Brownie's triumph

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.