BROWNIE’S THOUGHTS
In a luxurious apartment of a modern house on Chestnut street, two hours
after the incidents related in our first chapter, Miss Mehetabel
Douglas, the senior, might have been seen sitting in a comfortable
easy-chair, while Brownie sat upon an ottoman at her feet.
The former was a woman of about sixty-five years of age, with a
delicate, high-bred face, surrounded by bands of soft, silvery hair. She
had dark gray eyes, which always had a look in them as of some hope
suddenly crushed out of her life, while a patient, gentle expression
hovered about her thin, aristocratic lips.
Brownie had just been reading to her from “Patience Strong’s Outings,”
and now they were talking it over together.
“Why is it, I wonder,” said Brownie, reflectively, “that so much sport
is made of old maids?”
“I suppose because the theory prevails, that every old maid has failed
to catch a husband, and is therefore a fit subject for ridicule,” Miss
Mehetabel returned, a little gleam of amusement lighting up her sad
eyes.
“Pshaw! I know any number of people, who are no more fit to be wives and
mothers than so many children; and yet every one has managed to secure a
husband, while there are plenty of ‘old maids’ in the world, so
patiently living out their lonely lives, who would make such strong,
helpful wives, such wise and tender mothers. Now, auntie, you would have
made such a splendid wife for some good man; and you ought to have had
at least a dozen children. What a charming household it would have been,
for you would have governed so wisely and so well. I don’t believe
nature ever intended you for an old maid.”
A spasm of pain contracted the old lady’s brow, but she replied,
quietly:
“Perhaps not; yet there is, doubtless, some wise reason for it. What
would have become of you, dear, if I had had a large family of my own?”
“Oh, I should have only made up the baker’s dozen, and it seems such a
pity that so much native talent should all be lavished upon one poor
little waif like me,” Brownie said, with a little laugh.
“If I had had the number you assign me, dear, and they had all proved
the blessing to me that you have been, I fear it would have been too
much happiness for one human being; and yet——”
The old lady did not conclude her sentence, but heaved a deep sigh,
while unshed tears stood in her beautiful eyes.
“Auntie, why were you an old maid? I don’t understand it—it must have
been no one’s fault but your own.”
“My own fault, Brownie! You don’t know—child, you don’t know,” cried
Miss Mehetabel, sharply, while a deep, dry sob, that was almost a groan,
burst from her lips.
Brownie was startled at her deep emotion. She had spoken lightly, and
with no thought that she was probing an old wound.
She sprang up quickly, and seeing the fair old face above her almost
convulsed with agony, she twined her arms about her neck, saying,
remorsefully:
“Auntie, dear, forgive me! Have I touched some hidden spring of sorrow?
I would not have wounded you so for the world.”
“Dear child, would you like to read a sad page in an old woman’s
history?”
“No, dear auntie, do not talk of anything that gives you pain. Forgive
me for speaking in a way that should recall anything to distress you,”
said the young girl, sadly.
“You did not think to pain me, and I am glad now that the conversation
has taken this turn, for I would like you to know something of what my
past has been.”
“Let us wait until some other time—you are tired and ought to rest now,”
pleaded Brownie, recoiling from a revelation she believed would be
painful.
“No, Brownie, something prompts me to tell you now, and I will obey the
call. The book of my life is almost written, love, and it will do me no
harm to review it once more before it is closed forever. I have borne my
sorrow alone for forty-five years, and it seems as if it would do me
good to breathe it to some one who would give me sympathy and remember
it tenderly when I am gone.”
Brownie’s little hand fluttered down upon Miss Mehetabel’s lips, and the
tears sprang to her eyes.
“Let us not talk about it, auntie; I don’t like you to speak about going
away from me. I should be desolate without you, if I had ever so much
money,” and the bright face wore a look of pain.
Miss Douglas drew the shining head down to her, and kissed the sweet
lips.
“Well, well, so be it, though it must come sooner or later; but we will
talk no more of it now. You are very precious to me, darling, and your
love has been the only brightness of my life for the past eighteen
years,” she said softly. “Go lock the door,” she added, after a moment,
“so that we may be uninterrupted; then draw a chair beside me, and I’ll
tell you how I came to be an old maid. It may be a lesson that will do
you good.”
Brownie glided softly to the door and turned the key. Then she drew a
low rocker and seated herself beside Miss Douglas, while a feeling of
solemnity took possession of her, as she realized that a hidden page of
life was about to be turned back for her to read.