During these early months of the year a change had come over Miss
Betsey Trinkett's life. Silas Green had died.
Mr. and Mrs. Franklin went to Wayborough for the funeral, and found
Miss Betsey quite broken.
"To think that the day was fixed at last," she said, "and he died
only the week before. Well, well, it does seem passing queer, after
all these years. It doesn't do to put a thing off too long. And
yet, perhaps, it's all for the best, for if I'd given up and gone
down there to live, I should have had nothing now to look at but the
Soldiers' Monument, and I'd have felt real lonesome without the
Merrimac."
And with this consolation the old lady took up her life again, and
found it very much the same thing it had been before, with the
exception of Sunday night. On that evening she would not have the
lamps lighted, but would sit in her favorite window and look out
across the valley at her beloved view, her eyes turned in that
direction long after it became too dark to see.
Sometimes then she regretted that she had not yielded to Silas's
arguments, and gone to live in the house in the village. It would
have pleased him. And it seemed very lonely Sunday night without
Silas.
After a while--it was a day or two after the communications came from
Bronson--Mr. Franklin received a letter from his aunt. She was
pretty well, but felt as if she had not heard from them for a long
time. She would send Willy's present soon. Had Janet's been placed
in the savings-bank? She had not heard from Janet since she sent it.
Why did not the child write?
As nothing had come to Janet from Miss Trinkett, this caused some
surprise.
"I am afraid Aunt Betsey has trusted to government once too often,"
said Mr. Franklin, "for evidently the package has gone astray. I
wonder what was there besides the gold dollars."
"Something to make it an odd-looking package, you may be sure, papa,"
said Cynthia.
Mr. Franklin inquired of the postmaster. That personage was a
nervous little man, much harassed with the responsibilities and
duties of his position.
"Something lost, Mr. Franklin? Now that's very strange. I can't
think it's lost. Yes, I remember a number of odd-looking packages
that have come for your family from Wayborough. There may have been
one lately, though I can't say for sure. Let me see. I remember
young Gordon coming for the mail one day, and getting--no, he didn't
get one, he sent it--a money-order. Happen to remember it because he
paid for it in gold. That's all I can safely say about anything, Mr.
Franklin. There may have been a package--what did you say, Miss?
Stamps and postal-cards? Yes, yes."
And the busy little man turned to the next comer.
Mr. Franklin left the office with a thoughtful face. He was a very
impulsive man, too apt to say the first thing that occurred to him,
without regard to consequences. Therefore, when he got into the
carriage and, taking the reins from Edith, drove hurriedly out High
Street towards Oakleigh, he exclaimed:
"I am almost inclined to believe that Neal knows more about Aunt
Betsey's present to Janet than any of us."
Janet, who was perched on the back seat, heard her own name
mentioned, and proceeded to listen attentively. Both her father and
sister forgot that she was there, and she took especial pains not to
remind them of her presence.
"How do you mean, papa?" asked Edith.
"I think it is a remarkable coincidence, if nothing more. I had a
letter the other day from young Bronson, stating that Neal owed him
fifty dollars. The same night I had another letter from him, saying
that he had received a money-order from Neal for the amount. We
questioned Neal, and he would give no satisfactory answer as to where
he got the money. The postmaster tells me that Neal paid for his
money-order in gold. Aunt Betsey's present to Janet is missing; we
all know that Aunt Betsey always sends gold. The postmaster seems to
think that a package may have come through the office to us, though
he is not absolutely certain of it. What more natural than to
suppose that the gold Neal had was meant for Janet? He may have
called for the mail that day, recognized the package from Aunt
Betsey, and the temptation was too much for him."
"Oh, papa!" cried Edith, much shocked, "I can't believe that Neal
would do a thing like that."
"I can't either," said her father, cutting the air with his whip in
his impatience, and making his horse prance madly--"I can't either,
and I am sure I don't want to! Let us forget that I said it, Edith.
Don't think of it again, and on no account repeat what I said. The
idea came into my head, and I spoke without thinking. I wouldn't
have Hester know it for the world. But it is strange, isn't it, that
Neal paid gold for his money-order. Where did he get it?"
"It is strange, papa, but indeed I think Neal is honest. I am
sure--oh, I am very sure--that it couldn't have been Janet's."
"Then where did he get it?" repeated Mr. Franklin, with another cut
of his whip.
"Perhaps Mrs. Franklin gave it to him."
"Of course she didn't," exclaimed her father, with irritation, "and I
wish you would oblige me, Edith, by not calling my wife 'Mrs.
Franklin.' If you do not choose to speak of her as the rest of my
children do, you can at least call her 'Hester.' You annoy me beyond
measure."
Edith turned very white as she said:
"I am sorry, papa. Then I will call her nothing. I can't possibly
say 'mamma' to her, and I don't feel like speaking to her by her
first name."
"What nonsense it all is," said Mr. Franklin. "I am thoroughly
disappointed in you, Edith."
"I don't know why you should be, papa. I have nothing to do with it.
If the Gordons had not come here this would never have happened. The
money would not be missing, you wouldn't have had the letters from
Tony Bronson, and I--oh, I would have been so much happier!"
"If you are not happy, it is entirely your own fault," said her
father, sternly. "Now let me hear no more of these absurd notions of
yours. I have too much to think of that is of more importance."
Edith wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She was to drive
with her father over to Upper Falls, where he had to attend to some
business, and now she had made him seriously angry, she knew. She
swallowed the lumps that rose in her throat, and presently she
managed to speak on some indifferent subject; but her father made no
reply, and they soon turned in at Oakleigh gates. Janet, the small,
quiet person on the back seat, could scarcely wait to get home. She
must find Neal at once.
But Neal was not easily to be found. She trotted up to his room, but
he was not there. She went to the cellar stairs and called, but Neal
had neglected his duties of late as partner in the poultry business;
in fact, he had retired altogether, and the eggs reposed there alone.
Janet was not allowed to descend the stairs because of her
misdemeanors last year.
She went to the workshop, but all was quiet. Looking out from the
upper window, however, she spied Bob in the pasture; perhaps Neal was
with him. She went down and unfastened the big gate that opened into
the barn-yard.
Country child though she was, Janet was sorely afraid of venturing
through the barn-yard alone. Were there any pigs there? Yes, there
were a great many. Janet detested pigs, ugly grunting creatures!
And there were some cows also, and she had on her red jacket. She
promptly laid it aside and made a bold rush through the yard.
On the whole, she rather enjoyed the excitement. She was alone, for
Willy had gone to Boston with her mother, and Cynthia and Jack were
at school. Janet herself was enjoying an unlooked-for holiday owing
to the illness of her teacher, and she was about to fulfil the
proverb which tells of the occupation that is found for idle hands to
do, though in this case it was an idle tongue.
The dangers of the barn-yard overcome, Janet pursued her way along
the cart-road that led to the far meadow, and there, sitting on a
rock near the river, she found the object of her search. He was
whittling a boat while he pondered moodily about his affairs.
"Neal, Neal!" she called, breathless from excitement and haste, "I
want to speak to you. What have you done with my present?"
"Where did you come from, you small imp?" said Neal, with lazy
good-nature. Preoccupied though he was, he was fond of children, and
particularly of mischief-loving Janet, and he was not sorry to have
his solitude relieved by her coming.
"Where's my present?" repeated Janet; "I want it dreadful bad."
"Your present! What do you mean, young one? You don't suppose for
an instant that I'm making this boat for you, do you?"
"Boat!" cried Janet, disdainfully; "I don't want any old boat; I want
Aunt Betsey's present."
"I suppose you do. I would myself if I were so lucky as to own an
Aunt Betsey. But I'm afraid I can't help you in that line, my child."
"Yes, you can," said Janet, tugging at his elbow, "you can too.
You've got it. Papa said so."
"Got what?"
"Aunt Betsey's present. He and the postmaster man said you took it."
"Said I took it?"
"Yes. Come, Neal, give it to me. I don't want the gold dollars--you
can have those--but I'd like the funny thing she sent with them.
Aunt Betsey allus sends funny things. Come along, Neal. Give it to
me."
"Did your father say I took that money?"
"Yes, he did. Didn't I say so lots of times? Edith said you didn't,
and papa said you did. What's the matter with your face? It looks
awful funny."
"Never mind what it looks like. Tell me what your father said."
"Oh, I don't know what he said, and I've told you ten hundred times.
Don't hold my arm so tight; it hurts. Let me go, Neal."
[Illustration: "'DON'T HOLD MY ARM SO TIGHT; IT HURTS'" (Missing from
source book)]
"I won't, till you tell me what he said."
"I'll never tell unless you let go. I'll scream and people'll know
you're killing me dead, and then you'll get punished."
She opened her mouth and gave a long, shrill shriek.
"Oh, hush up!" exclaimed Neal, roughly; "if I let go will you tell
me?"
"Yes, if you'll give me that boat. I think I'd like it, after all."
Neal released her and thrust the boat into her hand.
"Now what?" he said.
"Oh, nothing much, except papa came out of the post-office and told
Edith the postmaster man said maybe you'd taken Aunt Betsey's
package, 'cause you gave him some gold dollars. And papa said it
must have been my present, 'cause you couldn't get gold dollars any
other way no-how, and papa was mad, I guess, 'cause his face looked
the way it does when some of us chillens is naughty, with his mouth
all shut up tight. There, that's all. Now, Neal, give me the thing
Aunt Betsey sent."
"I haven't got it and I never had it. And now good-bye to you, every
one of you, forever! Do you hear? Forever! I'm not going to stay
another minute in a place where I'm insulted."
He strode away, and Janet, frightened at she knew not what, sat down
on a rock and began to cry. How very queer Neal was, and how queer
his face looked! She wondered what he was going to do. Perhaps he
was going down to the cellar to smash all the eggs. He looked that
way.
She sat there a while, but it was cool without the red jacket, left
on the other side of the barn-yard--for although it was spring
according to the almanac, there was still a sharpness in the air--and
very soon she too went towards home. She had not found Aunt Betsey's
present, after all, and she had nothing to repay her for her search
but a half-made wooden boat and an aching arm.
And there were those pigs, still at large. She got through safely,
but left the gate open, thereby allowing the animals to escape, and
incurring the wrath of the farmer.
When she reached the house Neal was not to be found. There was no
one at home, for Edith and her father had driven over to Upper Falls
on business, after leaving Janet at the door. There was nothing to
do but to go out and tease the good-natured kitchen-maid into giving
her a huge slice of bread and butter and sugar. Mary Ann and Martha,
the old servants, would never do it, but the youthful Amanda was more
lenient.
"Where's Neal, 'Manda?" asked Janet, as she munched the delicious
portion which was placed before her. They were in the pantry, beyond
the ken of the other maids.
"I don't know. He came a-stalkin' past the latching windies a little
while ago, an' I heard him run up-stairs an' down like a house
a-fire, an' out the front door with a bang."
"Guess he's excited," murmured Janet, with her mouth full; "guess
that must be it. He's gone off mad. We had a fight out in the
pasture."
"La, child! What do you mean?"
"Oh, I'm not going to say any more, 'cept me and Neal, we fit a fight
in the pasture. I made him awful mad," with another huge bite.
"La, child, you do beat everything! But there's Mary Ann calling me.
Don't you take a bit more sugar. Now mind!"
But Janet, left to herself in the pantry, made a fine repast.
The family came home to dinner, with the exception of Mr. Franklin
and Edith, and although Neal's absence was commented upon, no one
thought anything of it. He frequently went off for a long day alone
on the river.
When the meal was nearly over and dessert had been placed upon the
table, Janet thought that she would announce what had taken place.
She felt quite important at being the cause of Neal's disappearance.
"Guess Neal's awful mad with me," she said, suddenly. No one paid
much attention. She would try again.
"Guess Neal's awful mad with me 'bout what I said 'bout Aunt Betsey's
present."
"What did you say about it?" asked Jack, who sat next to her. There
was a lull in the conversation, and every one heard her reply.
"Oh, I told him to give it to me. I said papa said he took it, and
he could have the gold dollars, but I wanted the funny thing. Why,
maybe it was a doll or a purse or some other nice thing. Course I
wanted it. My, though, Neal was mad!"
"What did you tell him, Janet?" asked Mrs. Franklin, in much
astonishment; "that your father said Neal had taken your present?
When did he say so, and what do you mean?"
"Goody, mamma, you're asking most as many questions as Neal did.
Guess you're excited, like he was. I told him papa said he'd taken
my present from Aunt Betsey. The postmaster man said so this
morning. And Neal looked awful queer when I told him, and he hurted
my arm awful bad. And then he went off and left me."
Mrs. Franklin became very white.
"I think you will have to excuse me, children. I--I do not feel very
well. I will go lie down. Jack, your arm, please."
Jack sprang to help her and led her from the room. Cynthia only
waited to scold Janet for her idle chatter and then followed.
"But it's true, Cynthia," her small sister called after her. "It's
true, and you're real mean to say it isn't. You just ask Edith."
When Mr. Franklin returned and learned that his hastily uttered words
of the morning had been repeated to his wife and to Neal, he was
distressed beyond measure.
"My dear, I never meant it," he said. "Hester, you must know that I
could not really believe that Neal would do such a thing. It was
impossible to help remarking upon the singular coincidence. I never
thought the child would hear me. What shall I do with her? She
ought not to have repeated what I said."
"Do nothing, John. Janet is not to blame; naturally a child of her
age would get it wrong. But oh, I am relieved to find you did not
really think it! It gave me such a shock to hear that you thought
him capable of such an action."
"Where is the boy? I want to tell him myself."
But Neal could not be found. Cynthia and Jack hunted over the place,
looking for him in all his haunts. He was not on the river, for his
canoe was in its place. He had not gone to the village, for no horse
was out, and, whether he had walked or driven, his sister would have
met him when she returned from Boston. He could not have gone for a
walk, for Bob had been left at home, and Neal never walked without
Bob.
A horrible foreboding seized Cynthia. What if Neal had run away?
But no, surely he would never do such a thing. The idea of her even
thinking of it when such a course would only make people believe that
he had really taken the money. Cynthia scolded herself severely for
having allowed the supposition to come into her mind. But where was
he? As a last resource she called Janet to her and again questioned
the child closely. They were standing on the drive in front of the
house.
"What did Neal say to you, Janet, when he went off?"
"Oh, he was awful mad, I told you, Cynthia. He was just mad."
"But did he say anything?"
"Oh yes, lots. But I forget what."
"Can't you remember anything, Janet? Not one word? Did he say where
he was going?"
"No-o," drawled Janet, "he just said-- My, Cynthia, look at that
bluebird! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're alive. Wish I could
catch him."
"But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal say?"
"Oh, he said good-bye and he was going. Cynthia, I b'lieve if I had
some salt to put on that bird's tail I could catch him. Mayn't I,
Cynthia? Mayn't I get some salt and put it on his tail?"
"No, you can't!" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. "I do wish you
would tell me all Neal said."
"There now, you're in an angry passion," observed her small sister,
gazing at her calmly; "you've let your angry passions rise. You
frightened that bird away, a-stampin' of your foot that way. Aren't
you 'shamed!"
"Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he really say good-bye?"
"Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all he said?"
said Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an opportunity.
"Yes, yes! Anything!"
"Well, he said--are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? I want the coral
necklace with the nice little gold clasp and--"
"Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. "I've only got one coral necklace,
you dreadful child! Go on, _do_ go on!"
"My, Cynthia! You're terrible impatient, and I guess your angry
passions have riz again. Well, he said, 'Good-bye forever, I'm going
away,' and off he went."
"Was that all? Truthfully, Janet?"
"Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any longer 'cause he
was salted, or something."
"Salted!"
"Yes, or sulted, or some word like that."
"_In_sulted, do you mean?"
"Yes, I guess so. And now, where's the necklace?"