I wondered if she had expectations of wealth. Her phrase suggested it.
“By the by,” she went on, “you must meet Delia, and Jane and Annie. They are your business from now on. Delia's the cook, while Annie and Jane do all the other work. I'll tell you about them so you'll be able to understand their crotchets. They're really old dears, and as loyal as loyalty itself. Sometimes,”—she laughed a hollow little laugh that sounded as if it had faded from long disuse,—“I wonder how on earth I could get rid of them.”
She gave me a humorous account of the three old women who did the indoors work at “The Pines.” She had hardly finished when Jane came in. This was the fat, little one; wrinkled, with gray curls; a pursed-up face, little, bright, anxious eyes. Again I was struck by the furtive, frightened air every one at “The Pines” wore, except George, the colored coachman, with his bravado.
Jane was introduced to me, and gave me rather a gloomy greeting. Nevertheless, I thought that she, too, after her own fashion, was glad to see me.
“You don't keep colored servants for indoors, do you, Mrs. Brane?” I asked, when Jane had taken away the tea-things and we were on our way upstairs.
“Oh, mercy, no! Of all wretched, superstitious, timid creatures, negro women are the most miserable. I would n't have one in the house with me over a single night. This is your room, Miss Gale. It is in the old part of the house, what we call the northern wing. Opposite you, along the passageway, is Robbie's nursery, which my husband used in the old days as a sort of study. This end of the house has the deep windows. You won't see those window sills anywhere else at 'The Pines.' My husband discovered the reason. There's a double wall at this end of the house. I think the old northern wall was burnt or torn down, or out of repair, and a former owner just clapped on another wall over it; or, perhaps, he thought it would make this end of the house warmer and more weatherproof. It's the quarter our storms come from. Whatever the reason, it makes these end rooms very pretty, I think. There's nothing like a deep window, is there? I hope you will like your room.”
I was sure that I should. It was really very fresh and pretty, seemed to have been done over recently, for the paper, the matting, the coat of white paint on the woodwork, the muslin curtains, were all spick and span. After Mrs. Brane had left me, I went to the window and looked out. I had a charming view of the old garden, still gay with late fall flowers, and with roses which bloomed here, probably all winter long. A splendid magnolia tree all but brushed the window with its branches. Just below stood a pretty arbor covered with rose-vines and honeysuckle. I drew in a deep breath of the soft, fragrant air. I was very happy, that night, very grateful for the “state of life to which Heaven had called me.”