The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  “If I thought that were true,” responded his friend gravely, “I should have to ask you never to come here again, not only because I am fond of your cousin myself, but because I value my bees. There is an old superstition that you must not hate where bees are, for they feel it and pine away and die. I cannot have my bees destroyed.”

  The boy, looking up quickly at his broad, friendly smile, realized that the man believed neither the old superstition, nor that Oliver entertained any evil feelings.

  “Perhaps,” went on the Beeman, “the bees were in some danger that first 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 selfish resolution to run away.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  “I had guessed it from—oh, various things. I am about the age of your Cousin Jasper, but I know more than he about people of your years from being Polly’s father. I even had some idea of what was the immediate cause of your going.” The boy flushed so guiltily that he went on, in kindly haste, “I am troubled about Jasper Peyton myself—yes, don’t look surprised, I know him well enough to call him that. We all know one another in Medford Valley. I—I even work for him sometimes. Now tell me what you think is wrong.”

  Oliver, as he set forth his tale, had a feeling that not all of it was new to his listener, but he hearkened attentively to all that the boy had to say, frowning when he heard of Anthony Crawford’s insistent and disagreeable visits.

  “Your cousin doesn’t know how to deal with a man like that,” he commented. “He is too upright himself to know the mean, small, underhand ways that such a person will take to get what he wants. I know Anthony Crawford, too, and what he is trying to accomplish. It will take all of us, every one, to beat him. But we will, Oliver, I vow we will.”

  “What can we do, what can I do?” the boy persisted. He felt ready to accomplish great things at once. “And can’t you explain to me what it is 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 ought not to,” he said, “though I should like you to know. But there are two things that you can do. One is not to be impatient with your cousin when he makes tactless mistakes about—about how you are to be entertained. He depends on you and Janet for a little cheerfulness in his 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 a sailboat? Good, I thought you looked like the sort of boy who could—and take a cruise up and down Medford River where it skirts that level farming land in the valley. I want you to bring me word of how the dikes are holding. You may not see what bearing that has upon the matter, but I assure you it means a great deal. Anthony Crawford thinks that he is a very clever man, but he is preparing a pitfall for himself, unless I am very much mistaken. And you and I may be at hand to see him tumble into it. The only thing is to see that he doesn’t harm 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 think how you knew mine and I had quite forgotten to wonder about yours until Janet reminded me that I had never heard it. I have no name for you but the Beeman.”

  “If you want a longer name for Polly, you can call her Polly Marshall,” his friend answered, “but as for me I rather like being called the Beeman. We will keep to that title a little longer if you are willing. And now it is high time that I gave some attention to my bees.”

  Oliver had no difficulty, later in the day, in borrowing the sailboat from 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 you don’t go aground on the bars. The river is shallow for this time of year, though it can be pretty fierce when the floods are up.”

  Oliver shook out the shabby sail, set the rudder for a long tack downstream, and was off. The breeze was coming in gentle puffs, so that the boat moved slowly through the water, the ripples making a sleepy whisper under the bow and the tiller, now and then, jerking lazily under his hand. One side of the stream was marshy so that he pushed into tall grass and cat-tails and startled an indignant kingfisher 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 of earth that protected the fields within. The channel was scoured deep and the restless stream was cutting into the dikes, washing long black scars 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 by patches of broken stone. For at least a mile, however, at the bend of the river, the banks were crumbling and neglected.

  He could look up and see, first the farms of the low-lying land, the treetops and pointed silos just showing above the dike, then the hillside, 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 the slope almost at the top of the ridge. On the other side of the stream there were fewer dwellings, the wooded slope rising to the more open green of the orchard and then to the grassy declivity of the Windy Hill. As he neared the bridge he passed a long gray stone house with its gardens a glowing mass of color that came down to the water’s very edge. This, he remembered, was the abode of Cousin Eleanor, and he laughed at himself as, even at this safe distance, he steered his course very cautiously along the opposite bank.

  At the bridge he was obliged to turn, and run before the wind to make his way upstream again. He lay stretched out comfortably along the rail, paying little attention to the boat and thinking of many things. There was Cousin Jasper—how Oliver had misjudged him that day he thought 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, almost aloud, and realized, in a breath, that his persistence and Cousin Jasper’s were both cut from the same piece.

  “I’m sorry for him and I’ll help him,” he told himself, “and perhaps he will learn something about boys after a while.”

  And there was Anthony Crawford! He flushed again as he thought of the man’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 had spoken? The Beeman was almost as mysterious as the others also; he had certainly managed to evade the question when Oliver had asked his name.

  “The only one that there isn’t a mystery about is Polly,” he declared as he came to John Massey’s little landing and rounded with a sweep to the boat’s mooring.

  Meanwhile Janet, who had been left to her own devices, had stumbled into an adventure of her own. She had made ready to go with her brother, but Cousin Jasper had called her to look at some new roses and had delayed her so long that the impatient Oliver had finally gone without her. When Cousin Jasper had returned to the house, she wandered rather disconsolately up and down the hedged paths and, finally coming to the big gate, she stood looking out. The road stretched away invitingly across the hillsides, the sleepy stillness of the afternoon was broken only by the occasional drone of a motor and by the grinding wheels of a big hay wagon that labored along the highway in the dust.

  She walked out along the road, thinking that she would find a vantage point to look down to the river and see how Oliver was faring. The way presently crossed an open ridge whence she could see the smooth stream and the sail creeping slowly out from the green shore. For some time she stood watching its progress, wishing vainly that she might have gone, until she became suddenly aware that some one was s
taring at her. Turning, she saw that a child with very yellow hair and very round blue eyes was sitting between two alder bushes on the edge of a ditch, gazing at her intently.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, astonished, for the youngster, a square little boy of four or five years old, seemed far too small to be 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 the problem was rather a desperate one, but he was determined not to cry. “I was wishing on that hay wagon when it went by,” he explained sedately. “I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t see it again and break the luck, and when I opened them, you were there.”

  He climbed over the ditch and came to her side to tuck his hand confidently into hers. There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that she would take him home.

  “Can you show me where you live?” she asked as they went along together.

  “Oh, yes,” he answered cheerfully. “There was a cow eating beside the road, and I passed it once, but it looked at me so hard when I went by that I was afraid to go back. I’ll show you.”

  They walked along for some distance, he tramping sturdily by her side and chattering contentedly, giving her all sorts of miscellaneous and unsought information, that his name was Martin, that he had a little brother, 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 in the barn, and that there was a scarecrow in the field beside their house. He led her into a crossroad, then down a narrow, shady lane, where, as he had said, there was a mannerly old black cow grazing beside 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 was even persuaded to pat the smooth black and white face of the friendly creature while Janet fed her a handful of clover.

  When they reached a broken-hinged gate at the end of the lane, the girl began to realize that she was coming to the same place that Oliver had described to her. She stopped, feeling that she would rather not go on, but the little boy tugged at her hand.

  “My father isn’t here,” he told her, as though some unhappy knowledge of his father’s character made him understand her hesitation, “and my mother’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 of the shady stoop, holding a baby in her arms. As Martin had said, slow tears of helpless misery were rolling down her cheeks, while from the bundle 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, sitting down beside her, while the woman choked with a fresh gush of tears at the unexpected offer of aid and sympathy.

  “I don’t dare put the baby down, he cries so,” she managed to say at last. “Could you go into the kitchen and heat some water and bring out the blanket that I hung up to warm? I don’t doubt the fire is out by now, but I haven’t been able to move for fear he would begin choking again. Do you think you can manage?”

  Janet managed very well, with Martin trotting at her heels to tell her where things could be found. She heated the water, warmed the blankets, and even rummaged out the tea caddy and brewed a cup of hot tea for the weary mother.

  “You are a real blessing, my dear,” said the woman as she put down the empty cup. “This boy has been sick with croup all night and I had quite forgotten that I had no breakfast.”

  “Has his father gone for the doctor?” Janet asked, as she brought out a cushion for the baby, who seemed to be quieter now and almost ready to drop asleep.

  “No,” replied the woman briefly.

  She offered no explanation. It was evidently not a thing to be expected that Anthony Crawford should take an interest in an ailing child.

  As Janet went back and forth, she was struck by the surprising charm that the old house showed within, quite out of keeping with its littered door-yard and outward disrepair. The white woodwork had gone long unpainted, it was true, and the floors were worn and uneven, but there was an airy spaciousness in the rooms, a comfortable dignity in the old mahogany furniture, and the grace of real beauty in the curved white staircase with its dark, polished rail. Everything was spotlessly clean, from the faded rag rugs to the cracked panes of the windows. The kitchen was, to her, the place of chief delight, for it ran all across the back of the house, with a row of low windows wreathed in ivy and commanding a wide view across the meadow lands beside the river. There was a modern cooking stove at one end of the room, a cheap, hideous, ineffective affair, but at the other was still the old fireplace, with its swinging crane, its warming cupboards, and its broad, stone-flagged hearth.

  The baby was so much better that his mother was actually able to smile and to lean back contentedly in the corner of the bench.

  “He is better off out here in the air,” she said. “I believe he will be able to sleep in a little while. Now if I just had a strip of flannel to wrap around his chest! You would have to go up into the garret 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 under the eaves.”

  Guided by the faithful Martin, Janet climbed the stairs to the garret, where, in the warm, dusty air that smelled of hot shingles and lavender, she went poking about, seeking the roll of flannel that Mrs. Crawford assured her was there. She could find everything else in the world—old clocks, spindle-legged chairs, a high-backed, mahogany sofa, and a spinning wheel. At last she discovered what she needed in a box far under the eaves, but in pulling it out so that she could raise the lid, she knocked down a row of pictures that leaned against it. She bent to pick them up and set them in order again, then stopped to stare at them with a gasp of delighted astonishment.

  Janet loved beautiful things, especially pictures, and she could be sure, at one glance, that these were pictures such as one does not often see. She remembered being taken by her father to a famous gallery to see a landscape so much akin to the one before her that they had undoubtedly been painted by the same artist, a green hillside with sailing clouds above it, on a clear October day, “the sort that makes 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 valley with the trees bowing to a storm and a spatter of rain slanting across the hill, there was a portrait of a fierce old lady and another of a man 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 was so vivid as almost to hurt her eyes.

  She set them out in a row against the eaves and sat back on her heels to look her fill. Such pictures, to be gathered here in the dusty attic, to crack and warp and fade into ruin! She could not understand how they could have come there, nor did she spend much thought in wondering, so lost was she in that pure delight that the sight of truly beautiful things can bring. An old print with a cracked glass and broken frame caught her attention almost the last of all. It showed a ship, a tall frigate, under full sail, and had all the quaint primness of the pictures of a hundred years ago. The group of people supposed to be standing on the wharf was composed of gentlemen in very tight trousers and ladies with very sloping shoulders and absurd, tiny parasols. The vessel floated on impossible scalloped billows, but no old-fashioned stiffness could disguise the free beauty of the ship’s lines and the grace of her curving sails. Her name was inscribed in faded gold letters below—“The Huntress, 1813.” The Beeman’s tale was still so vivid in her mind that there was no need for her to wonder where she had heard that name before.

  “Why, it was a real story,” she exclaimed, “and I thought he was only making it up!”

  As she moved the print to a better light, a smaller picture, almost lost among the rest, fell down between two frames and rolled across the floor. She took it up and saw that it was a miniature, painted on ivory and framed in gold, the port
rait of a young girl with high-piled brown hair and eager, smiling eyes.

  “It looks like Polly,” Janet thought, “but it could not really be a picture of her.”

  She turned it over and found the single name engraved on the back, “Cicely, æt. 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 examining dusty treasures on his own account and stood for a minute just where a beam of slanting sunlight dropped through the tiny window under the roof.

  “Martin Hallowell Crawford,” he said.

  She would always remember just how he looked, standing there with the sunshine on his yellow mop of curly hair, his chubby face smiling and then whitening suddenly as they both heard a sound behind them. She turned to see Anthony Crawford standing upon the stair.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE PORTRAIT OF CICELY

  If Janet had needed any further clue to Anthony Crawford’s character, she would have had it in the sudden trembling terror of his little son. She was shaking herself, yet she mustered an outward appearance of courage for a moment, as she turned to face him squarely and to hear his biting words:

  “First the brother, peering over the wall, then the sister, rummaging through my house. Did Jasper Peyton send you here to find where I kept the picture of Cicely Hallowell that he was so reluctant to give up to me?”

  “I didn’t know it was Cicely Hallowell,” returned Janet, trying to speak steadily. “I didn’t even know that she was a real person; I thought she was just some one in a story.”

  Then as Crawford stepped nearer, as little Martin gave a sudden squeak of alarm, blind panic took possession of her. She ran toward the stairs and, though the man put out his arm to intercept her, she dodged under it with undignified agility and plunged down the steps. They were of the broad, shallow kind that made her feel, for all her speed, that she would never reach the bottom, yet she came at last into the hall below and out upon the stoop. She fled past Mrs. Crawford, sitting with the sleeping baby across her lap and looking up anxiously, with good cause for misgiving since she had heard her husband go up the stair.