PANNEYOPATHY AND THE ASH-HOLE
Neither Ralph nor his sister nor either of the Drane ladies had the least
reason to believe that Dora minded the news contained in Miriam's note,
except that it had given her a heartfelt delight and joy, and that it had
made her unable to wait a single moment longer than was necessary to come
and tell them all how earnestly she congratulated them, and what a
capital good thing she thought it was. She caught Ralph by himself and
spoke to him so much like a sympathetic sister that he was a little,
just the least little bit in the world, pained.
As Cicely had never had any objection to Miss Bannister, excepting her
frequent appearances in Ralph's conversation, she received Dora's
felicitations with the same cordiality that she saw in her lovely eyes
and on her lips. And Mrs. Drane thought that if this girl were a sample
of the Haverleys' friends and neighbors, her daughter's lot would be even
more pleasant than she had supposed it would be. As for Miriam, she and
Dora walked together, their arms around each other's waists, up and down
in the garden, and back and forward in the orchard, until the Bannister
coachman went to sleep on his box.
During this long interview, the younger girl became impressed, not only
with the fact that Dora thought so well of the match, that, if she had
been looking for a wife for Ralph, she certainly would have selected Miss
Drane, but with the stability of Miss Bannister's affection for her,
which did not seem to be affected in the least by the changes which would
take place in the composition of the Cobhurst household. Dora had said,
indeed, that she had no doubt that she and Miriam would be more intimate
than ever, because Mr. Haverley would be so monopolized by his wife.
This was all very pleasant to Miriam, but it did not in the least cause
her to regret Ralph's choice. Dora was a lovely girl, but it was now
plainer than ever that she was also a very superior one, whereas Cicely
was just like other people and did not pretend to be anything more, and,
moreover, she would not have wished her brother to marry anyone whose
idea of matrimony was the monopoly of her husband, and she knew that
Cicely had no such idea. But Dora was the dearest of good friends, Miriam
was very sure of that.
The Bannister carriage had scarcely left the Cobhurst gates when the dog,
Congo, came bounding after it. Dora looked at him as his great brown eyes
were turned up towards her, and his tail was wagging with the joy of
following her once more, she knew that his training was so good that she
had only to tell him to go back and he would obey her, sorrowfully, with
his tail hanging down. He was Ralph's dog now, and she ought to send him
back, but would she? She looked at him for a few moments, considering the
question, and then she said,--
"Come, Congo" and with a bound he was in the carriage and at her feet.
"You were not an out and out gift, poor fellow," she said, stroking his
head. "I expected you to be partly my dog, all the same, and now we will
see if she will let him claim you."
The dog heard all this, but Dora spoke so low, the coachman could not
hear it, and she did not intend that any one else should know it unless
the dog told.
Ralph did not miss Congo until the next morning, and then, having become
convinced that the dog must have followed the Bannister carriage, he
expressed, in the presence of Cicely, his uncertainty as to whether it
would be better for him to go after the dog himself, or to send Mike.
"If I were you," said Miss Cicely, "I would not send for him at all. If
Miss Bannister really wants to get rid of him, and does not know anybody
else who would take him, she may send him back herself. But it seems to
me that a setter is not the best sort of a dog for a farm like this. I
should think you ought to have a big mastiff, or something of that sort."
"It is a great pity," said Ralph, musingly, "that he happened to be
unchained."
"The more I think about it," said Cicely, "the less I like setters. They
are so intimately connected with the death of the beautiful. Did you ever
think of that?"
Ralph never had, and as a man now came up to talk to him about hay, the
dog and everything connected with it passed out of his mind.
When Miss Panney reached home after her abrupt parting from Dora
Bannister, she took a dose of the last medicine that Dr. Tolbridge had
prescribed for her. It was against her rules to use internal medicines,
but she made exceptions on important occasions, and as this was a remedy
for the effects of anger, she had taken it before and she took it now.
Then she went to bed and there she stayed until three o'clock the next
afternoon. This greatly disturbed the Wittons, for they had always
believed that this hearty old lady would not be carried off by any
disease, but when her time had come would simply take to her bed and die
there, after the manner of elderly animals.
About the middle of the afternoon Mrs. Witton came up into her room. She
did not do this often, for the old lady had always made everybody in the
house understand that this room was her castle, and when any one was
wanted there, he or she would be summoned.
"You must be feeling very badly," said the meek and anxious Mrs. Witton
"don't you think it would be better to send for a doctor?"
"There is no doctor," said Miss Panney, shortly.
"Oh yes," said the other, "there are several excellent doctors in
Thorbury, and Dr. Parker takes all of Dr. Tolbridge's practice while
he is away."
"Stuff!" remarked Miss Panney. "I spanked Dr. Parker, when he wore
little frocks, for running his tin wheelbarrow against me so that I
nearly fell over it."
"But he has learned a great deal since then," pleaded Mrs. Witton "and if
you do not want any new doctors, isn't there something I can do for you?
If you will tell me how you feel, it may be that some sort of herb
tea--or a mustard plaster--"
"Gammon and spinach!" cried Miss Panney, throwing off the bedclothes as
if she were about to spring into the middle of the floor. "I want no teas
nor plasters. I have had as much sleep as I care for, and now I am going
to get up. So trot downstairs, if you please, and tell Margaret to bring
me up some hot water."
For an hour or two before supper time, Miss Panney occupied herself in
clearing out her medicine closet. Every bottle, jar, vial, box, or
package it contained was placed upon a large table and divided into two
collections. One consisted of the lotions and medicines prescribed for
her by Dr. Tolbridge, and the other of those she herself, in the course
of many years, had ordered or compounded,--not only for her own use, but
for that of others. She had long prided herself on her skill in this sort
of thing, and was always willing to prepare almost any sort of medicine
for ailing people, asking nothing in payment but the pleasure of seeing
them take it.
When everything had been examined and placed on its appropriate end of
the table, Miss Panney called for an empty coalscuttle, into which she
tumbled, without regard to spilling or breakage, the whole mass of
medicaments which had been prepared or prescribed by herself, and she
then requested the servant to deposit the contents of the scuttle in
the ash-hole.
"After this," she said to herself, "I will get somebody else to do my
concocting," and she carefully replaced her physician's medicines on
the shelves.
It was three days later when Miss Panney was told that Dr. Tolbridge was
in the parlor and wished to see her.
"Well," said the old lady, as she entered the parlor, "I supposed that
after your last call here, you would not come again."
"Oh, bless my soul!" said the doctor, "I haven't any time to consider
what has happened, I must give my whole attention to what is happening or
may happen. How are you? and how have you been during my absence?"
"Oh, I had medicines enough" said she, "if I had needed them, but
I didn't."
"Well, I wanted to see for myself, and, besides, I was obliged to come,"
said the doctor; "I want to know what has happened since we left. We got
home late last night, and I have not seen anybody who knows anything."
"And so," said the old lady, "you will swallow an insult in order to
gratify your curiosity."
"Insult, indeed!" said he. "I have a regular rule about insults. When
anybody under thirty insults me, I give her a piece of my mind if she is
a woman, and a taste of my horsewhip if he is a man. But between thirty
and fifty, I am very careful about my resentments, because people are
then very likely to be cracked or damaged in some way or other, either in
body or mind, and unless I am very cautious, I may do more injury than I
intend. But toward folks over fifty, especially when they are old
friends, I have no resentments at all. I simply button up my coat and
turn up my collar, and let the storm pelt; and when it is fine weather
again, I generally find that I have forgotten that it ever rained."
"And when a person is in the neighborhood of seventy-five, I suppose you
thank her kindly for a good slap in the face."
The doctor laughed heartily.
"Precisely," said he. "And now tell me what has happened. You are all
right, I see. How are the Cobhurst people getting on?"
"Oh, well enough," said Miss Panney. "The young man and that Cicely Drane
of yours have agreed to marry each other, and I suppose the old lady
will live with them, and Miriam will have to get down from her high horse
and agree to play second fiddle, or go to school again. She is too young
for anything else."
The doctor stared. "You amaze me!" he cried.
"Oh, you needn't be amazed," said Miss Panney; "I did it!"
"You?" said the doctor, "I thought you wanted him to marry Dora."
"If you thought that," said Miss Panney, flashing her black eyes upon
him, "why did you lend yourself to such an underhanded piece of business
as the sending of that Drane girl there?"
"Oh, bless my soul!" exclaimed the doctor, "I did not lend myself to
anything. I did not send her there to be married. Let us drop that, and
tell me how you came to change your mind."
"I have a rule about dropping things," said the old lady, "and with
people of vigorous intellect, I never do it, but when any one is getting
on in years and a little soft-minded, so that he does what he is told to
do without being able to see the consequences of it, I pity him and drop
the subject which worries his conscience. I have not changed my mind in
the least. I still think that Dora would be the best wife young Haverley
could have, and after I found that you had added to your treacheries or
stupidities, or whatever they were, by carrying her off to Barport, I
intended to take advantage of the situation, so I got Dora to invite
Miriam there, feeling sure that the Drane women would have sense enough
to know that they then ought to leave Cobhurst; but they had not sense
enough, and they stayed there. Then I saw that the situation was
critical, and went to Barport myself, and sent the young man a telegram
that would have aroused the heart of a feather-bed and made it be with me
in three hours, but it did not rouse him and he did not come; and before
that silly Mrs. Bannister got back with the two girls, the mischief was
done, and that little Drane had taken advantage of the opportunity I had
given her to trap Mr. Ralph. Oh, she is a sharp one! and with you and me
to help her, she could do almost anything. You take off her rival, and I
send away the interfering sister; and all she has to do is to snap up the
young man, while her mother and that illustrious cook of yours stand by
and clap their hands. But I do not give you much credit. You are merely
an inconsiderate blunderer, to say no more. You did not plan anything; I
did that, and when my plans don't work one way, they do in another. This
one was like a boomerang that did not hit what it was aimed at, but came
banging and clattering back all the same. And now I will remark that I
have given up that sort of thing. I can throw as well as ever, but I am
too old to stand the back-cracks."
"You are not too old for anything," said the doctor, "and you and I will
do a lot of planning yet. But tell me one thing; do you think that this
Haverley-Drane combination is going to deprive me of La Fleur?"
"Upon my word!" cried the old lady, springing to her feet, "never did I
see a man so steeped in selfishness. Not a word of sympathy for me! In
all this unfortunate affair, you think of nothing but the danger of
losing your cook! Well, I am happy to say you are going to lose her. That
will be your punishment, and well you deserve it. She will no more think
of staying with you, after the Dranes set up housekeeping at Cobhurst,
than I would think of coming to cook for you. And so you may go back to
your soggy bread, and your greasy fries, and your dishwater coffee, and
get yellow and green in the face, thin in the legs, and weak in the
stomach, and have good reason to say to yourself that if you had let Miss
Panney alone, and let her work out that excellent plan she had confided
to you, you would have lived to a healthy old age, with the best cook in
this part of the country making you happy three times a day, and
satisfied with the world between meals."
"Deal gently with the erring," said the doctor. "Don't crush me. I want
to go to Cobhurst this morning, to see them all, and find out my fate.
Wouldn't you like to go with me? I have a visit to make, two or three
miles above here, but I shall be back soon, and will drive you over. What
do you say?"
"Very good," said Miss Panney. "I have been thinking of calling on the
happy family."
As soon as the doctor had departed Miss Panney ordered her phaeton.
"I intended going to Cobhurst to-day," she said to herself, "but I do not
propose to go with him. I shall get there first and see how the land
lies, before he comes to muddle up things with his sordid anxieties about
his future victuals and drink."