Mr. Franklin's announcement at first almost stunned his children.
They could not believe it. Jack and Cynthia were somewhat prepared
for it, it is true, but when they heard the news from their father's
own lips it was none the less startling.
To Edith it came like a thunderbolt. She had never had the smallest
suspicion that her father would marry again. She had always supposed
that she would be sufficient for him. She would never marry herself,
she thought, but would stay at home and be the comfort of his
declining years. It had never occurred to her that her father, still
a young and good-looking man of barely forty, would be exceedingly
likely to marry a second time.
And now what was to happen? A stranger was coming to rule over them.
Edith would never endure it, never! She would go away and live with
Aunt Betsey. Anything would be better than a step-mother.
When she spoke her voice was hard and unnatural.
"Haven't I done right, papa? Weren't you satisfied with me? I have
tried."
"My dear child, you have done your best, but you are too young. No
one can expect a girl of sixteen to take entire charge of a house and
family. And it is not only that. Hester is a charming woman. She
reminds me something of your mother, Edith. It was that which first
attracted me. She will be a companion to you--a sister."
"Thank you, but I don't need either. Cynthia is all the sister I
want. Oh, papa, papa, why are you going to do it!"
She went to her own room and shut the door. After this one outbreak
she said no more. Small things made Edith storm and even cry,
dignified though she was. This great shock stunned her. She did not
shed a tear, and she bore it in silence; but a hard feeling came into
her heart, and she determined that she would never forgive this Miss
Gordon who had entrapped her father (so she put it), and was coming
to rule over them and order them about. She, for one, would never
submit to it.
Jack did not mind it in the least, and Cynthia, who idolized her
father, was sure from what he said that he was doing what he
considered was for his happiness. Of course it was terrible for
them, but they must make the best of it.
They passed a dreary Sunday, but Monday was expected to be an
exciting day, for on that date the chickens were to appear. But when
the children returned from school there were but small signs of the
anticipated hatch in the incubator; one shell only had a little crack
on the end.
Cynthia took up her position in front of the machine with a book, and
waited patiently hour after hour. Nothing came. The next morning
there was another crack in the next egg, and the first had spread a
little, but that was all. The children all went to school but Edith,
and she felt too low-spirited to go down to the cellar to watch.
Janet and Willy were forbidden to go near the place. As punishment
for their conduct on Saturday, they were not to be present at the
hatching. It was thought that owing to what they had done the
chickens were not forthcoming, and indeed it had been most disastrous.
When Jack and Cynthia returned from school they found that two little
chicks--probably the only two which had escaped the cold bath--had
emerged from their shells, and were hopping dismally about in the
gravel beneath the trays. One hundred and ninety-eight hoped-for
companions failed to appear.
Jack's first hatch was anything but a success. He bore it bravely,
but it was a bitter disappointment. After waiting many hours in the
vain hope of seeing another shell crack, he removed the two little
comrades to the large brooder built to hold a hundred, and then,
nothing daunted, sent for more eggs. He still had some of Aunt
Betsey's money left.
Jack was plucky, and his pride would not permit him to give up. He
would profit by this experience, and next time he would be
victorious. He feared that, besides the mischief done by the
children, he had been over-fussy in his care of the eggs, and he
determined to act more wisely in every respect.
In after years Cynthia looked back upon the first hatch as one of the
most depressing events in her life. The children in disgrace, Edith
silent and woe-begone in her own room, she and Jack watching hour
after hour in the big cellar for the chickens that never came--and,
above all, the impending arrival of the second Mrs. Franklin.
Aunt Betsey journeyed down from Wayborough as soon as she heard the
news. They did not know she was coming until they saw one of the
station carriages slowly approaching the house, with Miss Trinkett's
well-known bonnet inside of it. She waved her hand gayly, and opened
the subject at once.
"Well, well," she cried, "this is news indeed! I want to know!
Nephew John going to be married again! Just what I always thought he
had best do for the good of you children. Have you seen the bride,
and what is she like?"
It was a warm June day, and the Franklins were on the piazza when
this was shouted to them from the carriage in their aunt's shrill
voice. Edith writhed. Though the news was all over Brenton by now,
this would be a fine bit for the driver to take back.
Jack and Cynthia offered to help Aunt Betsey to alight, but she waved
them aside.
"Don't think you must help me, my dears. This good news has put new
life into me. How do you all do?" giving each one of her birdlike
kisses, and settling herself in a favorite rocking-chair.
The younger children ran to her, hoping for treasures from the
carpet-bag.
"I do declare," exclaimed she, "if I didn't forget all about you in
the news of the bride! Never mind; wait till next time, and I'll
bring you something extry nice when I come to see the bride."
"What's a bride?" asked Willy.
"La, child, don't you know? They haven't been kept in ignorance, I
hope?"
"Oh no, but they haven't heard her called that," explained Cynthia.
"Do you mean the lady that is coming here to live?" asked Janet.
"Well, we don't like her, me and Willy. She's made Edith cross and
sobby, and she's made you forget our presents, and she's made a lot
of fuss. We don't want her here at all."
Miss Trinkett looked shocked. "My dear children!" she exclaimed, too
much aghast to say more. Then she turned to Edith.
"But now tell me all about it. Have you seen her, and is she young?"
"I have not seen her, Aunt Betsey, and I don't wish to. I don't know
whether she is young or old, and I don't care. Won't you take me
home with you, Aunt Betsey? Can't I live with you now? I'm not
needed here."
Miss Betsey stared at her in amazement.
"Edith Franklin," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "I am
astonished at the state of things I find in this household!
Rebelling against circumstances in this way, and wishing to run away
from your duties! No, indeed, my dear. Much as I'd admire to have
you live with me--and there's a nice little chamber over the
living-room that would suit you to a T--I'd never be the one to
encourage your leaving your family. You are setting them a bad
example as it is, teaching these young things to look with disfavor
on their new mother that is to be. No, indeed. Far be it from me to
encourage you. And, indeed, I should have no right, when my own
mother was a second wife. Why, in the early days of the colonies it
was thought nothing at all for a man to marry three or four times, as
you'd know if you had read Judge Sewall's _Diary_ as much as I have,
or other valuable works."
Miss Trinkett rocked violently when she had finished this harangue.
Edith did not reply. She had looked for sympathy from Aunt Betsey;
but she, like all the rest of the world, seemed to think it the best
thing that could happen.
As for Miss Betsey, she too was somewhat disappointed. She had hoped
for some interesting items, and none seemed to be forthcoming.
"Where's your father?" she asked, presently.
Edith did not reply.
"He has gone to Albany," said Cynthia.
"Well, well! And when is the wedding to be?"
Edith rose and went into the house. Cynthia glanced after her
regretfully, and then answered her aunt's question.
"It is to be in a week. It is to be very quiet, because--because
Miss Gordon is in deep mourning."
"Do tell! I want to know!" ejaculated Miss Trinkett. "And are none
of you going?"
"No, papa did not think it was best. Hardly any one will be there.
Only her brother and one or two others."
"So she has a brother. Any other relatives?"
"I think not. She lost her father and mother when she was very
young, and her grandmother died rather lately."
"I want to know! And when are they coming home?"
"Very soon," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly.
"Do tell!"
Miss Betsey said no more at present, but her mind was busy.
"Where is Jackie?" she next asked.
"I don't know. Gone to see about the chickens, I suppose."
"Oh, those little orphans. Well, I haven't time to ask about them
now, for I think, Cynthia, I would like to call upon my friend, Mrs.
Parker. It is a long time since I was there."
"Oh, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia. It would never do for her aunt
to see Mrs. Parker. The secret of her escapade at that good lady's
house would surely be found out. "Why do you go there this
afternoon?"
"Because, my dear, I am only here for a night, and I must see Mrs.
Parker."
Cynthia groaned inwardly.
"And hear all the village gossip about papa," she thought.
It must be prevented.
But Miss Trinkett was not to be turned from her purpose. Go she
would. Every available excuse in the world was brought up to deter
her, but the end of it was that Jack drove around in the buggy, and
Miss Betsey departed triumphantly.
Cynthia awaited her return in suspense. She wished that she could
run away. Her impersonation of her aunt did not seem such a joke as
it had at the time, and then she had heard the dreadful news there.
Miss Trinkett came back before very long in high dudgeon. Cynthia
was alone on the piazza, for Edith had not appeared again. She
noticed that Jack was apparently enjoying a huge joke, and instead of
taking the horse to the barn, he remained to hear what Aunt Betsey
had to say.
Miss Trinkett sank into a chair and untied her bonnet-strings with a
jerk.
"Maria Parker is losing her mind," she announced. "As for me, I
shall never go there again."
"Why not, Aunt Betsey?" murmured Cynthia, preparing herself for the
worst.
"She declares that I was there two weeks ago, and that she--_she_
told me the news of my own nephew's engagement! She actually had the
effrontery to say, 'I told you so!' My own nephew! When his letter
the other day was the first I heard of it, and I said to Silas, said
I, 'Silas, nephew John Franklin is going to marry again, and give a
mother to those children, and I'm glad of it, and I've just heard the
news.' And now for Maria Parker to tell me that she told me, and
that I was there two weeks ago! Is the woman crazy, or am I the one
that has lost my mind? Why don't you say something, Cynthy? Is it
possible you agree with Mrs. Parker? Come, now, answer a question.
Was I here two weeks ago, and did I go and see Maria Parker?"
"No," murmured Cynthia, her face crimson, her voice almost inaudible.
But Aunt Betsey was too much excited to notice.
"Jackie," she said, turning to him, "will you answer me a question?
Did I visit you two weeks ago, and did I call upon Mrs. Parker?"
Jack gave one look at Cynthia, and then, dropping on the grass,
rolled over and over in an ecstasy of mirth.
"You're in for it now, Miss Cynthia!" he chuckled.
Miss Betsey drew herself up.
"You have not answered my questions. Was I here two weeks ago, and
did I call upon Mrs. Parker?"
"No, no, Aunt Betsey!" shouted Jack. "You weren't! You didn't! Go
ahead, Cynth! Out with it! My eye, I'm glad I'm here and nowhere
else! I've been waiting for this happy day. Now you'll get paid up
for fooling me."
And again he rolled, his long legs beating the air.
"I think you are mean, Jack, when you were the one that made me go!"
exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. Then she relapsed into silence. How
could she ever confess to Aunt Betsey?
Miss Trinkett hastened the climax.
"I don't know why Jack finds this so amusing. It is not so to my
mind; but if you are quite sure that I was not here, and that I did
not call upon Mrs. Parker, I must ask you to drive down there with me
at once and state the facts to her. I cannot have it insinuated that
I am no longer capable of judging for myself, and of knowing what I
do and what I don't do. She actually told me to my face that I was
getting childish. What would Silas say! But I'll never tell him
that. I would like to go at once."
Alas, there was no help for it. Cynthia must confess. If only Jack
had not been there!
She rose from the step where she had been sitting, and standing in
front of her little grandaunt she spoke very rapidly.
"You are right, and so is Mrs. Parker. You weren't here, but I
dressed up and went to see her. I pretended I was you. I found your
other false--I mean your new hair. You left it in the drawer. I
looked just like you, and we thought it would be such fun. I'm
awfully sorry, Aunt Betsey, indeed I am. It wasn't such great fun,
after all."
At first Miss Betsey was speechless. Then she rose in extreme wrath.
[Illustration: "'CYNTHY FRANKLIN, IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU HAD A
MOTHER'"]
"Cynthy Franklin, it is more than time you had a mother. I never
supposed you could be so--impertinent; yes, impertinent! Made
yourself look like me, indeed, and going to my most intimate friend!
Poor Mrs. Parker! There's no knowing what she might have said,
thinking it was I. And I telling her to-day she was out of her mind,
and various other things I'm distressed to think of. Why, _Cynthy_!"
"Oh, I'm 50 sorry," cried Cynthia, bursting into tears. "Do forgive
me, Aunt Betsey."
"I am not ready to forgive you just yet, and whether I ever will or
not remains to be proved. I am disappointed in you all. Edith going
and shutting herself up when I come, because she doesn't want a
step-mother, and you making fun of an aged aunt--not so very aged
either. Why, when Silas hears this I just dread to think what he'll
say. I am going home at once, Jack. You are the only well-behaved
one among them. You may drive me to the train."
"Oh, Aunt Betsey, not to-day! Please don't go."
"I couldn't answer for my tongue if I stayed here to-night. I had
best go home and think it out. When I remember all I said to Maria
Parker, and all she said to me, I'm about crazy, just as she said I
was."
And presently she drove away, sitting very stiff and very erect in
the old buggy that had held her prototype two weeks before, and
Cynthia was left in tears, with one more calamity added to her
already burdened soul.
Why had she ever played a practical joke? If she lived a hundred
years she never would again.
Edith heard the news of Aunt Betsey's sudden departure in silence,
and Cynthia received no sympathy from her. And very soon it was
temporarily forgotten in preparations for the advent of the bride.
The day came at last, a beautiful one in June. The house was filled
with lovely flowers which Cynthia had arranged--Edith would have
nothing to do with it--and the supper-table was decked with the
finest china and the old silver service and candelabra of their
great-grandmother.
The servants, who had lived with them so long, could scarcely do
their work. They peered from the kitchen windows for a first sight
of their new mistress, and wondered what she would be like.
"These are sorry times," said Mary Ann, the old cook, as she wiped
her eyes with the corner of her apron.
Outside the place had never looked so peacefully lovely. It was
late, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows from the few trees on
the lawn. In the distance the cows were heard lowing at
milking-time. At one spot the river could be seen glinting through
the trees, and June roses filled the air with fragrance.
All was to the outward eye just as it had always been, summer after
summer, since the Franklins could remember, and yet how different it
really was.
Jack had gone to the station to meet the travellers. Edith, Cynthia,
Janet, and Willy were waiting on the porch, all in their nicest
clothes. The children had been bribed to keep their hands clean, and
up to this moment they were immaculate. Ben and Chester lay at full
length on the banking in front of the house; they alone did not share
the excitement.
The sound of wheels was heard.
"They are coming," whispered Cynthia.
As for Edith, she was voiceless.
And then the carriage emerged from the trees.