[to be continued.]
HIS SCORCHING WAS NOT IN VAIN.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
Arthur Clark believed himself the victim of gross injustice. His bicycle had brought him into disgrace. He had come home flushed with victory, ready to be hailed as the uncrowned king of scorchers, and here he was virtually a prisoner in his room, thither he had been sent directly after a wretched supper of oatmeal porridge.
"I wouldn't mind it if I had been ordered not to go into the road race," he said to himself, for the fiftieth time, as he rolled impatiently in his bed; "but just because I promised my father I wouldn't do any riding that would exhaust me, he has packed me off to bed as if I were a mere child. That's pretty rough on a fellow of fourteen. Anyhow, I beat all the scorchers in our school, and that's something."
Arthur could not go to sleep. He twisted and squirmed from one side of the bed to the other, listening to the solemn protests of the katydids and the shrill chirping of the crickets. That industrious prompter, conscience, began to annoy him shamelessly. Now that the first flush of his resentment had died away, he thought that perhaps his father was right after all. True, he had beaten all the other fellows easily; but then, what if it had been a hard struggle? Wouldn't it have exhausted him? It occurred to him that he had broken his word.
Arthur fell asleep very late. He usually slept so fast and so hard that from bedtime until the rising bell seemed like one minute. But now he tossed restlessly. His sleep was light. Suddenly he found himself sitting bolt-upright in bed. He saw a streak of pale whitish light on the floor and across his bed, and caught a glimpse of the moon. Oh, yes, it was the moon that had awakened him. Queer that had never happened before. He would go to sleep again. Then a rough, rather hoarse voice startled him. It came from his father's room.
"You're comin' right down ter de bank, dat's wat you're goin' ter do," the voice said, "an' if ye don't open de safe ye'll be learned how—see?"
"I shall not go one step. You may do your worst." It was his father's voice now.
"Hurrah for you, father!" Arthur could hardly keep from shouting. Then there was silence for a moment. He heard two sharp clicks that told of the cocking of a revolver; then his mother's voice pleading with his father to remember the children. Now there was the sound of a struggle. The burglar won, although he feared to use his revolver least the noise might summon help. Arthur understood it all. His father was the cashier of the Traders' Bank. The burglar probably had an accomplice outside who would help take his father to the bank and force him to open the safe.
Help must be got. The bank was in Plainfield, three miles away. If only there were some way of telephoning to the police station! He knew that a sergeant sat there all night. Men slept upstairs. But there was no telephone. Now a thought came to him that almost made him shout for joy. In ten seconds he had jumped into his sweater and knickerbockers, and was lacing on his rubber-soled bicycling shoes. He did not wait for a hat or stockings. He peered anxiously over the edge of the porch roof into the backyard. No, there was no one watching there. Noiselessly the boy lowered himself over the edge, and climbed down one of the pillars, crushing the honeysuckle vine as he went. He found his bicycle leaning against the house, where he had left it that afternoon after the race.
He picked up the wheel and walked on tiptoe across the grass at the rear of the house. He threaded his way between the rows of corn-stalks in the kitchen-garden. He made a long circuit, and at last came out in the road. Then he mounted his bicycle and wheeled away at a pace that would have astonished his friends. Going down hill he was very cautious. He back pedalled. There must be no falling; therefore no coasting. Again on the level road, he shot forward like a racer. He knew that if the burglars got his father into the bank they would try to make him open the safe in which $70,000 had been deposited that day. His father would resist, he knew. He remembered what had happened to other bank cashiers who resisted. The thought choked him. He bent over his handle bar, and the wheels seemed to fly. The pale, sinking moon, the silent road that stretched its white length before him, the tall trees, mysterious in their own dark shadows, the grass shining with dew, all made a picture that he never forgot. Above all, a scene stood out that he could not shut from his mind, try as he might—his father in the hands of the two ruffians, resolutely defying them in face of awful danger.
The sergeant nodding in his chair in the police station at one o'clock in the morning was startled by the vision of a bareheaded, white-faced boy.
"Hurry!" the boy exclaimed. "The Traders' Bank! Robbers!" In less than a minute the sergeant and two of his men were on their way to the bank. Arthur followed them closely. He hid with them in the dark vestibule of the bank. It seemed to the boy as if years passed before he at last heard footsteps in the silent street. Then the minutes were hours long. At last the two robbers and their victim arrived at the outer door. They pushed him in and told him to be lively about unlocking that door. At that instant the policemen jumped forward and presented their pistols at the heads of the burglars. They made no resistance. They were too surprised. Arthur and his father walked home side by side, Arthur pushing his bicycle by the handle bar. For a long time they had nothing to say to each other, for each was busy with his thoughts.
"Arthur," said his father at length, "I'm glad there is a scorcher in the family, but I—"
"Yes, sir," interrupted the boy, eagerly; "but I want to tell you I'm sorry I went into the road race to-day."
"Perhaps I was too hasty," said Mr. Clark. "But the bicycle has done one good thing. It has shown me that my son is as quick-witted as he is brave."
GREAT MEN'S SONS.
THE SON OF CHARLEMAGNE.
BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.
n the summer days of the year 781 an odd sort of a procession marched through France.
There were fluttering standards and melodious trumpets; there were gallant knights, and grave men in robes and gowns, and noble ladies, and a long train of servants; there were spearmen and bowmen and horsemen in martial array; and the central figure of all this parade and pomp was a very small boy of but three years old.
Strangest of all was this small boy's dress. He was but little more than a baby, and yet he rode upon a stately war-horse housed in purple and gold. He was clad in complete armor of polished steel; on his head he wore a casque of steel and gold, surmounted with a tiny golden crown; in his small hand he bore a truncheon, and about his neck was slung a cross-handled sword of steel and gold.
A stalwart knight rode at the little boy's bridle-rein, his protecting arm holding the small rider firmly in the saddle; the royal banner fluttered ahead, and at the boy's right hand rode his governor and guardian, Count William, called the snub-nosed—well, because it was.
From castle and cottage, from town and hamlet, came thronging men and women, boys and girls, with smile and cheer and shout of hearty welcome: "Heaven bless his little Grace! God guard our little King! Long live King Louis!"
"HEAVEN BLESS HIS LITTLE GRACE."
For this very small boy of three was indeed a King entering his dominion. He had been crowned by the Pope at Rome King of Aquitaine. Then, from his father's splendid palace in Aachen, or what is now the German city of Aix-la-Chapelle, he had started with his glittering escort to take possession of his kingdom in southwestern France. Over the first part of the route he was carried in his cradle; but when he left the city of Orleans, and, crossing the Loire, set foot within his own dominions, this cradle-travelling, so the old chronicle tells us, "beseemed him no longer." He was a King, and this was his kingdom; therefore like a King he must make his royal progress. So upon this little three-year-old was put a suit of shining armor, made expressly for him, with sword and truncheon "equally proportioned"; they set him on horseback, and thus royally attended he entered Aquitaine, and marched on to his own royal palace at Toulouse. He must have looked "awfully cunning"—this three-year-old in armor—but just think how tired the poor little fellow must have been.
Aquitaine was that large section of southwestern France that stretched from the river Loire to the Pyrenees, and from the Bay of Biscay eastward to the banks of the Rhone. It had been brought under subjection by the conquering monarch whose short-lived empire embraced all of Europe from Rome to Copenhagen, and from the English Channel to the Iron Gates of the Danube, and who, parcelling out his dominion among his boys, had set over the principality of Aquitaine as King his little three-year-old Louis, forever famous as the son of Charlemagne.
Here, in his palace at Toulouse, did Louis rule as King of Aquitaine for thirty-two years, subject only to his renowned father, Charles the Emperor, called Carolus Magnus, or Charlemagne. This mighty man, "the greatest of Germans"—great in stature, in aim, in energy, and in authority—looked sharply after the small boy he had made King of Aquitaine. He had the lad carefully and thoroughly educated, and Louis grew to be an intelligent, bright-faced, clear-eyed, sturdy, and strong young man, but he was sober and sedate, skilled in the Scriptures and learned in Latin and Greek, unsuited to the rough war days in which he lived, more a scholar than a soldier, and more a priest than a prince.
So the years slipped by. Then trouble came to the great Emperor. One by one the sons of Charlemagne sickened and died—those brave and stalwart boys upon whom the father had relied as the stay and help of his old age, his successors in his plan of empire. At last only Louis the Clerk was left.
Hludwig Fromme he was called by his subjects of Aquitaine—that is, Louis the Kind; and thus, though wrongly rendered, the name of this good and peace-loving son of Charlemagne has come down to us as Louis the Pious, or Louis le Debonair.
Nowadays we are apt to think of debonair as meaning gay, careless, fashionable, and "dudish"; but Louis, the son of Charlemagne, was anything but this. He was kind, courteous, loving, gentle, and true; but he was also strict, dutiful, and just. He was strong of limb and stout of arm; none could bend bow better nor couch lance truer than he; but he never cared for sport nor the rough "horse-play" of his day; he seldom laughed aloud: he was grave, prudent, and wise, "slow to anger, swift to pity, liberal in both giving and forgiving."
He won the loyalty of his subjects of Aquitaine by love and not by tyranny; he kept at bay the pagan Moors of Spain, and, under wise counsellors, sought to govern his kingdom justly and well.
But when his brothers died, and he, the youngest of the three, was summoned to his father's side, he left his palace by the Garonne, in pleasant Toulouse, and hastened to Aix-la-Chapelle, his father's capital.
It was the year 813. An assembly of the nobles of the empire met the great King in his capital, and promised to recognize King Louis of Aquitaine as heir to the throne of Charlemagne. Then in the great church that he had built at Aix-la-Chapelle the old monarch, dressed in magnificent robes (which he never liked and would but rarely put on), stood before the vast assembly of princes and nobles of Germany, leaning upon the shoulder of his sturdily built and kindly looking son.
The sounds of prayer and song that opened the ceremony were stilled, and then the old Emperor, facing his son, told him that the lords and barons of the empire had sanctioned his appointment as associate and heir.
"You will reign in my stead," he said. "Fear God, my son, and follow His law. Govern the Church with care, and defend it from its enemies. Preserve the empire; show kindness to your relations; honor the clergy as your fathers, and love the people as your children. Force the proud and the evil ones to take the paths of virtue; be the friend of the faithful and the helper of the poor. Choose your ministers wisely; take from no man his property unjustly, and keep yourself pure and above reproach in the eyes of God and man."
Then Charlemagne bade Louis take up the iron crown of Rome and the empire that lay upon the altar, and place it upon his head. "Wear it worthily, O King, my son," the father said, "as a gift from God, your father, and the nation."
And when the son of Charlemagne had thus crowned himself Emperor, turning to the great assembly the old man said: "Behold, I present to you your sovereign and your lord. Salute him, all people, as Emperor and Augustus!"
A mighty shout of loyalty and welcome filled the crowded church, and thus was the son of Charlemagne crowned as his great father's associate and successor. And when, in the year 814, Charlemagne, still a sturdy old man, suddenly fell sick of a fever, and died in his palace at Aix-la-Chapelle, at the age of seventy-one, Louis ascended the throne of what was called the Holy Roman Empire as its sole and sovereign lord.
He came to his vast power with high hopes and lofty aims. The solemn words of his father upon his coronation day lived in his memory, and he determined to rule in peace, in justice, in wisdom, and in love. He would abstain from war; he would lift his people higher; he would make his court learned, refined, and pure; he would be father and friend to all his people, and make his realm rejoice. Louis, called the Pious and the Kind-hearted, should rather have been called Louis the Well-intentioned.
But alas for good intentions if strength of will be wanting! Louis lived in harsh and brutal days, and men could appreciate neither his gentle manners nor his worthy aims. He had neither his father's strength of mind nor firmness of will, nor had he what is called magnetism—the power to compel men to do as one elects. His noble aims were speedily brought to naught; his high purpose was swiftly overthrown; his ambitious sons opposed him, quarrelled with him, defied him, assailed and dethroned him; and after a stormy reign of twenty-six years, during which he many times wished to give up his crown and become a monk, Louis the Well-intentioned died, in the summer of the year 840, on one of the little islands in the river Rhine, a discrowned, defeated, and sorrowing King, conquered by his sons.
The great empire his father had left him was speedily broken asunder, and from its remains, after long years of disorder and of blood, came at last the nations of France and Germany—the outgrowth of that vast heritage of power which the son of Charlemagne had received from his mighty father, but had neither wit nor will enough to govern or hold unbroken.
A noble man in many ways was Louis, the son of Charlemagne. But he lived in advance of his times, for stormy seas demand a strong hand at the helm, and great matters require the head to plan and the will to do. In all of these requirements for royalty was Louis deficient; and while history accords him praise for honesty of purpose, gentleness of heart, good intentions, and lofty aims, it still writes him down as an unsuccessful ruler, because a weak-willed son could not uphold the heritage of a father who indeed was great.
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND
CHAPTER IX.
The last excitement of the summer before school began was a river picnic, given by Gertrude Morgan. A note was brought to Edith one afternoon which ran thus:
"My dearest Edith,—Will you, Cynthia, Jack, and Neal Gordon join us on the river to-morrow? My cousins, Tom and Kitty Morgan, are here, and another fellow, awfully nice, that Tom brought with him, and we want to do something to entertain them. This is such perfect weather for the river. We will come up from Brenton early, and reach Oakleigh before noon. You can join us in your boats, and we will go higher up above the rapids for dinner. If you will bring your chafing-dish and your alcohol lamp for the coffee it is all I ask. On the whole, you need not bring the lamp. We will build a fire. But the chafing-dish would be nice. Do come! Don't fail. Au revoir until to-morrow at about twelve. Devotedly,
"Gertrude.
"P.S.—I am sure you will lose your heart to Tom's friend. I have!"
The next day, shortly before noon, the Franklins were awaiting their friends on the Oakleigh boat-landing. They had two canoes, one that the family had owned for a year or two, and another that Mrs. Franklin had given her brother on his birthday.
Baskets were packed in the boats, containing the chafing-dish, some sandwiches, and delicious cake that Mrs. Franklin had had made as her contribution to the picnic, and a large box of candy which Neal had bought.
It was a glorious day. The September sun shone brightly, and a trifle warmly, on the dancing river. The gay foliage along the banks—for the autumn tints had come early this year—was reflected in the clear water, and a gentle wind stirred the white birches. An army of crows had encamped near by, and the woods rang with their cawing as they carried on an important debate among themselves.
Presently around the curve came the advance guard of the picnic, a canoe containing Dennis Morgan and his cousin Kitty, while closely following them was another, paddled by Tom Morgan, in which sat Gertrude and a stranger.
They all waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and when they came within speaking distance Gertrude shouted:
"Isn't it fun? Such a perfect day, and more fellows than girls! You know my cousins, don't you, except Neal? Kitty and Tom, let me present Mr. Gordon, and this is Mr. Bronson. The Misses Edith and Cynthia Franklin, Mr. Tony Bronson. There, now, did I do it correctly? Did I mention the ladies' names first, and then the gentlemen's? I picked up a book on etiquette in a shop the other day, and it said you must."
Every one laughed, and no one noticed but Cynthia that Neal's face darkened when he heard Bronson's name and saw him for the first time. Of course, she knew at once who he was.
"There ought to be a grand change of partners," continued the lively Gertrude, "but it's too much trouble. However, Tom, you had better get out and take one of the Oakleigh canoes, and an Oakleigh girl and Jack can get in here—unless Mr. Bronson would rather be the one to change."
This was said with a coquettish glance at Bronson, who in a low voice hastened to assure her that he was more than satisfied with his present position.
He was a handsome fellow of about seventeen, tall and of somewhat slight build, with very regular features. His eyes were his weak point. They were of a pale greenish-blue, and were too close together.
His greeting to Neal was most cordial. "Holloa, old fellow!" he said; "this is a piece of luck. Miss Morgan told me you were stopping here, so I was prepared for the pleasure."
THE START FROM OAKLEIGH.
"As if he hadn't known it before," muttered Neal to Cynthia, as he helped her into the canoe, and they pushed off. "He sent that letter here and he got mine from here. He's a hypocritical ass."
"Look out, Neal!" cautioned Cynthia; "you know how sound carries on the water." And she was quite sure from the expression on Bronson's face that he had heard.
There was some discussion as to where their destination should be.
"Let's go as high as we can," said Gertrude. "Above Charles River village."
"But there is the 'carry,'" objected her brother.
"What of that? We've often carried before."
"Not with an average of one fellow to a boat. No; I say we stop the other side of the small rapids. If any one wants to explore above there on his own account he can do so."
It was finally settled thus, and the party set forth. It was a pretty sight. The cedar canoes, with gay carpets and cushions, and freight of girls and boys in white boating costumes, gave the needed touch of life to the peaceful Charles River. So Mrs. Franklin thought when she came down to see them off.
"I have not been invited," she said, "but I really think I must drive up this afternoon and see your encampment."
"Oh, do, Mrs. Franklin!" cried Gertrude, enthusiastically. "We would just love to have you come, and we ought to have a chaperon, though we are all brothers and sisters and cousins! She is the most perfect creature," she added to Bronson, as they moved off. "You know she is the Franklins' step-mother. Isn't she a dear, Jack?"
Jack, who was paddling, acquiesced. Bronson sat at ease in the bow. He was always lazy. Neal, though averse to hard work which was work only, was ready for anything in the way of athletics. He was now an accomplished paddler, and had already far outstripped the others.
Their destination was some two or three miles up the river. The water was low, and Cynthia kept a sharp look-out for rocks.
"Keep to the left here, Neal," she directed; "that ledge runs all across the river."
"I bet those Brenton fellows will scrape going through here. Not one in a hundred would take the left. I haven't scraped once since I had the canoe. The bottom is as smooth as the day she came, and that is saying a good deal when the river is as low as it is now."
They skirted a huge oak-tree which had fallen half across the river, and, passing through some gentle rapids, reached the cleared shady spot on the bank where they were to eat their luncheon. The others soon arrived, and preparations were immediately begun for building a fire. The boys explored the neighborhood for dry sticks, and a cheerful little blaze was soon crackling away on the bank. Potatoes had been buried beneath to roast in the ashes, and the coffee-pot, filled with water from a neighboring spring, was placed above. Dennis Morgan, whose coffee was far-famed and unrivalled, superintended this part of the work.
The girls unpacked the baskets, and spreading a table-cloth, arranged the goodies most temptingly thereon.
"Edith, you must do the oysters on the chafing-dish," said Gertrude; "no one does them like you."
"Oysters! Have you really got oysters? How perfect!" cried Cynthia, who, laden with cups and saucers, was stumbling over some stray boughs at the imminent risk of herself and the crockery.
"Let me help you, Miss Franklin," said Bronson, coming languidly forward.
"Oh no, thanks!" returned Cynthia, tartly. "I would not trouble you for the world. You have quite enough to do."
Dennis Morgan, who heard her, turned away to hide a laugh. Bronson had been leaning against a tree most of the time with his hands in his pockets.
"Come, now, don't be too hard on a fellow, Miss Franklin. I'll do anything you ask. A fellow feels kind of out of place, don't you know, with so many working."
"Really! Well, if you are truly anxious to make yourself useful, perhaps you will get some ferns to decorate the table?"
"Certainly," said Bronson, looking about him in a helpless way: "will these do?" and he broke off a large brake.
"No, of course not. The ones I want grow at quite a distance from here, over in those woods there," pointing. "Please get some."
"Oh, Miss Franklin, so far? But you will go with me, of course."
"'Of course,' did I hear you say?" asked Cynthia, straightening herself from her arrangement of the table and standing very erect, with a bottle in one hand and an olive on the end of a fork in the other. "What can you be thinking of? Of course not. I am busy. But you have no time to lose if you want to get them here before lunch is ready. It is a good half-mile there and back."
"When Miss Franklin commands I have but to obey," said Bronson, with a bow, though there was a disagreeable light in his steely eyes. "Who will take pity on me and go with me? Miss Morgan, surely you will be so good?"
Gertrude was much pleased at being singled out by the guest of the occasion, and although she knew that the ferns which were growing in profusion all about them would adorn the table just as well, she gave no hint of it, for she was not averse to taking the walk with Bronson.
"Tell me about the Franklins," said he, as he took her red umbrella and opened it. "Are they fond of their step-mother?"
"All but Edith, and she can't bear her, and I don't think she is over-fond of Neal, either. Tell me something about him, Mr. Bronson. He is a school-mate of yours, you say?"
"Oh, don't ask me! I think it's awfully bad form for one fellow to give away another, don't you know. Of course, some fellows would, but I'm not that kind."
Gertrude admired these sentiments extremely. She wished that Bronson would hold the umbrella at an angle that would shield her a little more. It was entirely over him, while she herself was in the sun, and it was rather warm walking. However, it was a pleasure to have her umbrella carried by such an elegant-looking individual, even though she derived no benefit from it.
From his words and manner Gertrude gathered the idea that Bronson, if he chose, could tell something very much against Neal Gordon, but his high sense of honor held him back.
"What a lovely fellow he is!" thought Gertrude; then she said aloud, "Of course I would not have you for the world. I have always fancied there might be something, don't you know?"
Now Gertrude had really never fancied anything of the kind, and yet she did not dream of being untruthful. It was an idea born of the moment. Her vanity prompted her to agree with Bronson, who was apparently such a very charming fellow.
"Oh, don't say that, Miss Morgan! I didn't mean to give you that idea. You're so awfully clever, you have guessed what I never intended to say. Don't ever tell what I said, will you? I wouldn't take away the fellow's character for the world."
Gertrude blushed and promised, pleased to find herself in the position of having a secret with Bronson. She told her cousin Kitty, afterwards, that he really talked most confidentially with her.
When they returned, luncheon was ready. Cynthia took the ferns with a cool "Thank you," looked at them critically and somewhat dubiously, and laid them on the impromptu table.
"Terribly anty," she said, shaking a spray vigorously in the air. "Ugh! look at the ants!"
"Perhaps those that grow over here would not have had any ants," said Bronson, "but I am so much obliged to you for sending me for these, Miss Franklin. I had such a charming walk. It quite repaid me, even though you are so chary of your thanks."
"I'm so glad," returned Cynthia, "but not as glad as I am famished."
She left Bronson, and walking around to the farther side of the table, sat down. Neal followed her, and presently they were all seated and enjoying the dainty meal. Never was there such clear and fragrant coffee, and the rich cream that the Franklins had brought made it "equal to the nectar of Olympus," said Bronson; he was addicted to airy speech.
The oysters were done to a turn and seasoned to a nicety, and the sandwiches melted in one's mouth. In the midst of the feast they heard the sound of wheels on the bridge, and looking up, they saw Mrs. Franklin, who was driving herself.
"You see I couldn't stay away," she called to them. "Jack, come tie Bess for me, and then let me have a bite, if you have anything to spare."
Edith's face clouded. "Why did she have to come so soon?" she thought, and her expression was not lost on Bronson.
"So this is the rich sister and step-mother," thought Bronson; "and the eldest daughter doesn't like her coming. Now, I don't exactly see why Gordon can't settle the balance if she has such a pile. But I'll lie low and work him easily."
He watched his opportunity, and after luncheon he followed Neal to the river-bank, where he was getting a pail of water for dish-washing purposes.
"I say, Gordon, old fellow, I haven't had a chance before to thank you for sending me the fifty. You see I was in a confounded hole myself, and there was no way out of it but to ask you. I hated to dun you. As for the rest, there's no hurry about that whatever."
Neal looked at him. His brown eyes could be very searching when occasion required. Bronson stooped, and picking up a flat stone from the little beach on which they were standing, he tossed it across the river.
"Five skips," said he, lightly, as he turned away.
"Hold on a minute," said Neal. "Your offer is very kind, but you may be pretty sure that I'll pay you as soon as I can. I've no wish to be under obligations to you any longer than is necessary."
"As you like," returned Bronson, with a shrug. "I only thought it might ease your mind to know that there's no actual hurry. Ah, Miss Franklin," as Cynthia drew near, "can't I persuade you to go out on the river with me?"
"I am afraid not. I should think that you hadn't paddled a great deal, as I noticed that you took your ease coming up."
"Miss Franklin, I never should have imagined that you were timid on the water. How little one can tell!"
"I am not a bit timid, but I don't care to be upset."
"Upset!" laughed Bronson. "Why, I've been upset a dozen times. In such a shallow ditch as this it wouldn't make much difference, as long as we're suitably dressed."
Cynthia looked at him slowly, criticisingly, scornfully. Then she said:
"I should think bathing clothes were the only things suitable for upsetting. And the Charles River isn't a ditch. Of course you didn't know, and we can pardon the ignorant a good deal."
Bronson turned away and left them.
"That last was a scorcher," chuckled Neal, who had been listening attentively. "If there is one thing Bronson hates above another, it is to be thought not to 'know it all,' and he caught on to what you meant."
Cynthia, however, felt a little remorseful. She was quite sure that she had been rude. Bronson was a stranger, and should have been treated with the politeness due to such. But then he was Neil's enemy, and Cynthia could never be anything but loyal to Neal. Thus she soothed her conscience.
When luncheon had been cleared away and the baskets packed to go home, Bronson asked Edith if she would go out with him on the river.
"Just for a little paddle, Miss Franklin," he said. "Do come!"
Cynthia heard him, and she frowned and shook her head vigorously at her sister, hoping that she would not go, but Edith had no intention of declining the invitation. She said yes, with one of her prettiest smiles, and accompanied Bronson to the place where the canoes were drawn up on the bank.
"I suppose it doesn't make any difference which one I take," he said, and, either by accident or design, he singled out Neal's boat and put it into the water. Edith stepped in, and then watched Bronson's movements with some trepidation. He did not seem to know much about the management of a canoe, and they rocked alarmingly with his short, uncertain strokes.
"I'll soon get the hang of it," he said, reassuringly. "I have never been much on a river, but it's easy enough."
Cynthia walked along the bank, watching them.
"I hope you've got a life-preserver, Edith! Mr. Bronson says he is in the habit of upsetting—likes it, in fact—and I'm dreadfully afraid for you. You know you can't swim, and Mr. Bronson will never be able to save you as well as himself. Do be careful of my sister, Mr. Bronson. The ditch is rather deep just there. Oh, look at him wiggle!" she added to Neal, who had followed her.
"And the fellow has taken my canoe!" growled Neal.
"Poor Neal! You boasted too soon. You'll never again be able to say there isn't a scratch on the bottom."
"I only hope I shall ever see the boat again. He'll probably smash her all to smithereens."
"I suppose it makes no difference if Edith is 'smashed to smithereens,' only the canoe," remarked Cynthia, demurely.
In the mean time Edith was having an exciting voyage. Bronson paddled slowly and unevenly up the river until he found himself in the rapids, which were much swifter and more dangerous than those they had passed through on the way from Oakleigh. The canoe scraped and creaked over the rocks. The only wonder was that a hole was not stove at once in the bottom.
They were in the midst now of the rushing water. Suddenly the boat lodged for a moment on a rock, and swayed to and fro. Down to the very water's edge went first one side and then the other. A half-inch more and they would have capsized.
Edith sat perfectly silent, scarcely daring to breathe. Bronson, never before so quick in his movements, righted the craft, and with a vigorous push of the paddle got off the dangerous rock.
"I—I think it would be rather pleasanter to tie up," faltered Edith.
"So do I. Wish you had said so before. Not that I mind exploring, but it's hot work such a day as this."
They found a shady bank and drew up under the bushes. Edith gave a sigh of relief.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked Bronson, getting out a silver cigarette-case with a blasé air.
"Oh, not at all."
"That's nice. Now we can be comfortable. I am so glad you came with me this afternoon, for I want to talk to you, Miss Franklin. I want in talk freely to you about something."
Edith's face expressed her astonishment.
"You look surprised," he continued, "but you will not be when I tell you what it is. You are the only person whom I can rely on to manage the matter well and to help me. It is connected with Neal Gordon."