La Fleur smiled at Mike's philosophy, and applied his information to the
comfort of her mind.

"If his sister says they are not engaged," she thought, "it's like they
are not, but it looks to me as if it were time to take the Bannister pot
off the fire."

La Fleur now retired to a seat under a tree near the kitchen door, and
applied her intellect to the consideration of the dinner, and the future
of the Drane family and herself. The present state of affairs suited her
admirably. She could desire no change in it, except that Mr. Haverley
should marry Miss Cicely in order to give security to the situation. For
herself, this was the place above all others at which she would like to
live, and a mistress such as Miss Cicely, who knew little of domestic
affairs, but appreciated everything that was well done, was the mistress
she would like to serve. She would be sorry to leave the good doctor, for
whom, as a man of intellect, she had an earnest sympathy, but he did not
live in the country, and the Dranes were nearer and dearer to her than he
was. He should not be deserted nor neglected. If she came to spend the
rest of her life on this fine old estate, she would engage for him a good
young cook, who would be carefully instructed by her in regard to the
peculiarities of his diet, and who should always be under her
supervision. She would get him one from England; she knew of several
there who had been her kitchen maids, and she would guarantee that the
one she selected would give satisfaction.

Having settled this part of her plan, she now began to ponder upon that
important feature of it which concerned the marriage of Miss Cicely with
Ralph Haverley. Why, under the circumstances, this should not take place
as a mere matter of course and as the most natural thing in the world,
she could not imagine. But in all countries young people are very odd,
and must be managed. She had not yet had any good opportunity of judging
of the relations between these two; she had noticed that they were on
very easy and friendly terms with each other, but this was not enough. It
might be a long time before people who were jolly good friends came to
look upon each other from a marrying point of view. Things ought to be
hurried up; that Miss Bannister would be away for two weeks; she, La
Fleur, would be here for two weeks. She must try what she could do; the
fire must be brightened,--the draught turned on, ashes raked out,
kindling-wood thrust in if necessary, to make things hotter. At all
events the dinner-bell must ring at the appointed time, in a fortnight,
less one day.

Ralph came striding across the lawn, and noticing La Fleur,
approached her.

"I am glad to see you," he said, "for I want to tell you how much I
enjoyed your beefsteak this morning. One could not get anything
better cooked than that at Delmonico's. The dinner last night was
very good, too."

"Oh, don't mention that, sir," said La Fleur, who had risen the moment
she saw him, and now stood with her head on one side, her eyes cast
down, and a long smile on her face. "That dinner was nothing to what I
shall give you when Miss Miriam has sent for some things from the town
which I want. And as for the steak, I beg you will not judge me until I
have got for myself the cuts I want from the butcher. Then you shall see,
sir, what I can do for you. In a beautiful home like this, Mr. Haverley,
the cooking should be of the noblest and best."

Ralph laughed.

"So long as you stay with us, La Fleur," he said, "I am sure Cobhurst
will have all it deserves in that respect."

"Thank you very much, sir," she said, dropping a little courtesy. Then,
raising her eyes, she cast them over the landscape and bent them again
with a little sigh.

"You are a gentleman of feeling, Mr. Haverley," she said, "and can
understand the feelings of another, even if she be an old woman and a
cook, and I know you can comprehend my sentiments when I find myself
again serving my most gracious former mistress Mrs. Drane, and her lovely
daughter, whose beautiful qualities of mind and soul it does not become
me to speak of to you, sir. They were most kind to me when I first came
to this country, she and her daughter, two angels, sir, whom I would
serve forever. Do not think, sir, that I would not gladly serve you and
your lady sister, but they are above all. It was last night, sir, as I
sat looking out of my window at the beautiful trees in the moonlight, and
I have not seen such trees in the moonlight since I lived in the Isle of
Wight at Lord Monkley's country house there; La Fleur was his chef, and I
was only there on a visit, because at that time I was attending to the
education of my boy, who died a year afterward; and I thought then, sir,
looking out at the moonlight, that I would go with the Dranes wherever
they might go, and I would live with them wherever they might live; that
I would serve them always with the best I could do, and that none could
do better. But I beg your pardon, sir, for standing here, and talking in
this way, sir," and with a little courtesy and with her head more on one
side and more bowed down, she shuffled away.

"Now then," said she to herself, as she entered the kitchen, "if I have
given him a notion of a wife with a first-class cook attached, it is a
good bit of work to begin with."




CHAPTER XXXIV

A PLAN WHICH SEEMS TO SUIT EVERYBODY


Since her drive home from Thorbury with Ralph Haverley, Cicely Drane had
not ceased to consider the hypothesis which had been suggested to her
that day by La Fleur; but this consideration was accompanied by no plan
of action, no defined hopes, no fears, no suspicions, and no change in
her manner toward the young man, except that in accordance with her
mother's prudential notions, which had been indicated to her in a
somewhat general way, she had restricted herself in the matter of
tГЄte-Г -tГЄtes and dual rambles.

She looked upon the relations between Ralph and herself in the most
simple and natural manner possible. She was enjoying life at Cobhurst. It
delighted her to see her mother so contented and so well. She was greatly
interested in her work, for she was a girl of keen intelligence, and
thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed the novel theories and reflections of
Dr. Tolbridge. She thought it the jolliest thing in the world to have La
Fleur here with them. She was growing extremely fond of Miriam, who,
although a good deal younger than herself, appeared to be growing older
with wonderful rapidity, and every day to be growing nearer and dearer to
her, and she liked Ralph better than any man she had ever met. She knew
but little of Dora Bannister and had no reason to suppose that any
matrimonial connection between her and Mr. Haverley had ever been thought
of; in fact, in the sincerity and naturalness of her disposition, she
could see no reason why she should not continue to like Mr. Haverley, to
like him better and better, if he gave her reason to do so, and more than
that, not to forget the hypothesis regarding him.

La Fleur was not capable of comprehending the situation with the sagacity
and insight of Miss Panney, but she was a woman of sense, and was now
well convinced that it would never do to speak again to Miss Cicely in
the way she had spoken to her in Dr. Tolbridge's hall. In her affection
and enthusiasm, she had gone too far that time, and she knew that any
further suggestions of the sort would be apt to make the girl fly away
like a startled bird. Whatever was to be done must be done without the
coöperation of the young lady.

Miss Panney's letter to Dora Bannister contained some mild reproaches
for the latter's departure from Thorbury without notice to her oldest
friend, but her scolding was not severe, and there was as much pleasant
information and inquiry as the writer could think of. Moreover, the
epistle contained the suggestion that Dora should invite Miriam
Haverley to come down and spend some time with her while she was at the
seashore. This suggestion none but a very old friend would be likely to
make, but Miss Panney was old enough for anything, in friendship or in
any other way.

"My mind was on Miriam Haverley," the old lady wrote, "at the moment I
heard that you had gone to Barport, and it struck me that a trip of the
sort is exactly what that young person needs. She is shut up in the
narrowest place in which a girl can be put, with responsibilities
entirely beyond her years, and which help to cramp her mind and her
ideas. She should have a total change; she should see how the world,
outside of her school and her country home, lives and acts--in fact, she
needs exactly what Barport and you and Mrs. Bannister can give her. I do
not believe that you can bestow a greater benefit upon a fellow-being
than to ask Miriam to pay you a visit while you are at the seaside. Think
of this, I beg of you, my dear Dora."

This letter was read and re-read with earnest attention. Dora was fond
of Miriam in a way, and would be very glad to give her a glimpse of
seaside life. Moreover, Miriam's companionship would be desirable; for
although Miss Bannister did not expect to lack acquaintances, there
would be times when she could not call upon these, and Miriam could
always be called upon.

After a consultation with Mrs. Bannister, who was pleased with the idea
of having some one to go about with Dora, when she did not feel like
it,--which was almost all the time,--Dora wrote to Miriam, asking her to
come and visit her during the rest of her stay at Barport. While
writing, Dora was not at all annoyed by the thought which made her stop
for a few minutes and look out of the window,--that possibly Miriam
might not like to make the journey alone, and that her brother might
come with her. She did not, however, mention this contingency, but
smiled as she went on writing.

Miriam, attired in her teaberry gown, came up from the Cobhurst kitchen,
and walked out toward the garden. She was not in good spirits. She had
already found that La Fleur was a woman superior to influences from any
power derived from the wearing of Judith Pacewalk's pink chintz dress.
She was convinced that at this moment that eminent cook was preparing a
dinner for the benefit of the Dranes, without any thought of the tastes
or desires of the mistress of the house or its master. And yet she could
find nothing to say in opposition to this; consequently, she had walked
away unprotesting, and that act was so contrary to her disposition that
it saddened her. If she had supposed that a bad meal would be the result
of the bland autocracy she had just encountered, she would have been
better satisfied; but, as she knew the case would be quite otherwise, her
spirits continued to fall. Even the meat, that morning, had been ordered
without consultation with her.

As Miriam walked dolefully toward the garden gate, Ralph came riding from
Thorbury with the mail-bag, and in it was the letter from Dora.

"Oh, Ralph!" cried Miriam, when, with her young soul glowing in her face,
she thrust the open letter into her brother's hand, "may I go? I never
saw the sea!"

Of Ralph's decision there could be no question, and the Cobhurst family
was instantly in a flurry. Mrs. Drane, Cicely, and Miriam gave all their
thoughts and every available moment of time to the work necessary on the
simple outfit that was all that Miriam needed or desired; and in two days
she was ready for the journey. Ralph was glad to do anything he could to
help in the good work, but, as this was little, he was obliged to content
himself with encomiums upon the noble character of Dora Bannister. That
she should even think of offering such an inexpressible delight and
benefit to his sister was sufficient proof of Miss Bannister's solid
worth and tender, gracious nature. These remarks made to the ladies in
general really did help in the good work, for, while Ralph was talking in
this way, Cicely bent more earnestly over her sewing and stitched faster.
Until now, she had never thought much about Miss Bannister; but, without
intending it, or in the least desiring it, she began to think a good deal
about her, even when Ralph was not there.

Miriam herself settled the manner of her journey. She had thought for a
moment of Ralph as an escort, but this would cause him trouble and loss
of time, which was not at all necessary, and--what was very
important--would at least double the expenses of the trip; so she wrote
to Miss Pender, the head teacher in her late school, begging that she
might come to her and be shipped to Barport. Miss Pender had great skill
and experience in the shipping of girls from the school to destinations
in all parts of the country. Despatched by Miss Pender, the wildest or
the vaguest school-girl would go safely to her home, or to whatever spot
she might be sent.

As this was vacation, and she happened to be resting idly at school,
Miss Pender gladly undertook the congenial task offered her; and
welcomed Miriam, and then shipped her to Barport with even more than her
usual success.

When the dear girl had gone, everybody greatly missed her,--even La
Fleur, for of certain sweets the child had eaten twice as much as any one
else in the house. But all were happy over her great pleasure, including
the cook, who hated to have even the nicest girls come into her kitchen.

Thus far Miss Panney's plan worked admirably, but one idea she had in
regard to Miriam's departure never came into the mind of any one at
Cobhurst. That the Dranes should go away because Miriam, as mistress
of the establishment, was gone, was not thought of for an instant.
With La Fleur and Mrs. Drane in the house, was there any reason why
domestic and all other affairs should not go on as usual during
Miriam's brief absence?

Everything did indeed go on pretty much as it had gone on before,
although it might have been thought that Ralph was now living with the
Dranes. La Fleur expanded herself into all departments of the household,
and insisted upon doing many little things that Cicely had been in the
habit of doing for herself and her mother; and, with the assistance of
Mike, who was always glad to help the good Mrs. Flower whenever she
wanted him--which was always--and did it whenever he had a chance--which
was often--the household wheels moved smoothly.

In one feature of the life at Cobhurst there was a change. The absence of
Miriam threw Cicely and Ralph much more together. For instance, they
breakfasted by themselves, for Mrs. Drane had always been late in coming
down in the morning, and it was difficult for her to change her habits.
Moreover, it now happened frequently that Cicely and Ralph found that
each must be the sole companion of the other; and in this regard more
than in any other was Miriam missed. But to say that in this regard more
than any other her absence was regretted would be inaccurate.

Cicely felt that she ought to regret it, but she did not. To be so much
with Ralph was contrary to her own plans of action, and to what she
believed to be her mother's notions on the subject; but she could not
help it without being rude to the young man, and this she did not intend
to be. He was lonely and wanted a companion; and in truth, she was glad
to fill the position. If he had not talked to her so much about Dora
Bannister's great goodness, she would have been better pleased. But she
could nearly always turn this sort of conversation upon Miriam's virtues,
and on that subject the two were in perfect accord.

Mrs. Drane intended now to get up sooner in the morning, but she did not
do it; and she resolved that she would not drop asleep in her chair early
in the evening, as she had felt perfectly free to do when Miriam was with
them; but she calmly dozed all the same.

There was another obstacle to Mrs. Drane's good intentions, of which she
knew nothing. This was the craft of La Fleur, who frequently made it a
point to call upon the good lady for advice or consultation, and who was
most apt to do this at times when her interview with Mrs. Drane would
leave Ralph and Cicely together. It was wonderful how skilfully this
accomplished culinary artist planned some of these situations.

Ralph was surprised to find that he could so well bear the absence of
his sister. He would not have believed it had he been told it in
advance. He considered it a great piece of luck that Miriam should be
able to go to the seashore, but it was also wonderful luck that Miss
Drane should happen to be here while Miriam was away. Had both gone, he
would have had a doleful time of it. As it was, his time was not at all
doleful. All the chickens, hens, cats, calves, and flowers that Miriam
had had under her especial care were now attended to most sedulously by
Cicely, and in these good works Ralph gave willing and constant
assistance. In fact, he found that he could do a great deal more for
Cicely than Miriam had been willing he should do for her. This
coöperation was very pleasing to him, for Cicely was a girl who knew
little about things rural but wanted to know much, and Ralph was a young
fellow who liked to teach such girls as Cicely.




CHAPTER XXXV

MISS PANNEY HAS TEETH ENOUGH LEFT TO BITE WITH


After her recent quick pull and strong pull, Miss Panney rested
placidly on her oars. She knew that Miriam had gone, but she had not
yet heard whether the Dranes had returned to their former lodging in
Thorbury, or had left the neighborhood altogether. She presumed,
however, that they were in the town; for the young woman's work for Dr.
Tolbridge was probably not completed. She intended to call on Mrs.
Brinkly and find out about this; and she also determined to drop in at
Cobhurst, and see how poor Ralph was getting on by himself. But for
these things there was no hurry.

But jogging into town one morning, she was amazed to meet Ralph and Mrs.
Drane returning to Cobhurst in the gig. Both vehicles stopped, and Ralph
immediately began to tell the old lady of Miriam's good fortune. He told,
also, of his own good fortune in having Mrs. Drane and her daughter to
run the house during Miriam's absence, and was in high good spirits and
glad to talk.

Miss Panney listened with rigid attention; but when Ralph had finished,
she asked Mrs. Drane if she had left her daughter alone at Cobhurst,
while she and Mr. Haverley came to town.

"Oh, yes," answered the other lady; "Cicely is there, and hard at work;
but she is not alone. You know our good La Fleur is with us, and will
remain as long as the doctor and Mrs. Tolbridge are away."

When Miss Panney received this last bit of information, she gazed
intently at Mrs. Drane and then at Ralph, after which she bade them good
morning, and drove off.

"The old lady is not in such jolly good humor as when she lunched with us
the other day," said Ralph.

"That is true," said Mrs. Drane; "but I have noticed that very elderly
people are apt to be moody."

Twice in the course of a year Miss Panney allowed herself to swear, if
there happened to be occasion for it. In her young days a lady of fashion
would sometimes swear with great effect; and Miss Panney did not entirely
give up any old fashion that she liked. Now, there being good reason for
it, and no one in sight, she swore, and directed her abjurations against
herself. Then her mind, somewhat relieved from the strain upon it, took
in the humorous points of the situation, and she laughed outright.

"If the Dranes had hired some sharp-witted rogue to help them carry out
their designs, he could not have done it better than I have done it. I
have simply put the whole game into their hands; I have given them
everything they want."

But before she reached Thorbury, she saw that the situation was not
hopeless. There was one thing that might be done, and that successfully
accomplished the game would be in her hands. Ralph must be made to go to
Barport. A few days with Dora at the seaside, with some astute person
there to manage the affair, would settle the fate of Mr. Ralph Haverley.
At this thought her eyes sparkled, and she began to feel hungry. At this
important moment she did not wish to occupy her mind with prattle and
chat, and therefore departed from her usual custom of lunching with a
friend or acquaintance. Hitching her roan mare in front of a
confectionery shop, she entered for refreshment.

Seated at a little table in the back room, with a cup of tea and some
sandwiches before her, Miss Panney took more time over her slight meal
than any previous customer had ever occupied in disposing of a similar
repast, at least so the girl at the counter believed and averred to the
colored man who did outside errands. The girl thought that the old lady's
deliberate method of eating proceeded from her want of teeth; but the man
who had waited at dinners where Miss Panney was a guest contemptuously
repudiated this assumption.

"I've seen her eat," said he, "and she's never behind nobody. She's got
all the teeth she wants for bitin'."

"Then why doesn't she get through?" asked the girl. "When is she ever
going to leave that table?"

"When she gits ready," answered the man; "that's the time Miss Panney
does everything."

Sipping her tea and nibbling her sandwich, Miss Panney considered the
situation. It would be, of course, a difficult thing to get that young
man to visit his sister at Barport. It would cost money, and there would
seem to be no good reason for his going. Of course no such influence
could be brought to bear upon him at this end of the line. Whatever
inducement was offered, must be offered from Barport. And there was no
one there who could do it, at least with the proper effect. The girls
would be glad to have him there, but nothing that either of them could,
with propriety, be prompted to say, would draw him into such extravagant
self-gratification. But if she were at Barport, she knew that she could
send him such an invitation, or sound such a call to him, that he would
be sure to come.

Accordingly Miss Panney determined to go to Barport without loss of time;
and although she did hot know what sort of summons she should issue to
Ralph after she got there, she did not in the least doubt that
circumstances would indicate the right thing to do. In fact, she would
arrange circumstances in such a way that they should so indicate.

Having arrived at this conclusion, Miss Panney finished eating her
sandwich with an earnestness and rapidity which convinced the astonished
girl at the counter that she had all the teeth she needed to bite with;
and then she went forth to convince other people of the same thing. On
the sidewalk she met Phoebe.

"How d'ye do, Miss Panney?" said that single-minded colored woman. "I
hain't seen you for a long time."

Miss Panney returned the salutation, and stood for a moment in thought.

"Phoebe," said she, "when did you last see Mike?"

"Well, now, really, Miss Panney, I can't say, but it's been a mighty long
time. He don't come into town to see me, and I's too busy to go way out
thar. I does the minister's wash now, besides boardin' him an' keepin'
his clothes mended. An' then it's four or five miles out to that farm. I
can't 'ford to hire no carriage, an' Mike ain't no right to expect me to
walk that fur."

"Phoebe," said Miss Panney, "you are a lazy woman and an undutiful wife.
It is not four miles to Cobhurst, and you walk two or three times that
distance every day, gadding about town. You ought to go out there and
attend to Mike's clothes, and see that he is comfortable, instead of
giving up the little time you do work to that minister, and everybody
knows that the reason you have taken him to board is that you want to set
yourself up above the rest of the congregation."

"Good laws, Miss Panney!" exclaimed Phoebe, "I don't see as how anybody
can think that!"

"Well, I do," replied the old lady, "and plenty of other people besides.
But as you won't go out to Cobhurst to attend to your own duty, I want
you to go there to attend to something for me. I was going myself, but I
start for the seashore to-morrow, and have not time. I want to know how
that poor Mr. Ralph is getting along. Molly Tooney has left, and his
sister is away, and of course those two Drane women are temporary
boarders and take no care of him or his clothes. To be sure, there is a
woman there, but she is that English-French creature who gives all her
time to fancy dishes, and I suppose never made a bed or washed a shirt in
her life."

"That's so, Miss Panney," said Phoebe, eagerly, "an' I reckon it's a lot
of slops he has to eat now. 'Tain't like the good wholesome meals I gave
him when I cooked thar. An' as fur washin', if there's any of that done,
I reckon Mike does it."

"I should not wonder," said the old lady. "And, Phoebe, I want you to go
out there this afternoon, and look over Mr. Haverley's linen, and see
what ought to be washed or mended, and take general notice of how things
are going on. I shall see his sister, and I want to report the state of
affairs at her home. For all I know, those Dranes and their cook may pack
up and clear out to-morrow if the notion takes them. Then you must meet
me at the station at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, and tell me what you
find out. If things are going all wrong, Mr. Haverley will never write to
his sister to disturb her mind. Start for Cobhurst as soon as you can,
and I will pay your carriage hire--no, I will not do that, for I want
you to make a good long stay, and it will cost too much to keep a hack
waiting. You can walk just as well as not, and it will do you good. And
while you are there, Phoebe, you might take notice of Miss Drane. If she
has finished the work she was doing for the doctor, and is just sitting
about idly or strolling around the place, it is likely they will soon
leave, for if the young woman does not work they cannot afford to stay
there. And that is a thing Miss Miriam ought to know all about."

"Seems to me, Miss Panney," said the colored woman, "that 'twould be a
mighty good thing for Mr. Hav'ley to get married. An' thar's that Miss
Drane right thar already."

"What stupid nonsense!" exclaimed Miss Panney. "I thought you had more
sense than to imagine such a thing as that. She is not in any way
suitable for him. She is a poor little thing who has to earn her own
living, and her mother's too. She is not in the least fit to be the
mistress of that place."

"Don't see whar he'll get a wife, then," said Phoebe. "He never goes
nowhar, and never sees nobody, except p'r'aps Miss Dora Bannister; an'
she's too high an' mighty for him."

"Phoebe, you are stupider than I thought you were. No lady is too high
and mighty for Mr. Haverley. And if he should happen to fancy Miss Dora,
it will be a capital match. What he needs is to marry a woman of position
and means. But that is not my business, or yours either, and by the way,
Phoebe, since you are here, I will get you to take a letter to the
post-office for me. I will go back into this shop and write it. You can
take these two cents and buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and bring
them in to me."

With this Miss Panney walked into the shop, and having asked the loan of
pen and ink, horrified the girl at the counter by proceeding to the table
she had left, which, in a corner favored by all customers, had just been
prepared for the next comer, and, having pushed aside a knife and fork
and plate, made herself ready to write her letter, which was to a friend
in Barport, informing her that the writer intended making her a visit.

"I shall get there," she thought, "about as soon as it does, but it looks
better to write."

Before the letter was finished, Phoebe was nearly as angry as the
shop-girl; but at last, with exactly two cents with which to buy a stamp,
she departed for the post-office.

"The stingy old thing!" she said to herself as she left the shop; "not a
cent for myself, and makes me walk all the way out to that Cobhurst, too!
I see what that old woman is up to. She's afraid he'll marry the young
lady what's out thar, an' she wants him to marry Miss Dora, an' git a lot
of the Bannister money to fix up his old house, an' then she expects to
go out thar an' board with 'em, for I reckon she's gittin' mighty tired
of the way them Wittons live. She's always patchin' up marriages so she
can go an' live with the people when they first begins housekeepin', an'
things is bran-new an' fresh. She did that with young Mr. Witton, but
their furniture is gittin' pretty old an' worn out now. If she tries it
with Mr. Hav'ley an' Dora Bannister, I reckon she'll make as big a botch
of it as she did with Mike an' me."




CHAPTER XXXVI

A CRY FROM THE SEA


Miss Panney left Thorbury the next morning, but she had to go without
seeing Phoebe, who did not appear at the station. She arrived at Barport
in the afternoon, and went directly to the house of the friend to whom
she had written, and who, it is to be hoped, was glad to see her. She
deferred making her presence known to the Bannister party until the next
morning. When she called at their hotel about ten o'clock, she was
informed that they had all gone down to the beach; and as they could not
be expected to return very soon, Miss Panney betook herself to the
ocean's edge to look for them.

She found a wide stretch of sand crowded with bathers and spectators. It
had been a long time since she had visited the seashore, and she
discovered that seaside customs and costumes had changed very much. She
was surprised, amused, and at times indignant; but, as she had come to
look for the Bannisters, she confined herself to that business,
postponing reflections and judgments.

Her search proved to be a difficult one. She walked up and down the beach
until she assured herself that the Bannisters and Miriam were not among
those who had come as lookers-on, or merely to breathe the salt air and
enjoy the ocean view. When she came to scrutinize the bathers, whether
they were disporting themselves in the sea or standing or lying about on
the sand, she found it would be almost impossible to recognize anybody in
that motley crowd.

"I can scarcely make out," she said to herself, "whether they are men or
women, much less whether I know them or not. But if the Bannisters and
Miriam are among those water-monkeys, I shall know them when I see their
faces, and then I shall take the first chance I get to tell them what I
think of them."

It was not long before Miss Panney began to grow tired. She was not used
to trudging through soft sand, and she had walked a good deal before she
reached the beach. She concluded, therefore, to look for a place where
she might sit down and rest, and if her friends did not show themselves
in a reasonable time she would go back to their hotel and wait for them
there; but she saw no chairs nor benches, and as for imitating the
hundreds of well-dressed people who were sitting down in the dirt,--for
to Miss Panney sand was as much dirt as any other pulverized portion of
the earth's surface,--she had never done such a thing, and she did not
intend to.

Approaching a boat which was drawn up high and dry, she seated herself
upon, or rather leaned against, its side. The bathing-master, a burly
fellow in a bathing-costume, turned to her and informed her courteously
but decidedly that she must not sit upon that boat.

"I do not see why," said Miss Panney, sharply, as she rose "for it is
not of any use in any other way, lying up here on the sand."

She had scarcely finished speaking when the bathing master sprang to his
feet so suddenly that it made Miss Panney jump. For a moment the man
stood listening, and then ran rapidly down the beach. Now Miss Panney
heard, coming from the sea, a cry of "Help! Help!"

Other people heard it, too, and began hurrying after the bathing master.
The cry, which was repeated again and again, came from a group of bathers
who were swimming far from shore, opposite a point on the beach a hundred
yards or more from where Miss Panney was standing. The spectators now
became greatly excited, and crowds of them began to run along the beach,
while many people came out of the sea and joined the hurrying throng.

Still the cries came from the ocean, but they were feebler. Those
experienced in such matters saw what had happened, a party of four
bathers, swimming out beyond the breakers, had been caught in what is
called a "seapuss," an eccentric current, too powerful for them to
overcome, and they were unable to reach the shore.

As he ran, the bathing master shouted to some men to bring him the
lifeline, and this, which was coiled in a box near the boat, was soon
seized by two swift runners and carried out to the man.

"Fool!" exclaimed Miss Panney, who, with flushed face, was hurrying after
the rest, "why didn't he take it with him?"

When the bathing master reached a point opposite the imperilled
swimmers, he was obliged to wait a little for the life-line, but as soon
as it reached him he tied one end of it around his waist and plunged into
the surf. The men who had brought the line did not uncoil it nor even
take it out of the box, and very soon it was seen that the bathing-master
was not only making his way bravely through the breakers, but was towing
after him the coil of rope, and the box in which it had been entangled.
As soon as he perceived this, the man stopped for an instant, jerked the
line from his waist and swam away without it.

Meanwhile a party of men had seized the life-boat, and had pushed it over
the sand to the water's edge, where they launched it, and with much
difficulty kept it from grounding until four young men, all bathers,
jumped in and manned the oars. But before the excited oarsmen had begun
to pull together, an incoming wave caught the bow of the boat, turned it
broadside to the sea, and rolled it over. A dozen men, however, seized
the boat and quickly righted her; again the oarsmen sprang in, and having
been pushed out until the water reached the necks of the men who ran
beside her, she was vigorously pulled beyond the breakers.

The excitement was now intense, not only on the beach, but in the hotels
near the spot, and the shore was black with people. The cries had
entirely ceased, but now the bathing-master was seen making his way
toward the shore, and supporting a helpless form; before he could touch
bottom, however, he was relieved of his burden by some of the men who
were swimming out after him, and he turned back toward a floating head
which could just be seen above the water. He was a powerful swimmer, but
without a line by which he and any one he might rescue could be pulled to
shore, his task was laborious and dangerous.

The boat had now pulled to the bather who, though farthest out to sea,
was the best swimmer, and he, just as his strength was giving way, was
hauled on board. The lifeline had been rescued and disentangled, and the
shore end of it having been taken into proper charge, a man, with the
other end about him, swam to the assistance of the bathing master.
Between these two another lifeless helpless body was borne in.

As might have been supposed, Miss Panney was now in a state of intense
agitation. Not only did she share in the general excitement, but she was
filled with a horrible dread. In ordinary cases of sickness and danger,
it had been her custom to offer her services without hesitation, but then
she knew who were in trouble and what she must do. Now there was a
sickening mystery hanging over what was happening. She was actually
afraid to go near the two lifeless figures stretched upon the sand, each
surrounded by a crowd of people eager to do something or see something.

But her anxious questioning of the people who were scattered about
relieved her, for she found that the two unfortunate persons who had
been brought in were men. Nobody knew whether they were alive or not,
but everything possible was being done to revive them. Several doctors
had made their appearance, and messengers were running to the hotels
for brandy, blankets, and other things needed. In obedience to an
excited entreaty from a physician, one of the groups surged outward and
scattered a little, and Miss Panney saw the form of a strongly built man
lying on his back on the sand, with men kneeling around him, some
working his arms backward and forward to induce respiration, and others
rubbing him vigorously. It was difficult for her to restrain herself
from giving help or advice, for she was familiar with, and took a great
interest in, all sorts of physical distress, but now she turned away and
hurried toward the sea.

She had heard the people say there was another one out there, and her
sickening feeling returned. She walked but a little way, and then she
stopped and eagerly watched what was going on. The bathing-master had
been nearly exhausted when he reached the shore the second time, but he
had rallied his strength and had swum out to the boat which was pulling
about the place where the unfortunate bathers had been swimming. Suddenly
the oarsmen gave a quick pull, they had seen something, a man jumped
overboard, there was bustling on the boat, something was pulled in, then
the boat was rapidly rowed shoreward, the man in the water holding to the
stern until his feet touched ground.

The people crowded to the water's edge so that Miss Panney could scarcely
see the boat when it reached shore, but presently the crowd parted, and
three men appeared, carrying what seemed to be a very light burden.

"Oh, dear," said a woman standing by, "that one was in the water a long
time. I wonder if it is a girl or a boy."

Miss Panney said nothing, but made a few quick steps in the direction of
the limp figure which the crowd was following up the beach; then she
stopped. Her nature prompted her to go on; her present feelings
restrained her. She could not help wondering at this, and said to herself
that she must be aging faster than she thought. Her distant vision was
excellent, and she knew that the inanimate form which was now being laid
on the dry sand was not a boy.

She turned and looked out over the sea, but she could not stand still;
she must do something. On occasions like this it was absolutely necessary
for Miss Panney to do something. She walked up the beach, but not toward
the ring of people that had now formed around the fourth unfortunate. She
must quiet herself a little first.

Suddenly the old lady raised her hands and clasped them. It was a usual
gesture when she thought of something she ought to do.

"If it is one of them," she said to herself, "he ought to know it
instantly! And even if it isn't, he ought to know. They will be in a
terrible state; somebody should be here, and Herbert has gone to the
mountains. There is no one else." She now began to walk more rapidly.
"Yes," she said, speaking aloud in the intensity of her emotion, "he
ought to come, anyway. I can't be left here to take any chances. And if
he does not know immediately, he cannot get here today."

She now directed her steps toward one of the hotels, where she knew there
was a telegraph office.

"No matter what has happened, or what has not happened," she said to
herself as she hurried along, "he ought to be here, and he must come!"

The old lady's hand trembled a good deal as she wrote a telegram to Ralph
Haverley, but the operator at the window could read it. It ran: "A
dreadful disaster here. Come on immediately."

When she had finished this business, Miss Panney stood for a few moments
on the broad piazza of the hotel, which was deserted, for almost
everybody was on the beach. In spite of her agitation a grim smile came
over her face.

"Perhaps that was a little strong," she thought, "but it has gone now.
And no matter how he finds things, I can prove to him he is needed. I do
not believe he will be too much frightened; men never are, and I will see
to it that he has a blessed change in his feelings when he gets here."

Miss Panney was now allowing to enter her mind the conviction, previously
denied admittance, that no one of her three friends would be likely to be
swimming far from shore with a party of men. And, having thus restored
herself to something of her usual composure, she went down to the beach
to find out who had been drowned. On the way she met Mrs. Bannister and
the two girls, and from them she got her information that two of the
persons were believed to be beyond any power of resuscitation, and one of
these was a young lady from Boston.




CHAPTER XXXVII

LA FLEUR ASSUMES RESPONSIBILITIES


It was toward the middle of the afternoon that the good La Fleur sat
upon a bench under a tree by the side of the noble mansion of
Cobhurst. She was enjoying the scene and allowing her mind to revel in
the future she had planned for herself. She was not even thinking of
the dinner. Presently there drove into the grounds a boy in a
bowl-shaped trotting-wagon, bringing a telegram for Mr. Haverley. La
Fleur went to meet him.

"He is not at home," she said.

"Well," said the boy, "there is seventy-five cents to pay, and perhaps
there is an answer."

"Are you sure the message was not prepaid?" asked La Fleur, suspiciously.

"Oh, the seventy-five cents is for delivery," said the boy. "We deliver
free in town, but we can't come way out here in the country for nothing.
Isn't there somebody here who can 'tend to it?"

La Fleur drew a wallet from her pocket. "I will pay you," she said;
"but if there is an answer you should take it back with you. Can't you
wait a bit?"

"No," said the boy, "I can't. I shall be away from the office too long
as it is."

La Fleur was in a quandary; there was no one at home but herself; a
telegram is always important; very likely an immediate answer was
required; and here was an opportunity to send one. If the message were
from his sister, there might be something which she could answer. At any
rate, it was an affair that must not be neglected, and Mr. Haverley had
gone off with his fishing-rod, and no one knew when he would get back.

"Wait one minute," she said to the boy, and she hurried into the kitchen
with the telegram. She put on her spectacles and looked at it; the
envelope was very slightly fastened. No doubt this was something that
needed attention, and the boy would not wait. Telegrams were not like
private letters, anyway, and she would take the risk. So she opened the
envelope without tearing it, and read the message. First she was
frightened, and then she was puzzled.

"Well, I can't answer that," she said, "and I suppose he will go as soon
as he gets it."

She laid the telegram on the kitchen table and went out to the impatient
boy, and told him there was no answer. Whereupon he departed at the top
of his pony's speed.

La Fleur returned to the kitchen and reread the telegram. The signature
was not very legible, and in her first hasty reading she had not made it
out, but now she deciphered it.

"Panney!" she exclaimed, "R. Panney! I believe it is from that tricky old
woman!" And with her elbows on the table she gave herself up to the study
of the telegram. "I never saw anything like it," she thought. "It looks
exactly as if she wanted to frighten him without telling him what has
happened. It could not be worse than it is, even if his sister is dead,
and if that were so, anybody would telegraph that she was very ill, so as
not to let it come on him too sudden. Nothing can be more dreadful than
what he'll think when he reads this. One thing is certain: she meant him
to go when he got it. Yes, indeed!" And a smile came upon her face as she
thought. "She wants him there; that is as plain as daylight."

At this moment a step was heard outside, and the telegram was slipped
into the table drawer. La Fleur arose and approached the open door; there
she saw Phoebe.

"How d'ye do, ma'am?" said that individual. "Do let me come in an' sit
down, for I'm nearly tired to death, an' so cross that I'd like to
fight a cat."

"What has happened to you?" asked La Fleur, when she and her visitor had
seated themselves.

"Nothin'," replied Phoebe, "except that I've been sent on a fool's
errand, an' made to walk all the way from Thorbury, here, an' a longer
an' a dirtier an' a rockier road I never went over. I thought two or
three times that I should just drop. If I'd knowed how stiff my j'ints
would be, I wouldn't 'a' come, no matter what she said."

"She said," repeated La Fleur. "Who?"

"That old Miss Panney!" said Phoebe, with a snap. "She sent me out
here to look after Mike, an' was too stingy even to pay my hack fare.
She wanted me to come day before yesterday, but I couldn't get away
'til to-day."

"Where is Miss Panney?" asked La Fleur, quickly.

"She's gone to the seashore, where the Bannisters an' Miss Miriam is. She
said she'd come here herself if it hadn't been for goin' thar."

"To look after Mike?" asked the other.

"Not 'zactly," said Phoebe, with a grin. "There's other things here she
wanted to look after."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed La Fleur, "I can't imagine what there is on
this place that Miss Panney need concern herself about."

"There isn't no place," said Phoebe, "where there isn't somethin' that
Miss Panney wants to consarn herself in."

La Fleur looked at Phoebe, and then dropped the subject.

"Don't you want a cup of tea?" she asked, a glow of hospitality suddenly
appearing on her face. "That will set you up sooner than anything else,
and perhaps I can find a piece of one of those meat pies your husband
likes so much."

Phoebe was not accustomed to being waited upon by white people, and to
have a repast prepared for her by this cook of high degree flattered her
vanity and wonderfully pleased her. Her soul warmed toward the good woman
who was warming and cheering her body.

"I say it again," remarked La Fleur, "that I cannot think what that old
lady should want to look after in this house."

"Now look here, madam," said Phoebe, "it's jes' nothin' at all. It's
jes' the most nonsensical thing that ever was. I don't mind tellin' you
about it; don't mind it a bit. She wants Mr. Hav'ley to marry Miss Dora
Bannister, an' she's on pins an' needles to know if the young woman here
is likely to ketch him. That's all there is 'bout it. She don't care two
snaps for Mike, an' I reckon he don't want no looking after anyway."

"No, indeed," answered the other; "I take the best of care of him. Miss
Panney must be dreadful afraid of our young lady, eh?"

"That's jes' what she is," said Phoebe. "I wonder she didn't take Mr.
Hav'ley along with her when she went to the seashore."

La Fleur's eyes sparkled.

"Now come, Phoebe," said she; "what on earth did she want you to do
here?"

Phoebe took a long draught of tea, and put down the cup, with a sigh
of content.

"Oh, nothin'," said she. "She jes' wanted me to spy round, an' see if Mr.
Hav'ley an' Miss Drane was fallin' in love with each other, an' then I
was to go an' tell her about it the mornin' before she started. Now I'll
have to keep it 'til she comes back, but I reckon thar ain't nothin' to
tell about."

La Fleur laughed. "Nothing at all," said she. "You might stay here a week
and you wouldn't see any lovemaking between those two. They don't as much
as think of such a thing. So you need not put yourself to any trouble
about that part of Miss Panney's errand. Here comes your good Michael,
and I think you will find that he is doing very well."

About ten minutes after this, when Phoebe and Mike had gone off to talk
over their more than semi-detached domestic affairs, La Fleur took the
telegram from the drawer, replaced it in its envelope, which she closed
and fastened so neatly that no one would have supposed that it had been
opened. Then she took from a shelf a railroad time-table, which lay in
company with her cookbook and a few other well-worn volumes; for the good
cook cared for reading very much as she cared for her own mayonnaise
dressing; she wanted but little at a time, but she liked it.

"The last train to the city seems to be seven-ten," she said to herself.
"No other train after that stops at Thorbury. If he had been at home he
would have taken an early afternoon train, which was what she expected, I
suppose. It will be a great pity for him to have to go tonight, and for
no other reason than for that old trickster's telegram. If anything has
really happened, he'll get news of it in some sensible shape."

At all events, there was nothing now to be done with the telegram, so she
put it on the shelf, and set about her preparations for dinner, which had
been very much delayed.

Ralph had gone off fishing; but, before starting, he had put Mrs.
Browning to the gig and had told Cicely that as soon as her work was
finished, she must take her mother for a drive. The girl had been
delighted, and the two had gone off for a long jog through the
country lanes.

It was late in the afternoon when Ralph came striding homeward
across the fields. He was still a mile from Cobhurst, and on a bit of
rising ground when, on the road below him, he saw Mrs. Browning and
the gig, and to his surprise the good old mare was demurely trotting
away from Cobhurst.

"Can it be possible," he exclaimed, "that they have just started!" And
he hurried down toward the road. He now saw that there was only one
person in the gig, and very soon he was near enough to perceive that
this was Cicely.

"I expect you are wondering what I am doing here by myself, and where I
am going," she said, when she stopped and he stood by the gig. "I shall
tell you the exact truth, because I know you will not mind. We started
out a long time ago, but mother had a headache, and the motion of the gig
made it worse. She was trying to bear it so that I might have a drive,
but I insisted upon turning back. I took her as far as the orchard, where
I left her, and since then I have been driving about by myself and having
an awfully good time. Mother did not mind that, as I promised not to go
far away. But I think I have now gone far enough along this road. I like
driving ever so much! Don't you want me to drive you home?"

"Indeed I do!" said Ralph, and in he jumped.