lookin' after the pieces."
The boss clapped Bascom on the shoulder. "You're the man I've been
hunting for down here," he declared. "Don't you want to come up and help
me run the farm?"
Bascom looked over at the little _Mystery_, the deep blue of the bay,
and the tree fringe on Deer Island, beyond which lay the Gulf.
"I reckon they'd have to be a mighty long calm," he answered; "wouldn't
they, Cap'n Tony?"
"They suah would," the Captain agreed. "In sailin' weathah me an'
Bascom mostly sails."
They counted the melons as they loaded them on board the _Mystery_,
agreed on a rate of salvage and a price, and arranged for future
dealings as the crop went on. The schooner-men finished their work, and
Bascom paid off the overseers generously; then the _Mystery_ raced the
_Luna May_ to the bridge, and passed through first.
"Well," sighed Bascom, when they had left the figs at the
canning-factory, and their faces were turned toward the welcome reaches
between Potosi and New Orleans, "if it hadn't a-been for that honey of a
tide I'd be up in them dumb ole trees a-studyin' 'bout pickin' dem
figs."
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was true, then. Neal had gone.
Cynthia went to her mother's room and told her what Janet had said.
"It is what I feared," cried Mrs. Franklin: "he has left me forever! My
dear and only brother! And where is he? Cynthia, Cynthia, why did he go?
It almost makes me think he may have taken the money."
"Mamma, how can you!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. "Neal never took
it. I--I--oh, I _know_ he didn't take it! Can't you believe me, mamma?"
She was crying.
"Dear child," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at her affectionately, "you
have more faith in him than I have. But this running away is so much
against him, Cynthia. If he had been innocent, would he not have braved
it out?"
"No; he is so proud, mamma. That is the reason he went, I am sure. He
thought papa suspected him. Oh, why did papa ever think it? Why did he
say anything to Edith for Janet to hear?"
"Hush, dear. Your father spoke thoughtlessly, but it was natural; of
course it was natural. But Neal should not have gone. It is a false kind
of pride. If he is innocent he should have the pride of innocence and
stay here."
It was what they all said. Cynthia went from one to the other, trying to
convince them and to imbue them with her own belief in Neal, but she
could not. Even Jack, her beloved twin-brother, was on the other side.
"Of course I want to believe in Neal, Cynth," he said. "I like him, and
I never supposed before he'd do a low-down thing like this. In fact, I
can't really believe it now. But why on earth did the fellow run away?
If he came by the money all fair and square, why under the sun didn't he
say so, instead of shutting himself up like an oyster, and never letting
on where he got it?"
"He had his reasons," persisted Cynthia. "Oh, Jack, can't you believe
me? You always used to believe me."
"Well, you used to tell a fellow more than you do now. You get mighty
shut up yourself now and then. You won't tell me what you're going to do
with Aunt Betsey's money, or why you didn't buy a watch, or anything.
I'm sure I don't want you to if you don't want to, but there's no reason
why I should always think as you do."
If they had not been sitting side by side Jack could not have failed to
notice the peculiar expression that came into Cynthia's face when he
mentioned Aunt Betsey's present. They were on the stone wall which
crossed the river path. Bob was with them, darting hither and thither,
perhaps in the vain hope of finding his master.
"I don't need a watch, I've told you over and over again," said Cynthia.
"But oh, Jack, I wish you would agree with me! Indeed, Neal is honest."
"I believe he is myself, on the whole," said Jack at last; "but it's a
mighty queer thing he doesn't own up and tell where he got that money,
and he's a great ass not to. You see, the postmaster thinks that perhaps
the package did come from Aunt Betsey, and Neal paid gold just a few
days later. Of course it looks queer."
It was the same way with Edith. She would not be convinced, and after a
vain argument with her Cynthia retired to the only place where she was
sure of being undisturbed, and cried until her eyes smarted and her head
ached. It was to the garret that she went when she wished to be alone,
and, amid the piles of empty paper boxes and bars of soap and all the
varied possessions that were stored there, she sat and thought over the
matter.
[Illustration: "OUGHT I TO TELL?" SHE SAID AGAIN AND AGAIN.]
"Ought I to tell?" she said again and again, speaking in a hoarse
whisper. "Oh, why did I ever promise?"
For Cynthia had at last prevailed upon Neal to borrow her money to pay
Bronson with, and had promised that she would not tell, and Cynthia had
a very strict sense of honor.
"Ought I to tell?" she repeated. "No; a promise is a promise, and I have
no right to break it. I was silly, I was idiotic ever to promise such a
thing, but how did I know it was coming out this way? Perhaps he will
come back soon; then I can make him tell."
But Neal did not come back. Instead of that, the next morning Mrs.
Franklin received a letter from him. He repeated the same words. He
could not stay where he was insulted. If they could not believe him he
would go. He had a perfect right to use the money which he had paid for
the money-order, and he would never condescend to explain where he got
it. He was visiting a friend at present, but he was going at once in
search of some work. He intended to support himself henceforth.
It was a very absurd letter, and it made Mr. Franklin more angry than
ever and his wife more distressed.
"It is perfect nonsense," said he. "The boy is not of age and he can be
stopped. I will write at once to his guardians. In the mean time we will
look him up in Boston; from the postmark I suppose he is there."
"One of his guardians is abroad, and the other is that Quaker cousin of
my mother's," sighed Mrs. Franklin.
"Give me his address, and don't worry, Hester. The affair will come
around all right, I have no doubt. He is a headstrong boy and he needs a
leash."
They could not find him in Boston. On going to the houses of his various
friends there they learned that he had spent the night with one of them,
but had left to go to his guardian in Philadelphia, they said.
"I am inclined to let it stand as it is," said Mr. Franklin, when he
returned; "if he has gone to Philadelphia let him stay there. His old
guardian will probably keep him in better order than we can; perhaps it
will be better not to interfere. I don't want to prejudice him against
the boy, and yet how can I explain why he left here? He can tell his own
story."
His wife, however, wrote a letter to her brother, and addressed it to
the care of her cousin, William Carpenter, of Philadelphia. She hoped
for an answer, but none came, and in a few days Mr. Franklin wrote to
Mr. Carpenter, asking if his brother-in-law had arrived, and then,
without waiting for a reply, he concluded to go himself to Philadelphia.
The following Sunday was Easter day--it came late this year. Cynthia,
sitting in the Franklin pew, saw to her dismay Tony Bronson on the other
side of the church. He was with the Morgans.
"Dear me," thought Cynthia, "there will be more trouble now that he has
come, for he will tell hateful things about Neal, I'm sure. I do hope
Edith won't see him."
Her thoughts wandered during the service. When it was over, and the
congregation streamed out of church into the mild spring air, the
Morgans invited Edith to come home with them to dinner. This she agreed
to do, much to her sister's disgust; but Cynthia was still further
incensed when Edith came back that afternoon and announced, in a
would-be careless manner, that she had promised to drive with Tony
Bronson the next day.
"Why, Edith!" said Cynthia, indignantly; "I shouldn't think you would
have anything to do with that Bronson. He has been hateful to Neal."
"I don't know why you should say that," returned Edith; "any one would
say that he had been exceedingly nice to Neal. He lent him all that
money, I'm sure. And, besides, what difference does it make? Neal has
behaved badly and run away. There is no reason why we should give up
people that Neal doesn't happen to like. Papa said the other day that
Tony Bronson was a very good sort of fellow, because he wasn't in that
last scrape of Neal's."
"Papa doesn't know a thing about him, and, at any rate, papa wouldn't
let you go to drive if he were at home. You know he wouldn't."
Mrs. Franklin came into the room just at this moment.
"Would not let Edith go to drive, Cynthia?" she said. "What do you mean,
dear?"
"Go to drive with strange men like that Bronson."
"What nonsense!" said Edith, crossly; "of course I can go. Papa never in
his life forbade my going to drive with any of the boys. How silly you
are, Cynthia!"
"Were you going to drive with Tony Bronson, Edith?" asked her
stepmother.
"Yes, I _am_ going, to-morrow."
"I think I agree with Cynthia, then. I hardly think your father would
wish you to go."
"Why, how perfectly absurd!" exclaimed Edith, growing very angry. "There
has never been any question of my going to drive with any one who asked
me. Do you suppose I am going to give it up now?"
"I suppose you are, Edith," said Mrs. Franklin, quietly, but with
decision. "In your father's absence you are in my charge, and I do not
consider it desirable for you to drive with Mr. Bronson, nor with any
other young man whom you know so slightly. It is not in good taste, to
say the least. Please oblige me by giving it up this time. If I am
mistaken in your father's views on the subject you can go after he gets
home."
"I won't give it up!" exclaimed Edith, hotly. "Tony Bronson will be gone
when papa gets home, and, besides, what can I tell him? I've said I
would go."
"It is always possible to break an engagement of that kind," said her
mother; "you can tell him that you find I have made other plans for
you."
"I sha'n't tell him any such thing, Mrs. Franklin. I think it is too
bad. You have no right to order me."
"No right, Edith? I have at least a right to be spoken to with respect,
and you will oblige me by doing so. Please send a note to Mr. Bronson by
the man to-night."
She left the room, and Cynthia, who had restrained herself with great
difficulty, now gave vent to her feelings.
"I don't see how you can be so horrid to mamma, Edith. What are you
thinking of? And when she is so worried about Neal, too."
"Neal! Why should we suffer for Neal? She has no right to order me; I
won't be treated that way. The idea of it not being in good taste to
drive with Tony Bronson!"
"Don't be so absurd, Edith. Why, even I know papa wouldn't want you to.
It's very different from going with the Brenton boys that we have known
all our lives. You think I'm such an infant, but I know that much, and
any other time you would yourself. It is just because it is that hateful
Bronson. I can't understand what you and Gertrude see in him. You are
both so silly about him."
"I am not silly. I think he is very nice, that's all. I wish you
wouldn't interfere, Cynthia. You are silly to have such a prejudice
against him. I suppose I shall have to write that note, and I do hate to
give in to Mrs. Franklin. Oh, why, why, _why_ did papa marry again?"
She raised her voice irritably as she said this, and added: "All this
fuss about Neal and everything! We never should have had it if the
Gordons hadn't come into the family. Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't see
you." For standing in the doorway was her stepmother.
"I am sorry that the coming of the Gordons has caused you so much
trouble, Edith. We--we are unfortunate."
She turned away and went up stairs.
"Edith, I don't see how you can," exclaimed Cynthia. "Mamma had so much
trouble when she was a young girl, and she was so alone until she came
here, and now all this about Neal. Really, I don't see how you can."
And she ran after her mother.
Edith, left alone, was a prey to conflicting emotions. She knew she had
done wrong--very wrong. She was really sorry for the grief that Mrs.
Franklin was suffering on Neal's account, and she had not wanted to hurt
her.
"Of course, I did not intend her to hear me. How did I know she was
there? It makes me so angry to think that I can't do what I want."
That was the gist of the whole matter. Edith wanted her own way, and she
was determined to have it. She sat for a long time, thinking it all
over. She did not make any great effort to quench her resentment, and
so, of course, it became more intense. After a while she went to the
desk.
"I simply can't write him that I won't go," she said to herself. "How
they would all laugh if I said Mrs. Franklin 'had made other plans for
me,' as if I were Janet's age! No, I'll write Gertrude that I'll come
down and spend the day with her, and perhaps when I get there I can
induce Tony to play tennis, or something, instead of going to drive.
I'll try and get out of it, as long as I must, but I'm going to have a
good time of some sort."
She wrote the note, and it was sent to the Morgans' that night. Mrs.
Franklin supposed, of course, that it was merely to give up the drive;
so she was surprised when Edith announced that she was going to spend
the next day with Gertrude. However, she raised no objections, nor
indeed did she have any. Her mind was too full of Neal to think of much
else. Even the altercation with Edith failed to make any lasting
impression. Hester longed for her husband to return and tell her what he
had learned.
Cynthia did not take it so quietly.
"I think you are a goose, Edith," she said, the next morning. "Every one
will think you are running after Tony Bronson. You were there to dinner
yesterday, and now you are going again to-day."
Edith was greatly incensed.
"I am _not_ running after him. How can you say such things? I often go
there two days in succession."
And she went off holding her head very high, being driven to the village
by Jack. Arrived at the Morgans', she was warmly greeted by all.
"So good of you to come," murmured Bronson; "now we can start from here
on our drive, and go over to Blue Hill."
"I think I can't go to drive to-day. I--I thought perhaps we could play
tennis instead."
"Oh, Miss Edith! After your promise? I am not going to let you off so
easily. No, indeed; we are going to drive. It is a fine day, and I've
engaged a gay little mare at the livery-stable."
Edith remonstrated feebly, but Bronson would not listen.
When she and Gertrude were alone she said:
"Why don't you go too? We might all go to Blue Hill."
"No indeed!" laughed Gertrude. "I am not going a step. I haven't been
asked, and I wouldn't intrude."
"But it would be such fun," persisted Edith; "you know we used to go in
a crowd, and walk up the hill."
"Times have changed," returned her friend, pointedly. "This time you are
asked to go alone. If it were any one but you, Edith, I should be wildly
jealous."
Edith blushed and looked conscious, and afterwards when Bronson renewed
his pleading she consented to go with him. Unless they chanced to meet
some of the family, why need she tell that she had been to drive at all?
Thus she deceived herself into thinking that she was doing no wrong, and
gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.
That afternoon Mrs. Parker, Miss Betsey Trinkett's old friend, called at
Oakleigh.
"So glad to find you at home, Mrs. Franklin," she said. "I met Edith a
while ago, and she did look so sweet and pretty, driving with that nice
young man that stays at the Morgans'. What's his name?"
"You cannot mean Mr. Bronson?"
"Bronson, yes; that's it--Bronson. Yes, they were driving away over
towards Milton. And now do tell me about your brother. They say all
kinds of things in Brenton, but you can't believe half of them. I dare
say you know just where he is, after all."
"My brother went to Philadelphia, Mrs. Parker," said her hostess,
controlling herself with difficulty. The shock of hearing that Edith had
directly disobeyed her was almost too much for her.
"To Philadelphia! Have you friends there?"
"Yes, I have a cousin."
"Well, now, I'm glad to hear that! I'll just tell people and stop their
tongues; they do say so much they don't mean. Why, only this afternoon
somebody said they'd been told that Neal Gordon had been seen walking
over the Boston road. That's the very reason I came up here, to see if
it was true, and here he is away off in Philadelphia!"
"The Boston road?"
"Yes, and to think of his being in Philadelphia all the time! Well, I
must be going, Mrs. Franklin. Edith did look sweet. You dress her so
prettily. I always did think those girls needed a mother. Here's
Cynthia."
Walking up across the green from the river came Cynthia, with a paper in
her hand which she was reading. At sight of Mrs. Parker and her mother
standing at the carriage door, she hastily thrust the paper into her
pocket.
Cynthia had been after wild-flowers to plant in the bed she had for
them. She was in the woods not far from home when a small and ragged boy
approached her.
"Be you Cynthy?" he asked.
She looked up from her digging, startled.
"Yes," she said.
"Then here's for yer, and yer not to tell nobody."
So saying, the messenger disappeared as rapidly and mysteriously as he
had come.
Cynthia opened the crushed and dirty paper, and to her astonishment
found Neal's handwriting within.
"Meet me on Brenton Island near the bridge, Tuesday, as early as you
can. And don't tell I am here. Remember, _don't tell_."
The last words were heavily underlined.
Cynthia's heart stood still from excitement. Neal so near, and his
sister not to know it! But she would prevail upon him to come home. He
could not refuse her after all they had been through on his account.
Full of hope, she gathered up her trowel and her basket of plants and
ran towards the house. Fortunately that tiresome Mrs. Parker was there,
and so her mother would not notice her excitement. For once Cynthia was
glad to see the lady. Since her escapade of the year before she had
always been somewhat ashamed of meeting her.
An hour or two later a closed carriage came slowly up the avenue. Dennis
Morgan was on the box with the coachman. Inside were Gertrude, Dr.
Farley, and Edith, and Edith was unconscious.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: Mr. & Mrs. Tumble-bug.]
BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON.
Of all the insects which occasionally claim our attention in our country
rambles, there is probably no example more entitled to our distinguished
consideration than the plebeian, commonly despised, but admittedly
amusing beetle known the country over as the funny "tumble-bug." As we
see him now, so he has always been the same in appearance, the same in
habits, yet how has he fallen from grace! how humbled in the eyes of man
from that original high estate when, in ancient Egypt, he enjoyed the
prestige above all insects, where, as the sacred "scarabaeus," he was
dignified as the emblem of immortality, and worshipped as a god! The
archaeological history of Egypt is rich in reminders of his former
eminence. Not only do we see his familiar shape (as shown in our
initial design) everywhere among those ancient hieroglyphs engraved in
the rock or pictured on the crumbling papyrus; but it is especially in
association with death and the tomb that his important significance is
emphasized. The dark mortuary passages and chambers hewn in solid rock
often hundreds of feet below the surface, where still sleep the mummied
remains of an entire ancient people, and which honeycomb the earth
beneath the feet of the traveller in certain parts of Egypt, are still
eloquent in tribute to the sacred scarab. The lantern of the antiquarian
explorer in those dark dungeons of death discloses the suggestive figure
of this beetle everywhere engraved in high relief upon the walls,
perhaps enlivened with brilliant color still as fresh as when painted
three thousand years ago, emblazoned in gold and gorgeous hues upon the
sarcophagus and the mummy-case within, and again upon the outer covers
of the winding-sheet, finally, in the form of small ornaments the size
of nature, beautifully carved on precious stones enclosed within the
wrappings of the mummy itself.
What other insect has been thus glorified and immortalized? For the sake
of its proud lineage, if nothing else, is not our poor tumble-bug
deserving of our more than passing attention? An insect which has thus
been distinguished by an entire great people of antiquity has some
claims on our respect and consideration.
But aside from his historical fame, he will well repay our careful
study, and serve to while away a pleasant hour in the observance of his
queer habits. He is now no longer the awe-inspiring sacred scarab, but
Mr. Tumble-bug, or rather "Mr. and Mrs. Tumble-bug," for a tumble-bug
always pictured in the ancient hieroglyph is rarely to be seen in its
natural haunts. Mr. and Mrs. Tumble-bug are devoted and inseparable, and
as a rule vie with each other in the solicitude for that precious
rolling ball with which the insects are always associated. From June to
autumn we may find our tumble-bugs. There are a number of species
included in the group of Scarabaeus to which they belong. Two species are
particularly familiar, one of a lustrous bronzy hue, with a very rounded
track, usually found at work on the country highway in the track of the
horse, and the other, the true typical tumble-bug, a flat-backed,
jet-black lustrous species which we naturally associate with the
barn-yard and cow-pasture. The latter may be taken as an illustrative
example of his class, and his ways are identical with that of his
ancient sacred congener and present inhabitant of Egypt.
[Illustration: MR. AND MRS. TUMBLE-BUG ROLLING THE BALL.]