When Cynthia asked at Mrs. Parker's door if that lady were at home it
was not necessary for her to give her name. The maid recognized Miss
Trinkett at once.
"Yes, she's at home, ma'am. And won't you please step into the
parlor, Miss Trinkett? Mrs. Parker'll be glad to see you."
Mrs. Parker came hurrying down.
"Dear Miss Trinkett, how are you? Why, I should scarcely have known
you! What have you done to yourself?"
Cynthia laughed her great-aunt's high staccato laugh.
"Well, now, I want to know, Mrs. Parker! Don't you see what it is?
Why, my nieces at Oakleigh, they saw right away what the difference
was. I thought 'twas about time I was keeping up with the fashions,
and so I bought me a fine new piece of hair for my front. I was
growing somewhat gray, and I thought 'twas best to keep young on
Silas's account. It isn't that I care for myself, but you have to be
particular about men-folks, as you'll know when you've seen as much
of them as I have."
Cynthia was a good actress, and she carried herself precisely as Miss
Betsey did, and imitated her voice to perfection.
She repeated some of her aunt's best-known tales, and good Mrs.
Parker never dreamed of the possibility of her caller being any one
but worthy Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, whom she had known
for years.
Mrs. Parker was a great talker, and usually she was obliged to fight
hard to surpass Miss Trinkett in that respect. During the first part
of the call to-day it was as difficult as usual, but Mrs. Parker
presently made a remark which reduced her visitor to a state of
alarming silence.
"I suppose you have come to announce the news," said the hostess,
smiling sympathetically.
"Now I don't know a bit of news. Why, my dear Mrs. Parker, Silas and
I we never--"
"Ah, but this has nothing to do with Silas, though it may affect you,
more or less. Surely you know what I am alluding to?"
"I haven't the least idea."
And Cynthia bridled with curiosity on her own account as well as Aunt
Betsey's. She thought something interesting must be coming.
"Well, now, to think of my being the one to tell you something about
your own family! I don't know whether I ought to, but I think it
must be true, and you'll hear it in other ways soon enough. You know
I have relatives in Albany, where she lives."
"Where who lives?"
"Miss Gordon, Hester Gordon. They say--but, of course, I don't know
that it's true, it may be just report, but they do say--I don't know
whether I ought to tell you, I declare!--that it won't be long before
she's Mrs. Franklin."
"Mrs. Franklin?"
"Yes, Mrs. John Franklin. Hasn't your nephew told you? Well, well,
these men! They do beat all for keeping things quiet."
"Is it true?"
It was Cynthia's natural voice that asked this question. She quite
forgot that she was supposed to be Miss Betsey Trinkett.
"I suppose it is. But, dear me, Miss Trinkett, don't be worried!
Seems to me you look very queer, though I can't see your face very
well through that veil, and you with your back to the light. Your
voice sounds sort of unnatural, too. Let me get you a glass of
water."
[Illustration: "'YOUR VOICE SOUNDS SORT OF UNNATURAL, TOO,' ADDED
MRS. PARKER"]
"Oh no, it is nothing," said Cynthia, who had quickly recovered
herself, and was now summoning all her energy to finish the call in a
proper manner. "You surprised me, that's all, and I never did care
much for surprises. But I think there's not much truth in that, Mrs.
Parker. I don't believe my fa--nephew is going to be married again.
In fact, I'm very sure he is not." And she nodded her head
emphatically.
"Ah, my dear Miss Trinkett, you never can tell. Sometimes a man's
family is the last to hear those things. And it will be a good
match, too. She comes of an old family and she has a great deal of
money. The Gordons are all rich."
"Do you suppose he'd care for that?" exclaimed her visitor,
wrathfully.
"Well, well, one never knows! And think how much better it would be
for the children. Edith is too young to have so much care, and they
say Cynthia runs wild most of the time, just like a boy. Indeed, I
call it a very good thing. Though I must say she is a pretty brave
woman to take on herself the care of that family."
Here "Miss Betsey" suddenly darted for the door. It could be endured
no longer; Mrs. Parker bade her farewell, and then went back to tell
her daughters that Miss Trinkett was sadly changed. Though she was
still so young in appearance, she was evidently very much broken.
For some time Jack could obtain no reply to his questions, but at
last Cynthia's resolution broke down and she burst into tears. They
had turned into a shady lane instead of going directly home, and
there was no danger of meeting any one.
"Jack, Jack!" she moaned, "I'll have to tell you. Mrs. Parker says
papa is going to be married again! What shall we do? What shall we
do?"
For answer Jack indulged in a prolonged whistle.
"Isn't it the most dreadful thing you ever heard of? Jack, how shall
we ever endure it?"
"Well, it mayn't be as bad as you think. If she's nice--"
"Oh, Jack, she won't be! Step-mothers are never nice. I never in my
life heard of one that was. She'll be horrid to us all."
"Oh, I say, that's nonsense. If you were to marry a widower with a
lot of children you'd be nice to them."
"Jack, the very idea! I marry a widower with a lot of children! I'd
like to see myself doing such a thing!"
Cynthia almost forgot her present trouble in her wrath at her
brother's suggestion.
"Well, after all, it may not be true. Because Mrs. Parker says so
doesn't prove it. Where did she hear it?"
"From some of her Albany relations, I suppose. The--the lady lives
there. But, oh, Jack! Do you think there is any chance of its not
being true?" cried Cynthia, catching at the least straw of hope.
"Why, of course! Father hasn't told us, and you can't believe all
the gossip you hear," said Jack, loftily.
"Perhaps it isn't true, after all," exclaimed Cynthia, drying her
eyes and smiling once more, "and I've been boo-hooing all for
nothing! I sha'n't say a word about it to Edith, and don't you
either, Jack. It isn't worth while to worry her, and Mrs. Parker is
a terrible gossip."
They went home, and Cynthia gave her sister a gay account of her
visit, carefully omitting all exciting items, and then she helped
Edith put away some of the things, and finally was free to go on the
river in the afternoon. Jack, boy-like, had forgotten all about Mrs.
Parker's news. He did not believe it, and therefore it was not worth
thinking of. But Cynthia's mind was not so easily diverted. She did
not believe it, either, but then it might be true, and if it were,
what was to be done? It seemed as if a worse calamity could not
happen.
Jack, her usual companion on the river, was busy with some carpentry.
He was making a "brooder" like one he had bought, to serve as a home
for the little chicks when they should be hatched. He used the "barn
chamber" for a workshop, and the sound of his saw and his hammer
could be heard through the open window.
Cynthia was deeply interested in poultry raising, but she wished it
did not consume so much of her brother's time and attention.
Edith was going to the village to an afternoon tea at the Morgans'.
Gertrude Morgan was her most intimate friend, and all the nicest
girls and boys would be there to talk over a tennis tournament.
Cynthia was rather sorry that she had not been asked. She said to
herself that she would be of more value in the discussion than Edith,
for she really played tennis, while Edith merely stood about looking
graceful and pretty. However, she had not been invited, and, after
all, the river was more fun than any afternoon tea.
One of the men put the canoe in the water for her, and, with a huge
stone to act as ballast, she paddled up stream, browsing along the
banks looking for wild-flowers, or steering her way through the
rocks, of which the river was very full just at this point.
Cynthia, fond as she was of companionship, being of an extremely
sociable disposition, was never lonely on her beloved river.
Edith dressed herself carefully and drove off to the tea. She looked
very attractive in her spring gown of gray and her large black hat,
and as she studied herself in the small, old-fashioned mirror that
hung in her room she felt quite pleased with her appearance.
"If I only had more nice gloves I should be satisfied," she thought.
"It is so horrid to be always saving up one pair, and having to wear
such old things for driving, and whisk them off just before I get to
a place, and put on the good ones. And a handsome parasol would be
so nice. I don't think I'll take this old thing. I don't really
need one to-day. I wonder where the children are. I ought to look
them up, I suppose; but they must be all right, somewhere, and it is
getting late. After all, why should I always be the one to run after
those children?"
And then she drove away to Brenton, leaving housekeeping cares behind
her, and prepared for a pleasant afternoon.
About half-a-dozen boys and girls had already arrived at the Morgans'
when Edith drove in. It was a fine old house, standing far back from
the road and surrounded with shady grounds. The river was at the
back. A smooth and well-kept tennis-court was on the left of the
drive as one approached the house, and here the guests were assembled.
"Oh, here's Edith Franklin at last!" cried Gertrude Morgan, while her
brother went forward and, after helping Edith to alight, took her
horse and drove down to the stable.
Presently all the tongues were buzzing, each one suggesting what he
or she considered the very best plan for holding a tournament. It
was finally arranged to have it at the tennis club rather than at the
Morgans', as had at first been thought best, and it would be open to
all comers who had reached the age of fourteen.
"That is very young," said Gertrude, "but we really ought to have it
open to Cynthia Franklin. She is one of the best players in Brenton."
"By all means," said her brother, who was always on the side of the
Franklins; "and, Edith, you'll play with me, won't you, in mixed
doubles?"
"Oh, I don't play well enough," exclaimed Edith. "Thank you ever so
much, Dennis, but you had better ask some one else. I don't think
I'll play."
Every one objected to this, but it was finally settled that Edith
should act as one of the hostesses for the important occasion, which
was greatly to her satisfaction. She rather enjoyed moving slowly
and gracefully about, pouring tea and lemonade, and handing them to
the poor, heated players, who were obliged to work so hard for their
fun.
They were startled by the sound of the clock on the church across the
road. It struck six, and Edith rose in haste.
"I must go," she said. "I had no idea it was so late! Those
children have probably gotten into all kinds of mischief while I've
been away, and papa will not be home until late, so I am not to wait
in the village for him."
The others looked after her as she drove away.
"Isn't she the sweetest, dearest girl?" cried Gertrude. "And won't
it be hard for her if her father marries again, as every one says he
is going to do? But, after all, it may be a good thing, for then
Edith wouldn't have to do so much for the children. I wonder if she
knows about it. She hasn't breathed a word of it, even to me."
Janet and Willy, the inseparable but ever-fighting pair, came in at
the side door not very long after Edith went to the village. They
found the house empty and the coast clear, and their active brains
immediately set to work to solve the question of what mischief they
could do.
They wandered into the big silent kitchen. The servants were
up-stairs, and beyond the buzzing of a fly on the window-pane, and
the singing of the kettle on the range, perfect quiet reigned.
"Let's go down and see the inkerbaker," said Willy.
"All right," returned Janet, affably, and down they pattered as fast
as their sturdy little legs could carry them.
They peered in through the glass front at the eggs which lay so
peacefully within.
"It must be turrible stupid in there," said Janet, pityingly.
"Shouldn't you think those chickens would be tired of waiting to come
out?"
"Yes. We might crack a lot and help 'em out."
"Oh no. Jack says they won't be ready for two days. But I'll tell
you what we might do. We might see whether it's hot enough for 'em
in there. I guess Jack's forgotten all about 'em. I don't believe
he's been near 'em to-day, nor Martha either."
"How d' yer find out whever it's hot enough?"
"I don't know. Guess you open the door and put your hand in and
feel."
For Janet had never been taught the significance of the thermometer
inside, and knew nothing of the proper means of ventilating the
machine.
No sooner said than done. One of the doors was promptly opened, and
two fat hands were thrust into the chamber.
"My goodies, it's hot there!" cried Janet. "We ought to cool it off.
Let's leave the door open and turn down the lamp and open the cellar
window."
Mounted on an old barrel, Janet, at the risk of her life, struggled
in vain with the window. She chose one that was never used, and it
refused to respond to her efforts. Then she descended, and returned
to the incubator.
"Can't do it," she said. "But I'll tell you what we'll do."
"What?" asked the ever-ready Willy.
"Pour some ice-water over 'em. That'll cool 'em nicely."
They travelled up the cellar stairs to the "cooler," which stood in
the hall.
"Wish we had a pitcher," said Janet. "You take the tum'ler, and I'll
get a dipper."
It required several journeys to and fro to sufficiently cool the
eggs, according to their way of thinking, but at last it was
accomplished, with much dripping of water and splashing of clean
clothes.
The water-cooler was left empty, and the incubator was in a state of
dampness alarming to behold.
"There; I guess it's cool enough now!" said Janet, when the last trip
had been taken.
Alas, the mercury, which should have remained at 103°, had dropped
quietly down to 70°!
"I'd like to see what's in those eggs," said Willy, meditatively.
"D' yer s'pose they're duckies yet?"
"I guess so. I'd like to see, too. I'll tell you what, Willy!
Let's take one, and carry it off and see."
"All right. I'll be the one to take it. What'll Jack say?"
"He won't mind. Just one egg, and he has such a lot. And we've been
helping him lots this afternoon, cooling: 'em off so nicely. But
I'll be the one to take it."
"No, me!"
"Let's both do it," said Janet, for once anxious to avoid a quarrel.
"I speak for that big one over there," and she abstracted one from
the "thermometer row"--the row that was most important and precious
in the eyes of the owner of the machine.
"And I'll take dis one. It's awful heavy, and I guess de dear little
chicken'll be glad to get out and have some nice fresh air."
"Let's go down behind the carriage-house and look at 'em."
They fastened the door of the incubator, and departed with their
treasures.
Half an hour later Jack, having finished his work, came whistling
into the house. He would go down and have a look at the machine, and
then walk up the river bank to meet Cynthia, whom he had seen as she
paddled off early in the afternoon.
His first glance at the thermometer gave him a shock; 75° it
registered. What had happened? He looked at the lamp which heated
the chambers, and found that it had been turned down very low. What
could Martha have been thinking of, when he told her it was so
important to keep up the temperature this last day or so? The day
after to-morrow he expected the hatching to begin, and he had closed
the door of the incubator that morning. It was not to be opened
again until all the chicks were out.
Jack was on tiptoe with excitement. If they came out well, what a
triumph it would be! If they failed, what would his father say?
He looked again, and a most unexpected sight met his eyes. Water was
dripping from the trays, and the fine gravel beneath had become mud.
And there was a vacant space in one of the trays. An egg had
gone--and it was from the third row, the row which he had been so
careful about, which contained the best eggs.
And--yes, surely there was another hole. Another egg gone! What
could have happened?
He ran up-stairs three steps at a time, shouting for Martha.
"What have you been doing, Martha?" he cried. "Two eggs are gone,
and the thermometer way below 80°, and all that water!"
"Sure, Mr. Jack, I haven't been there at all! You were at home
yourself to-day, and I never go near the place of a Saturday."
"Well, some one has been at it. Where's Cynthia? Where's Edith?
Why isn't somebody at home to attend to things?"
No one could be found. Jack rushed frantically about, and at last
heard the sound of wheels. Edith was returning from the tea. And,
at the same moment, around the corner of the house came Cynthia,
leading two crying children.
They all met on the front porch.
"They've been up to mischief, Jack," said Cynthia; "I hope they
haven't done much harm. I found them on the bank, behind the
carriage-house. They must have been at the incubator, for they had
two eggs, and the chickens are dead. And they are two bad, naughty
children!"
Even Cynthia, the peacemaker, had been stirred to righteous wrath by
the sight on the river bank.
"You rascals!" cried Jack, in a fury, shaking them each in turn; "I'd
like to lick you to pieces! You've ruined the whole hatch."
"Go straight to bed," said Edith, sternly; "you are the very worst
children I ever knew. I ought not to leave the house a minute. You
can't be trusted at all."
They all went in, scolding, storming, crying. In the midst of the
confusion Mr. Franklin arrived, earlier than he had been expected.
It was some minutes before he could understand the meaning of the
uproar.
He looked about from one to the other.
"It only serves to justify me in a conclusion that I have reached,"
he said. "You are all too young to be without some one to look after
you. Take the children to bed, Edith, and then come to me. I have
something to tell you."
Edith, wondering, did as she was told. Cynthia gave Jack one
despairing look and fled from the room. Her worst fears were on the
point of being realized.
And after tea, when they were sitting as usual in the long parlor,
Mr. Franklin, with some hesitation and much embarrassment, informed
them that he was engaged to be married to Miss Hester Gordon, of
Albany.