shown by the bodies of the enemy strewn between the stockade and the
building.
Of the hundred and seventy which made the attack, thirty-one had paid
forfeit with their lives, or been so grievously wounded as to be unable
to regain shelter, and that there were many more, beyond view of the
defenders, who were wounded seemed probable.
The boys fully expected the most desperate hour would come after the
earth was wrapped in darkness, but in this they were mistaken.
Vigilant watch was kept by all in the dwelling, but only now and again
could an Indian be seen, and then as he was dragging away the bodies of
his fellows.
When the sun rose next morning no sign of the enemy could be seen. The
dead had been removed, and the song of birds in the thicket told that no
intruder was concealed by the foliage.
The savages believed the "garrison" had more defenders than they at
first supposed, and had beat a retreat when only two boys and four women
were opposed against them.
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER V.
"Do you think they will really like me?" asked Mrs. Franklin for the
hundredth time, and for the hundredth time her husband answered,
smiling, "I think they really will."
They were just arriving at Brenton. Many inquiring eyes had been turned
towards them in the train, for every one knew John Franklin, and every
one surmised at once that this was the much-discussed second wife.
It was decided by those who saw her that she was a very
attractive-looking woman. She was rather slight and of medium height,
and she was quietly dressed in black, for she was in mourning. Though
not actually pretty, she had a charming and very expressive face, and
she was very young-looking. Somebody who sat in front of her said that
her voice was low and very musical.
Brenton decided at the first glance that Mr. John Franklin had done very
well for himself.
"There is the carriage," said he, as they crossed the station platform.
"And this is Jack, I am sure," said his wife, holding out her hand with
a smile which won her step-son on the spot. He was too shy, however, to
do more than grasp it warmly as he stood beside her with uncovered head.
"He is a dear," she said to herself, "and just like John. If only the
others are as cordial. Somehow I dread Edith."
She was quite as excited as were her step-daughters when she drove up
the avenue, and her eyes fell for the first time upon the group on the
piazza.
Cynthia walked down the path to meet her, holding Janet and Willy by
either hand. Edith remained standing on the step.
"How do you do?" said Cynthia, with a cordial smile.
Mrs. Franklin looked at her. Then she put her arms around her and kissed
her.
"This is Cynthia, I am sure," she whispered, tremulously, "and these are
'the children.'"
She kissed them and passed on to her husband's eldest daughter, while
they greeted their father.
Edith was very tall, and her position on the step gave her the advantage
of several inches in addition. She fairly towered above the new-comer.
"How do you do, Mrs. Franklin?" she said, holding out a very stiff hand
and arm. She had made up her mind that she for one would not be kissed.
"And are you Edith?"
"Yes, Mrs. Franklin. I am Edith. I hope your journey has not tired you?"
"Not at all. I am not easily tired."
Edith kissed her father, then turned again to the stranger.
"Let me show you the way upstairs."
And thus Mrs. Franklin entered her new home.
"I am afraid it is going to be war with Edith at first, but I won't be
disheartened," she thought. "I'll make her like me. It is natural for
her to feel so, I suppose. Ah me, I am in a difficult position."
* * * * *
Edith and Cynthia shared the same room. It was a large one with a
bay-window, which commanded a fine view of the winding river and the
meadows beyond.
One could tell at a glance upon entering the room which part of it Edith
occupied, and which Cynthia. Cynthia's dressing-table, with its ungainly
pin-cushion, its tangle of ribbons and neckties tossed down anywhere
that they might happen to fall, its medley of horseshoes, tennis balls,
and other treasures, was a constant source of trial to Edith, whose
possessions were always kept in perfect neatness. She scolded and
lectured her sister in vain; Cynthia was incorrigible.
"It's too much bother to keep things in order," she would say. "After
you have been around with your duster and your fixings-up I never can
find a thing, Edith."
The night of Mrs. Franklin's arrival they talked over the new state of
family affairs.
"I think she is nice," said Cynthia, with decision. "I like her, and so
does Jack."
She was perched on the side of the bed, leaning against the tall post,
her favorite position when she had anything of especial interest to
discuss.
[Illustration: "I DON'T LIKE HER, AND I WON'T!"]
"I don't," said Edith, who was brushing out her long hair with great
vigor. "I don't like her, and I _won't_."
"That is just it, Edith. You have made up your mind you won't like her
just because you didn't want her to come. Now she is here, why don't you
make the best of it? What do you dislike about her?"
"Her coming here. She had no right to."
"Edith, how silly you are! She wouldn't have come if papa had not asked
her, and she wouldn't have if she had not loved papa. I should think you
would like her for that if nothing else. I do. And she is pretty and
sweet and dear, and I am going to help her all I can. I think I shall
even call her 'mamma.'"
"Cynthia, I shall never do that. Never, to my dying day!"
"Well, I shall; that is, if she doesn't mind."
"She will. It will make her seem too old."
"I don't believe she would mind that, and any one can see she isn't a
bit old. I think we are very fortunate, as long as papa was going to
marry again, to have him find such a nice, lovely woman."
Edith did not reply. She finished her braid and tied it up. Then she
said:
"Of course, it is a great deal harder for me than for the rest of you. I
thought I was always going to help father, and now I can't."
"Of course it's hard, Edith, but--but don't you think you could still
help him if--if you were nice to his wife?"
"I don't want to help him that way," said Edith, honestly, as she blew
out the light.
The next day when Cynthia asked somewhat timidly if she might call her
step-mother "mamma," she was surprised and touched by the expression
that came into Mrs. Franklin's face.
"Oh, thank you, Cynthia!" she said. "I thought I would not ask you, I
would just leave it to you, but I should like it so much."
And so they all called her by her new title except Edith.
Preparations for the tennis tournament were in full swing, and Cynthia
and Jack, who were to play together in mixed doubles, were practising
hard.
The court at Oakleigh was not a good one, so they were in the habit of
going to the tennis club at the village when they could get there in the
afternoon. It was not always easy, for they were short of horses, and it
was too far to walk both ways.
"Why do we not have some more horses?" said Mrs. Franklin one morning
when the question was being discussed.
"Why, we can't afford to," replied Cynthia, in some surprise. "Besides
the farm horses we only have two, you know, and they get all used up
going to and from the village so much."
Mrs. Franklin glanced at her husband. Then she said, "It seems as if we
ought to have more. You know, John, there is all that money of mine. Why
not buy a horse and trap for the children to use?"
"My dear Hester, I can never consent. You know I wish you to keep all
your money for your own exclusive use. You may have all the horses you
want for yourself, but--
"John, don't be absurd. What can I do with all that money, and no one
but Neal to provide for? Your children are mine now, and I wish them to
have a horse of their own."
The thing of all others for which Edith had been longing for years. But
she determined that she would never use her step-mother's gift.
"Is Neal your brother?" asked Cynthia.
"Yes. Haven't I told you about him? He is my dear and only brother. He
is off on a yacht now, but he is coming here soon. He is older than you
and Jack, just about Edith's age."
Jack looked up with interest.
"I'm glad there's another fellow coming," he said. "There are almost too
many girls around here."
"Jack, how hateful of you, when you always have said I was as good as
another fellow!" exclaimed Cynthia.
"Well, so you are, almost; but I'm glad he's coming, anyway."
The new horse was bought, and a pretty and comfortable cart for them to
use, a "surrey" that would hold two or four, as occasion required. At
first Edith would not use it. She jogged about with the old horse and
buggy when she went to the village, thereby exciting much comment among
her friends. Every one suspected that Edith could not reconcile herself
to the coming of her step-mother.
The day of the tournament arrived. Before Mr. Franklin went to Boston
that morning he called Edith into the library and closed the door.
"I have something to say to you, Edith. I have been perfectly observant
of your conduct since I came home, though I have not spoken of it
before. I preferred to wait, to give you a chance to think better of it.
Your treatment of my wife is not only rude, it is unkind, as rudeness
always is."
"Father, I haven't been rude. Why do you speak to me so? It is all her
fault. She has made you do it."
"Hester has not mentioned the subject to me, Edith. You are most unjust.
You are making yourself very conspicuous, and are placing me in a very
false light by your behavior. Are you going to the tennis tournament
to-day?"
"Yes, papa."
"How do you intend to get there?"
"Drive myself in the buggy, of course."
"There is no 'of course' about it," said her father, growing more and
more angry. "If you go, you will go as the others do, in the surrey. I
will not have them go down with an empty seat, while you rattle in to
the grounds in the old buggy in the eyes of all Brenton."
"Then I won't go at all. The buggy was good enough before; why isn't it
now?"
"Not another word! I am ashamed of you, Edith, and disappointed. I have
no time for more, but remember what I have said. You go in the surrey to
the tournament, or you stay at home."
He left her and hurried off to the train. Edith went to her own room and
shut herself in. For more than an hour a bitter fight raged within her.
Her pride was up in arms.
If she gave up and drove to the club in the surrey, every one would know
that she was countenancing her step-mother, as she expressed it, and she
had told Gertrude Morgan that she would never do it. If she staid at
home, she would excite more comment still, for it was generally known
that she was to act as one of the hostesses, and she had no reasonable
excuse to offer for staying away.
Altogether Edith thought herself a much-abused person, and she cried
until her eyes were swollen, her cheeks pale, and her nose red.
Cynthia burst in upon her.
"What is the matter, Edith? You look like a perfect fright! Are you
ill?"
"Ill! No, of course not. I wish you would leave me in peace, Cynthia.
What do you want?"
"To come into my own room, of course. But what is the matter, Edith? Was
papa scolding you?"
Edith, longing for sympathy, poured out the story, but she did not
receive much from that practical young person.
"I wouldn't cry my eyes out about that. Of course you will have to do as
papa says, or he won't like it at all. And it is a thousand times nicer
to drive in the surrey than that old rattle-trap of a buggy. The surrey
runs so smoothly, and Bess goes like a breeze. You had better give in
gracefully, Edith. But see this lovely silver buckle and belt mamma has
just given me to wear this afternoon. Isn't it perfect? She says she has
more than she can wear. It was one of her own. _I_ think she's a dear.
But there is Jack calling me to practise."
And happy-hearted Cynthia was off again like a flash.
Edith bathed her face and began to think better of the subject. After
all, she would go. It was a lovely day, every one would be there, and
it was not worth while to make people talk. Above all, she would be
sorry to miss the affair to which she had been looking forward for
weeks.
She dressed herself that afternoon in a simple gingham that had seen the
wash-tub many times, and took her place on the back seat of the surrey,
with Mrs. Franklin, Jack and Cynthia sitting in front. Mrs. Franklin was
in the daintiest of summer frocks, and Edith glanced at her somewhat
enviously.
"I wish we were the ones that had the money," she thought, "and that she
were poor. I believe then I should not mind having her so much."
Mrs. Franklin had a gay and cheery disposition, and she tried to pay no
attention to Edith's coldness.
"I wish I were going to play myself," she said.
"Why, do you play?" asked Cynthia, in surprise.
"To be sure I do. I used to play a great deal at one time. I mean to ask
your father to have the tennis-court at Oakleigh made over, and then we
can have some games there."
"How jolly!" exclaimed Jack and Cynthia together.
"We cannot afford to," put in Edith, coldly.
Mrs. Franklin paid no attention to this. "It will be nice when Neal
comes," she added.
"Neal, always Neal," thought Edith. "Pleasant for us to have a strange
boy here all the time. Oh, dear, how hateful I am! I don't feel nice
towards anybody. If only papa had never seen or heard of the Gordons,
how much happier we should all have been."
But she was the only one of the household that thought so. The younger
children had been completely won over, and it was a constant source of
surprise and chagrin to Edith to see how easily their step-mother
managed the hitherto refractory pair.
Before long the party reached the grounds. The Brenton Tennis Club was a
very attractive place. The smooth and well-kept courts stretched away to
the river, which wound and curved towards the old town, for the club was
on the outskirts of the village. The river was wider here than it was
farther up at Oakleigh, and picturesque stone bridges crossed it at
intervals.
Benches had been placed all about the grounds, from which the spectators
could watch the game, and under a marquee was a dainty table, with huge
bowls of lemonade and plates of cake. Edith presided at the tea-kettle,
looking very pretty, notwithstanding her old gown and the stormy morning
she had passed.
Mrs. Franklin, upon whom most of the Brenton people had already called,
sat on one of the benches with some friends, and was soon absorbed in
the game.
Cynthia played well. She flew about the court, here, there, everywhere
at once, never interfering with her partner's game, but, always ready
with her own play. She and Jack, though younger than the other players,
held their ground well.
It was only a small tournament, and "mixed doubles" were finished up in
one afternoon, Jack and Cynthia carrying off second prizes with great
glee.
"Just what I wanted, mamma," said Cynthia, as she displayed a fine
racket of the latest style and shape; "I hope they will have another
tournament before the summer is over, so that I'll have a chance to win
first prize with this new racket."
They were driving home in the dusk, for the game had lasted late, when
they overtook and passed a boy who was walking on the road to Oakleigh,
with a bag slung over his shoulder on a stick, while a black spaniel
trotted along at his heels. Mrs. Franklin did not see him.
"I say there, Hessie! Can't you give a fellow a lift?" he shouted.
"Why, Neal!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin; "where did you come from? Jack,
stop, please. It is Neal! You dear boy, I am so glad to see you! This is
my brother, children; and, Neal, here are Edith, Cynthia, and Jack
Franklin."
"Whew, what a lot! I say, Hessie, what were you thinking of when you
married such a family as that? But I fancy you haven't got room for me
in there. I can walk it easily enough. Don't mind a bit."
"Nonsense! we can squeeze up," said his sister, which they did
forthwith, and Neal Gordon climbed into the cart.
"No room for you, Bob," he remarked to the spaniel, who danced about the
road in a vain endeavor to follow his master; "you can go ahead on your
own legs."
He was a tall, well-developed fellow, with a hearty, cheery voice, and a
frank, sometimes embarrassing, way of saying the first thing that came
into his head.
"What a crowd!" he continued. "Any more at home?"
"Yes, two," said his sister, gayly--"Janet, and Willy. I am so glad you
have come, Neal. But why didn't you let us know?"
"Couldn't. The _Dolphin_ put in at Marblehead, and I had gotten rather
tired of it aboard, so I thought I'd cut loose and drop down on you
awhile. Got out of cash too."
"Oh, Neal!"
"Now you needn't say anything. You didn't give me half enough this time.
Too much absorbed getting married, I suppose. I say," he added, turning
to Jack, "what kind of a step-ma does Hessie make?"
"Bully," replied Jack, laconically.
"I thought she would, but, she's on her best behavior now. She'll order
you all round soon, the way she does me."
"They don't deserve it as you do, you silly boy," said his sister.
They were a merry party that night at supper. It seemed as if Neal would
be a great addition to the family, and even Edith thawed somewhat. This
pleased Mr. Franklin, who had been thoroughly annoyed by her behavior,
and who had been really afraid that she would stay at home from the
tournament rather than use his wife's gift.
"Everything will run smoothly now," he said to himself, and, manlike, he
soon forgot all about the trouble.
"By-the-way, what relation am I to this family?" asked Neal, presently.
"If Hester is your mother, of course I must be your uncle. I hope you
will all treat me with proper respect."
"I hope we shall be able to," said Cynthia, looking up with a saucy
smile. She liked the new-comer immensely.
"Did you ever run an incubator?" asked Jack, after supper.
"Not I. Have you got one?"
"Yes. Come along down and see it."
They descended to the cellar, and Jack turned the eggs while he
explained his methods to his new friend.
"Is there money in it?" asked Neal.
"Lots, I hope. But the trouble is, you've got to spend a lot to start
with, and if you're not successful it's a dead loss. My first hatch went
to smash."
"How would you like to take me into partnership? I want to make some
money."
"First-rate."
They were deep in a discussion of business arrangements when they went
back to the others.
"We'll make a 'go' of it," said Neal. "It's just the thing I've been
looking for."
"I have an idea, Jack," said Mrs. Franklin, as they came in. "When are
the chickens to come out?"
"Next Thursday."
"Then we will celebrate the event in proper style. We will ask our
friends to come to a 'hatching bee.'"
"But suppose they don't hatch? Suppose they act the way they did
before?" said Jack, dubiously.
"Oh, they'll hatch, I will answer for them. You have learned how to take
better care of them, and no one has interfered, and--oh, I am sure they
will be out in fine shape!"
Only Edith objected to this proposition, and she dared not say so before
her father.
Apparently the Gordons were going to carry all before them, and she, who
until so recently had been to all intents and purposes the mistress of
the house, was not even asked if she approved of the idea. She went to
bed feeling that her lot was a very hard one.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
WHEN ROYALTY TRAVELS.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
To live like a king is all very well, but to travel like one--may we all
be delivered from such a fate! The modern monarch flits from his palace
like the pheasant from his covert. True, the hunter may not pot him this
time, but the danger of being killed is very great, and the king, like
the golden-hued bird, knows that many of his brothers have fallen before
the destroyer, who is constantly on the alert. Pheasants may be shot
only during certain weeks, but anarchists never cease devising and
trying new ways of king-killing.
Whenever a monarch starts on a journey he is haunted by the belief that
the anarchists must have found out all about it beforehand in their
usual way, and that they are busy with plots for his destruction. Even
Queen Victoria, that best-beloved wearer of a crown, is bound to use
almost as many precautions as the Czar of Russia. No common traveller
has so much to be thankful for at the end of a journey as a safely
arrived monarch. It is much pleasanter to be a President of the United
States, pay your own fare, and feel afraid of nobody.
[Illustration: "THERE GOES THE QUEEN."]
When the Queen of Great Britain starts for Windsor or Balmoral, or on
any other railway journey, a time is chosen that will cause the least
inconvenience to traffic; for the invariable rule is that no other
trains may run over the road the Queen is using. All the switches are
locked. Preceded and followed by galloping troopers of the Household
Guard, the Queen's carriage is driven to the railway station at a
furious pace. No one--I mean no ordinary person--knows the hour at which
she will start or the streets through which she will go. The special
royal train is waiting at the platform, and the royal carriage goes
whirling toward it through the most unexpected streets. Every loyal
Briton loves to show his love for her Majesty by a hearty roar, but no
one has a chance to cheer her on her travels. There is a distant clatter
of hoofs; it comes nearer, and you hear the rattling of sabres and whir
of wheels. A blur of redcoats and nodding plumes shoots past, and the
hoof-beats are dying in the distance before you can say, "There goes the
Queen."
Of course the royal coach goes at a sedate pace during a royal progress
or parade. Then there are more soldiers along the streets than you or I
could count, and the Queen appears bowing in her open carriage of state,
with all her outriders and officers and guards and the burly English
footmen and Scotch gillies necessary for display.
When the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India travels
she occupies her own special car. A special locomotive is reserved for
her, and it is run by a special engineer, always the most experienced
man in the company's service. On the London and Southwestern Railway,
for example, engine No. 575 draws the Queen's car. Thomas Higgs, a fine,
keen-eyed old Briton, an engineer for nearly forty years, holds the
lever and the throttle. It is his boast that during this long period of
service not one of his millions of passengers has ever been killed. Not
one even has been injured. He is more careful than ever when her Majesty
is aboard. Between Windsor and Gosport alone there are fifteen
junctions, and every one of these is a possible danger-spot. A pilot
train runs a short distance in advance of the Queen's special to make
sure that the way is clear, and that the track has not been put out of
order.
The interior of the Queen's car is furnished after the fashion of the
white drawing-room at Windsor Castle. There are white silk cushions,
embroidered with the initials V.R. (_Victoria Regina_), and the Garter
and its motto, all in gold thread. The carpet is of velvet. The curtains
at the windows are hung on silver poles, and the door-handles are plated
with gold. The Queen's own comfortable arm-chair is at the rear of the
saloon and faces the engine, and there are three other arm-chairs. The
walls of the car (Englishmen call it a "carriage") are of polished
satin-wood. The whole car cost about $35,000. The Queen and her suite
are furnished with special time-tables printed in purple ink on white
satin, adorned with the royal arms and an embossed border of gold. In
winter the car is heated with hot-water pipes, and in summer it is
cooled by an extra rooting of wet cloths, which are frequently soaked
with very cold water, and by blocks of ice placed in the interior of the
car.
If by any chance the railroad journey includes a night of travel, her
Majesty sleeps in her own bed in her car. The Prince of Wales has a
private car too, but he often travels in an ordinary first-class coach.
Whenever it becomes known--such things will leak out at times--that the
Queen or the Prince is travelling over the line, great crowds gather at
the stations and hurl cheer after cheer at the royal train. This is much
nicer than the Russian style of hurling something explosive.