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 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 to-day.
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 them 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.
"Then tell him," Oliver directed, "that his cousin, Mr. Jasper Peyton,
is in very great trouble and needs to see him as--as soon as he finds
it quite convenient."
His voice was trembling with anger and he slammed down the receiver
without waiting for a reply.
"There was no use sending for him, after all," he reflected in black
discouragement. He was not used to such treatment nor did he think
that a man should surround himself with so much ceremony that he could
not hear a plea for help. "He is just what Cousin Eleanor's father
would be," was his disgusted verdict. "I was a fool to hope for any
help there. If it had been the Beeman----"
Never had the house seemed so enormous or so silent as it was
to-night. He went out through a swinging door, attempting to find the
kitchen, fumbling down a passage, feeling in likely places for
electric buttons, and not discovering them. He bumped his head against
unexpected doors and cupboards, he upset something with a horrifying
crash in the butler's pantry. At last he found the right door and the
proper light switch, and stood in the big, shining white kitchen,
looking about him helplessly at all the complicated apparatus of
cookery, clean, polished, and complete, and utterly useless to him.
"This is no place for a boy," he exclaimed stormily after he had
pinched his fingers in a drawer, spilled the water, and produced a
roaring, spitting flame in the gas burner that blew up in his face and
then went out. After fifteen minutes of miserable effort he at last
heard the water boil noisily in the kettle where he had placed water
and tea together. He poured out a cupful of the poisonous brew and
stood regarding it in despair.
"I wish Mrs. Brown would come home," he groaned. "I'd be glad of any
woman, any girl, even Cousin Eleanor."
He had opened a window, for the place was hot and close and through
this he could hear, of a sudden, the sound of an automobile coming up
the drive. He dashed through the dark passage, hurried to the great
front door, and flung it open. There was a crunching of big wheels on
the gravel and the snorting of an engine checked suddenly to a stop.
It was not Mrs. Brown and Janet, for, though he heard voices, they
were not theirs. The car had stopped beyond the fallen tree and some
one was coming across the grass--two people, for the voices were a
man's and a girl's. Apparently Cousin Tom had not stopped to finish
his dinner, after all, and he had brought Cousin Eleanor.
"Yes, I'll be glad to see even her," he thought desperately.
The two came nearer, a man in white flannels, but bareheaded in the
hurry of his coming, and a girl in white also. There was something
familiar in the swing of those broad shoulders, in the tone of that
voice. Yet Oliver stood, blinking stupidly, holding to the side of the
door, too dazed to speak when the two stepped out of the dark and came
up the steps--the Beeman and Polly.