The Girl at Cobhurst

  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 goneout to the barn to look for her carriage, Miriam Haverley was left withan impression upon her mind. This was to the effect that there was a gooddeal of managing and directing going on in the house with which she hadnothing to do.

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

  "What do you think, miss," said she, "that old bundle of a cook that washere this mornin' has been doin'? She's been bringin' cauld vittles fromthe docther's kitchen to that nager Mike, as if you an' Mr. Haverleydidn'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 theirate 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 aconviction.

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

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

  "Wear it, my dear?" exclaimed Cicely. "Why, of course I would. You maynot have thought of it, but since you have told me that story, it seemsto 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 cancut, sew, and do all that sort of thing, and together we will make alovely gown of it for you. I do not think we ought to change the styleand fashion of it, but we can make it smaller without making it anythingbut the delightful old-timey gown that it is. And then let me tell youanother thing, dear Miriam: you must really put up your hair. You willnever be treated with proper respect by your cook until you do that.Mother and I have been talking about this, and thought that perhaps weought to mention it to you, because you would not be likely to think ofit yourself, but we thought we had no right to be giving you advice, andso 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 willshow me how to do it."

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

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

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

  This remark irritated Miriam a little; Ralph saw the irritation, and wassorry that he had made the remark. It was surprising how easily Miriamwas 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 hisforeign maintenance. The ingenuous negro was amazed. His Irish and hisAfrican temperaments struggled together for expression.

  "Bless my soul, Miss Miriam," he said; "nobody in this world everbrought 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' ifthey had brought it I wouldn't have took it an' swallowed the familypride; an' what's more, the doctor's cook didn't bring that pie onpurpose for me. She just comed down here to ax me how to make real goodcorn-cakes, knowin' that I was a fust-rate cook, an' could makecorn-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' ofcake,--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 wayhome, not feelin' hungry at lunch time, an' give it to me. An' notwantin' to hurt her feelin's, I jes' took it, an' when I went to myhouse I het it an' eat it, an' bless your soul, Miss Miriam, it didtaste good; for that there woman in the kitchen don't give me halfenough to eat, an' never no corn-bread an' ham fat, which is mightycheap, Miss Miriam, an' a long sight better for a workin' pusson thancrusts of wheat bread a week old an'--"

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

  "Now look here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, speaking more earnestly, "don'tyou go an' do that. If you tell her that, she'll go an' make me thebiggest 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 meto feed. Jes' let me tell you, Miss Miriam, don't you say nothin' toMolly Tooney 'bout me. I never could sleep at night if I thought she wasstirrin' up pizen in my vittles. But I tell you, Miss Miriam, if you wasto say Molly, that you an' Mr. Haverley liked corn-cakes an' was alwaysused to 'em before you come here, an' that they 'greed with you, then incourse 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 allnonsense about Molly. I do not see how you could get such a notion intoyour head."

  Mike gave himself a shrug.

  "Now look a here, Miss Miriam," he said; "I've heard before of red-headedcooks, 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 contactwith negroes, and although she did not care very much about what Mike wassaying, it interested her to hear him talk. His intonations and manner ofexpressing himself pleased her fancy. She could imagine herself in thesunny South, talking to an old family servant. This fancy was novel andpleasant. Mike liked to talk, and was shrewd enough to see that Miriamliked to listen to him. He determined to take advantage of
thisopportunity to find out something in regard to the doleful news broughtto 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, butnot enough to make him seem disrespectfully confidential, "what you wantis a first-class colored cook--not Phoebe, she's no good cook, an' won'tlive in the country, an' is so mighty stuck up that she don't likenuthin' 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 northenan' southen an' easten an' westen kind of cookin', an' she's only got twochillun, what could keep in the house all day long an' not troublenobody, 'side bringin' kindlin' an' runnin' errands; an' the husband,he's dead, an' that's a good sight better, Miss Miriam, than havin' himhangin' round, eatin' his meals here, an' bein' no use, 'cause he hadrheumatism all over him, 'cept on his appetite."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Well, now look a here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, "'spose you was cleangrowed up, an' you're near that now, as anybody can see, an' you wasgoin' to git married to somebody, or 'spose Mr. Haverley was goin' togit married to somebody, why don' you see you'd go way with yourhusband, 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 cookwanted or else none, an' Seraphina, she'd fin' her house down toBridgeport rented to somebody who had gone way without payin' the rent,an' had been splittin' kindlin' on the front steps an' hacking 'em allup, and white-washin' the kitchen what she papered last winter to hidethe 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 isboth so 'tractive, that I sort o' 'sposed you might be thinkin' ofgittin' married, an' if that was so, I couldn't go to Seraphina, an' gither 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 everythingin 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 waslivin' 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 tochance nothin' an' have the same people workin' as worked before, likeMiss Drane, say, with her mother livin' here jes' the same, an' youkeepin' 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 tocome, whether your brother was married or not; but supposin' he married alady like Miss Dora Bannister. Bless my soul, Miss Miriam, everything inthis place would be turned heels up an' heads down, an' there wouldn't beno colored pussons wanted in this 'stablishment, Seraphina nor me nuther,an' I reckon you wouldn't know the place in six months, Miss Miriam, withthat Miss Dora runnin' it, an' old Miss Panney with her fingers in thepie, 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 wentaway, amused.

  Mike was delighted.

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

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

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

  "But can it be possible," she asked herself, as a tear or two began toshow 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 tothe 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 everto go away."

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