LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1416, 29 August 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

‘‘AS COMPANION TO A LADY.” ( Cassell’s Magazine,') Concluded. ‘ I’ll take your note in,’ sa'd the footman, as I handed it. ‘ You can sit down.' I preferred to stand, and as soon as I was alone I shivered with fear and cold, as I caught a glance of my pale, sallow face in a great mirror. Every moment I expected to see the owner of the place, but I remained standing wearily for an hour, and then I sighed and turned wistfully to look at the door, wondering whether the footman had taken in the note which I had given him as my passportI started, for close behind me, having entered unheard, was a rather plump tall lady in black. She was dressed as if going out, and well wrapped in furs. ‘ Oh ! you are waiting,’ she said, harshly; and a shade of displeasure crossed her face as she looked full at me till my eyes dropped. ‘ There, Miss —Mies—Miss ’ * Laurie,’ I suggested. ‘ Yes, yes; I know,’ she said sharply ; it is in my note. Pray, why in the name of common sense did you not sit down ? Take that chair. Now then, have you been companion to a lady before ?’ ‘No ma’am,’ I replied; and then, in answer to her questions, all very sharply given, I told her so much as was necessary of my story. ‘ I don’t think you will suit me,’ she said ‘ I’ve had misery enough, and I want some one cheerful and pleasant, a lady whom I can trust, and who will be a pleasant companion, Th°re, I’m sure there is not such a body in London, for the way I’ve been imposed upon is dreadful ! I’ve had s'x in six months, and the number of applications I have had nearly drove me out of my senses I’ve had one smce you wrote to me—a creature whose sole idea was herself. I want one who will make me her first consideration. I don’t mind what I pay, but I want some one tall and lady-like ; and you are not pretty, you know. ’ I shook my head sadly. ‘Humph! Well,’ she went on, ‘you wont’s be so giddy, and be always thinking of getting married. There, you need not blush like that; it’s what all the companions I have had seem to think about. You don’t, I suppose ?’ ‘I am engaged to bo married,’ I said, hanging down my head, ‘ in a couple of years. ’ ‘ Ho! Well, he mustn’t come here, for I’m a very selfish pragmatical old woman ; and if I engaged you—which I don’t think I shall do—l should want you all to myself. What is he ?’ * A settler—abroad,’ 1 faltered. ‘ Ho ! That’s better ; and perhaps he’ll settle thero altogether without you.’ I Poked at her indignantly, and she laughed. * Ah! I know, my good girl. I haven’t lived to eight-and-forty for nothing. How old are yon ? ’ ‘ Twenty, "i said, shivering, for her rough way repelled me, and I longed to bring the interview to an end. ‘Why, the girl’s cold,’she said roughly. ‘ H’m, twenty ! Here, go up to the Hre. and have a good warm; it’s dreadful weather. There, pull off your bonn- t and jacket. Put them on that chair, and go closer to the fire ; I’ve a deal to say to you yet, for I’m not going to engage any young person and have to change directly.’ I obeyed her, trembling the while, for I was very weak ; and she wont on asking mo me questions and making comments. * I don’t like your appearance at all; you look pale and unhealthy. Not a bit like a girl from the country.’ ‘l'm very sorry,’ I said; ‘but indeed, ma’am, I have excellent health.’ ‘ Than your face tells stories about you. Yon play, of course?’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘You’re warm now. Go and play something. Can you sing ? ’ ‘Yes. ma’am.’ ‘ Then sing too; and look here, MissMiss—Miss —* 1 waa about to tell her my name, but remembering the last rebuff, I was silent. ‘ Now, look here, my good young lady, how am I to remember your dreadful name ? What is it ?’ ‘ Laurie, ma’am,’ I replied. ‘ Of coarse it is; I remember it quite well. Now go and play and sing something, and mind, 1 don’t want my ears deafened with fireworks, and the drums split with parrot-shriek bravuraa. Sing something sweet »nd simple and old fashioned, if you can,’ she added^ungraciously. I crossed the room and sat down to the magnificent piano, and for the next five minutes I seemed to be far away, down in the old home, as I forgot where I was, in singing my poor dead father’s favourite old ballad, ‘ Robin Adair ;’ while, as I finished I had hard work to keep back the tears. ‘ Ro—bin A-dair,’ she sang, as I rose, in a not unpleasing voice. “ Now let me bear you read. I always make my companion read to me a great deal; and mind this, I bate to hear anyone drone like a sch ol girl. Go over there into the corner of the window, and stand there. Take the book ; you’ll find the mark left in where Miss Belleville —bah 1 1 believe her name was i-tubbs, and her father a greengrocer —left off. Now then, begin.’ She pushed a lounge chair close up to the window, and sat down with her hands in her muff, while I stood there, feeling like a school girl, and ready to drone, as I began to read with faltering voice what happened to be Thackeray’s most beautiful chapter — The death oi poor old Colonel Newcome. I know my voice trembled at times, and a strange sense of choking came upon me as 1 went on battling, oh, so hard to read those piteous heart-sti* ring lines 1 but I was weak and suffering, I was faint with hunger and exertion, sick with that despair of hope deferred, and at last the room, with its costly furniture, seemed'to swim round before me, a cold perspiration bathed my face, and with a weary figh I caught feebly at the curtains, and then fell heavily upon the polished floor, 1 h«''e some faint memory of being lifted, and wheeled in a chair whoso castors I heard chirrup, to the front of the lire, and then, as my senses began to return, .1 seemed to feel arms around mo, and a pleasanii voice saying half aloud—- ‘ And she just lost her poor father too—to set her to read such a thing as that! I declare I’m about the wickedest, most thoughtless and unfetling old woman under the sun.’ Then thero was the refreshing odour of a vinaigrette, and the sick feeling began to pass away. ‘I—I beg pardon,’ I faltered, trying to rise. * I beg yours, my dear,’ she said tenderly, ‘ Fit still, sit still. Now then, try and driuk that.’ Some sherry was held to my lips, and then I was almost forced to eat a biscuit. They,

however, rapidly revived me, and I found Mrs Porter had torn off her bonnet and mantle, and was kneeling by my side., ‘That’s better, mv dear,’ she said, smiling at me, as she passed her arm rnnnd me and drew mo nearer to her, and kissed me in a gentle, motherly way. And now this was too much, for I was weak and hysterical. I could fight against harshness, but her tender words and ways unlocked the flood gates of my grief, and I laid my head down and sobbed as if my heart would break. An hour later, after she had literally forced me to partake of the breakfast that was ordered up, she sat beside me, holding my hand, and more than once I saw the tears steal down her pleasant face as she won from me, bit by bit, the story of my troubles and my bitter struggles here in town. At last I rose to go, trembling and expectant. Would she engage me ? It was more than 1 dared to hope. ‘Sit still, my child,’ she said tenderly. ‘lt has pleased God to make me—a child* less, widowed woman—His steward over much wealth, and if I did not make this a home for one of His tempest-smitten lambs I should be a worse woman than I think I am. Stay with mo; we shall be the best of friends.’ I stayed—stayed to know her real worth and to win her motherly love—stayed to find, when John Murray returned, that his love was greater for my sister than for me, and patiently resigned my love to her, and then battled with a long illness when they had gone together to the far-off home. But every day gave me a new lesson of not judging t>o hastily. That is ten years since ; and I am still in my peaceful, happy home, though only as companion to a lady.