It was four years later, and it was again the day before Christmas.
Cynthia sat in her own room by the bed, which was covered with
presents in various stages of completion; some tied up and marked,
ready to be sent, others only half finished, and one or two but just
begun. Bob, as usual, lay at her feet.
"There!" cried she, as with a loud snap her needle broke for the
third time; "there it goes again. I believe I'll give up this
wretched frame and all the other things that are not finished, and go
to Boston this morning. I'll just buy everything I see, regardless
of price."
"You would never get near the counters, the shops are so packed,"
observed Edith, who was hovering over a table full of lovely articles
on the other side of the large room. "Just send what you have,
Cynthia, and let the rest go. You can't possibly finish them in
time. You give so many Christmas presents."
"Oh, it's all very well for you, with all those wedding-presents and
the Christmas things you'll have besides, to think other people won't
want them! You don't take half as much interest in Christmas as
usual this year, Edith, just because you are going to be married so
soon. Now I should never change about Christmas if I were to be
married forty times--which I hope I sha'n't be. In fact, I've about
made up my mind never to marry at all."
"Nonsense! I think I used to say that myself when I was as young as
you are."
"And you're just two years older, so according to that you were
saying so this time two years ago, which was not by any means the
case, for you were already engaged to Dennis then! In fact, I don't
believe you ever said it. Oh, another needle! I'm too excited to
work, anyhow. What with weddings and Christmas and the boys coming
home, I am utterly incapable of further exertion."
She tossed the unfinished photograph-frame across the bed and leaned
back in her chair. Then she began to gather up her work materials.
Finally she moved restlessly to the window.
"It is beginning to snow. I hope the boys won't be blocked up on the
way. Wouldn't it be dreadful!"
"I suppose you mean Neal. Of course, Jack can get out from
Cambridge. Ah, here comes Dennis!" and Edith hastily left the room.
"Dennis, Dennis--always Dennis!" said Cynthia to herself. "I wonder
if I could ever become so silly. Certainly I never could about
Dennis Morgan, though he is a dear old fellow, and I'm very glad I'm
going to have him for a brother-in-law."
Cynthia stood for some time at the window, looking out at the swiftly
falling flakes which were already whitening the ground. Bob stood
beside her, his fore-paws resting on the window-sill. He belonged to
Cynthia now; but she patted his head and whispered in his ear that
his master was coming, which made the black tail wag joyfully.
Four years had, of course, made considerable change in Cynthia; and
yet her face did not look very much older. Her fearless blue eyes
were just as merry or as thoughtful by turns as they had always
been--at this moment very thoughtful; and the pretty head, with the
hair gathered in a soft knot at the back, drooped somewhat as she
looked out on the fast gathering snow.
She was wondering how Neal would be this time. During his last visit
he had seemed different. She wished that people would not change.
Why was one obliged to grow up? If they could only remain boys and
girls forever, what a lovely place the world would be! She had hated
to have Edith become engaged, and now in two days she was going to be
married and leave the old home forever. To be sure, she was to live
in Brenton, in a dear little house of her own, but it would not be
the same thing at all.
Of one thing Cynthia was sure. She would never marry and go away
from Oakleigh; she would stay with her father and mother forever.
The next wedding in the family would be either Jack's or Janet's.
Jack had overcome his shyness and become quite a "lady's man," and as
for Janet--but just then the young woman in question came into the
room.
She was eleven years old now, tall for her age, and with her hair in
a "pig-tail," but the roguish look in her eyes showed that, like the
Janet of former times, she was ever ready for mischief.
She carried a pile of boxes in her arms, and was followed by Willy,
who staggered under a similar load, and by Mrs. Franklin, also with
her arms full.
"More wedding-presents," Janet announced. "Edith and Dennis have
been looking at them, and they sent them up for you to see and fix."
As she uttered the last words one of the boxes slipped, and away went
a quantity of articles over the floor--spoons, forks, gravy-ladles,
and salt-cellars in wild confusion, cards scattered, and no means of
telling who sent what, nor in which box anything belonged.
"Janet," groaned Cynthia, "if that isn't just like you! You ought to
be called 'The Great American Dropper,' for everything goes from you."
"Never mind," returned Janet, cheerfully. "Willy, you pick them up
while I see who's coming. I hear wheels. It's a station carriage."
"Is it?" cried Cynthia. "Can it be already?"
"It's Aunt Betsey," was Janet's next piece of information.
"Oh!" came from Cynthia, in disappointed tones.
"Why, who did you think it was?" asked her young sister, turning and
surveying her calmly and critically. "Aren't you glad to see Aunt
Betsey? And why is your face so very red? Are you expecting any one
else?"
"No, only the boys," said Cynthia, busying herself with the scattered
silverware.
"The boys! I don't see why your face should look so queer for them."
Mrs. Franklin glanced at Cynthia quickly.
"Come," said she, much to her daughter's relief, "we must go welcome
Aunt Betsey."
The little old lady was as agile as ever. She had come for Christmas
and for the wedding, which was to take place on the twenty-sixth.
"I am glad you didn't put it off," she said to Edith when she had
kissed her and kissed Dennis, and patted them both on the shoulder.
"Never put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day, as I learned
to my cost late in life--though not so very late, either. And now I
want to see the wedding-presents."
And she trotted up-stairs in front of them just as nimbly as she did
years ago, when she went up to show her nieces her new false front.
Jack arrived in the afternoon. He was a sophomore at Harvard
now--very elegant in appearance, very superior as to knowledge of the
world, but underneath the same old Jack, good-natured, plodding,
persevering. He still ran the poultry farm, though he paid a man to
look after it while he was away.
The day wore on, night came down upon them, and still Neal did not
appear. He was to have left Philadelphia that morning, where he had
been living during the past four years. He had grown more accustomed
to the confinement of business, he had made a number of friends
outside of the Quaker element, and he expected Philadelphia to be his
permanent home.
His cousin was apparently satisfied with his success, for Neal had
risen steadily since the beginning, and would one day be a partner.
He had come home to Oakleigh every summer for two weeks' vacation,
but he had not spent the Christmas holidays there since the year that
his sister was married.
This Christmas Eve Cynthia, in her prettiest gown donned for the
occasion, grew visibly more and more impatient, in which feeling her
step-mother shared. Mr. Franklin laughed at them as he sat by the
lamp reading the evening paper as usual.
"Watching won't bring him," he said, when they opened the front door
a crack for the twentieth time and then shut it hastily because of
the snow that blew in; "and in the meantime you're freezing me!"
"Papa, how can you be so prosaic as to read a stupid old newspaper
Christmas Eve?" cried Cynthia, as she caught the paper out of his
hand, tossed it aside, and seated herself on his knee.
"Seems to me my little daughter looks very nice to-night," he said,
looking at her affectionately. "She has on a very fine frock and
some very superior color in her cheeks."
"Well, it is Christmas Eve, and the fire is hot," explained Cynthia.
"Ho!" laughed Janet, "that isn't it! You began to get blushy when
you thought the boys were coming this morning. You thought--"
"Janet," interposed Mrs. Franklin, "run up-stairs quickly and get the
little white package on my dressing-table, dear. I forgot to put it
in the basket. You can slip it in."
For the old Oakleigh custom still obtained, and the presents were
deposited in the basket in the hall.
Janet, her explanations nipped in the bud, departed obediently, her
love of teasing overcome by her desire to see, feel, and even shake
the "little white package," which had an attractive sound.
And at last Neal arrived. The storm had begun at the south, and
there had been much detention; but he had finally reached his
journey's end, and here he was, cold and hungry, and very glad to
reach the friendly shelter of Oakleigh.
From the moment he came in Cynthia found a great deal to do in other
parts of the house--things which seemed to require her immediate and
closest attention. She left her mother and sister to attend to the
wants of the traveller, and beyond the first shy greeting she had
very little to say to him. When there was nothing left to be done
she devoted herself to Aunt Betsey. But as soon as Neal had appeased
his appetite the excitement of opening the presents began, and the
assumption of indifference to his coming was no longer necessary.
On Christmas afternoon Neal asked Cynthia to go out with him. The
day was clear, the sleighing fine, and he anticipated having an
opportunity for a long talk with her, uninterrupted by the claims of
relatives. It seemed to him that there were more people than ever
who received a share of Cynthia's attention. He would like to have
her all to himself just once.
Very much to his chagrin, however, Cynthia, who accepted his
invitation with apparent cordiality, insisted that they should go in
the double sleigh, and that Aunt Betsey and some one else should go
too.
"It would be very selfish and quite unnecessary for us to go in the
cutter when Aunt Betsey is so fond of a sleigh-ride," she said,
severely.
Neal grumbled under his breath, but could say nothing aloud, as Miss
Trinkett was in the room. To be sure, when they drove off, Cynthia
sat in front with him, while his sister entertained her aunt on the
back seat; but it was not by any means the same thing as going with
Cynthia alone would have been.
That young woman, with apparent unconsciousness of his
dissatisfaction, chatted gayly about the wedding, the various bits of
Brenton gossip, and everything that she could think of to keep the
ball of conversation rolling. Somehow it Lad never before been so
difficult to talk to Neal. She wished that he would exert himself a
little more.
"How do you like the idea of being usher," she asked--"you and Jack
and four others, you know? Tom Morgan is to be best man, Gertrude
and Kitty Morgan are to be bridesmaids, and I maid of honor. But,
Neal, did you hear the story about Tony Bronson?"
"No; what?"
"Oh, he did some terrible thing not very long ago. He forged his
uncle's name, I believe. It got into the papers at first, and then
it was all hushed up, and his father paid the money. But wasn't it
dreadful?"
"I should say so! But it is just what one might have expected
Bronson to do, Cynth."
And then Neal relapsed into silence again, and Cynthia determined
that she would make no further effort at conversation. If Neal would
not talk he need not, but neither would she. And after this, with
the exception of Miss Betsey's voice from behind, nothing was heard
but the jingle of the sleigh-bells until the drive was over and they
were at home again.
The wedding the next day passed off well. The bride looked lovely,
as all brides should, and Cynthia was as pretty as, if not more so,
than her sister. After the ceremony at the church there was a
reception at the house, which, notwithstanding the winter aspect
without, looked warm and gay in its dress of Christmas-greens and
wedding-flowers.
Edith was up-stairs in her old room, and her mother and Cynthia were
putting the last touches to her toilet when she had changed her dress
to go away.
"Mamma, I want to say something to you," she said, putting her arms
around Mrs. Franklin's neck. "You know how I love you now, and you
know only too well how hateful I was to you when you first came to
us. I look back on it now with horror, especially the day you heard
me say it was so dreadful to have the Gordons come. I want to tell
you, mamma, that next to Dennis the coming of the Gordons was the
very best thing that ever happened to me in my whole life!"
Mrs. Franklin could not speak; she could only kiss her and hold her
tenderly.
Cynthia said nothing aloud, but she thought that the coming of the
Gordons was the very best thing that had ever happened to her,
without any exception whatever. Dennis, in her eyes, was of minor
importance.
The bride and groom went off amid a shower of old shoes, and then the
guests slowly betook themselves to their homes. It was the first
wedding at Oakleigh for many years, and it was celebrated in a manner
befitting such an important occasion. Some of the intimate friends
stayed during the evening, and when they left, the family, tired and
worn with excitement, separated early.
The next day Neal went to see some of his former friends. He was
absent several days, for he had been granted extended leave, and was
not due in Philadelphia until the 2d of January.
It seemed very lonely and strange at Oakleigh after the wedding was
over. It was the first break in the family of that kind, and Cynthia
could not become accustomed to it. She thought that accounted for
the unusual fit of depression which seized her the morning Neal went
away, and which she could not shake off, try as she would.
Edith and Dennis were to return the last day of the year, and spend a
short time at the old homestead before going to their new house.
Neal also was to come back that day, and Cynthia found herself
longing for New-year's Eve. She did want to see Edith so much, she
said to herself a dozen times a day.
And at last New-year's Eve came, and with it the absent members of
the household. A merry party sat about the supper-table that night.
Cynthia was the gayest of the gay. Her contagious laugh rang out on
all occasions, but, indeed, everybody laughed at every one else's
joke, and particularly at one's own joke, apparently without regard
to the amount of wit contained therein.
But as the evening lengthened Cynthia grew more quiet. The last
night of the year always impressed her with its solemnity, young
though she was. She left the others where they were sitting about
the fire waiting for the clock to strike, and wandered off to the
dining-room, to the library, up-stairs--anywhere. She could not sit
still.
She was just coming down the broad old staircase when Neal suddenly
appeared at the foot. He had been waiting for her. He was to go
back to-morrow, and he had determined to speak to her before he left.
She paused a moment in surprise, and the light from the Venetian
lantern which hung in the hall shone down on her soft curly hair and
young face as she stood with her hand resting on the bannister. Neal
thought he had never seen so lovely a picture.
"I want to speak to you, Cynth," he said, leaning against the carved
post at the foot of the stairs and effectually barring the way.
There was nothing for her to do but to listen. "I have tried for
ages, ever since I came, and you never will give me a chance."
[Illustration: "'I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU, CYNTH'"]
"Nonsense! You have been away. How could you expect to talk to me
if you went away?"
"I know; but I had to go. Besides, you wouldn't have let me if I had
been here."
"Let us go back to the parlor. It is almost twelve."
"No, I want you here."
Cynthia was about to reply defiantly, but something in Neal's eyes
made her drop her own. She stood there in silence.
"Cynthia, do you remember that day on the river in the rain?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what you called me then?"
No reply.
"Tell me, Cynth; do you remember what you called me?"
"Yes," very low.
"You called me a coward. Do you think I am one now?"
"Oh no."
"But you also said you had faith in me, Cynthia; and in Philadelphia
that spring I told you I was going to prove to you that I was worthy
of your faith. Do you think I have, Cynthia?"
"Yes, Neal."
He said nothing for a minute. Then he glanced at the old clock in
the back part of the hall. It was five minutes of twelve.
"Come to the hall window, Cynthia," he said, taking her hand, and
Cynthia went with him.
"That other New-year's Eve we stood here and looked out on the snow
just as we're doing now. Do you remember?"
"And I made good resolutions which I never kept," said Cynthia,
finding her voice at last. "Oh, Neal, my bureau drawers are just as
untidy and my tongue is just as unruly as ever! I make the same good
resolutions every New-year's Eve, but I always break them. You were
wiser. You would not promise that night when I wanted you to, but
you have done a great deal better than if you had."
"I would not promise when I should have done so. But won't you
return good for evil, Cynthia, and promise me something? Promise me
that before many more New-year's Eves have come and gone you will be
my wife! For I love you--love you, Cynthia! I have loved you ever
since that day on the river--indeed, long before that! Hark! the
clock is beginning to strike. Promise before it stops."
And Cynthia promised.
And the old clock struck twelve, as it had done thousands of times
before, and the old year died, and for us the story is finished. But
for Neal and Cynthia a new year and a new life were dawning, and for
them the story had but just begun.
THE END