The Windy Hill
CHAPTER VI
JANET'S ADVENTURE
Throughout the telling of the story, Polly and Janet had been verybusy sorting and putting together the little honey boxes that were tobe set in larger frames and hung in the upper story of the beehives.There was now such a great heap of them ready that the Beeman gatheredthem into a basket and, summoning Oliver to help him, carried themoutside. He did not, immediately, go down the slope to the beehives,but set the basket on the step and sat down on the bench beside it.
"You had something to tell me," he said, "something that disturbed andexcited you. I thought it might be better for you to wait a little. Ishould like to hear it now."
"Yes, it is clearer in my head now," Oliver agreed. "It is about myCousin Jasper that we are visiting. I want to help him, though"--hesmiled at the recollection, yet made frank confession--"that first dayI was here I was so angry I almost hated him."
"If I thought that were true," responded his friend gravely, "I shouldhave to ask you never to come here again, not only because I am fondof your cousin myself, but because I value my bees. There is an oldsuperstition that you must not hate where bees are, for they feel itand pine away and die. I cannot have my bees destroyed."
The boy, looking up quickly at his broad, friendly smile, realizedthat the man believed neither the old superstition, nor that Oliverentertained any evil feelings.
"Perhaps," went on the Beeman, "the bees were in some danger thatfirst day. You had it in mind, then, to go away for good, I think."
Oliver nodded. He wondered how he could ever have made that selfishresolution to run away.
"How did you know?" he asked.
"I had guessed it from--oh, various things. I am about the age of yourCousin Jasper, but I know more than he about people of your years frombeing Polly's father. I even had some idea of what was the immediatecause of your going." The boy flushed so guiltily that he went on, inkindly haste, "I am troubled about Jasper Peyton myself--yes, don'tlook surprised, I know him well enough to call him that. We all knowone another in Medford Valley. I--I even work for him sometimes. Nowtell me what you think is wrong."
Oliver, as he set forth his tale, had a feeling that not all of it wasnew to his listener, but he hearkened attentively to all that the boyhad to say, frowning when he heard of Anthony Crawford's insistentand disagreeable visits.
"Your cousin doesn't know how to deal with a man like that," hecommented. "He is too upright himself to know the mean, small,underhand ways that such a person will take to get what he wants. Iknow Anthony Crawford, too, and what he is trying to accomplish. Itwill take all of us, every one, to beat him. But we will, Oliver, Ivow we will."
"What can we do, what can I do?" the boy persisted. He felt ready toaccomplish great things at once. "And can't you explain to me what itis all about?"
To his great disappointment, the other shook his head.
"I feel that if your cousin does not wish to tell you himself, I oughtnot to," he said, "though I should like you to know. But there are twothings that you can do. One is not to be impatient with your cousinwhen he makes tactless mistakes about--about how you are to beentertained. He depends on you and Janet for a little cheerfulness inhis house."
"That isn't much to do," observed Oliver. "I hope the other is more."
"It is only this. To borrow a boat from John Massey--can you manage asailboat? Good, I thought you looked like the sort of boy whocould--and take a cruise up and down Medford River where it skirtsthat level farming land in the valley. I want you to bring me word ofhow the dikes are holding. You may not see what bearing that has uponthe matter, but I assure you it means a great deal. Anthony Crawfordthinks that he is a very clever man, but he is preparing a pitfall forhimself, unless I am very much mistaken. And you and I may be at handto see him tumble into it. The only thing is to see that he doesn'tharm others as well as himself."
Oliver had one more question to ask.
"I want to know your last name, and Polly's," he said. "I can't thinkhow you knew mine and I had quite forgotten to wonder about yoursuntil Janet reminded me that I had never heard it. I have no name foryou but the Beeman."
"If you want a longer name for Polly, you can call her PollyMarshall," his friend answered, "but as for me I rather like beingcalled the Beeman. We will keep to that title a little longer if youare willing. And now it is high time that I gave some attention to mybees."
Oliver had no difficulty, later in the day, in borrowing the sailboatfrom John Massey, although he was obliged to give the vague message,"that man who keeps bees up the hill said you would lend her to me."
"Sure, I will," replied John Massey heartily. "Just be careful youdon't go aground on the bars. The river is shallow for this time ofyear, though it can be pretty fierce when the floods are up."
Oliver shook out the shabby sail, set the rudder for a long tackdownstream, and was off. The breeze was coming in gentle puffs, sothat the boat moved slowly through the water, the ripples making asleepy whisper under the bow and the tiller, now and then, jerkinglazily under his hand. One side of the stream was marshy so that hepushed into tall grass and cat-tails and startled an indignantkingfisher who was dozing on a dead tree. The bird went skimming off,a flash of blue and white that he followed as he came about.
On the other side, the current ran close beside the high banks ofearth that protected the fields within. The channel was scoured deepand the restless stream was cutting into the dikes, washing long blackscars just above the water line.
"That oughtn't to be," pronounced Oliver, and was glad to see that,farther downstream, the carving away of the earth had been stopped bypatches of broken stone. For at least a mile, however, at the bend ofthe river, the banks were crumbling and neglected.
He could look up and see, first the farms of the low-lying land, thetreetops and pointed silos just showing above the dike, then thehillside, with the wavering white line of the road, then that strange,shabby dwelling of yellow stone almost hidden in its cluster of trees.Above it showed Cousin Jasper's house, very big and red, set upon theslope almost at the top of the ridge. On the other side of the streamthere were fewer dwellings, the wooded slope rising to the more opengreen of the orchard and then to the grassy declivity of the WindyHill. As he neared the bridge he passed a long gray stone house withits gardens a glowing mass of color that came down to the water's veryedge. This, he remembered, was the abode of Cousin Eleanor, and helaughed at himself as, even at this safe distance, he steered hiscourse very cautiously along the opposite bank.
At the bridge he was obliged to turn, and run before the wind to makehis way upstream again. He lay stretched out comfortably along therail, paying little attention to the boat and thinking of many things.There was Cousin Jasper--how Oliver had misjudged him that day hethought of running away. His cousin had been tactless and stubborn,but the Cousin Eleanor affair had been well meant, after all.
"I'll never meet her, though. I won't give in," he declared, almostaloud, and realized, in a breath, that his persistence and CousinJasper's were both cut from the same piece.
"I'm sorry for him and I'll help him," he told himself, "and perhapshe will learn something about boys after a while."
And there was Anthony Crawford! He flushed again as he thought of theman's gleeful delight when he had caught him looking over the wall.What power could he have, and what was the disgrace of which he hadspoken? The Beeman was almost as mysterious as the others also; hehad certainly managed to evade the question when Oliver had asked hisname.
"The only one that there isn't a mystery about is Polly," he declaredas he came to John Massey's little landing and rounded with a sweep tothe boat's mooring.
Meanwhile Janet, who had been left to her own devices, had stumbledinto an adventure of her own. She had made ready to go with herbrother, but Cousin Jasper had called her to look at some new rosesand had delayed her so long that the impatient Oliver had finally gonewithout her. When Cousin Jasper had returned to the house, shewandered rather d
isconsolately up and down the hedged paths and,finally coming to the big gate, she stood looking out. The roadstretched away invitingly across the hillsides, the sleepy stillnessof the afternoon was broken only by the occasional drone of a motorand by the grinding wheels of a big hay wagon that labored along thehighway in the dust.
She walked out along the road, thinking that she would find a vantagepoint to look down to the river and see how Oliver was faring. The waypresently crossed an open ridge whence she could see the smooth streamand the sail creeping slowly out from the green shore. For some timeshe stood watching its progress, wishing vainly that she might havegone, until she became suddenly aware that some one was staring ather. Turning, she saw that a child with very yellow hair and veryround blue eyes was sitting between two alder bushes on the edge of aditch, gazing at her intently.
"What are you doing?" she asked, astonished, for the youngster, asquare little boy of four or five years old, seemed far too small tobe on the road alone.
"I was wishing I could go home," he answered.
There was a slight quivering of his chin as he spoke, as though theproblem was rather a desperate one, but he was determined not to cry."I was wishing on that hay wagon when it went by," he explainedsedately. "I shut my eyes so I wouldn't see it again and break theluck, and when I opened them, you were there."
He climbed over the ditch and came to her side to tuck his handconfidently into hers. There seemed to be no doubt in his mind thatshe would take him home.
"Can you show me where you live?" she asked as they went alongtogether.
"Oh, yes," he answered cheerfully. "There was a cow eating beside theroad, and I passed it once, but it looked at me so hard when I went bythat I was afraid to go back. I'll show you."
They walked along for some distance, he tramping sturdily by her sideand chattering contentedly, giving her all sorts of miscellaneous andunsought information, that his name was Martin, that he had a littlebrother, that the brother was crying when he went away from home,that his mother was crying a little, too, that they had a red calf inthe barn, and that there was a scarecrow in the field beside theirhouse. He led her into a crossroad, then down a narrow, shady lane,where, as he had said, there was a mannerly old black cow grazingbeside the way, who came to the end of her tether rope to greet them.
"I'm not afraid with you here," young Martin asserted boldly, and waseven persuaded to pat the smooth black and white face of the friendlycreature while Janet fed her a handful of clover.
When they reached a broken-hinged gate at the end of the lane, thegirl began to realize that she was coming to the same place thatOliver had described to her. She stopped, feeling that she wouldrather not go on, but the little boy tugged at her hand.
"My father isn't here," he told her, as though some unhappy knowledgeof his father's character made him understand her hesitation, "and mymother's crying."
With some reluctance, Janet pushed open the gate and went in.
A faded, shabbily dressed woman sat on one of the unpainted benches ofthe shady stoop, holding a baby in her arms. As Martin had said, slowtears of helpless misery were rolling down her cheeks, while from thebundle that she held came the worn-out, tired wail of a sick child.
"I don't know much, but I would like to help you," Janet said, sittingdown beside her, while the woman choked with a fresh gush of tears atthe unexpected offer of aid and sympathy.
"I don't dare put the baby down, he cries so," she managed to say atlast. "Could you go into the kitchen and heat some water and bring outthe blanket that I hung up to warm? I don't doubt the fire is out bynow, but I haven't been able to move for fear he would begin chokingagain. Do you think you can manage?"
Janet managed very well, with Martin trotting at her heels to tell herwhere things could be found. She heated the water, warmed theblankets, and even rummaged out the tea caddy and brewed a cup of hottea for the weary mother.
"You are a real blessing, my dear," said the woman as she put down theempty cup. "This boy has been sick with croup all night and I hadquite forgotten that I had no breakfast."
"Has his father gone for the doctor?" Janet asked, as she brought outa cushion for the baby, who seemed to be quieter now and almost readyto drop asleep.
"No," replied the woman briefly.
She offered no explanation. It was evidently not a thing to beexpected that Anthony Crawford should take an interest in an ailingchild.
As Janet went back and forth, she was struck by the surprising charmthat the old house showed within, quite out of keeping with itslittered door-yard and outward disrepair. The white woodwork had gonelong unpainted, it was true, and the floors were worn and uneven, butthere was an airy spaciousness in the rooms, a comfortable dignity inthe old mahogany furniture, and the grace of real beauty in the curvedwhite staircase with its dark, polished rail. Everything wasspotlessly clean, from the faded rag rugs to the cracked panes of thewindows. The kitchen was, to her, the place of chief delight, for itran all across the back of the house, with a row of low windowswreathed in ivy and commanding a wide view across the meadow landsbeside the river. There was a modern cooking stove at one end of theroom, a cheap, hideous, ineffective affair, but at the other was stillthe old fireplace, with its swinging crane, its warming cupboards, andits broad, stone-flagged hearth.
The baby was so much better that his mother was actually able to smileand to lean back contentedly in the corner of the bench.
"He is better off out here in the air," she said. "I believe he willbe able to sleep in a little while. Now if I just had a strip offlannel to wrap around his chest! You would have to go up into thegarret to look for it, and maybe rummage in one or two of the boxes.But I believe there should be some in the big cedar chest back underthe eaves."
Guided by the faithful Martin, Janet climbed the stairs to the garret,where, in the warm, dusty air that smelled of hot shingles andlavender, she went poking about, seeking the roll of flannel that Mrs.Crawford assured her was there. She could find everything else in theworld--old clocks, spindle-legged chairs, a high-backed, mahoganysofa, and a spinning wheel. At last she discovered what she needed ina box far under the eaves, but in pulling it out so that she couldraise the lid, she knocked down a row of pictures that leaned againstit. She bent to pick them up and set them in order again, then stoppedto stare at them with a gasp of delighted astonishment.
Janet loved beautiful things, especially pictures, and she could besure, at one glance, that these were pictures such as one does notoften see. She remembered being taken by her father to a famousgallery to see a landscape so much akin to the one before her thatthey had undoubtedly been painted by the same artist, a green hillsidewith sailing clouds above it, on a clear October day, "the sort thatmakes you feel that you can see a hundred miles," as Janet put it.There was another, a winding white road running up a wind-swept valleywith the trees bowing to a storm and a spatter of rain slanting acrossthe hill, there was a portrait of a fierce old lady and another of aman with lace ruffles and a satin coat. There was a long, cool wave,breaking upon a beach where the whiteness of the sun-splashed sand wasso vivid as almost to hurt her eyes.
She set them out in a row against the eaves and sat back on her heelsto look her fill. Such pictures, to be gathered here in the dustyattic, to crack and warp and fade into ruin! She could not understandhow they could have come there, nor did she spend much thought inwondering, so lost was she in that pure delight that the sight oftruly beautiful things can bring. An old print with a cracked glassand broken frame caught her attention almost the last of all. Itshowed a ship, a tall frigate, under full sail, and had all the quaintprimness of the pictures of a hundred years ago. The group of peoplesupposed to be standing on the wharf was composed of gentlemen in verytight trousers and ladies with very sloping shoulders and absurd, tinyparasols. The vessel floated on impossible scalloped billows, but noold-fashioned stiffness could disguise the free beauty of the ship'slines and the grace of her curving sails. Her name was inscribed infaded
gold letters below--"The _Huntress_, 1813." The Beeman's talewas still so vivid in her mind that there was no need for her towonder where she had heard that name before.
"Why, it was a real story," she exclaimed, "and I thought he was onlymaking it up!"
As she moved the print to a better light, a smaller picture, almostlost among the rest, fell down between two frames and rolled acrossthe floor. She took it up and saw that it was a miniature, painted onivory and framed in gold, the portrait of a young girl withhigh-piled brown hair and eager, smiling eyes.
"It looks like Polly," Janet thought, "but it could not really be apicture of her."
She turned it over and found the single name engraved on the back,"Cicely, aet. 17."
"Martin," she cried in the sudden inspiration of discovery, "Martin,come here quickly and tell me what is your whole name."
The little boy came out from a far corner where he had been examiningdusty treasures on his own account and stood for a minute just where abeam of slanting sunlight dropped through the tiny window under theroof.
"Martin Hallowell Crawford," he said.
She would always remember just how he looked, standing there with thesunshine on his yellow mop of curly hair, his chubby face smiling andthen whitening suddenly as they both heard a sound behind them. Sheturned to see Anthony Crawford standing upon the stair.