Part 9 (1/2)

The man laughed again, pleasantly, and said:

”You know we like to know about our neighbors, and you are the newest neighbor.”

”But are you going to write all I said?”

”Well, nearly all; but, Miss Doane, if there is anything you don't want written, I'll cut it.”

Drusilla was embarra.s.sed.

”Have I said anything that I shouldn't? If I had known you was from a paper, I'd 'a' waited until Mr. Thornton come.”

”I'm jolly glad you didn't. Little copy could have been squeezed from that old lawyer. But don't you worry, Miss Doane. There won't be anything that will hurt you. It's kind of you to see me. I have been trying for several days to get in, but couldn't get past that butler of yours. He sure is a wonder.”

”Did the butler stop you?”

”Well, yes; he stood at the door like an armored cruiser. I wouldn't have made it to-day if I hadn't waited until I saw him go out. I knew the second man was at his home and only a maid in charge of you.”

Drusilla was unhappy.

”Perhaps I shouldn't have seen you. It must have been Mr. Thornton's orders, and he knows what is best for me.”

She crossed over to the young man and looked rather pitifully up into his face.

”You look like a nice young man,” she said; ”I like your eyes. You won't say nothing that'll make Mr. Thornton unhappy?”

The reporter took the half-outstretched hand and smiled down into the kindly, wrinkled face. When he spoke there was almost a touch of tenderness in his voice.

”I don't care about making Mr. Thornton unhappy, Miss Doane, but I wouldn't do anything to make _you_ unhappy for the world; and if you ever want anything of the papers, here is my card. Just you send for me and I'll do anything for you that I can.”

And so ended Drusilla's first interview.

To her amazement the next Sunday there was spread before her the paper with great headlines: MISS DRUSILLA DOANE, OUR NEWEST MILLIONAIRE. There was the picture of the Doane home for old ladies; there were pictures of the home at Brookvale taken from many angles, pictures of the garden, the conservatories; and in the middle of the page there was Drusilla herself, sitting in the high-backed chair.

The article was well written, filled with ”heart interest.” It told of her early struggles, her years of work, and her later life in the charity home. Evidently the young man had visited the village where she had lived and talked with all who knew her; and Mrs. Smith's hand could plainly be seen in the account of the life of the inmates of the inst.i.tution over which she had charge. Even poor old Barbara had been called upon to tell about Drusilla, the many little acts of kindness which she had done for the poor and lonely. As Drusilla read it she laughed and said, ”Well, I guess Barbara had her teeth in that day.” The article ended with the account of the million dollar bequest, and suggested that quite likely the charities of New York would benefit by the newest acquisition to the ranks of its millionaires, as Miss Doane was alone in the world, and had no one on whom to lavish her enormous income or to leave the money when she was called to the other world.

Drusilla did not know it, but this last addition of the facile reporter's pen set many heads of inst.i.tutions to thinking, and caused many a person to wonder how they could gain the affections or the pity of this old lady, and separate her from at least a part of her new-found inheritance.

Drusilla pa.s.sed many hours among the flowers in the conservatories, where she won the heart of the gardener by the keen interest she took in his work. He would walk around with her and tell her the names of the plants strange to her, pointing out their beauties and their peculiarities. He soon saw that the orchids and the rare blooms from foreign lands did not appeal to her as did the old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers she knew, and they made a little bargain that in the spring she should have some beds of mignonette, phlox, verbenas, and moss rose. One morning she watched him giving directions to one of the under-gardeners for the potting of small plants for the spring.

”Mr. Donald,” she said, ”I wish I could plant somethin'. It's been years since I dug around in the earth, and I want to plant somethin'

and see it grow.”

”That's easy, ma'am,” said Scotch Mr. Donald. ”I'll fix a part of the house here and you can plant what you want in it”; and after that many mornings found Drusilla pottering happily around the conservatory with a trowel, planting seeds or ”slipping” plants as she called it. It gave her something to do, and that was the one thing she needed. She missed the active life, the ”doing something.”

Everything was done for her--she had no duties. She, who had pa.s.sed her life in service for others, here had only to mention a wish and it was immediately carried out. She was not allowed even to look after her clothing. As soon as an article was removed it was whisked out of the room and when returned was brushed, mended, and ready for use again.

One afternoon Drusilla sat down by the window to mend a tear on the bottom of her skirt. Jeanne, coming into the room, quickly took the garment from her.

”Madame, she must not do that. _Quelle horreur!_ I will attend to it at once.”

Drusilla laughed.

”Can't I even patch my dress?” she said. ”Jane, where are my stockin's? I am sure there must be some darnin'.”