Phebe, Her Profession Part 12

The office door closed behind her father, and Phebe let her book slide from her knee, as she rested her tired eyes on the fresh green lawn before her. For the past three months, she had worked hard, eager to prove that her home-coming had been inspired by no sudden whim, still more eager to win her father's professional approval. Her work was interesting; and yet at times bones and arteries and nerves had a tendency to pall upon her. She had never dreamed that so much drudgery would attend the early stages of her professional studies.

She was heartily sick of the theoretical, and she longed for the practical. She had even teased her father to let her go with him on his rounds. Instead, he had laughed at her and prescribed a further course of drudgery.

"Never mind." she said to herself st.u.r.dily. "I'll get there, some day. I won't always carry pills to old women; and when I do get a real case of my own won't I astonish them all!" And events justified her a.s.sertion.

She was still sitting there, dreaming of future deeds, when Allyn came out to the veranda.

"Oh, Allyn?"

"Hullo, sawbones!"

"What are you going to do this afternoon?"

"Nothing."

"Don't you want to ride with me?"

"Maybe. Where?"

"To Bannock Bars."

"What for?"

"To take some pills to Mrs. Richardson."

"Not much. Mrs. Richardson is frabjous and a gossip."

"What if she is? You needn't talk to her."

But Allyn shook his head.

"Not if I know myself. I'll oil your wheel for you, Babe, and pack your pills; but I won't go within range of Mrs. Richardson, for she gives me the creeps."

"She won't hurt you."

"No; but she makes me feel clammy in the spine of my back, and then she gives me good advice. I'll tell you, Babe, I'll go and get Cis, and we will ride part way with you. If two people escort you half way, that is as good as having one of them go all the way. Besides, I never feel quite easy when I am all alone with you. If anything happened, you might be moved to experiment on me, and that would be fatal."

On the veranda, after luncheon Allyn and Phebe stood waiting for Cicely.

She came running across the lawn at last, trim and dainty in her short grey suit.

"I am sorry to be late," she panted; "but I had to stop to chastise Melchisedek. I found him asleep in Cousin Theodora's fernery. It was so soft and cool that I suppose it tempted him, this hot day, poor little man! But aren't you forcing the season, Babe?"

Phebe looked down at her immaculate duck suit.

"No; it is almost the first of June, and so warm. Besides, I am only going out to the wilderness. I am clean and comfortable, and that is the main thing."

"Unless we get a shower," Allyn suggested.

Phebe looked up at the sky.

"There isn't a cloud in sight, Allyn. It's not going to rain, I know."

"It's sultry. You can't ever tell about a day like this. Still, if you want to risk it,--"

"I do." And Phebe mounted her bicycle.

The Savins lay at the western edge of the town. Beyond it, the road to Bannock Bars led away straight toward the sunset, over hill and hollow, through stretches of sand and along narrow footpaths. It was a road to terrify an amateur; but Phebe's riding was strong and steady, and she was glad to be in the saddle once more, forgetful of her work and only conscious of the sweet spring life about her. It was only an hour later that The Savins was ten miles behind her, and she was setting up her wheel against Mrs. Richardson's stone horse-block.

Mrs. Richardson met her accusingly.

"I hope you've got them pills," she demanded, without any formal preliminaries.

"Yes, my father has sent them."

"I wrote for them, day before yesterday. I thought sure they'd come yesterday."

"He was busy," Phebe said curtly, as she took off her sailor hat and fanned herself.

"Jim Sykes said he see him drivin' off over Wisdom way."

"Yes, he had a case there, an important case." Phebe's head was tilted at an aggressive angle.

"I guess I was some important, or he'd have said so, if he'd see me, last night. I had a bad spell, and like to fainted."

"What had you been eating?" Phebe inquired, with a sudden access of professional severity.

"Be you his youngest girl?" Mrs. Richardson asked rather irrelevantly.

"Yes."

"The one that was in Paris?"

"Yes."

"I wonder at your father's lettin' you go. They say it's an awful wicked city, and I hear it's nip and tuck whether a person comes home as good as she went."

"I didn't find it so."

"Maybe not. Still, it's risky and I don't think much of folks that don't find America good enough for 'em. You look hot. Come in and get a drink of water."

Inside the house and with a gla.s.s of water in her hand, Phebe felt that it devolved upon her to make some efforts at conversation.

"You said you were worse, last night; didn't you? What were the symptoms?" she asked, between her sips.

"What's generally the symptoms? I felt sick and wanted to keel over."

"Had you been--?"

"No; I hadn't. You tell your father that I'll tell him about it, when he comes. I ain't goin' to be doctored by hearsay. Did you see Sol Ba.s.sitt's barn, as you come over the hill?"