Tony Bronson was the son of a man who had made a great deal of money
in a doubtful line of business by rather shady proceedings. In other
words, he was not strictly honest, and had amassed a large fortune in
a manner that would not bear investigation.
Of this Tony, of course, was ignorant; but he inherited from his
father a mean spirit and a determination to turn every circumstance
to his own account. He had been sent early to St. Asaph's school
that he might associate with the sons of gentlemen and become a
gentleman himself, but he had acquired only the outward veneering.
His manners were most courteous, his language carefully chosen, and
he had sufficient wit to enable him to readily adapt himself to his
companions, but he had not the instincts of a true gentleman. He was
mean, he was something of a coward, and he was very much of a bully.
Years ago, soon after the two boys first met at St. Asaph's, Neal
detected Tony in a cowardly, dishonorable action, and had openly
accused him of it. Tony never forgave him, but he bided his time.
With an unlimited amount of pocket-money of his own, he soon
discovered that Neal was running short. When a convenient
opportunity came he offered to lend him a small sum. Neal, after a
moment's hesitation, weakly accepted the money, assuring himself that
it was only for a short time and that he could easily repay it, and
then have no more to do with Bronson. It saved him trouble, and Neal
was only too ready to save himself trouble.
Thus it had gone on. The time never came when Neal felt able to pay
the debt; on the other hand, he borrowed more, and now it had reached
alarming proportions. His monthly allowance, when it arrived, was
gone in a flash, for Neal had never been in the habit of denying
himself. It would have been hard for him to explain why he did not
go frankly to his sister, tell her the whole story, and ask for her
help, except that he was thoroughly ashamed of having placed himself
in such straits and did not want to acknowledge it.
Tony Bronson had become intimate with Tom Morgan at St. Asaph's, Tom
not being particular in his choice of friends. In that way he had
come to visit the Morgans in Brenton. His handsome face and
apparently perfect manner attracted many to him who could not see
beneath the surface, and his languid man-of-the-world air made an
impression.
He cultivated this to the last degree. He was not naturally so lazy,
but he thought it effective.
When he said to Edith that he wished to tell her something about Neal
Gordon she looked at him in still greater surprise.
"I want to ask your help, Miss Franklin. A girl can manage these
things so much better than a fellow. I like Gordon immensely, and I
want to do all I can to help him out of a scrape."
"Does he know that you are speaking to me about him?"
"No, of course not. The fact is--"
"Then I think, Mr. Bronson," interrupted Edith, gently, but with
decision, "that perhaps it would be better for us not to discuss him."
"But you quite misunderstand me, Miss Franklin. I am speaking only
for his own good. I can't bear to see a fellow going straight to the
bad, as I really am very much afraid he is, and not lift a finger to
help him. I thought if I told you that perhaps you might speak to
his sister--"
Edith interrupted him again, with heightened color. "I can do
nothing of the sort. Nothing would induce me to speak to Mrs.
Franklin on the subject. I--I couldn't possibly."
Bronson looked at her compassionately.
"Ah, it is as I thought! You and Mrs. Franklin are not congenial. I
am so sorry."
Edith said nothing. She knew that he should not make such a remark
to her, a perfect stranger. She felt that he did not ring true. And
yet she could not bring herself to administer the reproof that
Cynthia would have given under like circumstances.
"I am afraid I have offended you," said Bronson, presently; "do
forgive me! And if you like I will say no more about the bad scrape
Gordon is in. I thought perhaps I could prevent a letter coming from
the faculty, but I see it's of no use. I'm awfully sorry for the
fellow. You don't really think you could do anything to influence
his sister?"
At last Edith found her voice.
"I don't think I can. And if you don't mind I would rather not
discuss the Gordons--I mean, Mrs. Franklin and her brother."
"Certainly not, if you don't wish, and you won't repeat what I said,
of course. If we can't help him, of course we had better not let it
get out about Gordon any sooner than necessary. But holloa! What's
this? The carpet seems to be getting damp."
It undoubtedly was, and gave forth a most unpleasantly moist sound
when pressed. Upon investigation they found that the bottom of the
canoe was filled with water. They had sprung a leak.
"We had better get back as quickly as possible," said Edith, rather
relieved to have the conversation come to an end. "Is there a sponge
there? I can bail if it gets any worse."
But no sponge was to be found, and it rapidly grew worse; Edith's
skirts were damp and draggled. Presently there was an inch of water
above the carpet.
"We shall sink if this goes on," she said.
[Illustration: "'WE SHALL SINK IF THIS GOES ON,' SHE SAID"]
"Oh, I fancy not," returned Bronson, easily; "we haven't very far to
go."
But their progress was not rapid, and the pool in the canoe grew
deeper.
"Perhaps you will lend me your cap," said Edith; "I can use it as a
dipper." He did so, and she bailed vigorously. "It must be a very
large leak. I suppose we got it on that rock in the rapids, and we
scraped again just before we tied up, which made it worse. If it
were our boat I would not care, but I think it is Neal's."
She was so occupied that she did not see Bronson smile. His smile
was not attractive, though his teeth were perfect.
Matters would have gone badly with them if they had not at this
moment met Jack and Kitty Morgan in the Franklins' canoe.
"What's the row?" called Jack.
"Nothing much," said Bronson. "We've sprung a little leak, that's
all."
"A little leak! I should think so. My eye! Why, man, you must have
a regular hole for the water to come in like that. Where have you
been, anyhow? You had better put in here at this little beach and
step over into my boat."
"What's the matter with stepping over right where we are? No need of
going to shore."
Jack eyed him with curiosity and contempt. He looked so much like
Cynthia that Bronson felt withered. He did not care for Cynthia, for
he knew that she did not like him.
Jack did not speak at once, but paddled towards the bank. Then he
said:
"You won't try stepping from one canoe to another in mid-stream if I
have anything to say about it."
The change was safely accomplished, and they proceeded down the river
towing the injured boat, the carpet and cushions having been
transferred with the passengers. Relieved of the weight it did not
fill as rapidly, and they at last reached the picnic ground.
Bronson was mortified at coming back in such ignominious plight, but
he made the best of it.
"I am awfully sorry, Gordon, if it is your canoe. It must have been
pretty frail, though, to go to pieces at a mere scratch."
"She's the finest cedar canoe to be found in the city of Boston, and
it would take more than a mere scratch to do her up this way. From
appearances I should say you had pounded round in the rocks pretty
freely," growled Neal, who had turned the boat upsidedown, and was
examining it carefully.
Bronson stooped over him. For the moment they were alone.
"Of course I would feel worse about it if it were any one's but
yours. As it is, we'll just call ten off of that fifty still owing.
That will go towards repairs. More than cover them, I should say."
Then he sauntered off, his hands in his pockets.
"What a cad the fellow is!" muttered Neal. "It would give me real
pleasure to knock him down."
"I heard him," said Cynthia. Her cheeks were red and her blue eyes
had grown very dark. "He is an odious, hateful creature, and I
_de-spise_ him!"
Having delivered herself of this, Cynthia felt better.
They all went home soon afterwards, Edith leaving earlier in the
carriage with Mrs. Franklin, for her shoes and skirts were too wet
for her to wait for the slower movements of the canoes. It was an
unfortunate ending to the day, and Edith was uncomfortable also about
her conversation with Bronson. She knew that she ought not to have
listened to a word of it.
She wondered if it were really true that Neal was in difficulty. She
thought she must talk it over with Cynthia that night. Of course
Cynthia would stand up for Neal, that went without saying, but it was
always a relief to Edith to talk things over with her.
It was a rather silent drive home, and Mrs. Franklin sighed to
herself when Edith barely replied to her remarks. It seemed
perfectly hopeless; she and Edith would never grow any nearer to each
other; but there was nothing to be done.
That night, when the girls went to their room, Edith was spared the
necessity of opening the subject, for Cynthia began at once.
"What a perfectly hateful creature that Bronson is! I don't see how
you could go on the river with him, Edith. I think you got well paid
for it."
"I don't see why you dislike him so, Cynthia. You take such
tremendous prejudices. He is awfully handsome."
"Handsome! I don't admire that style. That
la-de-da-it-is-I-just-please-look-at-me kind doesn't go down with me."
Cynthia thrust her hands into imaginary pockets, leaned languidly
against the bedpost, and rolled her eyes.
"Er--Miss Franklin--carnt I persuade you to go out on the rivah?" she
said, with, an exaggerated manner and accent, and a throaty voice.
Edith laughed. Cynthia was a capital mimic.
"I like a broad A, and, of course, I never would use anything else
myself, but his is broader than the Mississippi. It just shows it
isn't natural to him. To hear him talk about 'darmp grarss,' and
he'd just come from 'South_armp_ton.' He is a regular _sharm_
himself. I dare say he was brought up to say 'ca'm' and 'pa'm' and
'hain't' and 'ain't.'"
"Cynthia, what a goose you are!"
"Well, I can't bear him, and neither can Neal. Jack doesn't like him
either."
"There, that is just it. You are so influenced by Neal and Jack.
Tony Bronson spoke very nicely of Neal, as if he were a true friend
of his."
"Pooh! Much friend, he!"
"Well, he did, Cynthia, and that is just what I want to talk over
with you. Neal must be in some terrible scrape."
"Has that Bronson been telling you about that?" cried Cynthia,
indignantly.
"Oh, then it is really true! I thought it must be."
"No, it isn't--at least, not what Bronson told you. I am just
certain that whatever he told you wasn't true," said Cynthia, who
felt that she had said more than she should. "I shouldn't think you
would have discussed Neal with him. Neal is one of our family."
"I didn't," said Edith, somewhat curtly, "though I don't exactly see
why you should speak of Neal Gordon as one of our family. I told Mr.
Bronson I preferred not to talk about him. But he spoke so nicely of
Neal, and said he wanted to help him, and he was afraid the faculty
would write about him, and he wanted to get him out of the scrape if
he could."
"Oh, the hypocrite! But what is the scrape? Did he say?"
"No, I wouldn't let him. But it is absurd to call him a hypocrite,
Cynthia. I shall never believe it unless you tell me why you think
so."
"I can't do that, but I know he is," said Cynthia, stoutly; "you have
just got to take my word for it, for I can't explain."
The girls talked far into the night, but Edith was not convinced.
She felt that there was something at the bottom of it all, for
Cynthia could not deny it. After all, she was sorry. Edith liked
Neal, a Gordon though he was. But she did not doubt that he was in a
difficulty of some kind.
The summer was over and the glorious autumn leaves dropped from the
trees, leaving the branches bare and ready for the coming of snow.
One could see the course of the river plainly now from Oakleigh
windows. Beautiful October was swallowed up by chill November, and
the wind grew biting. One was glad of the long evenings, when the
curtains could be drawn and the lamps lighted early to shut out the
gray skies and dreary landscape.
Neal was back at St. Asaph's and the winter work had begun. Cynthia
and Jack went every day to Boston, and Edith also went in three times
a week for lessons. She objected to this on the plea of expense,
much as she desired a thorough education. She greatly feared her
stepmother had brought it about. But her father reprimanded her
sharply when she said something of this, and insisted that she should
do as he desired.
The poultry had already begun to bring in a little money, for Jack
sold a few "broilers" to his mother at market prices, though she
usually added a few cents more a pound.
"They are so delicious, Jack," said she; "better than I could get
anywhere else, and worth the money."
He kept his accounts most carefully, and it was pleasant to write
down a few figures on the page for receipts, which thus far had
presented an appalling blank.
In due time came a present to Edith from Aunt Betsey: a package
containing an old-fashioned camel's-hair scarf that had belonged to
"Grandmother Trinkett," and, scattered among its folds, five
ten-dollar gold pieces.
Government had proved worthy of the old lady's trust, for the money
had come safely; but then she had actually addressed the package
clearly and correctly.
Edith, of course, was much pleased, and notwithstanding her aunt's
suggestion that she should place it in the savings-bank, she
determined to expend the money in a handsome winter suit and hat.
She dearly loved nice clothes.
Cynthia looked somewhat scornfully at the new garments.
"If Aunt Betsey sends me fifty dollars, you won't catch me spending
it on finery," she informed her family; "I have other things to do
with my money."
She did not know how truly she spoke, nor what would be the result of
her manner of spending Aunt Betsey's present.
The fall slipped quickly by, and the Christmas holidays drew near,
Neal was coming to Oakleigh, and many things were planned for the
entertainment of the young people.
Cynthia went about fairly bursting with excitement and secrets. This
was her best-loved time of the whole year, and she was making the
most of it.
The 25th of December fell on a Wednesday this year, and Neal came
down from St. Asaph's on Monday, to be in good season for the
festivities of Christmas Eve. Plenty of snow had fallen, and all
kinds of jolly times were looked for.
Outside the scene was wintry indeed, and the white walls of Oakleigh
looked cold and dreary in the setting of snow which lay so thickly
over river, meadow, and hill, but in the house there was plenty of
life and cheery warmth. Great fires burned briskly in all the
chimneys, and the rooms were bright and cosey with warm-looking
carpets and curtains and comfortable furniture. There had been a
good deal done to the house, both outside and in, since the coming of
Mrs. Franklin. Edith still maintained to herself that she did not
like it, but every one else thought matters vastly improved.
"Hurray! hurray!" cried Jack, rushing into the house on Tuesday and
slamming down his books; "good-bye to school for ten days! It was a
mean shame that we had to have school at all this week. Neal, you
were in luck. St. Asaph's must be mighty good fun, anyhow.
By-the-way," continued he, holding his chilled hands to the fire, "I
saw that Bronson fellow in town to-day--the one that smashed your
canoe."
"You did?" said Neal, glancing up from his book, while Cynthia gave
an exclamation of disgust.
"Yes," said Jack, "and he said the Morgans had asked him out here for
the holidays, so I guess we are in for another dose. It strikes me
they must be pretty hard up for company to want him."
Neal said nothing. Edith looked up from her work and watched him
sharply, but his face told little.
"Hateful thing!" exclaimed Cynthia; "I would like to pack my trunk
and take a train out of Brenton as he comes in on another."
"I can't see why you all dislike him so," observed Edith. "You
detest him, don't you, Neal?"
"Oh, Edith, do hush!" cried Cynthia. "Yes, of course he does; he's
hateful." But Neal still said nothing, and Edith got no satisfaction.
Christmas Eve closed in early. At about four o'clock it began to
snow, and the wind blew great drifts against the side of the house.
Every one said it was going to be an old-fashioned Christmas.
It was the custom in the Franklin household to look at the presents
that night. As Cynthia said, when arguing the point with some one
who thought it a shocking idea to see one's gifts before Christmas
morning, it made it so much more exciting to open their own packages
and to look at their treasures by lamplight. Then in the morning
they had the pleasure of seeing them a second time, and of
investigating their stockings, which, of course, were hung ready for
the coming of Santa Claus.
After supper Jack and Neal carried in the great clothes-basket which
for days had been the receptacle for packages of all sizes and kinds,
those that had come by post and those which the family themselves had
carefully tied up, until now it looked like Santa Claus's own pack.
Mrs. Franklin presided at the basket and read the names, and when the
colored ribbons were untied and the tempting-looking white parcels
were opened there were shrieks and exclamations of delight, for every
one declared that this particular gift was just what he or she most
desired.
Each one had a table covered with a white cloth, upon which to place
his treasures, and when all was done the "long parlor" at Oakleigh
looked like a fancy bazaar, so many and varied were the articles
displayed.
There was an odd-looking package addressed to Jack and Cynthia. It
was heavy and was covered with postage-stamps in consequence, and
proved to be a large box stuffed with straw.
"What under the sun is it? Of course it's from Aunt Betsey," said
Jack, as he rooted down into the hay, scattering it in all
directions. Out came what appeared to be an egg tied up with
old-fashioned plaided ribbon, and an ancient-looking beaded purse.
The purse was marked "Cynthia," so Jack appropriated the egg, but
with an exclamation of chagrin.
"She is sending coals to Newcastle," said he. "Aunt Betsey must have
thought it was Easter. But it is the queerest-feeling egg I ever
came across. It's as heavy as lead."
He shook it and held it up to the light.
"Ha, ha!" said he; "a good egg! I'd like to have the machine packed
with just such eggs."
Inside were ten five-dollar gold pieces, and Cynthia found the same
in her purse.
"I will put mine away for a 'safety' in the spring," said Jack,
clinking his gold with the air of a miser, and examining the empty
egg-shells. "Isn't Aunt Betsey a daisy and no mistake? Just see the
way she's fixed up this egg-shell; she cut it in half as neat as a
pin. I don't see how she ever did it."
"I wish I had an Aunt Betsey," remarked Neal; "those gold pieces
would come in pretty handy just now."
"Aunt Betsey is so fond of giving gold," said Cynthia. "She always
says it is real money, and bills are nothing but paper. I shall put
mine away for the present, until I think of something I want terribly
much, and then I will go grandly to Boston and buy it like a duchess.
Goody Two-shoes, but I feel rich!"
And she danced gayly up and down the room, waving her purse in the
air.
Neal had very nice presents, but he was disappointed to find that
there was no money among them. He suspected, and correctly, that his
sister and her husband had thought it wiser not to give him any more
at present.
"Then I'm in for it," thought he. "I'll have to ask Hessie, and
there'll be no end of a row. Of course she will give it to me in the
end, but it would have been nicer all round if she had come out
handsomely with a Christmas check. Of course these skates are dandy,
and so is the dress-suit case and the nobby umbrella and the
sleeve-buttons; but just at present I would rather have the cash they
all cost."
He said something of this afterwards to Cynthia.
"Bronson is screwing me for all he's worth," said he. "I'll have to
get the money somehow, and fifty dollars is no joke. Of course, I am
not going to take off the ten he so kindly offered for the canoe; I'd
like to see myself! If Hessie doesn't see matters in the same light
I'll have to do something desperate. But, of course, she will give
it to me."
"Neal," said Cynthia, impulsively, "if mamma doesn't give you the
money you must borrow it of me. There is that fifty dollars Aunt
Betsey has given me. You can have it just as well as not."
"Cynthia, you're a brick, and no mistake," said Neal, looking at her
affectionately, "but you know I wouldn't take your money for the
world. You must think me a low-down sort of fellow if you think I
would."
"How absurd! It is a great deal better to owe it to me instead of to
a stranger like Bronson, or any one else. I'm sure I think of you
just as if you were my brother, and Jack wouldn't mind taking it.
You can pay it back when you get your own money."
"Yes, nine years from now," said Neal. "No, indeed, Cynth, I'll have
to be pretty hard up before I borrow of a girl."
"I think you are too bad," said Cynthia, almost crying; "I don't see
the difference between a girl and anybody else. I don't need the
money; I don't know what to buy with it. I would just love to have
you take it. It would be lovely to think my money had paid your
debts, and then you could start all fresh. Please, Neal, say you
will if mamma does not give it to you."
But Neal would not promise.