Oakleigh

"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? If Neal had only not gone off! Perhaps he will come back soon; then I can make him tell. He does not realize how foolish, how wrong it is to keep it a secret. Oh, if he would only come back!"

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 meantime 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 old 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. Gertrude, in a new spring hat with nodding flowers, looked triumphantly over at her friends. It pleased her immensely to have Bronson come so often.

"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 have anything to do with 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 probably 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 young 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 step-mother.

"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 in this way."

"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 who goes to the village 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 like a small child. 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."

Edith colored hotly.

"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 step-mother.

"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 rose and 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. I won't be cheated out of that."

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, painful though it had been, failed to make any lasting impression. Hester longed for her husband to return and tell her what he had learned. She had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. It was so strange that Neal had not written from Philadelphia.

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 would 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. She had half hoped it would be this way, she wanted so much to go. However, she would try again. She supposed no one at home would object to her taking the drive if they all went together.

When she and Gertrude were alone for a minute, she said:

"Why don't you go too to drive? 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 think of intruding."

"But it would be such fun," persisted Edith; "you know we always 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. Naturally it was great fun to drive off with Tony Bronson in that stylish little trap he had described. She had tried to get out of it; she would tell Mrs. Franklin how they overcame her scruples. After all, Mrs. Franklin had no real right to prevent her going, she said to herself. Perhaps it would not be necessary to explain. 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. I guess they were going to Blue Hill; it's a favorite drive for young folks. You let her have plenty of liberty, Mrs. Franklin, don't you? Well, I suppose you have to, being but a step-mother. 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!"

Mrs. Franklin started.

"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. And here comes 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, an' yer not to tell nobody."

So saying, the messenger disappeared as rapidly and mysteriously as he had come, his bare feet making little noise in last year's dead leaves.

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.

CHAPTER XV

The drive to Blue Hill had been delightful and the view from the top exceptionally fine, it being one of those clear, still days when distant objects are brought near. It seemed almost possible to lay one's finger upon the spires of Boston and the glistening dome of the State-house, miles away.

Bronson had exerted himself to the utmost. He wished to stand well with all men, and particularly with the Franklin family. From a worldly point of view it would have a most excellent effect for him to be seen driving with pretty Edith Franklin, of Oakleigh. He was glad whenever they passed a handsome turnout from Milton and he was obliged to take off his hat to its occupants. He felt that he had really gone up in the world during the last year or two. It was a lucky thing for him, he thought, that he had fallen in with Tom Morgan at St. Asaph's. By the time he left college, which he was entering this year, he would have made quite a number of desirable acquaintances.

His talk was clever, but every now and then he said something that made Edith wince. He spoke of Neal, and was sorry he had gone to the bad altogether. Had he really disappeared?

Edith hesitated; she had not the ready wit with which Cynthia would have parried the question.

"We think he is in Philadelphia," she said, finally.

Bronson laughed.

"Hardly," he said; "I saw him in Boston a day or two ago. He looked rather seedy, I thought, and I felt sorry for him, but I didn't stop and speak. Thought it wouldn't do, don't you know; and I'm glad I didn't, as you feel this way."

"I hardly know what you mean," said Edith, somewhat distantly; "we are sorry Neal went away, that is all."

Though she thought he must have taken the money, Edith felt obliged to defend Neal for the sake of the family honor. She had suffered extremely from the talk that there had been in Brenton; she did so dislike to be talked about, and this affair had given rise to much gossip.

"You are very good to say that," said Bronson. "How generous you are not to acknowledge that Gordon stole the money to pay me."

"Stole!" repeated Edith, shuddering.

"I beg pardon, I shouldn't have stated it so broadly; but I'm so mixed up in it, don't you know. It was really my fault, you see, that he felt obliged to—er—to take it. But, of course, I'd no idea it would lead to any such thing as this. I fancied Gordon could get hold of as much money as he wanted by perfectly fair means. Will you believe me, Miss Edith, when I tell you how awfully sorry I am that I should have indirectly caused you any annoyance?"

He looked very handsome, and Edith could not see the expression of triumph in his steely eyes. It was nice of him, perhaps, to say this, even though there was something "out" in his way of doing it.

What was it about Bronson that always affected her thus, even though she liked him and was flattered by his attentions? She said to herself that it was merely the effect of Cynthia's outspoken dislike. Unreasonable though it was, it influenced her.

But now it came over Edith with overwhelming force that she had done very wrong to come with Tony Bronson this afternoon. She was disobeying her step-mother, besides acting most deceitfully. Yes; she had deliberately deceived Mrs. Franklin when she wrote the note the day before; for had she not had it in her mind then to allow herself to be over-persuaded in regard to the drive? These thoughts made Edith very silent.

And then they had driven through Brenton. Unfortunately an electric car reached the corner just as they did. The gay little mare from the livery stable, which had been rather resentful of control all the afternoon, bolted and ran. A heavy ice-cart barred the way. There was a crash, and Bronson and Edith were both thrown out.

It was all over in a moment; but Edith had time to realize what was about to happen, and again there flashed through her mind the conviction of how wrongly she had behaved. What would mamma say?

It was significant that she thought of Mrs. Franklin then for the first time as "mamma."

Bronson escaped with a few bruises, but Edith was very much hurt—just how much the doctor could not tell. She was unconscious for several hours.

Cynthia never forgot that night; her father away; her mother, with tense, strained face, watching by the bed-side; and, above all, the awful stillness in Edith's room while they waited for her to open her eyes. Perhaps she would never open them. What then? Beyond that Cynthia's imagination refused to go.

She was sorry that she had been so cross with Edith about Bronson. Suppose she never were able to speak to her sister again! Her last words would have been angry ones. She would not remember that Edith had done wrong to go; all that was forgotten in the vivid terror of the present moment.

The tall clock in the hall struck twelve. It was midnight again, just as it had been on New Year's Eve when she and Neal stood by the window and looked out on the snow. The clock had struck and Neal had not promised.

Reminded of Neal, she put her hand in her pocket and drew out the crumpled note. It had quite escaped her mind that she was to meet him to-morrow. To-morrow? It was to-day! She was to see Neal to-day, and bring him back to her mother. Poor mamma! And Cynthia looked lovingly at the silent watcher by the bed.

Edith did not die. The doctor, who spent the night at Oakleigh, spoke more hopefully in the morning. She was very seriously hurt, but he thought that in time she would recover. She was conscious when he left.

The morning dawned fair, but by nine o'clock the sun was obscured. It was one of those warm spring days when the clouds hang low and showers are imminent. Mrs. Franklin was surprised when Cynthia told her that she was going on the river.

"To-day, Cynthia? It looks like rain, and you must be tired, for you had little sleep last night. Besides, your father may arrive at any moment if he got my telegram promptly, and then, dear Edith!"

"I know, mamma," faltered Cynthia. It was hard to explain away her apparent thoughtlessness. "But I sha'n't be gone long. It always does me good to paddle, and Jack will be at home and the nurse has come. Do you really need me, mamma?"

"Oh no, not if you want to go so much. I thought perhaps Edith would like to have you near. But I must go back to her now. Don't stay away too long, Cynthia. I like to have you within call."

Cynthia would have preferred to stay close by Edith's side, but there was no help for it; she must go to Neal. Afterwards, when she came back and brought Neal with her, her mother would understand.

She was soon in the canoe, paddling rapidly down-stream. A year had not made great alteration in Cynthia's appearance. As she was fifteen years old now her gowns were a few inches longer, and her hair was braided and looped up at the neck, instead of hanging in curly disorder as it once did; and this was done only out of regard for Edith. Cynthia herself cared no more about the way she looked than she ever did. She did not want to grow up, she said. She preferred to remain a little girl, and have a good time just as long as she possibly could.

It was quite a warm morning for the time of year, and the low-hanging clouds made exercise irksome, but Cynthia did not heed the weather. Her one idea was to reach Neal as quickly as possible and bring him home. How happy her mother would be! She wondered why he had not returned to the house at once, instead of sending for her in this mysterious fashion; it would have been so much nicer. However, she was glad he had come, even this way. It was far better than not coming at all.

Her destination lay several miles from Oakleigh; but the current and what breeze there was were both in Cynthia's favor, and it was not long before she had passed under the stone bridge which stood about half way between. She met no one; the river was little frequented at this hour of the morning so far from the town, for the numerous curves in the Charles made it a much longer trip by water than by road from Oakleigh to Brenton. A farmer's boy or two watched her pass, and criticised loudly, though amiably, the long, free sweep of her paddle.

Cynthia did not notice them. Her mind was fully occupied, and her eyes were fixed upon the distance. As each bend in the river was rounded she hoped that she might see Neal's familiar figure waiting for her.

And at last she did see him. He was sitting on the bank, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and when she came in sight he ran down to the little beach that made a good landing-place just at this point.

"Cynthia, you're a brick!" he exclaimed. "I was afraid you were not coming."

"Oh, Neal, I'm so glad to see you! Get in quickly, and we'll go back as fast as we can. Of course I came, but we mustn't lose a minute on account of Edith. Hurry!"

"What do you mean? I'm not going back with you."

"Not going back? Why, Neal, of course you are."

"Not by a long shot. Did you think I would ever go back there?"

"Neal!"

Cynthia's voice trembled. The color rose in her face and her eyes filled with tears.

"Neal, you can't really mean it."

"Of course I do."

"Then why did you send for me?"

"Because I wanted to see you. There, don't look as if you were going to cry, Cynthia. I hate girls that cry, and you never were that sort. I'll be sorry I sent for you if you do."

Cynthia struggled to regain her composure. This was a bitter disappointment, but she must make every effort to prevail upon Neal to yield.

"I'm not crying," she said, blinking her eyes very hard; "tell me what you mean."

"I don't mean anything in particular, except that I wanted to see you again, perhaps for the last time." This with a rather tragic air.

"The last time?"

"Yes. I've made up my mind to cut loose from everybody, and just look out for myself after this. If my only sister suspects me of stealing, I don't care to have anything more to do with her. I can easily get along until I'm twenty-five. I'll just knock round and take things easily, and if I go to the bad no one will care particularly."

"Neal, I had no idea you were such a coward!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly.

"Coward! You had better look out, Cynthia. I won't stand much of that sort of thing."

"You've got to stand it. I call you a coward. You ran away like a boy in a dime novel, just because you couldn't stand having anything go wrong. You were afraid to brave it out. Afraid!"

There was no suspicion of tears now in Cynthia's voice. She knelt in the canoe very erect and very angry. Her cheeks were crimson, and her blue eyes had grown very dark.

"I tell you again to take care," said Neal, restraining his anger with difficulty; "I did not send for you to come down here and rave this way."

"And I never would have come if I'd thought you were going to behave this way. I'm dreadfully, dreadfully disappointed in you, Neal. I always thought you were a very nice boy, and I was awfully fond of you—almost as fond of you as I am of Jack, and now—"

She broke off abruptly and looked away across the river.

If Neal was touched by this speech he did not show it at the moment. He stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking the toe of his boot against a rock.

"Of course I couldn't stay there," he said, presently; "your father as good as called me a thief."

"He didn't at all. He didn't really believe you had taken the money until you ran away. Then, of course, every one thought it strange that you went, and I don't wonder. And I couldn't tell how it really was, because I had promised you; but I'm not going to keep the promise any longer, Neal. I am going to tell."

"No, you can't. You've promised, and I won't release you. I am not going to demean myself by explaining; they ought to have believed in me. But I wish you would stop scolding, Cynthia, and come up here on the bank. I can't talk while you are swinging round there with the current."

After a moment's hesitation Cynthia complied with his request. It occurred to her that perhaps she could accomplish more by persuasion than by wrath. Neal drew up the boat and they sat down under the tree.

"Where have you been all this time?" asked Cynthia.

"In Boston, first. I've been staying with several fellows. I gave out that I was going to Philadelphia, for I thought you would be looking for me, and it is true, for I am going, some time soon. Then I went to Roxbury, and yesterday I walked out from there and found that little shaver to take the note to you."

"Have you told your friends that you ran away?"

"No. Why should I? Fortunately I took enough clothes, though these are beginning to look a little shabby. I spent last night in a shed. I've only got a little money left, but it will answer until I get something to do."

"Neal, do you know you are just breaking mamma's heart?"

Neal said nothing.

"She has looked so awfully ever since you left, and she wrote to you in Philadelphia and papa went on, but we had to send for him to come back on account of Edith."

"What about Edith?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Edith had a fearful accident yesterday. She was driving with—she went to drive, and was thrown out and was terribly hurt."

"I'm awfully sorry," said Neal, with real concern in his voice; "how did it happen? Was it one of your horses?"

"No," said Cynthia, hurrying over that part of it, for she did not want Neal to know that Edith had been with Bronson; "but she was very much hurt, Neal. She was unconscious nearly all night, and the doctor thought perhaps she—she would die."

A great sob rose in Cynthia's throat, and this time Neal did not reprove her for it. Instead, he expressed his regret and his sympathy with such real feeling in his voice that Cynthia broke down altogether.

"Oh, it is all so dreadful!" she cried; "Edith so terribly hurt—dying, perhaps—and mamma looking as if she were in perfect despair, and you away. Oh, Neal, won't you come back? Won't you please come back?"

Neal rose abruptly, and began to walk up and down the little clearing.

"I wish you wouldn't, Cynthia," he remonstrated; "I've told you I couldn't, and you ought not to ask me. I'm awfully sorry about Edith, and I'm sorry Hessie feels so badly about me. I'll give in about one thing. You can tell her you have seen me and I am well. You needn't say I'm going to the bad, but very likely I shall. You mustn't say a word about having lent me the money; I will not have that explained. There, it has begun to rain."

A few big drops came pattering down, falling with loud splashes into the river.

"Oh, I must hurry back!" exclaimed Cynthia, hastily drying her eyes.

"It's only going to be a shower. Come up here where the trees are thicker and wait till it is over. See, it's all bright over there."

Cynthia looked in the direction indicated, and seeing a streak of cloud that was somewhat lighter than the rest, concluded to wait. Perhaps she could yet prevail upon Neal to come.

They went into the woods a short distance, and though there were not many leaves upon the trees as yet, they were more protected than in the open. It was raining hard now.

"Neal," said Cynthia, in her gentlest tones, "when you have thought it over a little more I am sure you will agree with me. Indeed, you ought to come."

"I have done nothing else but think it over, and I tell you I am not coming, Cynthia. I wish you wouldn't say any more. I sent for you because I wanted to see you once more, and now you're spoiling it all. I don't believe you care a bit about me."

"Oh, Neal, how can you say so? You know I do care, very much. I'm awfully disappointed in you, that's all. I always thought you were brave and good and would do things you ought to do, even when you didn't want to. It does seem selfish to stay away and make mamma feel so badly, when it would only be necessary to come home and say you had borrowed the money of me, to make everything all right. It seems very selfish indeed, but perhaps I am mistaken. I dare say I'm very selfish myself and have no right to preach to you, but if you could see mamma I'm sure you would feel as I do."

Neal remained silent.

"But I still have faith in you," continued Cynthia. "I think some day you will see it as I do. I am sure you will. Oh, dear, how wet it is getting! I ought to have gone home."

The rain was coming down in torrents. The ground was wet and soggy, and their feet sank in the drenched leaves. The canoe, drawn up on the bank, was full of water.

"I ought to have gone home. It is going to rain all day, and mamma will be so worried. It's not going to clear; that bright streak is all gone."

The clouds had settled down heavily, and there was no prospect whatever of the rain stopping.

"I must go right away; I am wet through now. Oh, Neal, if you would only go with me! Won't you go, Neal, dear?"

But Neal shook his head.

"Very well; then it is good-bye. But remember what I said, Neal. It's your own fault that the family think you took it. And if mamma or any one ever asks me any questions about what I am going to do with Aunt Betsey's present I'm not going to pretend anything. If they choose to find out I lent it to you they can. You won't say I can tell them, so of course I can't do it, as I promised, but I sha'n't prevent their finding it out. Oh, Neal, do, do come!"

She stood in front of him and put her hands on his wet coat-sleeve. Neal's voice was husky when he spoke.

"I'm a brute, Cynth, I know, but I can't give in. You don't know how hard it is for me ever to give in. I'll remember what you said. Please shake hands for good-bye to me, if you don't think I'm too mean and selfish and heartless and a coward and everything else you've said."

"Oh, Neal!" cried Cynthia, as she grasped his hand with both of hers, "some day I'm sure you will come. Good-bye, Neal."

They turned over the canoe, which was full of rain-water, and then Cynthia embarked. Suddenly an idea occurred to her; she would make one more effort.

"Neal, you will have to go part way with me. I'm really afraid to go alone. It is raining so hard the boat will fill up, and it will take me so long to go alone. I'm afraid, Neal."

Neal could not resist this very feminine appeal. He hesitated, and then got in and took the extra paddle.

"I'll go part way, Cynthia, but I won't go home. Of course I can't let you go off alone if you're afraid. I never knew you to be so before."

With long, vigorous strokes they were soon pulling upstream. Occasionally one of them would stop and bail with the big sponge, kept in the boat for emergencies.

The rain splashed into the river, and the dull gray stream seemed to run more swiftly than usual. It looked very different from its wont. Cynthia and Neal, many times as they had been together on the Charles, had never before been there in a storm. One could scarcely believe it to be the cheerful, peaceful little river on which they had passed so many happy hours.

"Everything is changed," thought Cynthia; "even my own river is different. Will things ever be the same again? Oh, if Neal will only give in when we get near home!"

CHAPTER XVI

But Neal would not "give in." Cynthia's renewed entreaties were of no more avail than they had been before.

"I will not come," he repeated again and again; and at last Cynthia gave up asking.

He got out of the canoe just below the Oakleigh landing, and where he was hidden from the house.

"I hope you won't be ill, Cynthia," he said. "I am sorry I made you come out such a day; it will be my fault if you take cold. One more bad thing I have done. My life isn't a bit of good, anyhow; I've a good mind to go and drown myself—I'm half drowned now."

He laughed, somewhat bitterly, as he looked down at his drenched clothes.

"Cynthia, I'm a brute. Hurry in and change your things. I'm off to Pelham; I'll take a train there for Boston. I'll let you know where I go; and I say, Cynth, won't you write to a fellow now and then? I don't deserve it, I know, but I'd like to hear from you, and I'll want to know how Edith gets along."

"Yes, if you will let me know your address. Good-bye, Neal," she said, sadly.

"Good-bye."

He stood and watched her. She rounded the curve where the boat-house was and waved her hand as she disappeared. She was only a few yards away, and yet he could no longer see her. He could easily imagine how it would all be.

A man would come down from the barn and help her with the canoe. She would go up the hill and follow the path to the side door behind the conservatory. There would be exclamations of dismay when she came in, all dripping wet. Hester and the servants would hurry to help her, and she would be thoroughly dried and warmed; his sister would see to that—his sister, who thought him no better than a common thief!

And then Cynthia would tell how she had met him, and that he would not come home. How astonished Hester would be to hear that he was so near. He turned abruptly when he thought of this, and sprang up the bank to the road that lay between Brenton and Pelham. He crossed the bridge, and with one more look at the dark river, struck out at a good pace for Pelham, the nearest railway station.

He glanced back once at the chimneys and white walls of Oakleigh when he reached the spot from which they could be seen for the last time on the Pelham road. Then, bidding good-bye to his past life, he hastened on.

The road that runs from Brenton to Pelham is very straight after one has passed Oakleigh. There are but few houses—nothing but meadows, trees, and bushes on either side. Neal, tramping over the broad expanse of gray mud, had nothing to distract his mind from the thoughts that filled it. At first they were very desperate ones.

"Cynthia had no right to come and rant the way she did. The idea of calling me a coward, and telling me I was like a boy in a dime novel because I ran away! It was the only thing to do. They had no business to suspect me. They—confound it! I won't put up with such treatment. I'll stick to my resolution and drop the whole concern. What a long, straight road this is, and how I hate the rain!"

At last he reached the end of it and entered the little town of Pelham, uninteresting at the best of times, and doubly so on such a day as this. The inhabitants were all within doors; not even a dog was stirring.

"Every one is dry and comfortable but me," thought Neal, miserably, as he went into the station.

Fortunately, the next train for Boston was soon due, and it did not take long for him to reach the friend's house in one of the suburbs at which he had left his possessions.

A merry party was staying there for the Easter holidays, and Neal was the subject of much speculation and concern when he appeared, weary and wet, in their midst. Every one supposed that he had gone to Brenton to visit his sister, and they wondered why he had come back on such a stormy day.

Though the story of Neal was well known in Brenton, oddly enough it had not yet reached his friends in Boston, and he did not enlighten them. He went to his room and stayed there for several hours. With dry clothes he came into a better frame of mind.

Poor little Cynthia! How good she was to come to meet him such a day, when she must have wanted to stay with Edith. And how badly she felt about him; much more so than he deserved. He was not worth it. How she had fired up when she told him that he was a coward! He must prove to her that he was not. He would never give in and go back there, never! But there were other ways of proving it; he could go to work and show her that he was made of good stuff after all. He should not have frightened Cynthia by saying that he would "go to the bad." But, then, he had been abominably treated. He could not go to college now, for he would never accept it from Hessie, who had been willing to believe he took the money. He lashed himself into a fury again as he thought of it. He was utterly unreasonable, but of course he was quite unconscious of being so.

Finally the better thoughts came uppermost again, and he decided what to do. He would go to Philadelphia and ask his guardian to put him in the way of getting some work. He would tell him the whole story. Fortunately, he did not remember that Cynthia had said her father went to Philadelphia; if he had he would not have gone, thinking that his guardian would have been prejudiced against him by his brother-in-law.

He packed his valise and started that night, though his friends urged him to stay longer. He felt a feverish impatience to be off and have things settled. With it was a feeling of excitement; he was going to seek his fortune. Thrown upon a cold world by the unkind and unjust suspicions of his nearest relatives, he would rise above adverse circumstances and "ennoble fate by nobly bearing it!"

It was a very heroic martyr that bought a ticket for Philadelphia that night.

He did not engage a berth in the sleeping-car; he was a poor man now and must begin to economize. Besides, upon counting his money he found that he had but just enough with which to reach his destination.

He was very tired with the adventures of the last two days, and the night before, spent in a shed, had not been comfortable, so he slept well, notwithstanding the fact that he was not in a Pullman sleeper. He did not wake until it was broad daylight, and the train was speeding along through New Jersey. The storm was over, the sun was shining down upon a bright and rain-washed world, and Neal Gordon was entering upon a new life.

"So this is the 'Quaker City,'" he thought, as the train glided over the bridges and into the huge station. "I wonder if every one is in a broad-brimmed hat! And now to find cousin William Carpenter. He's a Quaker of the Quakers, I suppose; I can never get into the habit of saying 'thee' and 'thou.'"

He did not see much of the Quaker element in the busy station, nor when he went down-stairs and out on to Broad Street. He was on the point of jumping into a hansom to be driven to his cousin's house, when he remembered that he had not a cent in his pocket with which to pay for it. It was a novel experience for Neal.

He inquired the way to Arch Street, and found that it was not very far from where he was, and he soon reached the designated number.

"Not a broad-brimmer have I seen yet," he said to himself, as he pulled the bell-handle. He looked up and down the street while he waited. It was wider than some that he had passed through, and rather quiet except for the jingling horse-cars. It was very straight, and lined with red brick houses with white marble steps and heavy wooden shutters.

He looked down, as he stood on the dazzling steps, at his boots splashed with Boston mud, and he shuddered at the effect they might have on his cousins. He should have had them cleaned at the station; but, then, he did not have five cents to spend.

The door was opened, and he walked into the parlor and sent up his card. It was a large room with very little furniture in it, and the few chairs and sofas that there were stood stiffly apart. Not an ornament was to be seen but a large clock that ticked slowly and sedately on the marble mantel-piece. There were no curtains, but "Venetian blinds," formed of green slats, hung at the windows. It all looked very neat and very bare, and extremely stiff.

It was not long before Neal heard a step in the hall, and an elderly man entered the room. He was very tall, and wore a long, quaint-looking coat that flapped as he walked. His face was smooth, and of a calm, benign expression that Neal afterwards found was never known to vary. He came in with outstretched hand.

"Thee is Neal Gordon. I am pleased to meet thee again, cousin. Come up-stairs to breakfast; Rachel will be glad to see thee."

Who Rachel was Neal could not imagine, as he followed his host up a short flight of stairs to the breakfast-room. He supposed she must be a young daughter of the house, for although William Carpenter was both his kinsman and his guardian, the relationship had until now been merely nominal, and Neal knew very little about him or his family.

Sitting at the table, behind the tall silver urn and the cups and saucers, was an old lady in a close white cap and spectacles. A snowy kerchief of some fine white material was folded about her shoulders over a gray dress. Her face, also, was calm and sweet, and wore the same expression as did her husband's.

"Rachel," said he, "this is our cousin, Neal Gordon. Neal, this is my wife, Rachel."

"I am glad to see thee, Neal," she said, extending her hand without rising; "sit down. Thee'll be glad to have a cup of coffee, doubtless, if thee's just arrived from the train, as thee has the look of doing." This with a glance at his travel-stained clothes.

Neal, very conscious of his muddy boots, thanked her, and sat down at the table, where a neat-looking servant had made ready a place for him. It seemed funny that they took his arrival as a matter of course, but he supposed that was the Quaker way. At any rate, they were very kind, and it was the best breakfast he ever ate. Even if he had not been so hungry, the coffee would have been delicious, and all the rest of it, too.

His cousins asked him no questions, but after breakfast he was shown to a room and told to make himself comfortable.

"But I would like to speak to you, sir," he said to his host—"that is, if you don't mind. I came on to Philadelphia on business." This with a rather grand air.

"Verily," said William Carpenter; "but I have no time now. I go to my office every day at this hour. Thee can come with me if thee wishes, and we will converse there."

Neal agreed, and hastily brushing his clothes and giving a dab to his boots he set out, much amused at the new company in which he found himself. Mr. Carpenter wore a tall beaver hat, of wide brim and ancient shape, which he never removed from his head, even though he met one or two ladies who bowed to him.

"They don't all seem to be Quakers, though," thought Neal, as, leaving Arch Street, they took their way across the city, and met and passed many people of as worldly an aspect as any to be seen in Boston—in fact, his companion's broad-brimmed hat seemed sadly out of place.

The houses too were different in this locality. Easter flowers bloomed in the windows between handsome curtains, and there were not so many white shutters and marble steps—in fact, with a street-band playing on the corner and the merry peal of chimes that rang from a neighboring steeple, it seemed quite a gay little town, thought Neal, with condescension.

His cousin pointed out the sights as they walked.

"There are the public buildings," he said, "and beyond is the great store of John Wanamaker. This is Chestnut Street, and yonder is the Mint. Thee will go there and to Independence Hall while thee is here, and to Girard College—that is, if thee has a proper amount of public spirit, as I hope to be the case."

Neal humbly acquiesced, and then remarked upon the distance of his cousin's place of business from his house.

"Do you always walk?" he asked.

"Always. I have found that exercise is good, and the car-fare worth saving. 'A penny saved is a penny gained,' I have made my motto through life, and for that reason I have never known want. I hope thee is neither extravagant nor lazy?"

This with a keen, shrewd, not unkindly glance from beneath the level, gray eyebrows.

Neal colored and hoped he was not, knowing all the time that these were two serious faults of his.

They had passed through the fashionable part of the city, and were walking down a narrow, low-built street. In the distance was a huge space filled with great piles of boards that came far up above the high fence which surrounded the whole square.

"This is my office," said Mr. Carpenter, as he opened the door of a small, low building in the corner of the great yard. "I am in the lumber business."

It was some time before he could say any more to his cousin. There were letters to be opened, his head-clerk to be interviewed, men to be directed.

Neal sat at a window that looked out on the yard, and watched some men that were loading a huge dray. There were boards, boards, boards everywhere. How tired he should get of lumber if he had to stay here. He hoped that his business, whatever it might prove to be, would be more exciting, and more in the heart of things than this remote lumber-yard. He thought from what he had heard that he would like to be a stock-broker, as long as he was barred out of the professions by not going through college.

He was just imagining himself on 'Change, in the midst of an eager crowd of other successful brokers, a panic imminent, and he alone cool and self-possessed, when his cousin's voice rudely interrupted his revery. It sounded calmer than ever in contrast to Neal's day-dream.

"Cousin, if thee will come into my private office I will listen to thee for fifteen or twenty minutes."

Neal obeyed, but found it difficult to begin his story. It is a very hard thing to tell a man that you are suspected of being a thief.

"I don't know whether you know," he began, rather haltingly, "that I—that—in fact, I've left Hester for good and all. You are my guardian, so you must know all about that conf—that abom—that—er, well, that will of my grandmother's. Hester didn't give me a large enough allowance—at least, I didn't think it was enough—and I got into debt at school. It was not very much of a debt for a fellow with such a rich sister."

He paused, rather taken aback by the quick glance that was shot at him from the mild blue eyes of his Quaker cousin.

"What does thee call 'not much'?"

"A hundred dollars. I knew they would think it a lot, so I only told Hessie and John fifty, and she gave it to me. Afterwards the fellow I owed it to came down on me for the rest, and wrote to John, Hessie's husband. In the meantime I had got hold of some money in a perfectly fair, honorable way, and sent it to the fellow, and he wrote again to John Franklin and said I had paid up. Then, just because a present one of the Franklin children expected at that time didn't come, they accused me of taking it. They had no earthly reason for supposing it except that I paid fifty dollars in gold for the money-order I sent, and the child's present was fifty dollars in gold."

"And where did thee get the money?"

The question came so quietly and naturally that Neal was taken unawares, and answered before he thought.

"Cynthia Franklin lent it to me. I hated to borrow of a girl, and I made her promise not to tell; afterwards I was glad I had. If they choose to suspect me, I'm not going to lower myself by explaining. And I will ask you, as a particular favor, cousin William, not to tell any one. I didn't mean to mention it."

His cousin merely bowed, and asked him to continue.

"Well, there's not much more, except that I was suspended from school before that for a scrape I wasn't in, and it put everybody against me, and now I want to get something to do. I am going to support myself, and I thought I'd come to you, as you're my guardian and a cousin, and perhaps you would help me."

"Did thee know that thy brother-in-law, John Franklin, was here within a few days?"

Neal sprang to his feet.

"He was! Then he told you all this. I might have known it!"

"Thee may as well remain calm, Neal. Thee will gain nothing in this world by giving vent to undue excitement. John Franklin told me nothing, except that thee had left his home, and he had supposed thee was with me. He did not tell me of the gold, but he did say he feared thee was extravagant, in which I agree with him. Thee has nothing to find fault with in what he said."

Neal felt rather ashamed of himself. After all, it had been generous in his brother-in-law not to prejudice his guardian against him.

"And now what does thee wish to do?" asked the old man, as he looked at his large gold-faced watch.

"I want to get some work," replied Neal.

"Is thee willing to take anything thee can get?"

"Yes, almost anything," with a hasty glance at the piles of lumber without.

"Does thee know that times are hard, and it is almost impossible for even young men of experience to get a situation, while thee is but a boy?"

"Ye-es. I suppose so."

"Thee need not expect much salary."

"No, only enough to live on. I'm going to be very economical."

William Carpenter smiled, and looked at the boy kindly. He was silent for a few minutes, and then he said:

"Neal, as thee is my ward and also my cousin, I am willing to make a place for thee here. We can give thee but a small stipend, but it is better than nothing for one who is anxious for work, as thee says thee is. Thee will not have board and lodging to pay for, however, as thee can make thy home with Rachel and myself. Our boy, had he lived, would have been about thy age."

This was said calmly, with no suspicion of emotion. It was simply the statement of a fact.

"Oh, thank you, cousin William, you are very kind! But—do you think I could ever learn the lumber business? It—it seems so—well, I don't exactly see what there is to do."

"Thee is too hasty, by far. Thee could not be expected to know the business before thee has set foot in the yard. But thee must learn first that it is well to make the most of every opportunity that comes to hand. Will thee, or will thee not, come into my home and my employ? It is the best I can do for thee."

And after a moment's hesitation, and one wild regret for the lost pleasures of the Stock Exchange, Neal agreed to do it.

It was thus he began his business life.

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 eagerly.

"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, 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."