no
sooner had Miss Cornelia seated herself when the door of the billiard
room slammed open suddenly and Lizzie burst into the room as if she had
been shot from a gun—her hair wild—her face stricken with fear.
"I heard somebody yell out in the grounds—away down by the gate!" she
informed her mistress in a loud stage whisper which had a curious note
of pride in it, as if she were not too displeased at seeing her doleful
predictions so swiftly coming to pass.
Miss Cornelia took her by the shoulder—half-startled, half-dubious.
"What did they yell?"
"Just yelled a yell!"
"Lizzie!"
"I heard them!"
But she had cried "Wolf!" too often.
"You take a liver pill," said her mistress disgustedly, "and go to bed."
Lizzie was about to protest both the verdict on her story and the
judgment on herself when the door in the hall was opened by Billy to
admit the new gardener. A handsome young fellow, in his late twenties,
he came two steps into the room and then stood there respectfully with
his cap in his hand, waiting for Miss Cornelia to speak to him.
After a swift glance of observation that gave her food for thought she
did so.
"You are Brooks, the new gardener?"
The young man inclined his head.
"Yes, madam. The butler said you wanted to speak to me."
Miss Cornelia regarded him anew. His hands look soft—for a
gardener's, she thought. And his manners seem much too good for one—
Still—
"Come in," she said briskly. The young man advanced another two steps.
"You're the man my niece engaged in the city this afternoon?"
"Yes, madam." He seemed a little uneasy under her searching scrutiny.
She dropped her eyes.
"I could not verify your references as the Brays are in Canada—" she
proceeded.
The young man took an eager step forward. "I am sure if Mrs. Bray were
here—" he began, then flushed and stopped, twisting his cap.
"Were here?" said Miss Cornelia in a curious voice. "Are you a
professional gardener?"
"Yes." The young man's manner had grown a trifle defiant but Miss
Cornelia's next question followed remorselessly.
"Know anything about hardy perennials?" she said in a soothing voice,
while Lizzie regarded the interview with wondering eyes.
"Oh. yes," but the young man seemed curiously lacking in confidence.
"They—they're the ones that keep their leaves during the winter,
aren't they?"
"Come over here—closer—" said Miss Cornelia imperiously. Once more
she scrutinized him and this time there was no doubt of his discomfort
under her stare.
"Have you had any experience with rubeola?" she queried finally.
"Oh, yes—yes—yes, indeed," the gardener stammered. "Yes."
"And—alopecia?" pursued Miss Cornelia.
The young man seemed to fumble in his mind for the characteristics of
such a flower or shrub.
"The dry weather is very hard on alopecia," he asserted finally, and
was evidently relieved to see Miss Cornelia receive the statement with
a pleasant smile.
"What do you think is the best treatment for urticaria?" she propounded
with a highly professional manner.
It appeared to be a catch-question. The young man knotted his brows.
Finally a gleam of light seemed to come to him.
"Urticaria frequently needs—er—thinning," he announced decisively.
"Needs scratching you mean!" Miss Cornelia rose with a snort of disdain
and faced him. "Young man, urticaria is hives, rubeola is measles, and
alopecia is baldness!" she thundered. She waited a moment for his
defense. None came.
"Why did you tell me you were a professional gardener?" she went on
accusingly. "Why have you come here at this hour of night pretending
to be something you're not?"
By all standards of drama the young man should have wilted before her
wrath, Instead he suddenly smiled at her, boyishly, and threw up his
hands in a gesture of defeat.
"I know I shouldn't have done it!" he confessed with appealing
frankness. "You'd have found me out anyhow! I don't know anything
about gardening. The truth is," his tone grew somber, "I was
desperate! I
sooner had Miss Cornelia seated herself when the door of the billiard
room slammed open suddenly and Lizzie burst into the room as if she had
been shot from a gun—her hair wild—her face stricken with fear.
"I heard somebody yell out in the grounds—away down by the gate!" she
informed her mistress in a loud stage whisper which had a curious note
of pride in it, as if she were not too displeased at seeing her doleful
predictions so swiftly coming to pass.
Miss Cornelia took her by the shoulder—half-startled, half-dubious.
"What did they yell?"
"Just yelled a yell!"
"Lizzie!"
"I heard them!"
But she had cried "Wolf!" too often.
"You take a liver pill," said her mistress disgustedly, "and go to bed."
Lizzie was about to protest both the verdict on her story and the
judgment on herself when the door in the hall was opened by Billy to
admit the new gardener. A handsome young fellow, in his late twenties,
he came two steps into the room and then stood there respectfully with
his cap in his hand, waiting for Miss Cornelia to speak to him.
After a swift glance of observation that gave her food for thought she
did so.
"You are Brooks, the new gardener?"
The young man inclined his head.
"Yes, madam. The butler said you wanted to speak to me."
Miss Cornelia regarded him anew. His hands look soft—for a
gardener's, she thought. And his manners seem much too good for one—
Still—
"Come in," she said briskly. The young man advanced another two steps.
"You're the man my niece engaged in the city this afternoon?"
"Yes, madam." He seemed a little uneasy under her searching scrutiny.
She dropped her eyes.
"I could not verify your references as the Brays are in Canada—" she
proceeded.
The young man took an eager step forward. "I am sure if Mrs. Bray were
here—" he began, then flushed and stopped, twisting his cap.
"Were here?" said Miss Cornelia in a curious voice. "Are you a
professional gardener?"
"Yes." The young man's manner had grown a trifle defiant but Miss
Cornelia's next question followed remorselessly.
"Know anything about hardy perennials?" she said in a soothing voice,
while Lizzie regarded the interview with wondering eyes.
"Oh. yes," but the young man seemed curiously lacking in confidence.
"They—they're the ones that keep their leaves during the winter,
aren't they?"
"Come over here—closer—" said Miss Cornelia imperiously. Once more
she scrutinized him and this time there was no doubt of his discomfort
under her stare.
"Have you had any experience with rubeola?" she queried finally.
"Oh, yes—yes—yes, indeed," the gardener stammered. "Yes."
"And—alopecia?" pursued Miss Cornelia.
The young man seemed to fumble in his mind for the characteristics of
such a flower or shrub.
"The dry weather is very hard on alopecia," he asserted finally, and
was evidently relieved to see Miss Cornelia receive the statement with
a pleasant smile.
"What do you think is the best treatment for urticaria?" she propounded
with a highly professional manner.
It appeared to be a catch-question. The young man knotted his brows.
Finally a gleam of light seemed to come to him.
"Urticaria frequently needs—er—thinning," he announced decisively.
"Needs scratching you mean!" Miss Cornelia rose with a snort of disdain
and faced him. "Young man, urticaria is hives, rubeola is measles, and
alopecia is baldness!" she thundered. She waited a moment for his
defense. None came.
"Why did you tell me you were a professional gardener?" she went on
accusingly. "Why have you come here at this hour of night pretending
to be something you're not?"
By all standards of drama the young man should have wilted before her
wrath, Instead he suddenly smiled at her, boyishly, and threw up his
hands in a gesture of defeat.
"I know I shouldn't have done it!" he confessed with appealing
frankness. "You'd have found me out anyhow! I don't know anything
about gardening. The truth is," his tone grew somber, "I was
desperate! I
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