With dripping clothes and a sad heart Cynthia went up to the house
after Neal had left her. She was bitterly disappointed and extremely
uncomfortable. Her hair, never very securely fastened, had fallen
down and lay in a wet mass about her face and neck; her hat felt
heavy as lead, and water oozed from her shoes as she walked.
"Nothing will ever be right again," she thought, as she gave a
depressed glance at all the familiar objects on the place. "I feel
as if it were going to rain forever, and the sun would never shine
again. It would have been so different if Neal had only come home!"
Mrs. Franklin was thankful to see her appear, and refrained from
reproaching her until she had been thoroughly dried and warmed. Then
all she said was:
"I thought you would never come, Cynthia! Was it worth while to go
on the river such a morning as this?"
"No, mamma, but you will forgive me when you hear why I went," said
Cynthia, setting down the cup of ginger-tea which Mary Ann had made
so hot and so strong that she could scarcely swallow it; "but tell me
how Edith is, first."
"She is about the same. She seems anxious about something. She is
restless and uneasy, but it is difficult for her to speak. Perhaps
she wants you. I think that is it, for you know I do not satisfy
her," added Mrs. Franklin, with a sigh.
Cynthia knelt beside her, and put her arms around her.
"Dear mamma!" she said, lovingly. Mrs. Franklin rested her head on
her step-daughter's shoulder.
"Cynthia, darling, you are a great comfort to me! Are you sure you
feel perfectly warm? You must not take cold."
"I'm as warm as toast. It won't hurt me a bit; you know I never take
cold. But let me tell you something--the reason I went. You could
never guess! I went to see some one."
Mrs. Franklin raised her head and looked at Cynthia eagerly.
"You can't mean--"
"Yes, I do. Neal!"
"Child, where is he? Is he here? Has he come back?"
"No, mamma," said Cynthia, shaking her head sadly, "he wouldn't come.
I begged and implored him to, but he wouldn't."
"Oh, Cynthia, why didn't you tell me? I could have made him come; I
would have gone down on my knees to him! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because he said I mustn't. He sent me a note yesterday. I knew he
would never forgive me if I told."
"Yesterday! You knew he was coming yesterday? Cynthia, you ought to
have told!"
"But, mamma, he told me not to, and I didn't have time to think it
over, for we were so frightened with Edith's accident. It all came
at once. But you could not have made him come."
"Where is he now?"
"He has gone to Pelham to take the train, and he is going to write to
me, mamma. He says he--he is going to work."
"My poor boy!" said Mrs. Franklin, going to the window. "Tramping
about the country such a day as this without a home! I wonder if he
has any money, Cynthia?"
"I don't know, mamma."
Neither of them remembered that Neal had wilfully deserted his home,
and that it was entirely his own fault if he had no money in his
pockets.
"Cynthia," said Mrs. Franklin, turning abruptly and facing her
daughter, "I want you to understand that I don't think Neal took that
money. I cannot believe it. I am sure he got it in some other way.
Why do you look so odd, Cynthia?"
There was no answer.
"I believe you know something about it. Tell me!"
Still no answer.
"Could you have helped him in any way? Where would you get it? Why,
of course! How stupid we have all been! You had Aunt Betsey's
present; you never spent it, you would not buy the watch. Cynthia,
you cannot deny it, I have guessed it!"
The next moment Mrs. Franklin was enveloped in a vigorous hug.
"You dear darling, I'm so thankful you have! He wouldn't let me
tell, but I said this morning I wouldn't deny it if you happened to
guess."
"Oh, Cynthia, though I said I didn't believe the other, this has
taken a thousand-pound weight from my heart!"
They were interrupted by the entrance of the nurse, who came to say
that her patient was growing more uneasy, and she thought some one
had better come to her. At the same moment Mr. Franklin arrived, so
Cynthia went alone to her sister.
She found her perfectly conscious, with large, wide-open eyes,
watching for her. Edith's head was bound up, and the pretty hands,
of which she had always been somewhat vain, moved restlessly.
Cynthia took one of them in her warm, firm grasp, and leaned over the
bed.
[Illustration: "SHE FOUND HER PERFECTLY CONSCIOUS"]
"Dearest, you wanted me," she said, in a low voice; "I am going to
stay with you now."
But Edith was not satisfied. She tried to say something, but in so
faint a voice that Cynthia could not hear.
"I can't hear you," she said, in distress; "don't try to speak, it
will tire you."
But still Edith persisted. Cynthia put her ear close to her sister.
"Did you say 'mamma'?" she asked.
The great brown eyes said "Yes."
"Do you want her?"
No, that was not it. Cynthia thought a moment.
"Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "You are sorry about the drive, Edith,
is that it? You want mamma to forgive you?"
"Yes."
Cynthia flew down-stairs.
"Mamma, mamma!" she cried, scarcely heeding her father, whom she had
not seen before, "come quickly! I have found out what Edith wants.
She wants you to forgive her for going to drive, and you will, won't
you?"
And in a few minutes, satisfied, Edith fell asleep with her hand in
that of her mother's.
Many people came to inquire for Edith, for the news of her accident
spread like wildfire. Cynthia was obliged to see them all, as Edith
would scarcely let her mother go out of her sight. Now that her
pride had given way, she showed how completely her step-mother had
won her heart, entirely against her own will.
Among others came Gertrude Morgan.
"And how is your dear friend, Tony Bronson?" asked Cynthia. "He
nearly killed Edith; what did he do to himself?"
"Oh, he didn't get very much hurt--at least, he didn't show it much.
He went home right away. He thought he had better."
"Well, I should think he might have had the grace to come and inquire
for Edith, after upsetting her in that style, and almost breaking her
neck."
"He seemed to think he ought to get home. He thought he might be a
good deal hurt, only it didn't come out just at first. He said there
were inward bruises."
"Inward bruises!" repeated Cynthia, scornfully. "I guess the inward
bruise was that he was ashamed of himself for letting the horse run
away. Now don't you really think so, Gertrude? Don't you think
yourself that it was outrageous of him not to find out more about
Edith before he went?"
Gertrude was forced to acknowledge that she did think so; and,
furthermore, she confessed that her brother Dennis was so enraged at
Bronson's conduct that he declared he should never be asked there
again.
"I'm glad of it!" declared Cynthia, emphatically. "It's about time
you all found out what a cad that Bronson is. If you knew as much as
I know about him you would have come to that conclusion long ago."
"Oh, of course you are prejudiced by Neal Gordon! I wouldn't take
his word for anything. By-the-way, have you seen him lately?"
"Yes, very lately. He came out to Brenton the other day."
"Did he really?" cried Gertrude, curiously. "I thought he was never
coming back. The last story was that your father had turned him
out-of-doors."
"How perfectly absurd! I should think you knew enough about us to
contradict that, Gertrude! Will you please tell every one there is
no truth in it at all?"
"But where is he now? Is he here? Why has nobody seen him? Wasn't
any of it true?"
"Dear me, Gertrude, you are nothing but a big interrogation point!"
laughed Cynthia, who had no intention of replying to any of these
questions; and Gertrude, baffled and somewhat ashamed of herself,
soon took her departure without having learned anything beyond the
fact that Neal had lately been in town and, as she supposed, at his
sister's.
Aunt Betsey came from Wayborough as soon as she heard of what had
happened. It was her first visit there since the death of Silas
Green, and naturally she was much affected.
"Cynthy, my dear," she said, after talking about him for some time to
her nieces, "let me give you a word of warning: Never put off till
to-morrow what can be done to-day! It is a good proverb, and worth
remembrance. If I hadn't put off and put off, and been so unwilling
to give up my view, I might have made Silas's last years happier.
Perhaps he'd have been here yet if I'd been with him to take care of
him. Oh, one has to give up--one has to give up in this world!"
They were in Edith's room, and Edith, listening, felt that Aunt
Betsey was right. She, too, had learned--many, many years earlier in
life than did her aunt--that one must learn to give up.
Miss Betsey did not look the same. The gay dress that she once wore
was discarded, and she was soberly clad in black. She really was not
unlike other people now, but her speech was as quaint as ever.
She brought Willy's present with her, and was shocked to find that
Janet's had never been received.
"Well now, I want to know!" she exclaimed, rocking violently. "I did
it up with my own hands. I remember it exactly, for it was a few
days after the funeral, and I was that flustered I could scarcely tie
the cord or hold the pen. It was a large rag doll I had made for the
child, just about life size, and a face as natural as a baby's. And
I made a nice little satchel to hang at the side, and in the satchel
was the money. Too bad she didn't get it! I remember I gave it to
old Mr. Peters to mail. He was going down Tottenham way, and he said
he'd take it to the post-office there. He'd stopped to see if there
was anything he could do for me just as I was tying it up, so I let
him take it along. He's half blind, and just as likely as not he
went to the meeting-house instead of the post-office. He wouldn't
know them apart. You may depend upon it, it warn't Government's
fault you didn't get it. Of that I'm very sure."
And, true to her principles, the patriotic little lady rocked again.
No one told her of the suspicion which had rested upon Neal. It
would have distressed her too deeply, and nothing would be gained by
it.
"And now, Jack, I must see those little orphans," she said to her
great-nephew, when he came home that afternoon. "Poor little things,
are they at all happy?"
Jack led her in triumph to the poultry-yard.
"Well, I want to know!" she exclaimed, throwing up her mitted hands
when she saw six or seven hundred very contented-looking fowls of all
sizes, kinds, and ages, each brood in its allotted habitation,
pecking, running, crowing, and clucking, and enjoying life generally.
"You don't mean to say, Jackie, that not one of these hens ever had
any mother but that heartless box in the cellar? Well, I want to
know! They do look real contented. Do tell!"
Her nephew proudly assured her that they appeared to be exceedingly
happy, and that he also was happy; for they paid well, and he would
soon be able to return the money that he had borrowed of her.
And indeed in a few weeks Jack travelled out to Wayborough, and with
his own hands gave back to his aunt the seventy-five dollars which
she had advanced to him, and which he had earned with his own hard
work.
The best part of it all was when his father spoke to him with
unqualified praise.
"I am really proud of my son, Jack," he said. "You have done well.
I have watched you carefully, and I saw the plucky way in which you
met your discouragements. It makes me feel that I have a son worth
having. Keep at it, my boy. If you put the same pluck and
perseverance into everything you undertake you will make a name some
day."
And when Jack remembered how his father had frowned down the idea of
the incubator he felt more pleased than ever.
One day a letter came to Cynthia from Neal. It was the first they
had received. Mr. Carpenter had written to Mrs. Franklin, telling
her that Neal was with him, and that he had taken him into his
office; and Hester wrote to her brother at once, but he answered
neither that letter nor the many that followed. He was still
obdurate. It was an exciting moment, therefore, when Cynthia
recognized the bold, boyish handwriting on the envelope.
"DEAR CYNTH [he wrote],--I promised to write to you, so here goes. I
am living with cousin William Carpenter, and probably shall for the
rest of my days. He is in the lumber business, and lumber's awfully
poky. However, I'm earning my living. Did you ever see a Quaker?
They are a queer lot. It would not do for you to be one, for they
never get excited. If the house got on fire cousin William and
cousin Rachel would walk calmly about and thee and thou each other as
quietly as ever. They don't say 'thou' though. Cousin William says
it has become obsolete.
"I do nothing but measure boards and write down figures. Boards are
tiresome things. I go to Quaker meeting sometimes, though I should
say Friends' meeting. They call themselves Friends. All the men sit
on one side and all the women on the other, and the men keep their
hats on all through. Sometimes there isn't any sermon and sometimes
there are five or six, just as it happens. The women preach too, if
they feel like it. One day it was terribly still, and I was just
beginning to think I should blow up and bust if somebody didn't say
something--had serious thoughts of giving a sermon myself--when I
heard a familiar voice, and I looked over, and there was cousin
Rachel preaching away for dear life. And a mighty good sermon it
was, too--better than any of the men's.
"Cousin William takes me to see the sights on Saturday (or, rather,
Seventh day, as he would say) afternoon, and I have been about myself
a good deal. I would like to get to know the people, but have no
chance. I wish you would write to a fellow, Cynth. I would like to
see you pretty awfully much. How you did give it to me that day on
the river! You were a brick, though, to come. I have not forgotten
what you said. I am going to show you I am no coward, though you
said I was. I'll stick at the lumber trade until I die in the
harness, and here's my hand and seal!
Yours,
GORDON.
"P.S.--Give my love to Hessie. I hope Edith is coming round all
right."
It was better than nothing, though Mrs. Franklin wished that the
letter had been to her. Still, it was far, far better than if it had
not been written at all. And then he had sent his love to her. It
was in a postscript and was probably an after-thought, but she was
glad he did it. He seemed well and moderately happy, and for that
his sister was very grateful. Fortunately, Hester could not read
between the lines and learn that the boy was eating his heart out
with homesickness and a longing to see his only sister.
Neal found this quiet life, so far from his family and friends, very
different from that to which he had been accustomed, and sometimes it
seemed very dreary and hard to bear. Then again, he was quite unused
to steady occupation, and his cousin demanded unflagging attention to
business. It was good for the boy, just what he needed; but that
made it none the less irksome.