Miriam advanced toward La Fleur.

"My cook told me that you were here, and I came down, thinking that you
might want to see me."

"This is Madam La Fleur," interpolated Miss Panney, "the celebrated chef
who cooks for Dr. Tolbridge. She came, I think, to see Mrs. Drane."

"Not altogether. Oh, no, indeed," said La Fleur, humbly smiling and
bowing, with her eyes downcast and her head on one side. "I wished, very
much, also, to pay my respects to Miss Haverley. I am only a cook, and I
am much obliged to this good lady--Miss Panic, I think is the name--"

"Panney," sharply interpolated the old lady.

"Beg pardon, I am sure, Miss Panney--for what she has said about me; but
when I come to pay my respects to Mrs. Drane, I wish to do the same to
the lady of the house."

There was a gravity and sedateness in Miriam's countenance, which was not
at all school-girlish, and which pleased La Fleur; in her eyes it gave
the girl an air of distinction.

"I am glad to see you," said Miriam, and turned to Miss Panney, as if
wondering at that lady's continued stay in the kitchen. Miss Panney
understood the look.

"I am getting points from La Fleur, my dear," she said, "cooking
points,--you ought to do that. She can give you the most wonderful
information about things you ought to know. Now, La Fleur, as you want to
see Mrs. Drane, and it is time I had started for home, it will be well
for us to go upstairs and leave the kitchen to Molly Tooney."

Miss Panney was half way up the stairs when La Fleur detained Miriam by a
touch on the arm.

"I will give you all the points you want, my dear young lady," she said.
"You have brains, and that is the great thing needful in overseeing
cooking. And I will come some day on purpose to tell you how the dishes
that your brother likes, and you like, ought to be cooked to make them
delicious, and you shall be able to tell any one how they should be done,
and understand what is the matter with them if they are not done
properly. All this the lady of the house ought to know, and I can tell
you anything you ask me, for there is nothing about cooking that I do not
thoroughly understand; but I will not go upstairs now, and I will not
detain you from your visitor. I will take a turn in the grounds, and when
the lady has gone, I will ask leave to speak with Mrs. Drane."

With her head on one side, and her smile and her bow, La Fleur left the
kitchen by the outer door. She stepped quickly toward the barn, looking
right and left as she walked. She wished very much to see Mike, and
presently she had that pleasure. He had just come out of the barnyard,
and was closing the gate. She hurried toward him, for, although somewhat
porpoise-built, she was vigorous and could walk fast.

"I am so pleased to see you, Michael," she said. "I have brought you
something which I think you will like," and, opening a black bag which
she carried on her arm, she produced a package wrapped in brown paper.

"This," she said, opening the wrapping, "is a pie--a veal and 'am
pie--such as you would not be likely to find in this country, unless you
got me to make it for you. I baked it early this morning, intending to
come here, and being sure you would like it; and you needn't have any
scruples about taking it. I bought everything in it with my own money. I
always do that when I cook little dishes for people I like."

The pie had been brought as a present for Mrs. Drane, but, feeling that
it was highly necessary to propitiate the only person on the place who
might be of use to her, La Fleur decided to give the pie to Mike.

The face of the colored man beamed with pleasure.

"Veal and ham. Them two things ought to go together fust rate, though
I've never eat 'em in that way. An' in a pie, too; that looks mighty
good. An' how do ye eat it, Mrs.--'scuse me, ma'am, but I never can
rightly git hold of yer name."

"No wonder, no wonder," said the other; "it is a French name. My second
husband was a Frenchman. A great cook, Michael,--a Frenchman. But the
English of the name is flower, and you can call me Mrs. Flower. You can
surely remember that, Michael."

Mike grinned widely.

"Oh, yes indeed, ma'am," said he; "no trouble 'bout that, 'specially when
I think what pie crust is made of, an' that you's a cook."

"Oh, it isn't that kind of flower," said La Fleur, laughing; "but it
doesn't matter a bit,--it sounds the same. And now, Michael, you must
warm this and eat it for your dinner. Have you a fire in your house?"

"I can make one in no time," said Mike. "Then you think I'd better not
let the cook warm it for me?"

"You are quite right," said La Fleur. "I don't believe she's half as good
a cook as you are, Michael, for I've heard that all colored people have a
knack that way; and like as not she'd burn it to a crisp."

Wrapping up the pie and handing it to the delighted negro, La Fleur
proceeded to business, for she felt she had no time to lose.

"And how are you getting on, Michael?" said she. "I suppose everybody is
very busy preparing for the master's wedding."

"The what!" exclaimed Mike, his eyebrows elevating themselves to such a
degree that his hat rose.

"Mr. Haverley's marriage with Miss Dora Bannister. Isn't that to take
place very soon, Michael?"

Mike put his pie on the post of the barn gate, took off his hat, and
wiped his brow with his shirt-sleeve.

"Bless my evarlastin' soul, Mrs. Flower! who on this earth told
you that?"

"Is it then such a great secret? Miss Panney told it to me not twenty
minutes ago."

Mike put on his hat; he took his pie from the post, and held it,
first in one hand and then in the other. He seemed unable to express
what he thought.

"Look a here, Mrs. Flower," he said presently, "she told you that, did
she?"

"She really did," was the answer.

"Well, then," said Mike, "the long an' the short of it is, she lies.
'Tain't the fust time that old Miss Panney has done that sort of thing.
She comes to me one day, more than six year ago, an' says, 'Mike,' says
she, 'why don't you marry Phoebe Moxley?' ''Cause I don't want to marry
her, nor nobody else,' says I. 'But you ought to,' said she, 'for she's
a good woman an' a nice washer an' ironer, an' you'd do well together.'
'Don't want no washin' nor ironin', nor no Phoebe, neither,' says I.
But she didn't mind nothin' what I said, an' goes an' tells everybody
that me an' Phoebe was goin' to be married; an' then it was we did git
married, jest to stop people talkin' so much about it, an' now look at
us. Me never so much as gittin' a bite of corn-bread, an' she a
boardin' the minister! Jes' you take my word for it, Mrs. Flower, old
Miss Panney wants Miss Dora to marry him, an' she's goin' about tellin'
people, thinkin' that after a while they'll do it jes' 'cause everybody
'spects them to."

"But don't you think they intend to marry, Mike?" forgetting to address
him by his full name.

Mike was about to strike the pie in his right hand with his left, in
order to give emphasis to his words, but he refrained in time.

"Don't believe one cussed word of it," said he. "Mr. Haverley ain't the
man to do that sort of thing without makin' some of his 'rangements p'int
that way, an' none of his 'rangements do p'int that way. If he'd been
goin' to git married, he'd told me, you bet, an' we'd laid out the farm
work more suitable for a weddin' than it is laid out. I ain't goin' to
believe no word about no weddin' till I git it from somebody better nor
Miss Panney. If he was goin' to marry anybody, he'd be more like to marry
that purty little Miss Drane. She's right here on the spot, an' she ain't
pizen proud like them Bannisters. She's as nice as cake, an' not stuck up
a bit. Bless my soul! She don't know one thing about nothin'."

"You're very much mistaken, Michael," exclaimed La Fleur. "She is very
well educated, and has been sent to the best schools."

"Oh, I don't mean school larnin'," said Mike; "I mean 'bout cows an'
chickens. She'll come here when I'm milkin', an' ask me things about the
critters an' craps that I knowed when I was a baby. I reckon she's the
kind of a lady that knows all about what's in her line, an' don't know
nothin' 'bout what's not in her line. That's the kind of young lady I
like. No spyin' around to see what's been did, an' what's hain't been
did. I've lived with them Bannisters."

La Fleur gazed reflectively upon the ground.

"I never thought of it before," she said, "but Miss Cicely would make a
very good wife for a gentleman like Mr. Haverley. But that's neither
here nor there, and none of our business, Michael. But if you hear
anything more about this marriage between Mr. Haverley and Miss
Bannister, I wish you'd come and tell me. I've had a deal of curiosity to
know if that old lady's been trying to make a fool of me. It isn't of any
consequence, but it is natural to have a curiosity about such things, and
I shall be very thankful to you if you will bring me any news that you
may get. And when you come, Michael, you may be sure that you will not go
away hungry, be it daytime or night."

"Oh, I'll come along, you bet," said Mike, "an' I am much obleeged to
you, Mrs. Flower, for this here pie."

When the good cook had gone to speak with Mrs. Drane, Mike repaired
to the woodshed, where, picking up an axe, he stood for some moments
regarding a short, knotty log on end in front of him. His blood
flowed angrily.

"Marry that there Bannister girl," he said to himself. "A pretty piece of
business if that family was to come here with their money an' their
come-up-ence. They'd turn everythin' upside down on this place. No use
for ramshackle farmin' they'd have, an' no use for me, nuther, with their
top boots an' stovepipe hats."

Mike had been discharged from the Bannisters' service because of his
unwillingness to pay any attention to his personal appearance.

"If that durned Miss Panney," he continued, "keeps on tellin' that to the
people, things will be a cussed sight worse than me a livin' here without
decent vittles, an' Phoebe a boardin' that minister that ain't paid no
board yit. Blast them all, I say." And with that he lifted up his axe and
brought it down on the end of the upturned log with such force that it
split into two jagged portions.




CHAPTER XXXI

THE TEABERRY GOWN IS DONNED


When Miss Panney had driven herself away from Cobhurst and Dr.
Tolbridge's cook had finished her conference with Mrs. Drane and had gone
out to the barn to look for her carriage, Miriam Haverley was left with
an impression upon her mind. This was to the effect that there was a good
deal of managing and directing going on in the house with which she had
nothing to do.

Miss Panney went into her kitchen to talk to Molly Tooney, and when she
did not want to talk to her any more she sent her upstairs, in order that
she might talk to Dr. Tolbridge's cook, which latter person had come into
her kitchen, as Molly had informed her after La Fleur's departure, for
the purpose of finding fault with the family cooking. Whether or not the
old woman had felt herself called upon to instruct Mike in regard to his
duty, she did not know, but when Miriam went into the orchard for some
apples, she had seen her talking to him at the barn gate, and when she
came out again, she saw her there still. Even Ralph took a little too
much on himself, though of course he did not mean anything by it, but he
had told Molly Tooney that she ought to have breakfast sooner in order
that Miss Drane and he might get more promptly to their work. While
considering her impression, Molly Tooney came to Miriam, her face red.

"What do you think, miss," said she, "that old bundle of a cook that was
here this mornin' has been doin'? She's been bringin' cauld vittles from
the docther's kitchen to that nager Mike, as if you an' Mr. Haverley
didn't give him enough to eat. I looked in at his winder, a wonderin'
what he wanted wid a fire in summer time, an' saw him heatin' the stuff.
It's an insult to me an' the family, miss, that's what it is." And the
irate woman rested her knuckles on her hips.

Miriam's face turned a little pink.

"I will inquire about that, Molly," she said, and her impression became a
conviction.

Toward the close of the afternoon, Miriam went up to her room, and
spreading out on the bed the teaberry gown of Judith Pacewalk, she stood
looking at it. She intended to put on that gown and wear it. But it did
not fit her. It needed all sorts of alterations, and how to make these
she did not know; sewing and its kindred arts had not been taught in the
schools to which she had been sent. It is true that Miss Panney had
promised to cut and fit this gown for her, but Miriam did not wish Miss
Panney to have anything to do with it. That old lady seemed entirely too
willing to have to do with her affairs.

While Miriam thus cogitated, Cicely Drane passed the open door of her
room, and seeing the queer old-fashioned dress upon the bed, she
stopped, and asked what it was. Miriam told the whole story of Judith
Pacewalk, which greatly interested Cicely, and then she stated her desire
to alter the dress so that she could wear it. But she said nothing about
her purpose in doing this. She was growing very fond of Cicely, but she
did not feel that she knew her well enough to entirely open her heart to
her, and tell her of her fears and aspirations in regard to her position
in the home so dear to her.

"Wear it, my dear?" exclaimed Cicely. "Why, of course I would. You may
not have thought of it, but since you have told me that story, it seems
to me that the fitness of things demands that you should wear that gown.
As to the fitness of the dress itself, I'll help you about that. I can
cut, sew, and do all that sort of thing, and together we will make a
lovely gown of it for you. I do not think we ought to change the style
and fashion of it, but we can make it smaller without making it anything
but the delightful old-timey gown that it is. And then let me tell you
another thing, dear Miriam: you must really put up your hair. You will
never be treated with proper respect by your cook until you do that.
Mother and I have been talking about this, and thought that perhaps we
ought to mention it to you, because you would not be likely to think of
it yourself, but we thought we had no right to be giving you advice, and
so said nothing. But now I have spoken of it, and how angry are you?"

"Not a bit," answered Miriam; "and I shall put up my hair, if you will
show me how to do it."

So long as the Dranes admitted that they had no right to give her
advice, Miriam was willing that they should give her as much as
they pleased.

For several days Cicely and Miriam cut and stitched and fitted and took
in and let out, and one morning Miriam came down to breakfast attired in
the pink chintz gown, its skirt touching the floor, and with her long
brown hair tastefully done up in a knot upon her head.

"What a fine young woman has my little sister grown into!" exclaimed
Ralph. "To look at you, Miriam, it seems as if years must have passed
since yesterday. That is the pink dress that Dora Bannister wore when she
was here, isn't it?"

This remark irritated Miriam a little; Ralph saw the irritation, and was
sorry that he had made the remark. It was surprising how easily Miriam
was irritated by references to Dora.

"I lent it once," said his sister, as she took her seat at the table,
"but I shall not do it again."

That day Mike was interviewed in regard to what might be called his
foreign maintenance. The ingenuous negro was amazed. His Irish and his
African temperaments struggled together for expression.

"Bless my soul, Miss Miriam," he said; "nobody in this world ever
brought me nuthin' to eat, 'cause they know'd I didn't need it, an'
gittin' the best of livin' right here in your house, Miss Miriam, an' if
they had brought it I wouldn't have took it an' swallowed the family
pride; an' what's more, the doctor's cook didn't bring that pie on
purpose for me. She just comed down here to ax me how to make real good
corn-cakes, knowin' that I was a fust-rate cook, an' could make
corn-cakes, an' she wanted to know how to do it. When I tole her jes'
how to do it,--ash-cakes, griddle-cakes, batter-cake, every kin' of
cake,--she was so mighty obligated that she took a little bit of a pie,
made of meat, out of the bag what she'd brought along to eat on the way
home, not feelin' hungry at lunch time, an' give it to me. An' not
wantin' to hurt her feelin's, I jes' took it, an' when I went to my
house I het it an' eat it, an' bless your soul, Miss Miriam, it did
taste good; for that there woman in the kitchen don't give me half
enough to eat, an' never no corn-bread an' ham fat, which is mighty
cheap, Miss Miriam, an' a long sight better for a workin' pusson than
crusts of wheat bread a week old an'--"

"You don't mean to say," interrupted Miriam, "that Molly does not give
you enough to eat? I'll speak to her about that. She ought to be ashamed
of herself."

"Now look here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, speaking more earnestly, "don't
you go an' do that. If you tell her that, she'll go an' make me the
biggest corn-pone anybody ever seed, an' she'll put pizen into it. Oh,
it'd never do to say anythin' like that to Molly Tooney, if she's got me
to feed. Jes' let me tell you, Miss Miriam, don't you say nothin' to
Molly Tooney 'bout me. I never could sleep at night if I thought she was
stirrin' up pizen in my vittles. But I tell you, Miss Miriam, if you was
to say Molly, that you an' Mr. Haverley liked corn-cakes an' was always
used to 'em before you come here, an' that they 'greed with you, then in
course she'd make 'em, an' there'd be a lot left over for me, for I don't
'spect you all could eat the corn-bread she'd make, but I'd eat it, bein'
so powerful hungry for corn-meal."

"Mike," said Miriam, "you shall have corn-bread, but that is all
nonsense about Molly. I do not see how you could get such a notion into
your head."

Mike gave himself a shrug.

"Now look a here, Miss Miriam," he said; "I've heard before of red-headed
cooks, an' colored pussons as wasn't satisfied with their victuals, an'
nobody knows what they died of, an' the funerals was mighty slim, an' no
'count, the friends an' congregation thinkin' there might be somethin'
'tagious. Them red-headed kind of cooks is mighty dangerous, Miss Miriam,
an' lemme tell you, the sooner you git rid of them, the better."

Miriam's previous experiences had brought her very little into contact
with negroes, and although she did not care very much about what Mike was
saying, it interested her to hear him talk. His intonations and manner of
expressing himself pleased her fancy. She could imagine herself in the
sunny South, talking to an old family servant. This fancy was novel and
pleasant. Mike liked to talk, and was shrewd enough to see that Miriam
liked to listen to him. He determined to take advantage of this
opportunity to find out something in regard to the doleful news brought
to him by La Fleur and which, he feared, might be founded upon fact.

"Now look here, Miss Miriam," said he, lowering his voice a little, but
not enough to make him seem disrespectfully confidential, "what you want
is a first-class colored cook--not Phoebe, she's no good cook, an' won't
live in the country, an' is so mighty stuck up that she don't like
nuthin' but wheat bread, an' ain't no 'count anyway. But I got a sister,
Miss Miriam. She's a number one, fust-class cook, knows all the northen
an' southen an' easten an' westen kind of cookin', an' she's only got two
chillun, what could keep in the house all day long an' not trouble
nobody, 'side bringin' kindlin' an' runnin' errands; an' the husband,
he's dead, an' that's a good sight better, Miss Miriam, than havin' him
hangin' round, eatin' his meals here, an' bein' no use, 'cause he had
rheumatism all over him, 'cept on his appetite."

This suggestion pleased Miriam; here was a chance for another old
family servant.

"I think I should like to have your sister, Mike," she said; "what is her
name? Is she working for anybody now?"

"Her name is Seraphina--Seraphina Paddock. Paddock was his name. She's
keepin' house now, an' takin' in washin', down to Bridgeport. I reckon
she's like to come here an' live, mighty well."

"I wish you'd tell her to come and see me," said Miriam. "I think it
would be a very good thing for us to have a colored cook."

"Mighty good thing. There ain't nothin' better than a colored cook; but
jus' let me tell you, Miss Miriam, my sister's mighty particular 'bout
goin' to places an' takin' her family, an' furniture, an' settin' herself
up to live when she don't know whether things is fixed an' settled
there, or whether the fust thing she knows is she's got to pull up stakes
an' git out agin."

"I am sure everything is fixed and settled here," said Miriam, in
surprise.

"Well, now look a here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, "'spose you was clean
growed up, an' you're near that now, as anybody can see, an' you was
goin' to git married to somebody, or 'spose Mr. Haverley was goin' to
git married to somebody, why don' you see you'd go way with your
husband, an' your brother he'd come here with his new wife, an'
everything would be turned over an' sot upside down, an' then Seraphina,
she'd have to git up an' git, for there'd sure to be a new kin' of cook
wanted or else none, an' Seraphina, she'd fin' her house down to
Bridgeport rented to somebody who had gone way without payin' the rent,
an' had been splittin' kindlin' on the front steps an' hacking 'em all
up, and white-washin' the kitchen what she papered last winter to hide
the grease spots what they made through living like pigs, an' Seraphina,
she can't stand nothing like that."

Miriam burst out laughing.

"Mike," she cried, "nobody is going to get married here."

Mike's eyes glistened.

"That so, sure?" he said. "You see, Miss Miriam, you an' your brother is
both so 'tractive, that I sort o' 'sposed you might be thinkin' of
gittin' married, an' if that was so, I couldn't go to Seraphina, an' git
her to come here when things wasn't fixed an' settled."

"If that is all that would keep your sister from coming," said Miriam,
"she need not trouble herself."

"Now look a here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, quickly, "of course everything
in this world depends on sarcumstances, an' if it happened that Mr.
Hav'ley was the one to git married, an' he was to take some lady that was
livin' here anyway an' was used to the place, an' the ways of the house,
an' didn't want to go anywheres else an' wanted to stay here an' not to
chance nothin' an' have the same people workin' as worked before, like
Miss Drane, say, with her mother livin' here jes' the same, an' you
keepin' house jes' as you is now, an' all goin' on without no upsottin',
of course Seraphina, she wouldn't mind that. She'd like mighty well to
come, whether your brother was married or not; but supposin' he married a
lady like Miss Dora Bannister. Bless my soul, Miss Miriam, everything in
this place would be turned heels up an' heads down, an' there wouldn't be
no colored pussons wanted in this 'stablishment, Seraphina nor me nuther,
an' I reckon you wouldn't know the place in six months, Miss Miriam, with
that Miss Dora runnin' it, an' old Miss Panney with her fingers in the
pie, an' nobody can't help her doin' that when Miss Dora is concerned,
an' you kin see for yourself, Miss Miriam, that Seraphina, an' me, too,
is bound to be bounced if it was to come to that."

"I will talk to you again about your sister," said Miriam, and she went
away, amused.

Mike was delighted.

"It's all a cussed old lie, jes' as I thought it wuz," said he to
himself; "an' that old Miss Panney'll fin' them young uns is harder nuts
to crack than me an' Phoebe wuz. I got in some good licks fur dat purty
Miss Cicely, too."

Miriam's amusement gradually faded away as she approached the house. At
first it had seemed funny to hear any one talk about Ralph or herself
getting married, but now it did not appear so funny. On the contrary,
that part of Mike's remarks which concerned Ralph and Dora was
positively depressing. Suppose such a thing were really to happen; it
would be dreadful. She had thought her brother overfond of Dora's
society, but the matter had never appeared to her in the serious aspect
in which she saw it now.

She had intended to find Ralph, and speak to him about Mike's sister; but
now she changed her mind. She was wearing the teaberry gown, and she
would attend to her own affairs as mistress of the house. If Ralph could
be so cruel as to marry Dora, and put her at the head of everything,--and
if she were here at all, she would want to be at the head of
everything,--then she, Miriam, would take off the teaberry gown, and lock
it up in the old trunk.

"But can it be possible," she asked herself, as a tear or two began to
show themselves in her eyes, "that Ralph could be so cruel as that?"

As she reached the door of the house, Cicely Drane was coming out.
Involuntarily Miriam threw her arms around her and folded her close to
the teaberry gown.

Miriam was not in the habit of giving away to outbursts of this sort,
and as she released Cicely she said with a little apologetic blush,--

"It is so nice to have you here. I feel as if you ought not ever
to go away."

"I am sure I do not want to go, dear," said Cicely, with the smile of
good-fellowship that always went to the heart of Miriam.




CHAPTER XXXII

MISS PANNEY FEELS SHE MUST CHANGE HER PLANS


Molly Tooney waited with some impatience the result of Miriam's interview
with Mike. If the "nager" should be discharged for taking cold victuals
like a beggar, Molly would be glad of it; it would suit her much better
to have a nice Irish boy in his place.

But when Miriam told her cook that evening that Mike had satisfactorily
explained the matter of the pie, and also remarked that in future she
would like to have bread or cakes made of corn-meal, and that she
couldn't see any reason why Mike, who was accustomed to this sort of
food, should not have it always, Molly's soul blazed within her; it would
have burst out into fiery speech; but the girl before her, although
young, was so quiet and sedate, so suggestive of respect, that Molly,
scarcely knowing why she did it, curbed herself; but she instantly gave
notice that she wished to quit the place on the next day.

When Ralph heard this, he was very angry, and wanted to go and talk to
the woman.

"Don't you do anything of the kind," said Miriam. "It is not your
business to talk to cooks. I do that. And I want to go to-morrow to
Thorbury and get some one to come to us by the day until the new
cook arrives. If I can get her, I am going to engage Seraphina,
Mike's sister."

Ralph looked at her and laughed.

"Well, well, Miss Teaberry," he said, "you are getting on bravely.
Putting up your hair and letting down your skirts has done wonders. You
are the true lady of the house now."

"And what have you to say against that?" asked Miriam.

"Not a word!" he cried. "I like it, I am charmed with it, and I will
drive you into Thorbury to-morrow. And as to Mike's sister, you can have
all his relations if you like, provided they do not charge too much. If
we had a lot of darkies here, that would make us more truly ramshackle
and jolly than we are now."

"Ralph," said Miriam, with dignity, "stop pulling my ears. Don't you see
Mrs. Drane coming?"

The next day Miriam and Ralph jogged into Thorbury. Miriam, not wearing
the teaberry gown, but having its spirit upon her, had planned to inquire
of the grocer with whom she dealt, where she might find a woman such as
she needed, but Ralph did not favor this.

"Let us first go and see Mrs. Tolbridge," he said. "She is one of our
first and best friends, and probably knows every woman in town, and if
she doesn't, the doctor does."

This last point had its effect upon Miriam. She wanted to see Dr.
Tolbridge to ask if he could not stop in and quiet the mind of Cicely,
who really wanted to see him about her work, but who did not like, as
Miriam easily conjectured, to ask Ralph to send her to town. Miriam
wished to make things as pleasant as possible for Cicely, and Mrs.
Tolbridge had not, so far, meddled in the least with her concerns. If,
inadvertently, Ralph had proposed a consultation with Mrs. Bannister,
there would have been a hubbub in the gig.

The doctor and his wife were both at home, and when the business of the
Haverleys had been stated to them, Mrs. Tolbridge clapped her hands.

"Truly," she cried, "this is a piece of rare good fortune; we will lend
them La Fleur. Do you know, my dear girl," she said to Miriam, "that the
doctor and I are going away? He will attend a medical convention at
Barport, and I will visit my mother, to whom he will come, later. It will
be a grand vacation for us, for we shall stay away from Thorbury for two
weeks, and the only thing which has troubled us is to decide what we
shall do with La Fleur while we are gone. We want to shut up the house,
and she does not want to go to her friends, and if she should do so, I am
afraid we might lose her. I am sure she would be delighted to come to
you, especially as the Dranes are with you. Shall I ask her?"

Miriam jumped to her feet, with an expression of alarm on her
countenance, which amused the doctor and her brother.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Tolbridge, don't do that!" she exclaimed. "Truly, I
could not have a great cook like La Fleur in our kitchen. I should be
frightened to death, and she would have nothing to do anything with. You
know, Mrs. Tolbridge, that we live in an awfully plain way. We are not in
the least bit rich or stylish or anything of the sort. If Cicely had not
told me that she and her mother lived in the same way, we could not have
taken them. We keep only a man and a woman, you know, and we all do a lot
of work ourselves, and Molly Tooney was always growling because there
were not enough things to cook with, and what a French cook would do in
our kitchen I really do not know. She would drive us crazy!"

"Come now," said the doctor, laughing, "don't frighten yourself in that
way, my little lady. If La Fleur consents to go to you for a couple of
weeks, she will understand the circumstances, and will be perfectly
satisfied with what she finds. She is a woman of sense. You would better
let Mrs. Tolbridge go and talk with her."

Miriam sat down in a sort of despair. Here again, her affairs were being
managed for her. Would she ever be able to maintain her independence? She
had said all she could say, and now she hoped that La Fleur would treat
the proposition with contempt.

But the great cook did nothing of the kind. In five minutes, Mrs.
Tolbridge returned with the information that La Fleur would be overjoyed
to go to Cobhurst for a fortnight. She wanted some country air; she
wanted to see the Dranes; she had a great admiration for Miss Haverley,
being perfectly able to judge, although she had met her but once, that
she was a lady born; she looked upon her brother as a most superior
gentleman; and she would be perfectly content with whatever she found in
the Cobhurst kitchen.

"She says," added Mrs. Tolbridge, "that if you give her a gridiron, a
saucepan, and a fire, she will cook a meal fit for a duke. With brains,
she says, one can make up all deficiencies."

Ralph took his sister aside.

"Do go out and see her, Miriam," he said. "If we take her, we shall
oblige our friends here, and please everybody. It will only be for a
little while, and then you can have your old colored mammy and the
pickaninnies, just as you have planned."

When Miriam came back from the kitchen, she found that the doctor had
left the house and was going to his buggy at the gate.

"Oh, Ralph!" she exclaimed, "you do not know what a nice woman she is.
She is just like an old family nurse." And then she ran out to catch the
doctor, and talk to him about Cicely.

"Your sister is a child yet," remarked Mrs. Tolbridge, with a smile.

"Indeed she is," said Ralph; "and she longs for what she never
had--old family servants, household ties, and all that sort of thing.
And I believe she would prefer a good old Southern mammy to a fine
young lover."

"Of course she would," said Mrs. Tolbridge. "That would be natural to any
girl of her age, except, perhaps," she added, "one like Dora Bannister. I
believe she was in love when she was fifteen."

It seemed strange to Ralph that the mention of a thing of this sort,
which must have happened three or four years ago, and to a lady whom he
had known a very short time, should send a little pang of jealousy
through his heart, but such was the fact.

There were picnic meals at Cobhurst that day; for La Fleur was not to
arrive until the morrow, and they were all very jolly.

Mike was in a state of exuberant delight at the idea of having that good
Mrs. Flower in the place of Molly Tooney. He worked until nearly twelve
o'clock at night to scour and brighten the kitchen and its contents for
her reception.

Into this region of bliss there descended, about the middle of the
afternoon, a frowning apparition. It was that of Miss Panney, to whom
Molly had gone that morning, informing her that she had been discharged
without notice by that minx of a girl, who didn't know anything more
about housekeeping than she did about blacksmithing, and wanted to put
"a dirty, hathen nager" over the head of a first-class Christian cook.

When she heard this news, the old lady was amazed and indignant; and she
soundly rated Molly for not coming to her instantly, before she left her
place. Had she known of the state of affairs, she was sure she could
have pacified Miriam, and arranged for Molly to retain her place. It was
very important for Miss Panney, though she did not say so, to have some
one in the Cobhurst family who would keep her informed of what was
happening there. If possible, Molly must go back; and anyway the old lady
determined to go to Cobhurst and look into matters.

Miss Panney was glad to find Miriam alone on the front piazza, training
some over-luxuriant vines upon the pillars; and the moment her eyes fell
upon the girl, she saw that she was dressed as a woman, and not in the
youthful costume in which she had last seen her. This strengthened the
old lady's previous impression that Ralph's sister was rapidly becoming
the real head of this house, and that it would be necessary to be very
careful in her conduct toward her. It might be difficult, even
impossible, to carry out her match-making plans if Miriam should rise up
in opposition to them.

The old lady was very cordial, and entreated that Miriam should go on
with her work, while she sat in an armchair near by. After a little
ordinary chat, Miss Panney mentioned that she had heard that Molly Tooney
had been discharged. Instantly Miriam's pride arose, and her manner
cooled. Here again was somebody meddling with her affairs. In as few
words as possible, she stated that the woman had not been discharged, but
had left of her own accord without any good reason; that she did not like
her, and was glad to get rid of her; that she had an excellent cook in
view, and that until this person could come to her, she had engaged,
temporarily, a very good woman.

All this she stated without question or remark from Miss Panney; and when
she had finished, she began again to tie the vines to their wires. Miss
Panney gazed very steadily through her spectacles at the resolute side
face of the girl, and said only that she was very glad that Miriam had
been able to make such a good arrangement. It was plain enough to her
that Molly Tooney must be dropped, but in doing this, Miss Panney would
not drop her plans. They would simply be changed to suit circumstances.

Had Miss Panney known who it was who was coming temporarily to the
Cobhurst kitchen, it is not likely that she could have glided so quietly
from the subject of household service to that of the apple prospect and
Miriam's success with hens, and from these to the Dranes.

"Do you expect to have them much longer with you?" she asked. "The
work the doctor gave the young lady must be nearly finished. When that
is done, I suppose she will go back to town to try to get something to
do there."

"Oh, they have not thought of going," said Miriam; "the doctor's book is
a very long one, and when I saw him yesterday, he told me that he had
ever so much more work for her to do, and he is going to bring it out
here before he goes to Barport. I should be very sorry indeed if Cicely
had to leave here, and I don't think I should let her do it, work or no
work. I like her better and better every day, and it is the greatest
comfort and pleasure to have her here. It almost seems as if she were my
sister, and Mrs. Drane is just as nice as she can be. She is so good and
kind, and never meddles with anything."

Miss Panney listened with great attention. She now saw how she must
change her plans. If Ralph were to marry Dora, Miriam must like Dora. As
for his own liking, there would be no trouble about that, after the Drane
girl should be got rid of. In regard to this riddance, Miss Panney had
intended to make an early move and a decided one. Now she saw that this
would not do. The Drane girl, that alien intruder, whom Dr. Tolbridge's
treachery had thrust into this household, was the great obstacle to the
old lady's schemes, but to oust her suddenly would ruin everything.
Miriam would rise up in opposition, and at present that would be fatal.
Miriam was not a girl whose grief and anger at the loss of one thing
could be pacified by the promise of another. Having lost Cicely, she
would turn her back upon Dora, and what would be worse, she would
undoubtedly turn Ralph's back in that direction.

To this genial young man, his sister was still his chief object on earth.
Later, this might not be the case.

When Miriam began to like Dora,--and this must happen, for in Miss
Panney's opinion the Bannister girl was in every way ten times more
charming than Cicely Drane,--then, cautiously, but with quick vigor, Miss
Panney would deliver the blow which would send the Dranes not only from
Cobhurst, but back to their old home. In the capacity of an elderly and
experienced woman who knew what everybody said and thought, and who was
able to make her words go to the very spinal marrow of a sensitive
person, she was sure she could do this. And when she had done it, it
would cheer her to think that she had not only furthered her plans, but
revenged herself on the treacherous doctor.

Now was heard from within, the voice of Cicely, who had come downstairs
from her work, and who, not knowing that Miriam had a visitor, was
calling to her that it was time to get dinner.

"My dear," said Miss Panney, "go in and attend to your duties, and if you
will let me, I shall like ever so much to stay and take dinner with you,
and you need not put yourself to the least trouble about me. You ought to
have very simple meals now that you are doing your own work. I very much
want to become better acquainted with your little friend Cicely and her
good mother. Now that I know that you care so much for them, I feel
greatly interested in them both, and you know, my dear, there is no way
of becoming acquainted with people which is better than sitting at table
with them."

Miriam was not altogether pleased, but said the proper things, and went
to call Mike to take the roan mare, who was standing asleep between the
shafts of her phaeton.

Miss Panney now had her cues; she did not offer to help in any way, and
made no suggestions in any direction. At luncheon she made herself
agreeable to everybody, and before the meal was over they all thought
her a most delightful old lady with a wonderful stock of good stories. On
her side Miss Panney was also greatly pleased; she found Ralph even a
better fellow than she had thought him. He had not only a sunny temper,
but a bright wit, and he knew what was being done in the world. Cicely,
too, was satisfactory. She was a most attractive little thing, pretty to
a dangerous extent, but in her treatment of Ralph there was not the least
sign of flirtation or demureness. She was as free and familiar with him
as if she had known him always.

"Men are not apt to marry the girls they have known always," said Miss
Panney to herself, "and Dora can do better than this one if she has but
the chance; and the chance she must have."

While listening with the most polite attention to a reminiscence related
by Mrs. Drane, Miss Panney earnestly considered this subject. She had
thought of many plans, some of them vague, but all of the same general
character, for bringing Dora and Miriam together and promoting a sisterly
affection between them, for her mind had been busy with the subject since
Miriam had left her alone on the piazza, but none of the plans suited
her. They were clumsy and involved too much action on the part of Dora.
Suddenly a satisfying idea shot into the old lady's mind, and she smiled
so pleasantly that Mrs. Drane was greatly encouraged, and entered into
some details of her reminiscence which she had intended to omit, thinking
they might prove tiresome.

"If they only could go away together, somewhere," said Miss Panney to
herself, "that would be grand; that would settle everything. It would not
be long before Dora and Miriam would be the dearest of chums, and with
Ralph's sister away, that Drane girl would have to go. It would all be so
natural, so plain, so beautiful."

When Miss Panney drove home, about the middle of the afternoon, she was
still smiling complacently at this good idea, and wondering how she might
carry it out.




CHAPTER XXXIII

LA FLEUR LOOKS FUTUREWARD


According to his promise, Dr. Tolbridge came to Cobhurst on the morning
of his intended departure for Barport, bringing with him more of his
manuscript and some other copying which he wished Cicely to do. He had
never known until now how much he needed a secretary. He saw only the
ladies, Ralph having gone off to try to shoot some woodcock. The young
man was not in a good humor, for he had no dog, and his discontent was
increased by the reflection that a fine setter had been presented to him,
and he had not yet come into possession of it. He wanted the dog, Congo,
because he thought it was a good dog, and also because Dora Bannister had
given it to him, and he was impatient to carry out the plan which Dora
had proposed to get the animal to Cobhurst.

But this plan, which included a visit from Dora, in order that the dog
might come to his new home without compulsion, and which, as modified by
Ralph, included a drive or a walk through the woods with the donor in
order that the dog might learn to follow him, needed Miriam's
coöperation. And this coöperation he could not induce her to give. She
seemed to have all sorts of reasons for putting off the invitation for
which Miss Bannister was evidently waiting. Of course there was no reason
for waiting, but girls are queer. A word from Miriam would bring her, but
Miriam was very unresponsive to suggestions concerning said word.

"It is not only ourselves," said the doctor, in reply to some questions
from Mrs. Drane in regard to the intended journey, "who are going this
afternoon. We take with us Mrs. Bannister and Dora. This is quite a
sudden plan, only determined upon last night. They both want a little
Barport life before the season closes, and thought it would be pleasant
to go with us."

Mrs. Drane and Cicely were not very much interested in the Bannisters,
and received this news tranquilly, but Miriam felt a little touch of
remorse, and wished she had asked Dora to come out some afternoon and
bring her dog, which poor Ralph seemed so anxious to have. She asked the
doctor how long he thought the Bannisters would stay away.

"Oh, we shall pick them up as we come back," he said "and that will be in
about two weeks." And with this the busy man departed.

Since the beginning of his practice, Dr. Tolbridge had never gone away
from Thorbury for an absence of any considerable duration without first
calling on Miss Panney to see if she needed any attention from him before
he left, and on this occasion he determined not to depart from this
custom. It is true, she was very angry with him, but so far as he could
help it, he would not allow her anger to interfere with the preservation
of a life which he considered valuable.

When the old lady was told that the doctor had called and had asked for
her, she stamped her foot and vowed she would not see him. Then her
curiosity to know what brought him there triumphed over her resentment,
and she went down. Her reception of him was cold and severe, and she
answered his questions regarding her health as if he were a census-taker,
exhibiting not the slightest gratitude for his concern regarding her
physical well-being, nor the slightest hesitation in giving him
information which might enable him to further said well-being.

The doctor was as cool as was his patient; and, when he had finished his
professional remarks, informed her that the Bannisters were to go with
him to Barport. When Miss Panney heard this she sprang from her chair
with the air of an Indian of the Wild West bounding with uplifted
tomahawk upon a defenceless foe. The doctor involuntarily pushed back his
chair, but before he could make up his mind whether he ought to be
frightened or amused, Miss Panney sat down as promptly as she had risen,
and a grim smile appeared upon her face.

"How you do make me jump with your sudden announcements," she said. "I
am sure I am very glad that Dora is going away. She needed a change, and
sea air is better than anything else for her. How long will they stay?"

The slight trace of her old cordiality which showed itself in Miss
Panney's demeanor through the few remaining minutes of the interview
greatly pleased Dr. Tolbridge.

"She is a good old woman at heart," he said to himself, "and when she
gets into one of her bad tempers, the best way to bring her around is
to interest her in people she loves, and Dora Bannister is surely one
of those."

When the doctor had gone, Miss Panney gave herself up to a half minute of
unrestrained laughter, which greatly surprised old Mr. Witton, who
happened to be passing the parlor door. Then she sat down to write a
letter to Dora Bannister, which she intended that young lady to receive
soon after her arrival at Barport.

That afternoon the good La Fleur came to Cobhurst, her soul enlivened by
the determination to show what admirable meals could be prepared from the
most simple materials, and with the prospect of spending a fortnight with
Mrs. Drane and Cicely, and with that noble gentleman, the master of the
estate, and to pass these weeks in the country. She was a great lover of
things rural: she liked to see, pecking and scratching, the fowls with
which she prepared such dainty dishes. In her earlier days, the sight of
an old hen wandering near a bed of celery, with a bed of beets in the
middle distance, had suggested the salad for which she afterwards became
somewhat famous.

She knew a great deal about garden vegetables, and had been heard to
remark that brains were as necessary in the culling of fruits and roots
and leaves and stems as for their culinary transformation into
attractions for the connoisseur's palate. She was glad, too, to have the
opportunity of an occasional chat with that intelligent negro Mike, and
so far as she could judge, there were no objections to the presence of
Miriam in the house.

Ralph did not come back until after La Fleur had arrived, and he returned
hungry, and a little more out of humor than when he started away.

"I had hoped," he said to Miriam, "to get enough birds to give the new
cook a chance of showing her skill in preparing a dish of game for
dinner; but these two, which I may say I accidentally shot, are all I
brought. It is impossible to shoot without a dog, and I think I shall go
to-morrow morning to see Miss Bannister and ask her to let me take Congo
home with me. He will soon learn to know me, and the woodcock season does
not last forever."

"But Dora will not be at home," said Miriam; "she goes to Barport to-day
with the Tolbridges."

Ralph opened his mouth to speak, and then he shut it again. It was of no
use to say anything, and he contented himself with a sigh as he went to
the rack to put up his gun. Miriam sighed, too, and as she did so, she
hoped that it was the dog and not Dora that Ralph was sighing about.

The next morning there came to Cobhurst a man, bringing a black setter
and a verbal message from Miss Bannister to the effect that if Mr.
Haverley would tie up the dog and feed him himself for two or three
days and be kind to him, she had no doubt Congo would soon know him as
his master.

"Now that is the kind of a girl I like," said Ralph to his sister. "She
promises to do a thing and she does it, even if the other party is not
prompt in stepping forward to attend to his share of the affair."

There was nothing to say against this, and Miriam said nothing, but
contented herself with admiring the dog, which was worthy of all the
praise she could give him. Congo was tied up, and Mike and Mrs. Drane and
Cicely, and finally La Fleur, came to look at him and to speak well of
him. When all had gone away but the colored man and the cook, the latter
asked why Miss Bannister had been mentioned in connection with this dog.

"'Cause he was her dog," said Mike. "She got him when he was a little
puppy no bigger nor a cat, an' you'd a thought, to see her carry him
about an' put him in a little bed an' kiver him up o' night an' talk to
him like a human bein', that she loved him as much as if he'd been a
little baby brother; an' she's thought all the world of him, straight
'long until now, an' she's gone an' give him to Mr. Hav'ley."

La Fleur reflected for a moment.

"Are you sure, Mike," she asked, "that they are not engaged?"

"I'm dead sartain sure of it," he said. "His sister told me so with her
own lips. Givin' dogs don't mean nothin', Mrs. Flower. If people married
all the people they give dogs to, there'd be an awful mix in this world.
Bless my soul, I'd have about eight wives my own self."