The Weathercock | Page 4

want to, I tell you, so don't say any more about it."
But before Vane could grasp the woman's intention, she had snatched the basket from his hand and borne it back to the table, upon which she thumped it with so much vigour that several of the golden chalice-like fungi leaped out.
"Here, what are you going to do?" cried Vane.
"What you told me, sir," said cook austerely, and with a great hardening of her face. "I don't forget my dooties, sir, if other people do."
"Oh, but never mind, cook," cried Vane. "I'm sorry I asked you."
"Pray don't say any more about it, sir. The things shall be cooked and sent to table, and it's very thankful you ought to be, I'm sure, that master's a doctor and on the spot ready, for so sure as you eat that mess in the parlour, you'll all be on a bed of sickness before night."
"Now, Martha," cried Vane; "that's just what you said when I asked you to cook the parasol mushrooms."
"Paragrandmother mushrooms, sir; you might just as well call them by their proper name, umberrella toadstools, and I don't believe any one ate them."
"Yes; uncle and I ate them, and they were delicious. Cook these the same way."
"I know how to cook them, sir, only it's an insult to proper mushrooms to dress them in the same way as good wholesome food."
"That's good wholesome food," said Vane, "only people don't know it. I wanted to bring you some big puff balls to fry for me, but you turn so cross about it."
"And enough to make anyone turn cross, sir. There, that will do now. I've said that I'd cook them, and that's enough."
Vane Lee felt that there was nothing to be done now but make a retreat, and he went into the hall where Eliza Jane, the doctor's housemaid, was whisking a feather-brush about, over picture-frames, and ornaments, curiosities from different parts of the world, and polishing the hall table. From this she flew to the stand and caught up the hat brush with which she attacked the different hats on the pegs, speaking over her shoulder at Vane in a rapid way as she went on.
"Now, don't you ask me to do anything, Master Vane, because I'm all behind, and your aunt's made the tea and waiting for you, and your uncle will be back directly, for he has only gone down the garden for a walk, and to pick up the fallen peaches."
"Wasn't going to ask you to do anything," was the reply.
"But you've been asking cook to do something, and a nice fantigue she'll be in. She was bad enough before. I wouldn't have such a temper for all the money in the Bank of England. What have you been asking her to do?--Bother the hat!"
Eliza was brushing so vigorously that she sent Vane's hard felt hat, which she had just snatched up from where he had placed it, flying to the other end of the hall just as Doctor Lee, a tall, pleasant-looking grey-haired man, came in from the garden with a basket of his gleanings from beneath the south wall.
"That meant for me?" he said, staring down at the hat and then at Vane.
"Which I beg your pardon, sir," said the maid, hurriedly. "I was brushing it, and it flew out of my hand."
"Ah! You should hold it tight," said the doctor, picking up the hat, and looking at a dint in the crown. "It will require an operation to remove that depression of the brain-pan on the dura mater. I mean on the lining, eh, Vane?"
"Oh, I can soon put that right," said the boy merrily, as he gave it a punch with his fist and restored the crown to its smooth dome-like shape.
"Yes," said the doctor, "but you see we cannot do that with a man who has a fractured skull. Been out I see?" he continued, looking down at the lad's discoloured, dust-stained boots.
"Oh, yes, uncle, I was out at six. Glorious morning. Found quite a basketful of young chanterelles."
"Indeed? What have you done with them?"
"Been fighting Martha to get her to cook them."
"And failed?" said the doctor quietly, as he peered into the basket, and turned over the soft, downy, red-cheeked peaches he had brought in.
"No, uncle,--won."
"Now, you good people, it's nearly half-past eight. Breakfast-- breakfast. Bring in the ham, Eliza."
"Good-morning, my dear," said the doctor, bending down to kiss the pleasantly plump elderly lady who had just opened the dining-room door, and keeping up the fiction of its being their first meeting that morning.
"Good-morning, dear."
"Come, Vane, my boy," cried the doctor, "breakfast, breakfast. Here's aunt in one of her furious tempers because you are so late."
"Don't you believe him, my dear," said the lady. "It's too bad. And really, Thomas, you should