of medicine unless prescribed by him.'

' I never will.' ' And oh, aunt Mona, try to be cheerful, and to make home a happy place for your husband and children. 1 hink how terrible it would be to lose their love.' • It seems to me that I have lost their love.' was the despairing reply. • No, I hope not; no indeed, aunt Mona. They are just a little tired of your constant complainings—and I must say I don'o wonder at it. Even the servants are tired. Tnink how long it is since you had a cheeTf al word upon your lips or a cheerful suiils up:n your

face. Jf you wouH only be the loving wife aid mother again, things wonld come right.' 'All the name, Maria, you cannot deny that Carolina Borrow has turned out a deceitful crocodile. Think of her display of friendship for me, np to this very morning! Think of her setting her ugly widow's cap at your uncle bsfore I am dead I' ' Bat yiu know, annt. you have been as dead—in speech. Telling them, week in, week out, ttiat you shall be in your coffin the next '

' Well, child.' she said rather faintly, * I have been ill, I have suffered.' ' Put your sufferings off, aunt; you can, I say, if you like ; and c'rcumvent—pardon ths word—the widow and her cap setting. Think how much you owe to God for all the many blessings he has showered down upon you—and how uncrateful it is to return Him nothing but repiniDgs.' Aunt Mona, brushing rut her still beautiful hair, paused. A flush stole over face. ' I never thought of it in that light, Maria,' sirs softly said ; ' I will think of it ; I will try.' And she began forthwith. That very evening she dressed herse'f np and went to the penny-reading concert, taking Kate and Louisa Uncle Bmterfield was there, sittinghesi<?e Mrs Borrow. My mother, all unconscious o! the treason, crossed the room to sit with them ; I went tj aunt Mona. We all went home together as far as our several ways led us ; and though uncle did see the widow home, aunt did not begin moaning again. How wonderfully from that time her appearance and manner changed, you would hardly believe, f'he grew young again ; she grew cheerful. Cheerful and more cheerful day by day. Her dress was studied, her servants, household and children were actively oared for. She took to visit again and go to church on Sundays, she invited friends to litt'e parties at home. The pills and herbs and physics and desoctlons were pitched away, and the bottles sold by old Sarah. Uncle Thomas was charmingly sunny-tempered in the house, as he always had been —but he did not give up his visits to the widow Borrow.

'But: he will in time, Maria,' said aunt privately to me t a world of confident hope in her voice. ' Only yesterday, he smoothed my hair down with his gentle hand and said I looked as young and pretty in his eyes as I did the day we were married.' ' Yeß, aunt, you are winning him back, you see. I knew it would be so.' ' And oh, child, I am so much happier than I used to be, with all my pains and my nerves and my lowness of spirits gone. * It was a month or two after this, all things having been going on in the nicest possible way, that Mrs Berrow one cold morning, for December had come in, presented herself in annt Mona's parlor, a smile on her everpleasant face. I was there, helping aunt with the things intended for the Christmastree. She had not had a tree for years. Not been "able " to have one, she used to ssy. Uncle Thomas had told her laughingly this year not to spare the money over it. Ms Barrow coming in, I say, with her bright face, went straight up to aunt and kissed her. Aunt Mona did color a little at that.

' I am come to ask you to my house for the 6th of January,' she said ; 'you, Mona, and your husband and two girls Your mamma has already her invitation, Maria, and yours too,' she added, nodding atime. ' Is it a tea party ?' questioned aunt Mona, stiffly. ' Ho, a breakfast; and I hope you will attend me to church beforehand—and see me married.'

' Married ?' I cried, staring at her. 'Yes, my dear. I have been engaged these many months past.' she answered with equanimity. •Itisto my cousin Stanton—a very distant cousin, as you know. We should have been married before but for that business which took him to Spain. And when he got there he found he was obliged to go on to Valparaiso. There he was detained again. Altogether it is nearly six months since he left .England, but he is back now.'

' And—you have baen engaged to marry him all that while!' gasped aunt in her surprise. 'All that while, and longer. Since last April. Your husband has known it from the first.' * Oh, Caroline!' 'And has been transacting all kinds of business for us both, preparatory to the marriage.' ' Why did you not tell me ?' Caroline Berrow laughed. ' Then—was tbat that nonsense that you and Thomas talked together—about—about your succeeding me a joke !' ' Why, of conrse it was, you silly thing. As if your husband could have cared for me or I for him —in that way. He has never cared, he never will care, for anyone but his wife, Mcna ' Aunt Mona burst into haopy tears, and put her face down upon her old friend's neck to sob them away. We all went to the wedding on the sixth, and uncle Butterfield, looking so bright and snnny, gave the bride away. But neither of them told aunt Mona what I learnt—that the plot was concocted between them to bring her to her senses. And it did it, as you have seen, and there never was woman more free from 'nerves' and imaginary aches and pains than aunt Mona is now. ' I thank God for it every day of my life, Maria,' she whispers to me sometimes. And I think we all do.