"That's jes' what I've been thinkin' mesilf," said Molly. "I don't
see no signs of money bein' spint on this place nather for one thing
or anuther."

"You don't always have to spend money to get craps," said Mike; "look at
our corn and pertaters. They is fust rate, and when we sends our craps to
market, there won't be much to take for 'spenses out of what we git."

"Craps!" said Molly, with a sneer. "If you hauls your weeds to market,
it'll take more wagons than you can hire in this country, and thim's the
only craps my oi has lit on yit."

This made Mike angry. He was, in general, a good-natured man, but he had
a high opinion of himself as a farm manager, and on this point his
feelings were very sensitive. As was usual with him when he lost his
temper, he got up without a word and went out.

"Bedad!" said Molly, looking about her, "I wouldn't have sid that to him
if I'd seed there wasn't no kindlin' sphlit."

As Mike walked toward his own house, he was surprised to see, entering a
little-used gateway near the barn, a horse and carriage. It was now so
dark he could not see who occupied it, and he stood wondering why it
should enter that gateway, instead of coming by the main entrance. As he
stood there, the equipage came slowly on, and presently stopped in front
of his little house. By the time he reached it, Phoebe, his wife, had
alighted, and was waiting for him.

"Reckon you is surprised to see me," said she, and then turning to the
negro man who drove the shabby hired vehicle, she told him that he might
go over to the barn and tie his horse, for she would not be ready to go
back for some time. She then entered the house with Mike, and, a candle
having been lighted, she explained her unexpected appearance. She had met
Miss Dora Bannister, and that young lady had engaged her to go to
Cobhurst and take a note to Miss Miriam.

"She tole me," said Phoebe, "that she had wrote two times already to Miss
Miriam, and then, havin' suspected somethin', had gone to the
pos'-office and found they was still dar. Don't your boss ever sen' to
the pos'-office, Mike?"

"He went hisself every now an' then, till the gig was broke," said Mike,
"but I don't believe he ever got nuthin', and I reckon they thought it
was no use botherin' about sendin' me, special, in the wagon."

"Well, they're uncommon queer folks," said Phoebe. "I reckon they've got
nobody to write to, or git letters from. Anyway, Miss Dora wanted her
letter to git here, and so she says to me that if I'd take it, she'd pay
the hire of a hack, and so, as I wanted to see you anyway, Mike, I 'greed
quick enough."

Before delivering the letter with which she had been entrusted, Phoebe
proceeded to attend to some personal business, which was to ask her
husband to lend her five dollars.

"Bless my soul," said Mike, "I ain't got no five dollars. I ain't asked
for no wages yit, and don't expect to, till the craps is sold."

"I can't wait for that!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I's got to have money to
carry on the house."

"Whar's the money the preacher pays you?" asked her husband.

"Dat's a comin'," said Phoebe, "dat's a comin' all right. Thar's to be a
special c'lection next Sunday mornin', and the money's goin' to pay the
minister's board. I'm to git every cent what's owin' to me, and I reckon
it'll take it all."

"He ain't paid you nuthin' yit, thin?"

"Not yit; there was another special c'lection had to be tuk up fust, but
the next one's for me. Can't you go ask your boss for five dollars?"

"Oh, yes," said Mike, "he'll give it to me if I ask him. Look here,
Phoebe, we might's well git all the good we kin out of five dollars, and
I reckon I'll come to chu'ch next Sunday, and put the five dollars in the
c'lection. I'll git the credit of givin' a big lot of money, and that'll
set me up a long time wid the congregation, and you git the five dollars
all the same."

"Mike," said Phoebe, solemnly, "don't you go and do dat; mind, I tell
you, don't you do dat. You give me them five dollars, and jes' let that
c'lection alone. No use you wearin' youself out a walkin' to chu'ch, and
all the feedin' and milkin' to do besides."

Mike laughed. "I reckon you think five dollars in th' pahm of th' hand is
better than a whole c'lection in the bush. I'll see th' boss before you
go, and if he's got the money, he'll let me have it."

Satisfied on this point, Phoebe now declared that she must go and deliver
her letter; but she first inquired how her husband was getting on, and
how he was treated by Molly Tooney.

"I ain't got no use for that woman;" and he proceeded to tell his wife of
the insult that had been passed on his crops.

"That's brazen impidence," said Phoebe, "and jes' like her. But look
here, Mike, don't you quarrel with the cook. No matter what happens,
don't you quarrel with the cook."

"I ain't goin' to quarrel with nobody," said Mike; "but if that Molly
'spects me to grease her wagon wheels for her, she's got hold of the
wrong man. If she likes green wood for the kitchen fire, and fotchin' it
mos' times for herself, that's her business, not mine."

"If you do that, Mike, she'll leave," said Phoebe.

Mike gave himself a general shrug.

"She can't leave," said he, "till Miss Panney tells her she kin."

Phoebe laughed and rose.

"Reckon I'll go in and see Miss Miriam," she said, "and while I'm doin'
that you'd better ask the boss about the money."

Having delivered the letter, and having, with much suavity, inquired into
the health and general condition of the Cobhurst family since she had
walked off and left it to its own resources, and having given Miriam
various points of information in regard to the Bannister and the
Tolbridge families, Phoebe gracefully took leave of the young mistress of
the house and proceeded to call upon the cook.

"Hi, Phoebe!" cried Molly, who was engaged in washing dishes, "how did
you git here at this time o' night?"

"I'd have you know," said the visitor, with lofty dignity, "that my name
is Mrs. Robinson, and if you want to know how I got here, I came in a
kerridge."

"I didn't hear no kirridge drive up," said Molly.

"Humph!" said Mrs. Robinson, "I reckon I know which gate is proper for my
kerridge to come in, and which gate is proper for the Bannister coachman
to drive in. I suppose there is cooks that would drive up to the front
door if the governor's kerridge was standin' there."

Molly looked at the colored woman, with a grin.

"You're on your high hoss, Mrs. Robinson," said she. "That's what comes
o' boardin' the minister. That's lofty business, Mrs. Robinson, an' I
expect you're afther gittin' rich. Is it the gilt-edged butter you give
him for his ash-cakes?"

"A pusson that's pious," said Phoebe, "don't want to get rich onter a
minister of the gospel--"

"Which would be wearin' on their hopes if they did," interrupted Molly.

"But I can tell you this," continued Phoebe, more sharply, "that it isn't
as if I was a Catholic and boardin' a priest, and had to go on Wednesdays
and confess back to him all the money he paid me on Tuesdays."

Molly laughed aloud. "We don't confess money, Mrs. Robinson, we confess
sins; but perhaps you think money is a sin, and if that's so, this house
is the innocentest place I ever lived in. Sit down, Mrs. Robinson, and be
friendly. I want to ax you a question. Has thim two, upstairs, got any
money? What made you pop off so sudden? Didn't they pay your wages?"

Phoebe seated herself on the edge of a chair, and sat up very straight.
She felt that the answer to this question was a very important one. She
herself cared nothing for the Haverleys, but Mike lived with them, and
was their head man, and it was not consistent with her position among
the members of the congregation and in the various societies to which she
belonged, that her husband should be in the employ of poor and
consequently unrespected people.

"My wages was paid, every cent," she said, "and as to their money, I can
tell you one thing, that I heard him say to his sister with my own ears,
that he was goin' to build a town on them meaders, with streets and
chu'ches, and stores on the corners of the block, and a libr'y and a
bank, and she said she wouldn't object if he left the trees standin'
between the house and the meaders, so that they could see the steeples
and nothin' else. And more than that, I can tell you," said Phoebe,
warming as she spoke, "the Bannister family isn't and never was intimate
with needy and no-count families, and nobody could be more sociable and
friendly with this family than Miss Dora is, writin' to her four or five
times a week, and as I said to Mike, not ten minutes ago, if Mr. Haverley
and Miss Dora should git married, her money and his money would make this
the finest place in the county, and I tol' him to mind an' play his cards
well and stay here as butler or coachman--I didn't care which; and he
said he would like coachman best, as he was used to hosses."

Now, considering that the patience of her own coachman must be pretty
nearly worn out, and believing that what she had said would inure to her
own reputation, and probably to Mike's benefit as well, and that its
force might be impaired by any further discussion of the subject, Phoebe
arose and took a dignified leave.

Molly stood some moments in reflection.

"Bedad," she said aloud, "to-morrer I'll clane thim lamp-chimbleys and
swape the bidrooms."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE DOCTOR'S MISSION


The letter which Phoebe brought was a long and cordial one, in which Dora
begged that Miriam would come and make her a visit of a few days. She
said, moreover, that her brother was intending to call on Mr. Haverley
and urge him to come to their house as frequently as he could during his
sister's visit. Dora said that she would enjoy having Miriam with her so
very, very much; and although the life at the dear old farm must be
always charming, she believed that Miriam would like a little change, and
she would do everything that she could to make the days pass pleasantly.

There could not have been a more cordial invitation, but its acceptance
was considered soberly and without enthusiasm.

During the past fortnight, there had been no intercourse between the
Bannister and Haverley families. Dora, it is true, had written, but her
letters had not been called for, and Ralph had not been to her house to
inquire about the dog. The reason for this was that, turning over the
matter in his mind for a day or two, he thought it well to mention it to
Miriam in a casual way, for he perceived that it would be very unwise
for him to go to Dora's house without informing his sister and giving her
his reasons for the visit. To his surprise, Miriam strenuously opposed
his going to the Bannister house on any pretence until Mr. Bannister had
called upon him, and showed so much earnest feeling on the subject that
he relinquished his intention. He could see for himself that it would not
be the proper thing to do; and so he waited, with more impatience on
rainy days than others, for Mr. Herbert Bannister to call upon him.

On nearly every morning of the two weeks, Dora asked her brother at
breakfast time if he were going that day to call at Cobhurst; and every
time she asked him, Herbert answered that he would go that day, if he
possibly could; but on each evening he informed her that at the hour he
had intended to start for Cobhurst a client or clients had come into the
office, or a client or clients had been in the office and had remained
there. A very busy man was Mr. Bannister.

Miriam's opinion on the subject had been varied. She frequently felt in
her lonely moments that it would be a joy to see Dora Bannister drive in
at the gate.

"If only," thought Miriam, with a sigh, "she would content herself to be
a visitor to me, just as I would be to her, and not go about contriving
things she thinks Ralph would like,--as if it were necessary that any
one should come here and do that! As for going to her house, that would
leave poor Ralph here all by himself, or else he would be there a good
deal, and--"

Here a happy thought struck Miriam.

"I can't go, anyway," she said aloud, "for the gig is broken;" and, her
brother coming in at that moment, she informed him, with an air of much
relief, how the matter had settled itself.

"But I don't like matters to settle themselves in that way," said Ralph.
"The gig should certainly be in order by this time. I will go myself and
see the man about it, and if the new shafts are not finished, I can hire
a carriage for you. There is no need of your giving up a pleasant visit
for the want of means of conveyance."

"But even if the gig were all ready for us to use, you know that you
could not go until Mr. Bannister has called," said the cruel-minded
sister.

Ralph was of the opinion that there were certain features of social
etiquette which ought to be ruthlessly trodden upon, but he could think
of nothing suitable to say in regard to the point so frequently brought
up by Miriam, and, walking somewhat moodily to the front door, he saw Dr.
Tolbridge approaching in his buggy.

The good doctor had come out of his way, and on a very busy morning, to
lay before the Haverleys his project concerning Mrs. Drane and her
daughter. Having but little time, he went straight to the point, and
surprised Miriam and Ralph as much as if he had proposed to them to open
a summer hotel. But, without regard to the impression he had made, he
boldly proceeded in the statement of his case.

"You couldn't find pleasanter ladies than Mrs. Drane and her daughter,"
he said. "The latter is copying some manuscript for me, which she could
do just as well here as at my house--"

"Are you talking about the two ladies who were here yesterday afternoon?"
interrupted Miriam.

"Here, yesterday afternoon!" cried the doctor, and now it was his turn to
be surprised.

When he had heard the story of the trespass on private grounds, the
doctor laughed heartily.

"Well," said he, "Mistress Fate has been ahead of me. The good lady is in
the habit of doing that sort of thing. And now that you know the parties
in question, what have you to say?"

Miriam's blood began to glow a little, and as she gazed out of the open
door without looking at anything, her eyes grew very bright. In her
loneliness, she had been wishing that Dora Bannister would drive in at
the gate, and here was a chance to have a very different sort of a girl
drive in--a girl to whom she had taken a great fancy, although she had
seen her for so short a time.

"Would they want to stay long?" she asked, without turning her head.

The doctor saw his opportunity and embraced it.

"That would be your affair entirely," he said. "If they came for only a
week, it would be to you no more than a visit from friends, and to
breathe this pure country air, for even that time, would be a great
pleasure and advantage to them both."

Miriam turned her bright eyes on her brother.

"What do you say, Ralph?" she asked.

The lord of Cobhurst, who had allowed his sister to tell of the visit of
the Dranes, had been thinking what a wonderful piece of good luck it
would have been, if, instead of these strangers, Dora Bannister and her
family had desired to find quarters in a pleasant country house for a few
summer weeks. He did not know her family, nor did he allow himself to
consider the point that said family was accustomed to an expensive style
of living and accommodation, entirely unlike anything to be found on a
ramshackle farm. He only thought how delightful it would be if it were
Dora who wanted to come to Cobhurst.

As Ralph looked upon the animated face of his sister, it was easy enough
to see that the case as presented by the doctor interested her very much,
and that she was awaiting his answer with an eagerness that somewhat
surprised him.

"And you, little one, would you like to have these ladies come to us?"

"Yes, I would," said Miriam, and then she stopped. There was much more
she could have said, which crowded itself into her mind so fast that she
could scarcely help saying it, but it would have been contrary to the
inborn spirit of the girl to admit that she ever felt lonely in this dear
home, or that, with a brother like Ralph, she ever craved the
companionship of a girl. But it was not necessary to say any more.

"If you want them, they shall come," said Ralph, and if it had been the
Tolbridges or Miss Panney whose society his sister desired, his assent
would have been given just as freely.

In fifteen minutes everything was settled and the doctor was driving
away. He was in good spirits over the results of his mission, for that
morning La Fleur had waylaid him as he went out and again had spoken to
him about the possibility of hiring a little house in the suburbs.

"I am sure this arrangement will suit our good cook," he thought; "but as
for its continuance, we must let time and circumstances settle that."

The doctor reached home about eleven o'clock.

"What do you think it would be better to do," he said to his wife, when
he had made his report, "to stop at Mrs. Drane's as I go out this
afternoon, or to tell Cicely about our Cobhurst scheme, and let her tell
her mother?"

"The thing to do," said Mrs. Tolbridge, closing her desk, at which she
was writing, "is for me to go and see Mrs. Drane immediately, and for you
to send Cicely home and give her a lot of work to do at Cobhurst. They
should go there this afternoon."

"Yes," said the doctor; "of course, the sooner the better; but it has
struck me perhaps it might be well to mention the matter to Miss Panney
before the Dranes actually leave Mrs. Brinkly. You know she was very
active in procuring that place for them."

Mrs. Tolbridge looked at her husband, gave a little sigh, and then
smiled.

"What is your opinion of a bird," she asked, "who, flying to the shelter
of the woods, thinks it would be a good idea to stop for a moment and
look down the gun-barrel of a sportsman, to see what is there?"

The doctor looked at her for a moment and then, catching her point, gave
her a hearty laugh for answer, and walking to his table, took up a sheet
of manuscript and carried it to the room where Miss Drane was working.

"The passage which so puzzled you," he said, "has been deciphered by Mrs.
Tolbridge and myself, and reads thus: 'The philosophy of physiological
contrasts grows.'"

"Why, yes," said Cicely, looking at the paper; "now that you tell me
what it is, it is as plain as can be. I will write it in the blank space
that I have left, and here are some more words that I would like to ask
you about."

"Not now, not now," said the doctor. "I want you to stop work and run
home. As soon as I can I will talk with you about what you have written,
and give you some more of the manuscript. But no more work for to-day.
You must hurry to your mother. You will find Mrs. Tolbridge there,
talking to her about a change of quarters."

"Another holiday!" exclaimed Cicely, in surprise.

She was a girl who worked earnestly and conscientiously with the
intention of earning every cent of the money which was paid to her, and
these successive intermissions of work seemed to her unbusiness-like. But
she made no objections, and, putting away her papers, with a sigh, for
she had a list of points about which she was ready and anxious to consult
the doctor,--she went to join the consultation, which she presumed
concerned their removal from one street in Thorbury to another. But when
she discovered the heavenly prospect which had opened before her mother
and herself, her mind bounded from all thoughts of the manuscript of the
"Diagnosis of Sympathy," as if it had been a lark mounting to the sky.




CHAPTER XXV

BOMBSHELLS AND BROMIDE


About noon on the next day, Mrs. Tolbridge sat down at her desk to
finish the writing of the letter which had been so abruptly broken off
the day before. She had been very busy that afternoon and a part of this
morning, assisting Mrs. Drane and her daughter in their removal from a
hot street in a little town to the broad freedom and fine air of a
spacious country home.

And this change had given so much pleasure to all parties concerned that
it was natural that so good a woman as Mrs. Tolbridge should feel a glow
of satisfaction in thinking of the part she had taken in it.

She was satisfied in more ways than one: it was agreeable to her to
assist in giving pleasure to others, but besides this, she had a little
satisfaction which was peculiarly her own; she was pleased that that very
pretty and attractive Cicely would now work for the doctor, instead of
working so much with him. Of course she was willing to give up the little
room if it were needed, but it was a great deal pleasanter not to have
it needed.

"It is so seldom," she thought, as she lifted the lid of her desk, "that
things can be arranged so as to please everybody."

At this moment she glanced through the open window and saw Miss Panney at
the front gate. Closing her desk, Mrs. Tolbridge pushed back her chair,
her glow of satisfaction changing into a little chill.

"Is the doctor at home?" she inquired of the servant who was passing the
door, and on receiving the negative reply, the chilly feeling increased.

Miss Panney was in a radiant humor. She seated herself in her favorite
rocking-chair; she laid her fan on the table near her and her reticule by
it, and she pushed back from her shoulders a little India shawl.

"I am treating myself," she said, "to a regular gala day; in the first
place, I intend to stay here to luncheon. People who have a La Fleur must
expect to see their friends at their table much oftener than if they had
a Biddy in the kitchen. That is one of the penalties of good fortune. I
have my cap in my bag, and as soon as I have cooled a little I will take
off my bonnet and shawl. This afternoon I am going to see the Bannisters,
and after that I intend to call on Mrs. Drane and her daughter. I put off
that until the last in order that Miss Drane may be at home. I ought to
have called on them before, considering that I did so much in getting
them established in Thorbury,--I am sure Mrs. Brinkly would not have
taken them if I had not talked her into it,--but one thing and another
has prevented my going there. But I have seen Miss Drane; I came to town
yesterday in the Witton carriage, and saw her in the street. She is
certainly a pretty little thing, and dresses with much taste. We all
thought her face was very sweet and attractive. We had a good look at
her, for she was waiting for our carriage to pass, in order to cross the
street. I told Jim, the driver, to go slowly, for I like to have a good
look at people before I know them. And by the way, Kitty, an idea comes
into my head," and as she said this, the old lady's eyes twinkled, and a
little smile stole over the lower part of her wrinkled face. "Perhaps you
may not like the doctor to have such an extremely pretty secretary.
Perhaps you may have preferred her to have a stubby nose and a freckled
face. How is that, Kitty?"

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "It makes no manner of difference what
sort of a face a secretary has; her handwriting is much more important."

"Oh," said Miss Panney, "I am glad to hear that. And how does she get
on?"

"Very well indeed," was the answer; "the doctor seems satisfied with
her work."

"That is nice," said Miss Panney, "and how do they like it at Mrs.
Brinkly's? I saw their rooms, which are neatly furnished, and Mrs.
Brinkly keeps a very good table. I have taken many a meal at her house."

Had there been a column of mercury at Mrs. Tolbridge's back, it would
have gone down several degrees, as she prepared to answer Miss Panney's
question. She did not exactly hesitate, but she was so slow in beginning
to speak, that Miss Panney, who was untying her bonnet-strings, had time
to add, reflectively, "Yes, they are sure to find her a good landlady."

"The Dranes are not with Mrs. Brinkly now," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "They
left yesterday afternoon, although some of their things were not sent
away until this morning."

The old lady's hands dropped from her bonnet-strings to her lap.

"Left Mrs. Brinkly!" she exclaimed. "And where have they gone?"

"To Cobhurst, where they will board for a while, during the hot weather.
They found it very close and uncomfortable in that part of the town, with
the mercury in the eighties."

Miss Panney sat up tall and straight. Her eyes grew bigger and blacker as
with her mental vision she glared upon the situation. Presently she
spoke, and her voice sounded as if she were in a great empty cask, with
her mouth at the bunghole.

"Who did this?" she asked.

Mrs. Tolbridge was glad to talk; it suited her much better at this time
to do the talking than for her companion to do it, and she proceeded
quite volubly.

"Oh, we all thought the change would be an excellent thing for them,
especially for Mrs. Drane, who is not strong; and as they had seen
Cobhurst and were charmed with the place, and as the Haverleys were quite
willing to take them for a little while, it seemed an excellent thing all
round. It was, however, our cook, La Fleur, who was the chief mover in
the matter. She was very much opposed to their staying with Mrs.
Brinkly,--you see she had lived with them and has quite an affection for
them,--and actually went so far as to talk of taking a house in the
country and boarding them herself. And you know, Miss Panney, how bad it
would be for the doctor to lose La Fleur."

"Did the doctor have anything to do with this?" asked Miss Panney.

Now Mrs. Tolbridge did hesitate a little.

"Yes," she said, "he spoke to the Haverleys about it; he thought it would
be an excellent thing for them."

Miss Panney rose, with her face as hard as granite. She drew her shawl
about her shoulders, and took up her fan and bag. Mrs. Tolbridge also
rose, much troubled.

"You must not imagine for a minute, Miss Panney," she said, "that the
doctor had the slightest idea that this removal would annoy you. In fact,
he spoke about consulting you in regard to it, and had he seen you before
the affair was settled, I am sure he would have done so. And you must not
think, either, that the doctor urged the Haverleys to take these ladies,
simply because he wished to keep La Fleur. He values her most highly, but
he thought of others than himself. He spoke particularly of the admirable
influence Mrs. Drane would have on Miriam."

The old lady turned her flashing eyes on Mrs. Tolbridge, and, slightly
lowering her head, she almost screamed these words: "Blow to the top of
the sky Mrs. Drane's influence on Miriam! That is not what I care for."

Then she turned and walked out of the parlor, followed by Mrs. Tolbridge.
At the front door she stopped and turned her wrathful and inexorable
countenance upon the doctor's wife; then she deliberately shook her
skirts, stamped her feet, and went out of the door.

When Dr. Tolbridge heard what had happened, he was sorely troubled. "I
must go to see her," he said. "I cannot allow her to remain in that state
of mind. I think I can explain the affair and make her look at it more as
we do, although, I must admit, now that I recall some things she recently
said to me, that she may have some grave objections to Cicely's residence
at Cobhurst. But I shall see her, and I think I can pacify her."

Mrs. Tolbridge was not so hopeful as her husband; he had not seen Miss
Panney at the front door. But she could not bring herself to regret the
advice she had given him when he proposed consulting Miss Panney in
regard to the Dranes' removal.

"I shall never object to La Fleur," she said to herself. "I will bear all
her impositions and queernesses for the sake of his health and pleasure,
but I cannot give up my little room to Cicely Drane."

And that very hour she caused to be replaced in the said room the desk
and other appurtenances which had been taken out when the room had been
arranged for the secretary.

These changes had hardly been made, when Dora Bannister called.

"Miss Panney was at our house to-day," said the girl, "and I cannot
imagine what was the matter with her. I never saw anybody in such a
state of mind."

"What did she say?" asked Mrs. Tolbridge.

"She said very little, and that was one of the strangest things about
her. But she sat and stared and stared and stared at me, as if I were
some sort of curiosity on exhibition, and did not answer anything I said
to her. I was awfully nervous, though I knew from the few words she had
said that she was not angry with me; but she kept on staring and staring
and staring, and then she suddenly leaned forward and put her arms around
me and kissed me. Then she sat back in her chair again, slapped her two
hands upon her knees, and said, speaking to herself, 'It shall be done. I
am a fool to have a doubt about it.' And then she went without another
word. Now was not that simply amazing? Did she come here, and did she act
in that way?"

"She was here," said Mrs. Tolbridge, "but she did not do anything so
funny as that."

"Well, I suppose I shall find out some day what she means," said Dora.
"And now, Mrs. Tolbridge, I did not come altogether to see you this
afternoon. I hope Miss Drane has not gone home yet, for I thought it
would be nice to meet her here. Mother and I are going to call on them,
but I do not know when that will be; and I have heard so much about the
doctor's secretary that I am perishing to see her. They say she is very
pretty and bright. I wanted mother to go there to-day, but we have had a
long drive this morning, and to-morrow she and I and Herbert are going
to call at Cobhurst; and you know mother will never consent to crowd
things. And so I thought I would come here this afternoon by myself. It
won't be like a call, you know."

"Miss Drane is not here," said Mrs. Tolbridge; "but if you want to see
her, you can do it to-morrow, if you go to Cobhurst. She and her mother
are now living there, boarding with the Haverleys."

"Living at Cobhurst!" exclaimed Dora; and as she uttered these words, the
girl turned pale.

"Heavens!" mentally ejaculated the doctor's wife. "I do nothing this day
but explode bombshells."

In a moment Dora recovered nearly all her color, and laughed.

"It is so funny," she said, "that all sorts of things happen in this town
without our knowing it. Is she still going to be the doctor's secretary?"

"Yes, she can do her work out there as well as here."

Dora looked out of the window as if she saw something in the garden, and
Mrs. Tolbridge charitably took her out to show her some new dahlias.

Early the next morning, Dr. Tolbridge drove into the Witton yard. No
matter who waited for him, he would not delay this visit. When he asked
for Miss Panney, he had a strong idea that the old lady would refuse to
see him. But in an astonishingly short space of time, she marched into
the parlor, every war-flag flying, and closed the door behind her.

Without shaking hands or offering the visitor any sort of salutation, she
seated herself in a chair in the middle of the room. "Now," said she,
"don't lose any time in saying what you have got to say."

Not encouraged by this reception, the doctor could not instantly arrange
what he had to say. But he shortly got his ideas into order, and
proceeded to lay the case in its most favorable light before the old
lady, dwelling particularly on the reasons why she had not been consulted
in the affair.

Miss Panney heard him to the end without a change in the rigidity of her
face and attitude. "Very well, then," she said, when he had finished, "I
see exactly what you have done. You have thrown me aside for a cook."

"Not at all!" exclaimed the doctor. "I had no idea of throwing you aside.
In fact, Miss Panney, I never thought of you in the matter at all."

"Exactly, exactly," said the old lady, with emphatic sharpness; "you
never thought of me at all. That is the sum and substance of what you
have done. I gave you my confidence. I told you my intentions, my hopes,
the plan which was to crown and finish the work of my life. I told you I
would make the grandson of the only man I ever loved my heir, and I would
do this, because I wished him to marry the daughter of the man who was my
best friend on earth. The marriage of these two and the union of the
estate of Cobhurst with the wealth of the Bannisters was a project which,
as I told you, had grown dear to my heart, and for which I was thinking
and dreaming and working. All this you knew, and without a word to me,
and if you speak the truth, all for the sake of your wretched stomach,
you clap into Cobhurst a girl who will be engaged to Ralph Haverley in
less than a month."

The doctor moved impatiently in his chair.

"Nonsense, Miss Panney. Cicely Drane will not harm your plans. She is a
sensible, industrious girl, who attends to her own business, and--"

"Precisely," said Miss Panney; "and her own business will be to settle
for life at Cobhurst. She may not be courting young Haverley to-day,
but she will begin to-morrow. She will do it, and what is more, she
would be a fool if she did not. It does not matter what sort of a girl
she is;" and now Miss Panney began to speak louder, and stood up; "it
does not matter if she had five legs and two heads; you have no right
to thrust any intruder into a household which I had taken into my
charge, and for which I had my plans, all of which you knew. You are a
false friend, Dr. Tolbridge, and at your doorstep I have shaken the
dust from my skirts and my feet." And with a quick step and a high
head, she marched out of the room.

The doctor took a little book out of his pocket, and on a blank leaf
wrote the following:--

Rx.
  Potass. Bromid.     3iij
  Tr. Dig. Natis.     m. xxx
  Tr. Lavand. Comp.   ad 3iij
M.S. teaspoonful every three hours.
H. D.

Having sent this to Miss Panney by a servant, he went his way. Driving
along, his conscience stung him a little when he thought of the fable his
wife had told him; but the moral of the fable had made but little
impression upon him, and as an antidote to the sting he applied his
conviction that matchmaking was a bad business, and that in love affairs,
as well as in many diseases, the very best thing to do was to let nature
take its course.

When Miss Panney read the paper which had been sent to her, her eyes
flashed, and then she laughed.

"The wretch!" she exclaimed; "it is just like him." And in the afternoon
she sent to her apothecary in Thorbury for the medicine prescribed. "If
it cools me down," she said to herself, "I shall be able to work better."




CHAPTER XXVI

DORA COMES AND SEES


The call by the Bannisters at Cobhurst was made as planned. Had storm or
sudden war prevented Mrs. Bannister and Herbert from going, Dora would
have gone by herself. She did not appear to be in her usual state of
health that day, and Mrs. Bannister, noticing this, and attributing it to
Dora's great fondness for fruit at this season and neglect of more solid
food, had suggested that perhaps it might be well for her not to take a
long drive that afternoon. But this remark was added to the thousand
suggestions made by the elder lady and not accepted by the younger.

Miriam was in the great hall when the Bannister family drove up, and she
greeted her visitors with a well-poised affability which rather surprised
Mrs. Bannister. Dora instantly noticed that she was better dressed than
she had yet seen her.

When they were seated in the parlor, Mrs. Bannister announced that their
call was intended to include Mrs. Drane and her daughter, and Herbert
hoped that this time he would be able to see Mr. Haverley.

Mrs. Drane was sent for, but Miriam did not know where her brother and
Miss Drane should be looked for. She had seen them walk by the back
piazza, but did not notice in what direction they had gone. At this
moment there ran through Dora a sensation similar to that occasioned by a
mild galvanic shock, but as she was looking out of the open door, the
rest of the company saw no signs of this.

"Excuse me," said Mrs. Bannister, in a low voice, and speaking rather
rapidly, "but I thought that Miss Drane was working for Dr. Tolbridge,
copying, or something of that kind."

"She is," answered Miriam, "but she has her regular hours, and stops at
five o'clock, just as she did when she was in the doctor's house."

When Mrs. Drane had appeared and the visitors had been presented, Miriam
said that she would go herself and look for Ralph and Miss Drane. She
thought now that it was very likely they were in the orchard.

"Let me go with, you," exclaimed Dora, springing to her feet, and in a
moment she and Miriam had left the house.

"I heard her say," said Miriam, "that she wanted some summer apples,
fresh from the tree, and that is the reason why I suppose they are in the
orchard. You never knew anybody so wild about country things as Miss
Drane is. And she knows so little about them too."

"Do you like her?" asked Dora.

"Ever so much. I think she is as nice as can be. She is a good deal older
than I am, but sometimes it seems as if it were the other way. I suppose
one reason is that she wants to know so much, and I think I must like to
tell people things--nice people, I mean."

Dora's mind was in a state of lively receptivity, and it received an
impression from Miriam's words that might be of use hereafter. But now
they had reached the orchard, and there, standing on a low branch of a
tree, was Ralph, and below was Miss Drane. Her laughing face was turned
upward, and she was holding her straw hat to catch an apple, but it was
plain that she was not skilled in that sort of exercise, and when the
apple dropped, it barely touched the rim of the hat and rolled upon the
ground, and then they both laughed as if they had known each other for
twenty years.

"What a little thing," said Miss Bannister.

"She is small," answered Miriam, "but isn't she pretty and graceful? And
her clothes fit her so beautifully. I am sure you will like her."

Ralph came down from the tree, the straw hat was replaced on the head of
Miss Drane, and then came introduction and greeting. Never before had
Dora Bannister found it so hard to meet any one as she found it to meet
these two. She was only eighteen, and had had no experience in comporting
herself in an ordinary way when her every impulse prompted her to do or
say something quite extraordinary. But she was a girl who could control
herself, and she now controlled herself so well, that had Miss Panney or
Mrs. Tolbridge been there they would instantly have suspected what was
meant by so much self-control. She greeted Miss Drane with much suavity,
and asked her if she liked apples.

As the party started for the house, Dora, who was a quick walker, was not
so quick as usual, and Ralph naturally slackened his pace a little. In a
few moments Miriam and Miss Drane were hurrying toward the house,
considerably in advance of the others.

"It is so nice," said Dora, "for your sister to have ladies in the house
with her. I have been wanting to see her ever so much, and was afraid
something was the matter with her, especially as you did not come for
your dog."

As Ralph was explaining his apparent ungraciousness, Dora's soul was
roughly shaken. She was angry with him and wanted to show it, but she saw
clearly that this would be unsafe. Her hold upon him was very slight, and
a few unwise words now might make him no more than a mere acquaintance.
She did not wish to say words that would do that, but if she held him by
a cord ever so slender, she would obey the promptings of her soul and
endeavor to draw him a little toward her. She would take the risks of
that, for if he drifted away from her, the cord would be as likely to
break as if she drew upon it.

"Oh yes," she said, "I knew all the time why you and Miriam did not come
to make a regular society call, but I did suppose that you would drop in
to see about Congo. As soon as I got home, after I promised him to you, I
began to educate him to cease to care for me, and to care for you. If you
had been there, all this would have been easy enough, but as it was, I
had to get Herbert or the coachman to take him out walking at the times I
used to take him, and when he was tied up I kept away from his little
house altogether, so that he should become accustomed to do without me. I
stopped feeding him, and made Herbert do that whenever he had time, and I
insisted that he should wear a big straw hat, which he does not like, but
which is a good deal like the one you wear, and which I thought might
have an influence on the mind of Congo."

This touched Ralph, and he did not wish that Miss Bannister should
suppose that he thought so little of a gift of which she thought so much.
And in order to entirely remove any suspicion of ungratefulness, he
endeavored to make her understand that he had wished very much to go to
see the dog, but wished much more to go to see her.

"I hate a great many of these social rules," he said, "and although I did
not know any of the rest of your family, I knew you, and felt very much
inclined to call on you and let the customs take care of themselves."

"I wish you had!" exclaimed Dora; "I like to see people brave enough to
trample on customs."

Her spirits were rising, and she walked still slower. This tГЄte-Г -tГЄte
was very delightful to Ralph, but he had no desire to trample on all
social customs, and his feelings of courteous hospitality urged him to go
as rapidly as possible to greet the special visitor who was waiting for
him; but to desert that gentleman's sister, or make her walk quickly when
she did not wish to, was equally opposed to his ideas of courtesy, and so
it happened that Dora and Ralph entered the parlor so much later than the
others that a decided impression was made on the minds of Mrs. and Miss
Drane. And this was what Dora wished. She felt that it would be a very
good thing in this case to assert some sort of a preГ«mption claim. It
could do no harm, and might be of great service.

After the manner of the country gentlemen who in mixed society are apt to
prefer their own sex for purposes of converse, Herbert Bannister
monopolized Ralph. His sister talked with Cicely Drane, and in spite of
her natural courage and the reasons for self-confidence which she had
just received, Dora's spirits steadily fell as she conversed with this
merry, attractive girl, who knew so well how to make herself
entertaining, even to other girls, and who was actually living in Ralph
Haverley's house.

Dora made the visit shorter than it otherwise would have been. She had
come, she had seen, and she wanted to go home and think about the rest of
the business. The drive home was, in a degree, pleasant because Herbert
had a great deal to say about Mr. Haverley, whom he had found most
agreeable, and because Mrs. Bannister spoke in praise of Ralph's manly
beauty, but it would depend upon future circumstances whether or not
remarks of this kind could be considered entirely satisfactory.

That evening, in her own room, in a loose dressing-gown, and with her
hair hanging over her shoulders, Dora devoted herself to an earnest
consideration of her relations with Ralph Haverley. At first sight it
seemed odd that there should be any relations at all, for she had known
him but a short time, and he had made few or no advances toward her--not
half so many or such pronounced ones as other men had made, during her
few visits to fashionable resorts. But she settled this part of the
question very promptly.

"I like him better than anybody I have ever seen," she said to herself.
"In fact, I love him, and now--" and then she went on to consider the
rest of the matter, which was not so easy to settle.

Cicely Drane was terribly hard to settle. There was that girl,--all the
more dangerous because, being charming and little, a man would be more
apt to treat her as a good comrade than if she were charming and
tall,--who was with him all the time. And how she would be with him,
Dora's imagination readily perceived, because she knew how she herself
would be with him under the circumstances. Before breakfast in the dewy
grass, gathering apples; during work hours, talking through the open
window as he chanced to pass; after five o'clock, walks in the orchard,
walks over the farm, in the woods everywhere, and always those two
together, because there were four of them. How much worse it was that
there were four of them! And the evenings, moonlight, starlight; on the
piazza; good-night on the stairs--it was maddening to think of.

But, nevertheless, she thought of it hour after hour, with no other
result than to become more and more convinced that she was truly in love
with a man who had never given any sign that he loved her, and that there
was every reason to believe that when he gave a sign that he loved, it
would be to another woman, and not to her.

She rose and looked out of the window. A piece of the moon, far gone in
the third quarter, was rising above a mass of evergreens. She had a
courageous young soul, and the waning brightness of the lovers' orb did
not affect her as a disheartening sign.

"It is not right," she said to herself. "I will not do it. I will not
hang like an apple on a tree for any one to pick who chooses, or if
nobody chooses, to drop down to the chickens and pigs. A woman has as
much right to try to do the best for herself as a man has to try to do
the best for himself. I can't really trample on customs as a man can, but
I can do it in my mind, and I do it now. I love him, and I will get him
if I can."

With this Dora sat down, and left the bit of moon to shed what
luminousness it could over the landscape.

Her resolution shed a certain luminousness over Dora's soul. To
determine to do a thing is nearly always inspiriting.

"Yes," she thought, "I will do what I can. He has promised to come very
soon, and he shall not have Congo the first time he comes. He shall come,
and I shall go, and I shall be great friends with Miriam. There will be
nothing false in that, for I like her ever so much, and I shall remember
to think more of what she likes. No one shall see me break down any
customs of society,--especially, he shall not,--but out of my mind they
are swept and utterly gone."

Having thus shaped her course, Dora thought she would go to bed. But
suddenly an idea struck her, and she stood and pondered.

"I believe," she said, speaking aloud in her earnestness, "I believe
that that is what Miss Panney meant. She has spoken so well of him to
me; she has heard about that girl, and she said, yes, she certainly did
say, 'It shall be done.' She wants it, I truly believe; she wants me to
marry him."

For a few minutes she stood gazing at her ring, and then she said,--

"I will go to her; I will tell her everything. It will be a great thing
to have Miss Panney on my side. She does not care for customs, and she
will never breathe a word to a soul."

Dr. Tolbridge was not mistaken in his estimate of the sort of mind Dora
Bannister would have when she should shed her old one.




CHAPTER XXVII

"IT COULDN'T BE BETTER THAN THAT"


The Haverleys could not expect that the people of Thorbury would feel any
general and urgent desire to recognize them as neighbors. They did not
live in the town, and moreover newcomers, even to the town itself, were
usually looked upon as "summer people," until they had proved that they
were to be permanent residents, and the leading families of Thorbury made
it a rule not to call on summer people.

But the example of the Tolbridges and Bannisters had a certain effect on
Thorbury society, and people now began to drive out to Cobhurst; not very
many of them, but some of them representative people. Mr. Ames, the
rector of Grace Church, came early because the Haverleys had been to his
church several times, and Mr. Torry, the Presbyterian minister, came
afterwards because the Haverleys had stopped going to Grace Church, and
he did not know that it was on account of the gig shafts.

Mr. Hampton, the Methodist, who was a pedestrian, walked out to Cobhurst
one day, but as neither the brother or sister could be found, he
good-humoredly resolved to postpone a future call until cooler weather.

Lately, when a lady had called, it happened that there had been no one to
receive her but Mrs. Drane; and although there could be no doubt that
that lady performed the duties of hostess most admirably, Miriam
resolved that that thing should never happen again. She did not wish the
people to think that there was a regent in rule at Cobhurst, and she now
determined to make it a point to be within call during ordinary visiting
hours. Or, if she felt strongly moved to a late afternoon ramble, she
would invite the other ladies to accompany her. She still wore her hair
down her back, and her dresses did not quite touch the tops of her boots,
and it was therefore necessary to be careful in regard to her
prerogatives as mistress of the house.

Early one afternoon, much sooner than there was reason to expect
visitors, a carriage came in at the Cobhurst gate, driven by our friend
Andy Griffing. Miriam happened to be at a front window, and regarded
with some surprise the shabby equipage. It came with a flourish to the
front of the house, and stopped. But instead of alighting, its occupant
seemed to be expostulating with the driver. Andy shook his head a great
deal, but finally drove round at the back, when an elderly woman got
out, and came to the hall door. Miriam, who supposed, of course, that
she would be wanted, was there to meet her, and there was no necessity
for ringing or knocking.

"My name," said the visitor, "is La Fleur, if you please. I came to see
Mrs. Drane and Miss Drane, if you please. Thank you very much, I will
come in. I will wait here, or, if you will be so good as to tell me where
I can find Mrs. Drane, I will go to her. I used to live with her: I was
her cook."

Miriam had been gazing with much interest on the puffy face and
shawl-enwrapped body of the old woman who addressed her with a smiling
obsequiousness to which she was not at all accustomed.