Miss Betsey Trinkett had risen betimes this Friday morning. She had
planned to do some work in her garden, and, besides, Miss Betsey was
always an early riser.
Ebenezer, the "hired man," when he came back from driving the cows to
pasture, found her hard at work in her huge sunbonnet and garden
gloves, pruning the box that formed the border of the old-fashioned
garden.
Here bloomed together in delicious profusion roses, white, red, and
pink, sweet-william, dahlias, peonies, mignonette, and heart's-ease,
while the labyrinth which wound in and out among them was the pride
of Miss Betsey's heart.
After a time she straightened herself and stood gazing at the view,
her quaint little figure, in its old-time, gay-colored gown, looking
not unlike the flowers among which it stood.
"Well, I want to know!" she said, aloud, her hand raised to shield
her eyes. "Any one who says his view is better than mine must be
just about daft. Land sakes! I'd just about die if I didn't get
that sweep of the Merrimac and those mountings beyond!" And then,
satisfied, she returned to her weeding.
Miss Betsey's house, in which she had been born and her father also,
stood on the side of a hill. Behind was a steep pasture, full of
rocks and stubby bushes. In front, on the other side of the road,
the ground sloped abruptly to the village. Even the old white
meeting-house, built on a hill though it was, stood lower than the
Trinkett farm. Beyond the village flowed the beautiful Merrimac. A
broad stretch of meadow land and cultivated fields rested the eye
with their peaceful greens, and far away was the dim outline of the
hills.
"Silas don't get a touch of the river," continued Miss Betsey, "and
as for the medders, they're nowhere to be seen. He thinks because he
can see the Common and the Soldiers' Monument his view's better than
mine! He expects me to give up the Merrimac for the Soldiers'
Monument! Sakes alive!"
She worked steadily for some time until the click of the gate
attracted her attention.
"I want to know!" she exclaimed, laying down her tools and drawing
off her old gloves; "if here ain't Nephew John and Jackie and that
naughty Cynthy. Well, well! And this must be the bride." And she
hurried down the path to meet them.
[Illustration: "'I WANT TO KNOW!' SHE EXCLAIMED, DRAWING OFF HER OLD
GLOVES"]
Cynthia came shyly forward after the introduction of her step-mother
and the greetings were over. All the way in the train she had been
meditating what she should say. With Jack's help she had composed a
little speech. His help had consisted in acting as audience, for
Cynthia was seldom at a loss for words. But when the time came the
speech, deserted her, and all she could think of doing was to put her
arms around Aunt Betsey's neck, and, looking into the depths of the
big sun-bonnet, say, softly:
"Aunt Betsey, I'm so sorry! Will you forgive me?"
"Forgive you, child!" exclaimed the old lady, her resentment melting
at sight of her favorite niece. "I want to know! Did you suppose
I'd remembered to be angry all this time? La, Cynthy, when you're as
old as I am you'll have learned to take a little joke. And don't you
suppose I'm real pleased to have you look so much like me? If Mrs.
Parker couldn't tell us apart there must be some resemblance."
"Nor Jack either," put in Cynthia, eagerly, with a lightened heart.
"I think you are too good to her, Aunt Betsey," said Mr. Franklin, as
they walked towards the house. "I brought her up here to-day for the
sole purpose of apologizing."
"Do tell! And I nearly disremembered it entirely! But I'm real glad
to see you and my new niece. Come right into the best parlor."
She opened the door and, with reverent step, ushered them into the
carefully kept "best parlor." An immaculate carpet, ever shielded
from the light of day, covered the floor, and a horse-hair sofa and a
few chairs of the same inhospitable material stood at regular
intervals of distance from one another.
A pair of tall vases and some sea-shells decked the mantel-piece.
During their childhood it had been a rare treat to Jack and Cynthia
to hold these shells to their ears and listen to the "roar of the
ocean" within. On a table between the windows were some wax-flowers
under a glass, and on the marble-topped centre-table were a few books
placed together in neat little piles.
Mrs. Franklin was given the place of honor, the large arm-chair. The
chair being a high one and she being a rather small woman, her feet
barely touched the floor, and she sat in constant terror lest she
should slide ignominiously to the ground.
It was so dark when they entered the room that Mr. Franklin stumbled
over a worsted-work footstool which stood in a prominent place, but
Miss Trinkett opened the blinds a crack, and two bars of blazing July
sunshine fell across the carpet. Then she sat down to entertain her
guests, but her mind wandered. The Franklins all talked, but Miss
Betsey was unusually silent. "I want to know!" and "Do tell!" came
at random. Finally she said, with a hasty glance at the sunlight:
"I wonder now if you'd mind coming into my sitting-room? I'd be real
pleased to have you, and maybe we'd find it cooler."
They all jumped to their feet with alacrity. Miss Betsey closed her
blinds again with a sigh of relief, and in the freer atmosphere of
the sitting-room, secure in the knowledge that her best-parlor carpet
was no longer fading, she found her tongue.
"I was coming to see you, niece, just as soon as I could see my way
to it. Marthy, my hired girl, has been off for a spell, and that's
kept me busy. I'd have written, but I'm a poor hand at writing.
Silas he says he wonders the letters I write ever get there, but then
he's one of the doubting kind, Silas is. I've great faith in
government. I think as long as they undertake to carry letters about
at all, they've got sense enough to carry 'em safe, even if I do
disremember part of the direction sometimes. And it's wonderful, as
I've said many a time before, what you can send through the mails
nowadays. But now tell me about those poor little orphans in the
poultry-yard."
The success of the last hatch was described to her; in fact, all the
news of Brenton was asked for and received, and in turn bits of
Wayborough gossip were told to the attentive Mrs. Franklin, while
Silas's latest sayings were repeated and commented upon.
When Jack and Cynthia had gone out-doors, Miss Betsey drew her chair
a little closer to that of Mrs. Franklin.
"My dear--Hester, I think, your name is, and Hester it will be my
pleasure to call you--my dear Hester, I want to tell you first and
foremost that I'm real pleased you should come and be a mother to
those children of Nephew John's. They needed you, they needed you
badly. And now I'm going to treat you as one of the family, and talk
over a little matter with you and John.
"You've probably heard of Silas Green. He's been courting me these
forty years, and now he's got it into his head that he can't be
climbing this hill any more of a Sunday night. He wants me to fix
the day! I declare, it kind of takes the stiffening right out of me
to think of fixing the day after all these years, and I still hold
out, as I can't give up my view of the river."
"What are you going to do about it, Aunt Betsey?"
"That's just it, John. Well, I'm going to hold out a little longer,
and I think--in fact, I'm pretty sure--that Silas is weakening. You
see, it's kind of lonesome for him down there, now his sister's dead
that kept house for him, and it is depressing to have nothing much to
look at but the Common and the Soldiers' Monument. Yes, I think he's
weakening, and I shouldn't wonder if you were to find him here next
time you come. But I'll let you know in time to come to the wedding,
you may be sure of that. But there's something else I want to speak
about."
Here Miss Betsey paused. She folded her hands anew in her lap, and,
rocking briskly, waited for some one to speak. The clock on the
chimney-shelf ticked comfortably, and Miss Trinkett's canary chirped
and hopped about in its cage at the window. Mrs. Franklin looked at
her husband.
"And what is that, Aunt Betsey?" said he. "Somehow you have so taken
my breath away by hinting that you are going to make Mr. Silas Green
happy, after all these years, that I can't take in anything else."
"Ah now, my dear boy, don't jump too quickly at a conclusion. Things
may not be any nearer a settling now than they were forty years ago.
It's all a question of view, and men are terribly set in their ways.
However, to continue: I want to make each of the children a present.
I feel that I'm getting on in life--though I'm not so very old
either, but, still, no one knows what may happen--and I'd rather do
things up before I die than have it all a-going on after I'm laid
away. I never did think much of wills, anyhow. So I'm going to send
'em each a present from time to time as I feel inclined."
"Nonsense, Aunt Betsey!" said Mr. Franklin. "You are not going to
die for many a year yet, and you give the children enough. Keep your
money--"
"Now you needn't say a word, John. My mind's made up, and it takes a
deal to make me change it--it's in the Trinkett blood. And then I
like to get the letters the children write to thank me. I must say
I'm powerful fond of their letters, 'specially Cynthy's. She does
write a beautiful letter. I'll send 'em each in turn, beginning with
Edith and ending up with Willy. Of course, they can do what they
like with the money, but it would be my advice to put it in the
savings-bank. It's wonderful how money does roll up in an
institution of that kind."
Miss Betsey could not be turned from her purpose, so her nephew was
forced to content himself with begging her, if she sent money through
the mails, to address it carefully.
"One would think, nephew, from the way you talk that I didn't know
how to write," said the old lady, with some asperity.
Jack and Cynthia in the meantime were exploring the farm. It was a
never-failing source of pleasure to them, accustomed to farm life
though they were.
"This is a really true farm," said Cynthia; "not a make-believe, like
ours, with a hired farmer to do it all. And Aunt Betsey's garden is
a thousand times nicer than ours, and her hens are all so big and
strong-looking."
"That's only because you've been looking so much at the 'little
orphans.' By-the-way, I wonder how they're getting on. I do wish I
hadn't had to leave home to-day. I wonder if Gordon will attend to
things. Queer kind of a duffer, isn't he, Cynth?"
"Yes, but I like him. He's awfully lazy and all that, but I think
I'd trust him."
"Oh, I'd trust him far enough, except where hard work's concerned.
In that line I think I'd rather trust myself. But I wish it was time
to go home."
"So do I," said Cynthia, thoughtfully. "I have a feeling that
something is going on there and we are missing it. Aunt Betsey's
isn't as much fun as usual, though she was awfully good to forgive me
so easily. And you have been frightening me about it all the way,
Jack."
At last the day wore on, and amid cordial good-byes from Miss Betsey,
her relatives took leave.
"I'll send you something for those little orphans at Christmas-time,
Jackie," she called after them, "though this being only July I hope
to see you before then."
When the party reached home they found Bob shaven and shorn, Neal in
his most careless and teasing frame of mind, Edith depressed and
silent, and the children in disgrace.
"I knew something was happening while we were away," whispered
Cynthia to Jack.
"If only we hadn't missed it," returned he. "Smashing the buggy and
shaving Bob, all in one day! It's a regular shame that we weren't on
hand."
"It seems to me that you were neglecting things somewhat to-day,
Edith," said her father, when he heard the story.
There, it had come! Of course she was to be censured as she had
expected.
"I didn't know I was to be tied hand and foot and look after the
children every minute of the day," she answered, crossly, "and it was
not my fault that we went to the woods and broke the buggy."
"I don't care in the least about the buggy, but about Neal's dog."
This was too much. Edith felt badly herself about the dog, but
surely she was not responsible. She had not been the means of
bringing him to Oakleigh, she said to herself. She was about to
reply, when Mrs. Franklin interposed and diverted her husband's mind
from the subject. This still further annoyed Edith.
Why should Mrs. Franklin feel called upon to interfere between her
and her father? And she encouraged herself to dislike more than ever
the "intruders" at Oakleigh.
The summer went by. More chickens were hatched, until they numbered
four hundred, and then "Franklin & Gordon" concluded that they would
not fill the machine again this season. The stock must be carefully
tended during the winter, and Jack would have his hands full, though
one of the men would help him if necessary.
Jack was to go to Boston to school this winter. Neal was going back
to boarding-school; it was his last year, and next autumn he hoped to
begin college life.
One fine day towards the end of the summer Cynthia and Neal walked
out over the pasture to the "far meadow," and sat down in the shade
of a huge hay-stack. The air was full of the hum of fall insects,
and grasshoppers alighted here, there, and everywhere about them.
Neal tried in vain to catch one with his hat. Then he tossed it to
one side, and clasping his hands behind his head, leaned back against
the hay with a heavy sigh.
"What is the matter?" asked Cynthia. "I should think you had the
weight of the world on your shoulders."
"And so I have. I've a good mind to trot out the whole story to you,
Cynth. I wonder if it would do any good."
"Of course it would," replied Cynthia, promptly. "There is nothing
like talking a thing over, and, besides, I've wanted dreadfully to
know what has been the matter with you."
"How did you know anything was?"
"I have seen you growing glummer and glummer. You haven't been
nearly as jolly lately. And when you got that letter this morning
you looked as if you would like to punch somebody."
"You do take in a lot! I never supposed anybody would notice. I
wonder if Hessie did."
"I saw her looking at you."
"I wish she'd look to some purpose, and hand out what I want. She's
so taken up with you Franklins nowadays."
"What do you want?"
"Money, of course."
"Why, Neal, mamma gave you a lot the other day!"
"Oh, that was a mere drop in the bucket. Yes, I really think I'll
have to tell you what a fix I'm in. Perhaps you'll see some way out
of it."
"Do," said Cynthia, sympathetically; "I am sure I will."
"Well, it's just this. I owe a lot of money to a fellow that goes to
St. Asaph's, and I had a letter from him this morning asking me to
fork out at once, or he would write to my guardians or speak to the
trustees at the school. It's a nasty thing to do, anyhow. I don't
think the fellow is a gentleman."
"Then why did you ever have anything to do with him?"
"That's just like a girl! I'm sorry I told you."
"Oh, don't say that! Indeed, it only just struck me that people who
are not gentlemen are so horrid. Please go on, Neal, and tell me the
rest."
"There's nothing to tell except that I owe him a hundred dollars."
"One hundred dollars! Neal!" To Cynthia this seemed a fortune.
"Why, how did you ever spend it all?"
"Spend it! Easily enough. Suppers once in a while, ginger-pop,
candy, cigarettes."
"I didn't know you smoked."
"Neither I do. I just do it occasionally to show I'm up to it. But
it's no go if you're training, and I'm training most of the time.
But you have to keep cigarettes on hand for the fellows."
"But, Neal, you told me once how large your allowance is, and I don't
see how you ever in the world managed to spend so much more."
"Easily enough, as I said before. You see, I have the name of being
a rich fellow, and I have to live up to it, which makes it hard. I
have to live up to it, when, after all, I'm practically dependent on
Hessie. I haven't a cent of my own until I'm twenty-five. This
fellow, Bronson, offered to lend me a fiver one day, and I got into
the habit of asking him. I didn't mean to let it run on so long.
He's a queer lot--awfully smooth on the outside, and inside hard as
nails. We were good friends at first; then he did something I didn't
like and I cut him, but he didn't seem to mind it, and afterwards
when he offered me the fiver I thought I might as well take it. What
a mean will that was anyhow of grandmother's."
Neal moodily tugged at a wisp of straw which he held in his teeth,
and looked across the meadow. A herd of cows came down on the
opposite side of the river for a drink, and Bob barked at them
loudly, running as near to them as he dared.
For a time Cynthia did not speak. Then she said:
"Aren't you going to ask mamma?"
"I suppose I'll have to. I wouldn't mind a bit if she were not
married, but I suppose your father will have to know about it."
"I suppose," said Cynthia, sagely, "mamma would have just given it to
you without saying anything, while papa will ask questions."
"That's just about the size of it. And he will not only ask the
questions, but he won't like the answers. I think I won't tackle
them for a hundred all at once. I'll put it at fifty, and try to get
Bronson to wait for the rest. I suppose I'll get some tips at
Christmas-time."
"I think it would be ever so much better, Neal, to tell the whole
truth. It will save ever so much trouble in the end."
"But it won't save trouble now, and I hate a fuss. The fifty
business will be bad enough. I like to take things quietly."
"That's just it, Neal. Do take my advice, and tell mamma the whole
thing."
"That's the worst of telling a girl anything. They always want to
give advice. I wonder why it is that a woman from her earliest years
loves to advise."
"Much you know about it," said Cynthia; "and you needn't have told me
about your scrape if you didn't want me to say anything."
"Well, I've told you now, and you must give me your word of honor
that you will never give me away. Now promise, Cynthia."
"Of course I'll promise, Neal. I wouldn't tell it for the world if
you don't want me to. But oh, I wish you would tell the whole thing
yourself!"
But Neal was obdurate; and when he found how his brother-in-law
received his demand for fifty dollars he thought he had acted wisely.
"Of course it is not really my affair," said Mr. Franklin, "except
that I am your sister's husband and have a right to advise her. The
money is hers to do with it what she likes, and she can spend it all
on you if she wishes. But I think fifty dollars is a good deal for a
school-boy, with the allowance that you have, to owe. If you were my
boy I should look into the matter pretty carefully, you may be sure.
However, I am neither your father nor your guardian. But it is a bad
precedent. If you spend money in this way at school, what will you
do in college?"
Hester expostulated with her brother, but wrote a check and gave it
to him. Neal was almost sorry then that he had not placed the sum at
one hundred. It would have been about as easy, perhaps.
He sent the check to Bronson, assuring him that he would pay him the
balance before long. This done, Neal became as gay and debonair as
ever. Cynthia, knowing the facts, wondered that he could so
completely forget the burden of debt that was still resting upon him.
She thought that he must have discovered some other way of settling
the matter.