A LITTLE MATTER OF BUSINESS
“What’s the matter? You are not strong enough to walk! Go back and sit
down,” commanded Lady Ruxley, as she saw the young girl first flush a
deep crimson, and then grow white as a ghost.
But she quickly recovered herself.
“Thank you, but I am perfectly able to go; I was dizzy for a moment,
though it has passed now,” she returned, quietly, although a tumult of
feelings was raging in her bosom.
Giving her another searching glance, her ladyship passed on, and instead
of going out at the door, as Brownie expected she would do, she
proceeded toward the opposite side of the room, where a set of heavy
satin damask curtains hung suspended from a richly gilded cornice.
Brownie supposed that they concealed a window, but sweeping them aside,
her guide conducted her through a lofty archway into a small vestibule,
lighted from above through richly stained panels of glass to another
archway also concealed by curtains.
Passing through this she ushered her companion into the sunniest,
pleasantest, airiest room in the world.
It was a sort of parlor, library, and music-room combined, and contained
every comfort and luxury which the human heart could suggest.
Leading from this large room was a smaller one, in which Brownie caught
sight of a narrow bed, simply draped in white.
She afterward learned that the strange old woman, out of the abundant
tenderness of her heart for her in her dangerous condition, had given up
her own luxurious chamber to her, and slept upon this small couch in an
anteroom.
“Sit down,” said Lady Ruxley, indicating by a motion of her head a
tempting chair standing near a marble table covered with richly bound
books.
Brownie obeyed, while her ladyship seated herself in another opposite.
“There,” she said, when, by an ingenious contrivance, she had tipped the
chair back so that she could look at her without twisting her neck; “now
I’ll tell you what I want of you. Three weeks ago I sent away my
companion because she neglected me. I suppose it was dull staying with
such an old dry-bones as I am; and I’ve had no one since to read to me,
or do anything for my amusement. Now, if you want something to do, won’t
you please read me something from that ‘English Review?’”
“With pleasure,” Brownie replied, her pale face brightening again with
the thought of contributing thus to the poor lonely old woman’s comfort.
It seemed almost like the old times with her own auntie, only it would
have appeared more real if Lady Ruxley had not been so blunt and sharp,
but a little more lovable, like Miss Mehetabel.
She read an hour, in clear, distinct tones, which, although her ladyship
was hard of hearing, she had no difficulty in catching every word.
“That was reading worth listening to,” she said, heaving a sigh of
appreciation. “Now put the book aside, and rest a while.”
“I am not weary; let me read you something else,” she answered.
“No, no; I’ll not listen to any more now; but if you do not mind, I’d
like you to sit with me a while longer.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish.”
“Nobody cares for an old mummy like me,” (how Brownie wished she would
not call herself such horrid names), “and I do get lonely staying by
myself all the time; though the time was when there were few who were
not glad to seek the society of Lady Ruxley. Minnett, my maid, is no
company, and I’ve not been able to find any one who was willing to be
companion to a deaf old woman.
“They try to be polite,” she went on garrulously, “to me when I go down
into the drawing-room, because they know I’m rich, and they think it
won’t do to cross me; but I know my room is better than my company.
Nobody but Charles cares for his old aunt; he’s Lady Randal’s son, and
as good as gold. He’s always civil, and would give me his arm out to
dinner as gallantly as to the handsomest belle in the kingdom. He
believes in the old proverb about ‘honoring the hoary head,’ which is
more than most young people nowadays do. How is it, young woman—do you
like old folks?”
She had run on in a rambling sort of way, but as she asked this
question, she turned to Brownie, and eyed her keenly.
“I had a dear aunt, who was all the friend I had in the world since I
was a little baby. She was both father and mother to me, and I shall
always feel tenderly toward old people for her sake,” Brownie replied,
the quick tears springing to her eyes.
“Is she dead?”
“Yes; she died the fifth of last September.”
“Was she old and ugly and withered like me?”
Poor Brownie! it was a hard question, remembering so vividly as she did
Miss Mehetabel’s fair, lovely face, set in its framework of clustering,
silvery curls.
The comparison was not favorable, to say the least, to this antediluvian
before her.
She flushed with embarrassment as she gently replied:
“All old people grow wrinkled, you know, and her hair was much whiter
than yours.”
Lady Ruxley chuckled merrily over this non-committal answer.
“Young woman, you are as ‘wise as a serpent, and as harmless as a dove,’
and I’m of the opinion that your aunt might have thought considerable of
you. What was her name?”
“I was named for her,” the young girl replied, evasively.
“Mabel Dundas. It is a pretty name; I like it.”
And the queer old lady looked as if she liked the owner of it, too.
The next morning, after the servant who waited upon Brownie had attended
to all her wants, and left her, there came a rap upon her door. The next
moment a handsome woman of about fifty entered. Brownie arose, bowed
courteously, and remained standing till she was addressed.
“Miss Dundas,” the lady said, “I must apologize to you for any seeming
neglect in not coming to see you before, but I have a house full of
company; but I have given orders that you should want for nothing. I am
Lady Randal, and I have come to have a few moments’ conversation with
you.”
She seated herself, and motioned for Brownie to do the same, then
resumed:
“You have had quite a serious accident, and I am glad to see you are
better. Are you quite comfortable, and do the servants attend you
properly?” and she put up her eyeglasses to inspect the stranger.
“Thank you, I have been very kindly cared for, and am very grateful for
the good Samaritan’s charity which has provided for my necessities,”
Brownie answered, trying to speak heartily, although she felt the
greatest repugnance toward this woman, who she believed was guilty of so
much wrong.
She had a cold, false eye, and a cunning, cruel expression about her
handsome mouth.
She was just the kind of a woman to ruin the life of any one who stood
in her way, Brownie thought.
She laughed lightly but disagreeably at the young girl’s words.
“Oh, I do not claim any merit whatever regarding your comfort or
necessities. My house was full, and at first I thought it would be
impossible to take you in, but Lady Ruxley, who is very eccentric and
wilful, insisted upon it, and gave up her own chamber for your
accommodation, she sleeping, meanwhile, in her maid’s room.”
Brownie’s fair face grew scarlet, as she listened to this, and was made
to feel, by the indelicate explanation, that Lady Randal, at least, had
regarded her in the light of an intruder.
It explained to her, too, what she had at first considered singular—that
the rooms should be connected by archways and curtains instead of doors.
“I regret exceedingly,” she returned, with dignity, “that I should have
put an aged lady like Lady Ruxley to such inconvenience. I laid my plans
yesterday to go to some hotel as soon as I should be able, and remain
until I fully recover. If you will allow one of your servants to order a
carriage for me, I will put my plan into execution at once.”
“No, no, Miss Dundas, that would never do at all, and Aunt Ruxley would
berate me soundly if she knew I had told you this. She is a very queer
woman, as doubtless you discovered yesterday. She will not be crossed in
anything, and when her mind is once made up, you can no more move her
than you could one of the seven hills of Rome. But,” continued the
woman, who had never once taken her eyes from the fair young face before
her, and had read every expression with a boldness which made her
odious, “I did not come to tell you this—I came upon a little matter of
business.”
She paused a moment, and Brownie wondered what business she could have
with her.
“Aunt Ruxley has taken a great shine to you, so to speak,” she resumed,
“and has commissioned me to ask you if you would be willing to remain
with her as her companion? Wait, if you please, until I get through,
Miss Dundas, before you decide,” she said, as Brownie looked up in
surprise, and then went on, as if she supposed the young girl possessed
of no feeling or delicacy: “I do not approve of the plan myself; I never
believed in engaging any one in this way, for she says you have no
recommendation or credentials beyond your own word. But she has set her
heart upon it, and seems to think you will be willing to remain. It is
very difficult to get any one of the right sort who is willing to stay
and do for her what she requires, on account of her peculiarities. We
have tried several during the last two years. Now, if you think you
would like the place, and would exert yourself to please her, we will
overlook your lack of credentials, and I think we can arrange to give
you the situation. Your salary would be fifty pounds a year. Of course
we do not expect,” she hastened to add, “that you can do very much until
you get strong, and we will make every allowance for that.”
Brownie was disgusted with the woman’s coarseness, and felt more like
refusing the offer than accepting it, but what could she do?
It seemed like flying in the face of Providence to reject it.
She had no credentials, and no good family having children would engage
her without, and she knew she was likely to fare no better, if as well,
if she returned to her native land, unless she should acknowledge she
had failed in her great undertaking, and fall back upon Mr. Conrad’s
offer to give her a home.
So, after thinking the matter over carefully, she decided to accept Lady
Randal’s offer.
“Does Lady Ruxley remain in town most of the year?” she asked, before
giving her answer.
“Oh, no. I ought to have mentioned that we all leave town in a few weeks
for our country seat in Kent County, where Lady Ruxley has a house of
her own, preferring to live alone rather than endure the noise and
confusion of Vallingham Hall. Do you object to the country?”
“Oh, no, I like it.”
This intelligence relieved Brownie greatly, for she felt as if she could
scarcely endure to live in the same house with this woman.
“It may be a little lonely for you at first,” Lady Randal added, “but
aunt frequently pays a visit at the Hall, for she likes to know what is
going on in the world, I assure you, if she does live alone with her
servants most of the time.”
“I will accept this position, Lady Randal, and if I can make Lady
Ruxley’s life more pleasant than it has been I shall be very thankful,”
Brownie said, gravely, yet a little proudly.
She did not fancy her visitor’s patronizing, almost insolent manner, and
inwardly resented her bold, fixed stare.
“Very well, then we will call the matter settled,” Lady Randal replied,
rising, and infinitely relieved that she had been able to secure a
companion for her troublesome aunt, though she thought the girl a “proud
minx.”
She left her with a cool good-morning, and the young girl seemed to
breathe freer the moment the door closed after her.
A month later they were settled in that gem of a villa, near Vallingham
Hall.
Brownie had fully recovered, and was getting stronger every day.
She really grew quite attached to the old lady when she became better
acquainted with her, and found her, with all her oddities, a much more
congenial companion than either Mrs. Coolidge or Isabel had been.
She read a great deal, and practiced several hours a day, so that the
time slipped by until Lady Randal and her family came down to Vallingham
Hall, the advent of which was to open a new era in Brownie Douglas’
life.