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