A TRESPASS
Having received permission to stop work at four o'clock on a beautiful
summer afternoon, Cicely Drane put away her papers and walked rapidly
home. She found her mother on Mrs. Brinkly's front piazza, fanning
herself vigorously and watching some children, who, on the other side of
the narrow street, were feeding a tethered goat with clippings from a
newspaper.
After a few words to explain her early return, Cicely went up to her own
room, and took from a drawer a little pocketbook, and opening it,
examined the money contained therein. Apparently satisfied with the
result, she went downstairs, wallet in hand.
"Mother," said she, "you must find it dreadfully hot and stupid here, and
as this is a bit of a holiday, I intend we shall take a drive."
Mrs. Drane was about to offer some sort of economic objection, but before
she could do so, Cicely was out of the little front yard, and hurrying
toward the station, where there were always vehicles to be hired.
She engaged the man who had the best-looking horse, and in a little open
phaeton, a good deal the worse for wear, she returned to her mother.
Andy Griffing, the driver, was a grizzled little man with twinkling eyes
and a cheery air that seemed to indicate that an afternoon drive was as
much a novelty and pleasure to him as it could possibly be to any two
ladies; which was odd, considering that for the last forty years Andy had
been almost constantly engaged in taking morning, afternoon, evening, and
night drives.
The only direction given him by Cicely was to take them along the
prettiest country roads that he knew of, and this suited him well, for he
not only considered himself a good judge of scenery, but he knew which
roads were easiest for his horse.
As they travelled leisurely along, the ladies enjoying the air, the
fields, the sweet summer smells, the stretches of woods, the blue and
white sky, and everything that goes to make a perfect summer afternoon.
Andy endeavored to add to their pleasure by giving them information
regarding the inhabitants of the various dwellings they passed.
"That whitish house back there among the trees," said he, "with the green
blinds, is called the Witton place. The Wittons themselves are nuthin'
out o' the common; but there's an old lady lives there with 'em, who if
you ever meet, you'll know agin, if you see her agin. Her name's
Panney,--Miss Panney,--and she's a one-er. What she don't know about me,
I don't know, and what she won't know about you, three days after she
gits acquainted with you, you don't know. That's the kind of a person
Miss Panney is. There's a lot of very nice people, some rich and some
poor, and some queer and some not quite so queer, that lives in and
around Thorbury, and if you like it at Mrs. Brinkly's and conclude to
stay there any length of time, I don't doubt you'll git acquainted with a
good many of 'em; but take my word for it, you'll never meet anybody who
can go ahead of Miss Panney in the way of turnin' up unexpected. I once
had a sick hoss, who couldn't do much more than stand up, but I had to
drive him one day, 'cause my other one was hired out. 'Now' says I, as I
drew out the stable, 'if I can get around town this mornin' without
meetin' Miss Panney, I think old Bob can do my work, and to-morrow I'll
turn him out to grass.' And as I went around the first corner, there was
Miss Panney a drivin' her roan mare. She pulled up when she seed me, and
she calls out, 'Andy, what's the matter with that hoss?' I told her he
was a little under the weather, but I had to use him that day, 'cause my
other hoss was out. Then she got straight out of that phaeton she drives
in, and come up to my hoss, and says she, 'Andy, you ought to be ashamed
of yourself to make a hoss work when he is in a condition like that. Take
him right back to your stable, or I'll have you up before a justice.'
'Now look here, Miss Panney,' says I, 'which is the best, for a hoss to
jog a little round town when he ain't feeling quite well, or for a man to
sit idle on his front doorstep and see his family starve?' 'Now, Andy,'
says she, 'is that the case with you?' and havin' brought up the pint
myself, I was obliged to say that it was. 'Very good, then,' said she,
and she took her roan mare by the head and led it up to the curbstone.
'Now then,' said she, 'you can take your hoss out of the cab and put this
hoss in, and you can drive her till your hoss gets well, and durin' that
time I'll walk.'
"Well, of course I didn't do that, and I took my hoss back to the stable,
and my family didn't starve nuther; but I just tell you this to show you
what sort of a woman Miss Panney is."
"I should think she was a very estimable person," said Mrs. Drane.
"Oh, there's nothin' the matter with her estimation," said Andy. "That's
level enough. I only told you that to show you how you can always expect
her to turn up unexpected."
"Mrs. Brinkly spoke of Miss Panney," said Cicely; "she said that she was
the first one to come and see her about rooms for us."
"That was certainly very kind," said Mrs. Drane, "considering that she
does not know us at all, except through Dr. Tolbridge. I remember his
speaking of her."
"That place over there," said Andy, "you can jest see the tops of the
chimneys, that's called Cobhurst; that's where old Matthias Butterwood
used to live. It was an awful big house for one man, but he was queer.
There's nobody livin' there now but two young people, sort of temporary,
I guess, though the place belongs to 'em. I don't think they are any too
well off. They don't give us hack-drivers much custom, never havin' any
friends comin' or goin', or trunks or anything. He's got no other
business, they say, and don't know no more about farmin' than a potato
knows about preachin'. There's nothin' on the place that amounts to
anything except the barn. There's a wonderful barn there, that old
Butterwood spent nobody knows how much money on, and he a bachelor. You
can't see the barn from here, but I'll drive you where you can get a good
look at it."
In a few minutes, he made a turn, and whipped up his horse to a better
speed, and before Mrs. Drane and her daughter could comprehend the state
of affairs, they were rolling over a not very well kept private road, and
approaching the front of a house.
"Where are you going, driver?" exclaimed Mrs. Drane, leaning forward in
astonishment.
Andy turned his beaming countenance upon her, and flourished his whip.
"Oh, I'm just goin' to drive round the side of the house," he said; "at
the back there's a little knoll where we can stop, and you can see the
whole of the barn with the three ways of gittin' into it, one for each
story." At that moment they rolled past the front piazza on which were
Miriam and Ralph, gazing at them in surprise. The latter had risen when
he had heard the approaching carriage, supposing they were to have
visitors. But as the vehicle passed the door he looked at his sister in
amazement.
"It can't be," said he, "that those people have come to visit Mike?"
"Or Molly Tooney?" said Miriam.
As for Mrs. Drane and Cicely, they were shocked. They had never been
in the habit of driving into private grounds for the sake of seeing
what might be there to see, and Mrs. Drane sharply ordered the
driver to stop.
"What do you mean," said she, "by bringing us in here?"
"Oh, that's nuthin'," said Andy, with a genial grin; "they won't mind
your comin' in to look at the barn. I've druv lots of people in here to
look at that barn, though, to be sure, not since these young people has
been livin' here, but they won't mind it an eighth of an inch."
"I shall get out and apologize," said Mrs. Drane, "for this shameful
intrusion, and then you must drive us out of the grounds immediately. We
do not wish to stop to look at anything," and with this she stepped from
the little phaeton and walked back to the piazza.
Stopping at the bottom of the steps, she saluted the brother and sister,
whose faces showed that they were in need of some sort of explanation of
her arrival at their domestic threshold.
In a few words she explained how the carriage had happened to enter the
grounds, and hoped that they would consider that the impropriety was due
entirely to the driver, and not to any desire on their part to intrude
themselves on private property for the sake of sight-seeing. Ralph and
Miriam were both pleased with the words and manner of this exceedingly
pleasant-looking lady.
"I beg that you will not consider at all that you have intruded," said
Ralph. "If there is anything on our place that you would care to look at,
I hope that you will do so."
"It was only the barn," said Mrs. Drane, with a smile. "The man told us
it was a peculiar building, but I supposed we could see it without
entering your place. We will trespass no longer."
Ralph went down the steps, and Miriam followed.
"Oh, you are perfectly welcome to look at the barn as much as you wish
to," he said. "In fact, we are rather proud to find that this is anything
of a show place. If the other lady will alight, I will be pleased to have
you walk into the barn. The door of the upper floor is open, and there is
a very fine view from the back."
Mrs. Drane smiled.
"You are very good indeed," she said, "to treat intrusive strangers with
such kindness, but I shall be glad to have you know that we are not mere
tourists. We are, at present, residents of Thorbury. I am Mrs. Drane, and
my daughter is engaged in assisting Dr. Tolbridge in some literary work."
"If you are friends of Dr. Tolbridge," said Ralph, "you are more than
welcome to see whatever there is to see on this place. The doctor is one
of our best friends. If you like, I will show you the barn, and perhaps
my sister will come with us."
Miriam, who for a week or more had been beset by the very unusual desire
that she would like to see somebody and speak to somebody who did not
live at Cobhurst, willingly agreed to assist in escorting the strangers,
and Cicely having joined the group, they all walked toward the barn.
There were no self-introductions, Ralph merely acting as cicerone, and
Miriam bringing up the rear in the character of occasional commentator.
Mrs. Drane had accepted the young gentleman's invitation because she felt
that the most polite thing to do under the circumstances was to gratify
his courteous desire to put them at their ease, and, being a lover of
fine scenery, she was well rewarded by the view from the great window.
The pride of possession began to glow a little within Ralph as he pointed
out the features of this castle-like barn. Mrs. Drane agreed to his
proposition to descend to the second floor. But as these two were going
down the broad stairway, Cicely drew back, and suddenly turning,
addressed Miriam.
"I have been wanting to ask a great many questions," she said, "but I
have felt ashamed to do it. I have nearly always lived in the country,
but I know hardly anything about barns and cows and stables and hay and
all that. Do the hens lay their eggs up there in your hay?"
Miriam smiled gravely.
"It is very hard to find out," she said, "where they do lay their eggs.
Some days we do not get any at all, though I suppose they lay them, just
the same. There is a henhouse, but they never go in there."
Cicely moved toward the stairway, and then she stopped; she cast her
eyes toward the mass of hay in the mow above, and then she gave a little
sigh. Miriam looked at her and understood her perfectly, moreover she
pitied her.
"How is it," said she as they went down the stairs, "that you lived in
the country, and do not know about country things?"
"We lived in suburbs," she said. "I think suburbs are horrible; they are
neither one thing nor the other. We had a lawn and shade trees, and a
croquet ground, and a tennis court, but we bought our milk and eggs and
most of our vegetables. There isn't any real country in all that, you
know. I was never in a haymow in my life. All I know about that sort of
thing is from books."
When, with many thanks for the courtesies offered them, Mrs. Drane and
her daughter had driven away, Miriam sat by herself on the piazza and
thought. She had a good deal of time, now, to think, for Molly Tooney was
a far more efficient servant than Phoebe had been, and although her
brother gave her as much of his time as he could, she was of necessity
left a good deal to herself.
She began by thinking what an exceedingly gentlemanly man her brother
was; in his ordinary working clothes he had been as much at his ease with
those ladies as though he had been dressed in a city costume, which,
however, would not have been nearly so becoming to him as his loose
flannel shirt and broad straw hat. She then began to regret that her mind
worked so slowly. If it had been quicker to act, she would have asked
that young lady to come some day and go up in the haymow with her. It
would be a positive charity to give a girl with longings, such as she saw
that one had, a chance of knowing what real country life was. It would
be pleasant to show things to a girl who really wanted to know about
them. From this she began to think of Dora Bannister. Dora was a nice
girl, but Miriam could not think of her as one to whom she could show or
tell very much; Dora liked to do the showing and telling herself.
"I truly believe," said Miriam to herself, and a slight flush came on her
face, "that if she could have done it, she would have liked to stay here
a week, and wear the teaberry gown all the time and direct
everything,--although, of course, I would never have allowed that." With
a little contraction of the brows, she went into the hall, where she
heard her brother's step.