“I am going to turn over my claim here to Abner Blythe,” declared Felix. “It will make him rich and his wife happy, and you had better stay to work it with him, for I am going home.”
“I can’t stay.” The miner seemed to understand also, but he was as brief and inarticulate as was the boy. “I’m one of those that has to go on—and on.”
He turned away and walked back to his cabin through the rain-drenched flowers and the dripping green bushes. Who may know what pictures either of dark regret or of golden hope were passing before his eyes as vividly as were Felix’s memories of the low cottage on the hill, of the apple trees that would be in bloom now all up and down Medford Valley, of the wind talking in the oak tree outside his window. A quarrel with one’s only brother looks suddenly very small when so many thousand miles are stretched out between.
Ralph had often said that the hollyhocks were growing too many and should be uprooted, but Barbara’s begging for their lives somehow always saved them in the end. They had spread out from the door and advanced down the hill in marching regiments, a glowing mass of color. The singing, yellow-banded bees were busy all day in the cups of scarlet fading to pink and white, and white shading into yellow. The afternoon sun was behind them, lighting them to unwonted glory, when Felix came plodding along the lane on each side of which the apple trees were beginning to grow tall. Barbara was in the garden cutting sweet peas into her apron and Ralph, beside her, was standing in silence, watching the bees. A dozen times the girl had read that same thought in his mind, that he would give ten years of life to unsay the words that had driven his brother away and that had taught himself such a bitter lesson. Then suddenly Barbara uttered such a cry of joy that even the bees hummed and hovered lower, and slow old Chloe came hurrying to the door. The old woman smiled, with tears running down her wrinkled face, as she saw who it was that came trudging up the hill.
“There’s good luck come back to this house at last,” she said aloud an hour later when Felix, as the twilight was falling, sat down upon the doorstep and began to play his violin.
He never grew tired of telling the tale of his adventurous journey, nor did his sister and brother ever grow tired of listening. Ralph Brighton had lost, in that one dreadful hour, his love for dollar signs, and he nodded in wise agreement over Felix’s decision to give up the quest for gold. Barbara would hearken in awed fascination to that story of the man lost in the desert, whose eyes looked once upon fabulous wealth but who could never find it again.
Wherever gold mines are, there is to be found such a legend, a tale of greater riches just beyond men’s knowledge. No matter how dazzling is the wealth at hand there is always that tantalizing story of the lost mine, sometimes reputed to be far and inaccessible, sometimes only just over the next hill, yet always as difficult to discover as the end of the rainbow. But, as Abner Blythe said, it is so a country grows, and when men cease from following rainbows, then will the world stand still.
CHAPTER X
A MAN OF STRAW
The shower had lifted and was moving away down the valley, a gray mist of rain with a slowly following flood of sunshine. Oliver got up and said without enthusiasm:
“We must go now, we have an errand we must do. Come along, Janet.”
She rose to go with him but looked back wistfully several times as she went, with lagging feet, down the hill. She had wished that the story might last forever, so that she need not face Anthony Crawford at the end of it.
They said nothing to each other as they climbed into the car and threaded the twisting lanes and byroads that would take take them to the house they sought. Oliver was rehearsing within himself what he should say when they presented the picture. “My sister carried this away by mistake, we thought that we should return it to you as soon as possible.
“And then he will say something sharp and unkind, and I won’t know what to answer,” he reflected drearily. “I will want to say that I am sure it isn’t his anyway and that Janet did well to take it, even by accident. But what is the use of stirring up more trouble? Well, I can only explain and then get away as quickly as we can.”
It is probable that Janet, who sat by him in low-spirited silence, was really suffering less than he. Oliver had undertaken the responsibility of returning the picture, and Oliver was a dependable boy who could manage it far better than she could. She thought little of what was to be said or done and was only anxious to have the affair over.
They left the car in the lane and walked together toward the sagging gate. A man was just coming through it, who proved, as they came near, to be John Massey. His good-natured, friendly face was pale under its sunburn and drawn into unfamiliar lines of anger and despair.
“Mr. Peyton sent me the money to settle up my rent,” he told them, “and I came up here to pay it and arrange about leaving. Crawford wants me to stay until the first of the month, but I am going today. He has never stocked the farm with the tools and machinery a landlord is supposed to furnish, so I’ve bought them myself, what I could, and now he says they are his. He wants to know how I can prove that I paid for them, when every one knows that it was his place to do it. He laughed at me when I said it would ruin me entirely. He said one man’s gain was always from another man’s loss. I vow there is the spirit of a devil in him.”
He looked back at the house among the trees, clenching his big hands and muttering to himself in helpless fury.
“He just stood there grinning, even guessing my thoughts, for he said, ‘You could knock me down, I know, but it would be no satisfaction to you, for I would get back at you through the law. It would cost you more than it is worth, John Massey.’ It was what I knew was true myself, so I kept my hands off him and came away.”
Janet and Oliver stood looking at him miserably, knowing that there was nothing to be done.
“Get into the car and wait for us,” Oliver directed at last. “We will take you home when we have finished here. We won’t stay long.”
“You won’t want to,” observed John Massey bitterly. “He is in a famous bad temper.”
They went through the gate with Janet’s steps lagging more than ever. There was something almost uncanny about a man who could cause such misery to other people and yet go unscathed himself. They saw him almost immediately as they came up the path. He had been cutting down some weeds in the neglected field and was standing in the middle of it, close beside the scarecrow. He did not move, but waited for them to come close, evidently meditating what he could say that would hurt and anger them the most. He began to speak the moment they came near, giving Oliver no opening for what he had meant to say:
“So Jasper Peyton, having sent one of you to steal my picture, has lost courage and sent two of you to bring it back again. Very clever, very clever of him indeed!”
“He knew nothing about it,” Janet was beginning passionately, when Oliver silenced her by a touch on her shoulder.
“He knows that,” he reminded her calmly; “he is only trying to make you angry.”
He caught a look of smoldering fury in Anthony Crawford’s eye and a note of surprised irritation in his voice.
“Well,” the man snapped, “am I to have my property or not?”
“You are to have it. We will not keep anything that you even claim as yours,” returned Oliver.
He felt hot rage surging up within him, yet he strove to keep it down. He had realized, of a sudden, that this man who could hurt his Cousin Jasper so deeply, who could ruin John Massey, could harm neither him nor Janet in the least. Oliver had felt real dread as he came through the gate, he had been haunted by the vague terror of what Anthony Crawford might be able to do, but he looked upon him now with disillusioned eyes, knowing him for nothing but a small-minded, selfish, spiteful man whose power over them was nothing at all.
“If I can only keep as calm as he can, he will never get the better of me,” the boy thought desperately as he struggled with his own rising tide of anger.
“Perhaps you would be glad to have me
establish my real rights,” said Crawford. “You would like to have it brought up in court, perhaps, how your sister was found going through my possessions, and how she happened, quite by chance, of course, to select the most portable and valuable article in my house and carry it away with her. She would like, I am sure, to have public opportunity to make all that quite plain.”
Oliver heard Janet’s gasp of panic-stricken horror, but he still, by a great effort, retained his own presence of mind.
“We are not afraid of you,” he asserted, looking straight into the other’s narrow, shifting eyes. “I am nearly as big as you and I could roll you over and over in the mud of this wet field, only that would give you the legal hold on me that is just what you wish. You can’t do us any real harm, no matter what you pretend. I don’t believe you have anything behind those threats you make to Cousin Jasper, I don’t think you believe in your claims yourself. You’re a bluff; like this scarecrow here, you’re nothing but a bogy man, stuffed with straw!”
He caught the scarecrow by the shoulder, venting his rage upon the helpless bundle of rags, shaking it even out of its ridiculous resemblance to its master, until it fell to bits about his feet. He flung down the miniature upon the heap of rags and, followed by Janet, walked away across the field. Anthony Crawford stood looking after him, never offering a word. When Oliver reached the path he became aware that John Massey was leaning over, the gate, grinning in half-terrified delight. The rain was beginning to fall steadily again as they came out into the lane and climbed into the car.
It rained all of the afternoon, but ceased at nightfall, just in time, so Janet said, “to keep Mrs. Brown from nervous prostration.” Oliver could not quite understand how plump, comfortable Mrs. Brown could be threatened with such a malady, for he had forgotten that next day there was to be a much heralded outing for all the members of Cousin Jasper’s household. The occasion was a celebration at the next village, a glorified edition of the ordinary country fair in which farmers, summer visitors, and the residents of the bigger estates were all accustomed to take part. A magnificent affair it was to be with exhibitions, merry-go-rounds, peanut and lemonade stands, motor races, a horse show—something to please the taste of every variety of person. It was Cousin Jasper’s custom to give the whole staff of servants a holiday for the festival, although the cook usually waited to serve an early lunch and Mrs. Brown came home before the others, to set out a late supper. No influence on earth could ever persuade Cousin Jasper to attend one of these merrymakings, but every other person under his roof was absorbed in looking forward to the great day of the summer. Elaborate preparations had been made and all that was now in question was the weather, for to make such an event a success it seemed absolutely necessary to have one of those clear, blazing-hot days that seem specially to belong to circuses, fairs, and midsummer festivals.
Janet was to go under the safe, but excited, wing of Mrs. Brown, and Oliver, also, was looking forward to the day with some anticipation.
“I wonder if the Beeman and Polly will be there,” he thought, and went off into further speculation as to what the Beeman would look like in the more civilized clothes that such an occasion would demand. “I might not even know him,” he reflected.
When the day came, however, cloudless, hot, just what such a day should be, Oliver suddenly announced that he was not going.
“I don’t like to leave Cousin Jasper all alone when he is so worried,” he said to Janet, but could not explain why there should be any cause for misgiving. “I didn’t care a great deal about going anyway.” He refused to listen to her suggestion that she should stay also.
Lines of motors were rolling down the road from early morning onward, filled with flannel-coated or befrilled holiday makers or laden with farmers and farmers’ wives and farmers’ children. Janet and Mrs. Brown, the one an excited flutter of white organdie skirts, the other a ponderous rustle of tight brown taffeta, departed at ten o’clock and by one the great house was empty of all save Oliver and Cousin Jasper.
The afternoon seemed very still and very long, as one hour followed another. Oliver strolled out to the gate and stood looking down the road, but the procession of motors had long since come to an end, so that the highway stretched, white and empty, to the far end of the valley. Yet as he stood, idly staring out in the hot quiet, he thought that he saw a small, dilapidated vehicle come round a distant turn and advance slowly toward him. When it was near enough for him to recognize the old white horse, the driver pulled up suddenly, turned the cart sharply about in the road, and rattled away in the direction from which he had come. Could it be that he had seen the boy there in the open gate, and therefore had decided not to come in? Oliver could scarcely believe that this was the reason.
An hour later, when he had gone back to the house, he saw a ragged, barefoot youth in faded overalls come shuffling up the drive. He delivered to Oliver a letter addressed to Cousin Jasper and said it was “from Mr. Crawford and he was to be sure to get an answer.”
Oliver carried it away to the study and stood waiting, looking out through the window, while Cousin Jasper should read it and write a reply. The brightness of the holiday weather seemed to be growing dim somehow; the sun was still shining but with a touch of greenish, unreal light
“I hope there isn’t going to be a storm,” he thought. His reflections were interrupted by a sound in the room behind him; Cousin Jasper was tearing the letter sharply to pieces.
“Anthony has sent what he calls an ultimatum,” he said, trying to smile and not succeeding. “Tell the boy there is no answer.”
The messenger, on being so informed, seemed reluctant to believe it.
“He said I must have one, not to come back without it,” he kept insisting.
How Anthony Crawford had found any one to carry his letter on this day when Medford Valley seemed quite emptied of inhabitants seemed rather a mystery, yet he had not only found one but had impressed him forcibly with the necessity of fulfilling his errand. It was only after he had received a coin from Oliver’s pocket and a large apple from the fruit dish in the dining room, that the shabby youth finally decided to go away.
“He said I wasn’t to come back without an answer, so if I haven’t one I needn’t go back at all.” He seemed to find this solution of the difficulty an excellent one and went striding away, whistling cheerfully.
Whatever final threat Anthony Crawford’s letter had contained, it seemed to be unusually disturbing to Cousin Jasper. Having evidently made up his mind to ignore it, he seemed, just as plainly, to be able to think of nothing else. He seemed unwilling to be alone, and yet to be very bad company, for he was restless, silent, and, when Oliver, with an effort, tried to talk of cheerful things, was completely inattentive. They went into the garden at last to see how the flowers were faring. The sunshine was more unreal than ever, and sudden, fitful gusts of wind were beginning to stir the trees. They had inspected the flowers and were halfway across the lawn on their way to the house when the sun vanished, the wind rose to a roar, and, before they could reach the steps, the blinding rain was upon them.
It was not an ordinary thunderstorm, but one of those sinister tempests that occasionally break the tension of a hot summer day. Oliver, inside the hastily closed windows, could see the trees lashing helplessly, and could hear them groaning and snapping as one great branch after another came crashing to the ground. It was only a few minutes that the furious wind lasted, as it swept across the garden, but it left destruction in its wake. The beds of lilies were drenched and flattened, the smooth lawn was strewn with twigs and broken boughs, half a dozen trees were split, and one huge Lombardy poplar, with a mass of earth and roots turned upward, lay prone across the driveway.
It was half past six by Oliver’s watch, then seven, then eight. No one had come home. Cousin Jasper was growing more and more restless and overwrought, Oliver was anxious and hungry. He saw his cousin gather up the fragments of the letter, piece them together for rereading, then fling the
m from him once more. The boy wandered about aimlessly in the solitude of the big house, wishing that this long miserable day would reach an end and that Janet and Mrs. Brown would come home. It grew dark and no one returned, although, after a long time, the telephone began to ring.
It was Mrs. Brown’s voice, nervous and only half audible, that sounded at the far end. Yes, she and Miss Janet were quite safe, they had been under shelter during the storm, but there had been such damage by the wind that both the railway and the road were blocked. They would not be able to get home for some hours, she feared.
“Could you, Mr. Oliver, just slip down to the kitchen and make poor Mr. Peyton a cup of tea and some toast? It is so bad for him to wait so late for his dinner. You will find the tea in the right-hand cupboard and the butter—”
The unsatisfactory connection cut her off, leaving Oliver standing aghast at her suggestion. “Just slip down to the kitchen,” indeed, when he did not even know the way to that region of the house. And make tea! It seemed an utterly impossible task.
Through the long vista of rooms he could see Cousin Jasper in his study, sitting before his desk, and, fancying himself unseen, suddenly bowing his head in his hands.
“It won’t do,” thought Oliver determinedly, “he must have some one to help him, some one that knows more about this wretched business. There is that Cousin Tom he talks about, Eleanor’s father. I can’t think of any one else. I will send for him.”
If he could only have found the Beeman! He even searched the telephone book for the name of Marshall, but found none. And he had never discovered where the Beeman and Polly lived. Yes, the only choice was Cousin Tom.
He got the connection with some difficulty and asked for Mr. Brighton.
“Mr. Brighton is at dinner,” returned the smooth voice of a well-trained servant; ‘he cannot be interrupted.”
“But this is very important,” insisted Oliver. “I am quite sure that if he knew—”
“My orders are that he is not to be disturbed,” was the politely firm answer while the boy raged and fumed impotently.
The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack Page 41
