CHAPTER XII

"Why has he come home?"

This was the question on the lips of each one of the family when they heard of Neal's arrival.

It was soon answered. He had been suspended.

He would give little explanation; he merely asserted that he was innocent of that of which he was accused. Some of the boys, the most unmanageable at St. Asaph's, had plotted to do some mischief. Neal, being more or less intimate with the set, was asked to join in the plot, but refused. He was with the boys, however, up to the moment of their putting it into execution. Afterwards, circumstances pointed to his having been concerned in it, and his known intimacy with these very boys condemned him.

There was but one person who could prove absolutely that he had not been with the culprits that night, and that person held his peace.

Of course Cynthia rightly suspected that it was Bronson.

A letter came from the head-master of the school, stating the facts as they appeared to him, and announcing with regret that he had been obliged to suspend Neal Gordon for the remainder of the term.

It was an unfortunate affair altogether. Neal was moody and low-spirited, and he was deeply offended that his story was not universally believed, for the household was divided in regard to it.

Jack and Cynthia stoutly maintained his innocence, Mr. Franklin and Edith looked at the worst side of it, while Mrs. Franklin was undecided in her opinion.

She wanted to believe her brother's word, she did believe it, and yet all the proven facts were so hopelessly against him. The other boys that had been suspended were his friends. Neal had been reproved before for mischief that he had been in with them. It was one of those sad cases when a man's past record counts against him, no matter how innocent he may be of the present offence. But Hester could not believe that her brother would lie to her.

One morning Edith drove her father to the train. Not a vestige of snow was left near the road; only a patch or two on the hills, and even that was rapidly disappearing in the spring sunshine which every day grew warmer.

"Have you heard much about St. Asaph's from any one but Neal?" asked Mr. Franklin, abruptly. "Doesn't that cousin of the Morgans' go there?"

"Do you mean Tom, papa? Yes, he does, and Tony Bronson, too, who stays at the Morgans' occasionally. Don't you know? He was at our New Year's Eve party."

"I think I remember. Did you ever hear either of them speak of Neal, or discuss him in any way?"

Edith hesitated.

"Tom Morgan never did," she said at last.

"And the other fellow?"

"Yes, he said something. Really, papa, I wish you wouldn't ask me."

"What nonsense! Of course it is your duty to tell me, Edith. It is right that I should know how Neal stands with his class. What did the boy say?"

"He spoke as if Neal were in some scrape, and he wished that he could help him out."

"He is a friend of Neal's, then?"

"I don't know. He spoke very nicely of him and really seemed to want to help him, but Cynthia didn't believe that when I told her. She seemed to think he was an enemy of Neal's. But then Cynthia can't bear him, you know. She took one of her tremendous prejudices against Tony Bronson, the way she often does, and she wouldn't believe there was a bit of good in him."

"But you liked him?"

"Yes, very much. I think he is conceited, but then so many boys are that. As far as I could see he is a very nice fellow and the Morgans like him ever so much. The only people that I know of who don't like him are Jack and Cynthia and Neal."

"I don't believe there is much doubt that Neal has been very wild all the time he has been at St. Asaph's," observed Mr. Franklin; "this only goes to prove it. Bronson was not in that set, evidently, as he was not one of those who were suspended, and I have no doubt he is a very good sort of fellow. It is a pity Neal doesn't see more of him."

They drew up at the post-office, and Mr. Franklin went in to get the letters. He came out with quite a budget, and stood at the carriage looking hastily over them.

"All of these are to go home," he said, giving a number to Edith; "here is one for me with the St. Asaph's post-mark. I will see what it is."

He tore it open and glanced at the signature. Then he looked up quickly.

"What was that Bronson fellow's name, Edith?"

"Tony."

"Then this is from him. Odd we should just have been talking about him. Humph!"

Mr. Franklin's face grew grave, then angry, as he read the letter.

"That boy will come to no good end," he muttered. "I don't know what we are going to do with him."

Edith watched him curiously. She wished that her father would give her the letter to read, but he did not. People were hurrying by to the station, which was but a few steps from the post-office.

"You will miss your train, Franklin," said some one, tapping him on the shoulder.

Mr. Franklin glanced at the clock in the station tower, found that he had but half a minute, and with a hasty good-bye to Edith, and strict injunctions not to mention Bronson's letter at home, he ran for his train, thrusting the mysterious note into his pocket as he went.

Edith did the errands and drove home again, after a brief call upon Gertrude Morgan, who was full of curiosity about Neal's return.

"I always knew he was pretty gay," she said. "Of course Tom and Tony Bronson wouldn't say much--boys never do, you know; but I gathered from certain things that Neal was--well, rather sporty, to say the least."

Edith drove homeward rather slowly. She was very sorry about it all: sorry for Neal himself, whom she liked, despite the fact that he was a Gordon; sorry for her stepmother, whom she told herself she disliked; and yet Mrs. Franklin's unvarying kindness and sweet temper had not been without good results. Edith had softened greatly towards her, more than she herself was aware of. She still continued to assure herself that it was an unfortunate day for them when the Gordons came, and she worked herself into a temper when she thought of the added worriment it gave her father to have Neal behave as he had done.

"Papa looked so anxious this morning when he read that letter," she said to herself; "it is too bad. I do wonder what was in it, and from Tony Bronson, too! What would Gertrude have said if I had told her?"

In the meantime Mr. Franklin was reading his letter again.

"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN [it ran],--It is with great regret that I am obliged to call a little matter to your attention. I had hoped that it would not be necessary. Your brother-in-law, Neal Gordon, owes me a small amount, fifty dollars, in fact, and I am at present really in need of the money. I have waited for it a good while, nearly a year, and there are one or two bills that I am expected to pay out of my allowance, which I am unable to do until Gordon pays me.

"Of course, I dislike very much to dun him for it when he is in disgrace, but really I see no other way out of the difficulty than to ask you if you will kindly forward a check to my order.

"Very truly yours, "ANTHONY BRONSON.

"St. Asaph's, April 2d."

This letter had cost the writer much thought. He had written several copies before he was altogether satisfied, but at last the result pleased him.

"I call it rather neat," he said, as he folded it carefully and addressed the envelope with an extra flourish. "This will bring the roof down on our fine high-and-mighty Mr. Gordon, if nothing else does. I fancy that brother-in-law of his has a nice little temper of his own, and it will be so pleasant for Gordie to be nagged by a brother-in-law!"

When Edith got back to Oakleigh the morning that Bronson's note was received, she found wild excitement raging, which, for a time, made her forget the letter.

Some of the Leghorn pullets, which, unfortunately, could fly high, had escaped from the yard, notwithstanding the wire netting which enclosed them, and had been having a fine time scratching and pecking in entirely new hunting grounds, when Bob happened along.

Here was his chance. For many months he had been waiting for this very moment. What was the use of being a sporting dog, if he could not now and then indulge his hunting proclivities? His master had gone on the river and left him at home--his master did not treat him well, nowadays. Bob felt neglected. He would have one good time.

He waited his opportunity, and when it came he made the most of it. A fine fat hen, peacefully pecking a worm, found the tables suddenly turned. Instead of the worm being in her mouth, she found herself in the mouth of the horrible black object which she had often seen peering greedily at her through the fence. Oh, that she had never flown over that fence! She gave one despairing "cluck" as she was borne madly through the air, and then was silent forever.

Janet and Willy, playing near, heard the noise and followed in pursuit, calling Cynthia as they did so, who, seeing what was the matter, flew from the house, dog-whip in hand. The boys were both on the river.

For a time the chase was hopeless. Bob had not waited all these months for nothing; he had no intention of dropping the prize at the first command. Round and round he tore, leading his pursuers a pretty dance, through orchard and field, over the lawn and through the currant-bushes. Cynthia fell at this particular point with Janet and Willy on top of her, but they picked themselves up and started again.

At last Mrs. Franklin, coming out, headed Bob off, and Cynthia grasped his collar.

"Bad dog!" she cried. "Neal told me I was to punish you, and I mean to do it."

She cut him with the short whip, but it was of no avail. Bob had dropped the chicken, and, wild with excitement, sprang for her hand. She only succeeded in lashing herself with the whip.

"It's no use," she said, at last; "I've got to punish him some other way. The boys won't be home for ever so long, and it won't do to wait."

"I have always heard the only way of curing a dog of killing hens was to tie one around his neck," said Mrs. Franklin, doubtfully. "Perhaps it had better be done. We will call one of the men."

"No, I will do it all," said Cynthia; "it's not a very nice piece of work, but I'll do it."

[Illustration: "POOR BOB: HIS JOY HAD BEEN QUICKLY TURNED TO MOURNING"]

Cord was brought, and she finally succeeded in attaching the defunct hen to Bob's collar. Poor Bob! His joy had been quickly turned to mourning. And now this stern Cynthia--she who had hitherto been apparently so affably disposed towards him--fastened him to the hitching-post, and came with a horrid horsewhip to chastise him! Bob never forgot that morning. He always thought of Cynthia with more respect after that.

When Neal came home he highly approved of all the proceedings except the horsewhip.

"Couldn't you do it with his own whip?" he asked. "It places a dog at a mean disadvantage to tie him up and then whip him. It is so lowering to his dignity."

"One of us had to be at a disadvantage," said Cynthia, indignantly, "and I should think it was better for Bob to be at it than for me. And as for his dignity, I think it ought to be lowered."

To which wise remark Neal was forced to agree.

Jack was much disgusted at losing one of his best hens. What with the fox last winter, and a neighbor's dog that had killed seven, and a peculiar disease which had taken off fifty, luck seemed to be against the poultry business. But, undiscouraged, Jack had refilled the machine and was awaiting results. Some of last year's hens had begun to lay, and he was sending eggs to the Boston markets. There were actually a few more figures on the page for receipts.

Bob's misdemeanor temporarily diverted the minds of the family from the trouble about Neal, but Mr. Franklin's return that night brought up the subject again to some of them.

He told his wife that he wished to speak with her, and together they went into the library and shut the door. He laid two letters before her on the table--the one he had received that morning from Bronson, and a second one from the same source, which had come by the evening mail. The latter was very brief:

"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN,--The very day that I sent my letter to you I received a money-order from Gordon for the amount he owed me.

"Regretting very much that I should have troubled you, I have the honor to be

"Very truly yours, "ANTHONY BRONSON."

"What does it mean?" asked Mr. Franklin, when his wife had finished reading the letters.

"I cannot imagine," said she, looking up, completely mystified.

"Did you lend him the money?"

"No, certainly not. I should have told you, John, if I had," she added, reproachfully.

"I know," he said, as he walked up and down the room, "but I could not account for it in any other way. It is extraordinary."

"Suppose we send for Neal and ask him about it."

When Neal came he was given the two letters to read. He did so, and laid them down without a word.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" asked his brother-in-law, impatiently.

"Nothing."

"Neal, dear, you must explain," said Hester.

"Why should I explain? I paid the debt. It doesn't make any difference to either of you how I did it."

"It makes a great deal of difference," exclaimed Mr. Franklin, who was rapidly growing angry. "In the first place, how did you come to be owing fifty dollars so soon after the other debt was paid? What did you do with the first fifty your sister gave you in the fall?"

"Spent it."

"Neal!" cried Hester. "Didn't you pay your debts then? Why didn't you?"

He said nothing.

"It is an abominable affair altogether," said Mr. Franklin. "You were in debt, which you had no business to be. You obtained money from Hester to pay the debt, and then, according to your own words, you spent it otherwise. You get into a bad scrape and are suspended. And now you obtain money in some peculiar way, and refuse to explain how."

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Franklin," said Neal, who was in a towering rage by this time. "You go a little too far. I don't consider that it is at all necessary for me to explain to you, but I am willing to do it on Hessie's account. I did not say that I spent her money otherwise. I merely said that I spent it, which was perfectly true. I spent it paying half my debt. I owed a hundred dollars at that time, instead of fifty as I told you. I paid half then, and the rest I paid a few days ago, and it doesn't make any difference to you or any one else how I got the money. As for the scrape, I was not in it. You can believe my word or not, as you like. I've said all I am going to say, and if you don't mind I'll leave you. I've had enough of this."

He stalked out of the library, and went up to his own room. No one saw him again that evening.

"You are too hard on him, John," said Mrs. Franklin.

"Hard on him! It would have been better for the boy if some one had begun earlier to be hard on him. It is the most extraordinary thing where he got that money."

Nothing was said to the others about it all. They knew that Neal was in fresh disgrace, but Mr. and Mrs. Franklin withheld the details at present. Neal himself was dumb. Not even to his only confidante, Cynthia, did he unburden himself. He was too angry with her father to trust himself to speak to her on the subject, and his silence made Cynthia miserable.

Neal did not acknowledge for a moment that the stand taken by Mr. Franklin was perfectly justifiable and natural, and he allowed his resentment to burn furiously, making no effort to overcome it.

His mistake from the beginning had been concealment, but this he had yet to realize. He fancied that it would be lowering to his pride to make any explanation whatever.

Let them think what they liked, he did not care, he said to himself again and again.