Read Ebook: The Boat Club; or The Bunkers of Rippleton by Optic Oliver

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Ebook has 2144 lines and 46479 words, and 43 pages

"No, I won't; I will do my duty."

"Have you made up your mind?"

"We can have a good time at home."

"Pooh!"

"I shall give my money to the widow Weston, at any rate."

Charles Hardy could not but admire the generosity of his friend, though he found it difficult to abandon the thought of the pleasure he anticipated in spending the Fourth in Boston. He stood in silent thought a few moments, and then spoke.

"Well, Frank," said he, "if you have determined to give your money to the widow, I shall follow your example."

"But, Charley, I didn't mean to influence you. I will even go to Boston with you, though I have no money."

"I will give my money to the widow. I think you are right."

"Good, Charley! I like you for it."

"I have two dollars and a quarter," continued Charles, taking the money from his pocket.

"We shall make up just seven dollars. How it will rejoice the heart of the poor woman!" exclaimed Frank with enthusiasm.

"So it will. But don't you think your father will make it up to us, when he finds out how generous we have been?"

Frank looked into the face of his companion with an expression of painful surprise on his countenance.

"I don't want him to do so."

"Why not?"

"It would rob the action of all its merit. If you give your money with the hope of having it restored to you, I beg you not to give it at all. I have abandoned all thoughts of having any money to spend to-morrow."

"And not go to Boston?"

"No."

"What will your father say when you tell him you are not going? He will want to know the reason."

"I will tell him day after to-morrow."

"He will want to know to-morrow."

"I can persuade him to wait. Shall we go over to-night, and give the money to Mrs. Weston?"

"Yes; if you like."

"Wait a moment, and I will go into the house and ask my father to let me stay out till nine o'clock this evening."

Frank bounded lightly over the green lawn to his father's house, near which the conversation took place.

Rippleton, the scene of my story, is a New England village, situated about ten miles from Boston. It is one of those thriving places which have sprung into existence in a moment, as it were, under the potent stimulus of a railroad and a water privilege. Twenty years ago it consisted of only one factory and about a dozen houses. Now it is a great, bustling village, and probably in a few years will become a city. Trains of cars arrive and depart every hour, as the Traveller's Guide says; and a double row of factories extends along the sides of the river. It has its banks, its hotels, its dozen churches, and its noisy streets--indeed, almost all the pomp and circumstance of a great city.

About a mile from the village was the beautiful residence of Captain Sedley--Frank's father. He was a retired shipmaster, in which capacity he had acquired a handsome fortune. His house was built within a few rods of Wood Lake--a beautiful sheet of water, nearly three miles in length, and a little more than a mile in width. On the river, which formed the outlet of this lake, the village of Rippleton was situated; and its clear waters turned the great wheels of the factories.

Captain Sedley had chosen this place in which to spend the evening of his days, because it seemed to him the loveliest spot in all New England. The glassy, transparent lake, with its wood-crowned shores, its picturesque rocks, its little green islands, indeed, everything about it was so grand and beautiful, that it seemed more like the creation of an enthusiastic imagination than a substantial reality. The retired shipmaster loved the beautiful in nature, and his first view of the silver lake and the surrounding country enabled him to decide that this spot should be his future habitation. He bought the land, built him a fine house, and was as happy as a mortal could desire to be.

But I beg my young reader not to think that Captain Sedley was happy because he lived in such a beautiful place, and had such a fine house, and so much money at his command; for a beautiful prospect, a costly dwelling, and plenty of money, alone, cannot make a person contented and happy. The richest men are often the most miserable; a bed of down may be a bed of thorns; and a magnificent mansion will not banish the gnawings of remorse.

Captain Sedley was a good man. He had always endeavored to be true to his God and true to himself; to be just and honest in his relations to his fellow-men. In an active business experience of twenty years, he had found a great many opportunities for doing good--opportunities which he had had the moral courage to improve. He loved his God by loving his fellow-man. He had made his fortune by being honest and just. He had lived a good life; and as every good man will, whether he get rich or poor by it, he was receiving his reward in the serene happiness of his life in this world, and in the cherished hope of everlasting bliss in the world to come.

Captain Sedley was happy, too, in his family. Mrs. Sedley was an amiable and devoted woman; and Frank, his only child, was an affectionate and obedient son. Perhaps my young friends cannot fully appreciate the amount of satisfaction which a parent derives from the good character of his child. Though the worthy shipmaster had a beautiful estate and plenty of money, if his son had been a liar, a thief, a profane swearer,--in short, if Frank had been a bad boy,--he could not have been happy. If a wise and good father could choose between having his son a hopeless drunkard or villain, and laying his cold form in the dark grave, never more to see him on earth, he would no doubt choose the latter. Almost all parents say so; and their words are so earnest, their tears so eloquent, that we cannot but believe it. Such was the father of Frank Sedley, and it was such a father that made so good a son.

Charles Hardy was the son of one of the factory agents, who was Captain Sedley's nearest neighbor; and a strong friendship had grown up between the two boys. Charles's character was essentially different from that of his friend; but as I prefer that my young reader should judge his disposition for himself, and distinguish between the good and the evil of his thoughts and actions as the story proceeds, I shall not now tell him what kind of a boy he was.

THE WIDOW WESTON

Near the house of Captain Sedley, a sandy beach extended from the road, on the margin of the lake, down to the water's side. It was here that Charles Hardy waited the return of his friend. He was thinking of the sacrifice they had concluded to make for the widow Weston; and it must be confessed that he felt not a little sad at the thought of resigning all the enjoyment he anticipated in connection with the excursion to the city the following day.

On the water, secured by a pole driven into the sand, floated a raft, which some of the boys in the neighborhood had built, and with which they amused themselves in paddling about the lake. It was a rude structure, made by lashing together four rails in the form of a square, and placing planks across the upper side of them. The boys who had constructed it lived farther down the lake in the direction of the village. They did not bear a very good character in the neighborhood. If an orchard was robbed, a henroost plundered, or any other mischief done in the vicinity, it could generally be traced to them. They always played together, went to and came from school together, planned and executed their mischief together, so that they came to be regarded as a unit of roguery, and people never saw one of them without wondering where the rest were.

The foremost of these unruly fellows was Tim Bunker. He was the ruling spirit of their party, and had the reputation of being a notoriously bad boy. He was in the habit of lying, swearing, cheating, and stealing; and people, judging his followers by their ringleader, had got into the way of calling them the Bunkers.

Of course Captain Sedley was unwilling that his son should associate with such boys as the Bunkers; and so much did Frank dislike their company that it was scarcely necessary to caution him to avoid them.

While Charles Hardy was waiting, he walked down to the water's edge. The sun was just sinking behind the green hills in the west, reflecting the shadows of the beautiful gold and purple clouds upon the surface of the silver lake. A gentle breeze was blowing down the valley, and the little waves broke with a musical ripple upon the pebbly sands. It was a lovely hour and a lovely scene, and Charles felt the sweet influence of both. He looked out upon the lake, and wished he was floating over its tiny wavelets.

He stepped upon the raft, and thought how pleasant and how exciting it would be to sail over to Centre Isle, as the little wood-crowned islet that rose from the middle of the lake was called. Pulling up the stake that held the raft, he pushed out a little way from the shore. The sensation which the motion of the raft produced was new and strange to him, and he felt a longing desire to sail farther. But just then Frank returned.

"My father is not at home," said he.

"Can't you go, then?" asked Charles, as he pushed the raft to the shore again.

"Yes; I told my mother where I was going."

"Frank, let us go up to Mrs. Weston's on this raft. She lives close by the shore of the lake."

"My father told me never to go on the lake without permission from him."

"Pooh! What harm can there be in it?"

"I don't know that there can be any."

"Let us go then."

"My father told me not to go on the lake."

"But he has gone away, you said."

"I cannot disobey him."

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