JOHN MASSEY’S LANDLORD

The story had come to an end, but the boy and girl still waited as though to hear more.

“But do oak trees grow to be so old?” Oliver inquired at last, looking out at the moving shadow of the great tree that had now covered the doorstone.

“Yes, three hundred years is no impossible age for an oak. All the old grants of land speak of an oak tree on this hill as one of the landmarks.”

“How did you know?” began Oliver, and then broke off, with a sudden jerk of recollection: “Oh, I forgot all about it my train!”

He snatched out his watch and stood regarding it with a rueful face. He had missed the train by more than half an hour.

“Were you going away?” asked Polly sympathetically. “We are always missing trains like that, daddy and I. Won’t they be surprised to see you come back!”

“They they didn’t know I was going,” returned Oliver. “They are wondering now where I am.” He was too much agitated to keep from doing his thinking out loud. “I must be getting back. Thank you for the story. Good-by.”

He was gone before they could say more, leaving Polly, in fact, with her mouth open to speak and with the Beeman looking after him with an amused and quizzical grin, as though he recognized the symptoms of an uneasy conscience.

“We never asked him to come again,” Polly lamented.

To which her father answered, “I believe he will come, just the same.”

The smooth machinery of Cousin Jasper’s house must have been thrown out of gear for a moment when the car came round to the door and Oliver failed to appear. It was running quietly and noiselessly again, however, by the time he returned. Janet was curled up in a big armchair in the library, enjoying a book, when he came in. She looked up at him rather curiously, but only said:

“Eleanor Brighton’s mother telephoned at half past three that Eleanor had been detained somewhere, she didn’t quite know where. She was very apologetic and hoped we would come some other time. I walked down the road to look for you, but you weren’t in sight. I met such a strange man, coming in at the gate; he turned all the way around on the seat of his cart to stare at me. I didn’t like him.”

She did not press Oliver with questions and, as a result, he sat down beside her and told her the whole tale of his afternoon’s adventures, with a glowing description of the Beeman and Polly.

“I must take you there to see them,” he said, “I can’t wait to show you how things look from that hill. And you should see the bees, and the little house, and hear the wind in the big tree. We will go to-morrow.”

When Cousin Jasper appeared for dinner, Oliver felt somewhat apprehensive, but to his relief no questions were asked him. Their cousin listened rather absently while Janet explained why the proposed visit had not been made, and he offered no comment. He looked paler even than usual, with deeper lines in his face, and he sat at the end of the long table, saying little and eating less. Afterward he sat with them in the library, still restless and uneasy and speaking only now and then, in jerking sentences that they could scarcely follow. It was an evident relief to all three of them when the time came to say good night.

Oliver looked back anxiously over his shoulder, as their cousin returned to his study and as they, at the other end of the long room, went out into the hall.

“Something has happened to upset him more than usual,” he said. “Do you think he could have guessed what I intended to do?”

Janet shook her head emphatically.

“He couldn’t have guessed,” she declared. “Even now I can hardly believe it of you, myself, Oliver.”

Oliver, rather ashamed, was beginning to wonder at himself also.

They had fallen into the habit of going upstairs early to the comfortable sitting room into which their bedrooms opened. It was their own domain, a pleasant, breezy place, with deep wicker chairs, gay chintz curtains, flower boxes, and wide casements opening on a balcony. They had both found some rare treasures among the books downstairs and liked to carry them away for an hour of enjoyment before it was bedtime.

Oliver settled himself comfortably beside a window, opened his book, but did not immediately begin to read. His eyes wandered about the perfectly appointed room, stared out at the moonlit garden, and then came back to his sister.

“Why aren’t we happy here, Janet?” he questioned. “It seems as though we had everything to make us so.”

“Because he isn’t happy,” returned his sister, with a gesture toward the study where Cousin Jasper, distraught, worried, and forlorn, must even then be sitting alone.

“But why isn’t he happy? There is everything here that he could wish for.” Oliver added somewhat bitterly, after a pause: “Why don’t grown-up people tell us things? It is miserable to be old enough to notice when affairs go wrong but not to be old enough to have them explained.”

“Perhaps,” said Janet hopefully, “we will be able to prove that we deserve to know. I think that you will, anyway, and then you can tell me.”

It was not only the younger members of the household who were struggling with mystery that night, however. Before they had been reading many minutes, there came a discreet tap at the door and Hotchkiss appeared upon the threshold. Oliver was wondering what a boy unused to butlers was supposed to say or do on the occasion of such a visit, and even Janet, better at guessing the etiquette of such matters, seemed at a loss. And so also was Hotchkiss, as it presently began to be evident.

If the butler had been of the regulation variety, he might perhaps have known how to ask a few respectful questions without a change of his professional countenance and have gained his information without betraying its significance. But as it was, he had for the moment put off the wooden, expressionless face that he was supposed to wear at his work, and was openly anxious and disturbed.

“We’re troubled about Mr. Peyton, Mrs. Brown and I,” he began, coming frankly to the point at once. “He had a queer visitor to-day, one who has just been coming lately and who always leaves him upset. I wonder if you saw him, a thin man with a brown face and a kind of a way with him, somehow, in spite of his bad clothes.”

“Did he drive a shambling old horse?” inquired Oliver, remembering suddenly the person he had noticed on the road, “and a wagon that rattled as though it were twenty years old? Yes, we both saw him.”

“Had you ever seen him before?” Hotchkiss asked eagerly, and seemed disappointed when Oliver replied:

“No, we had never laid eyes on him before to-day.”

“It is just in the last few weeks that he has been coming here so often,” the man went on. “Before that he came rarely and we didn’t think so much about him. I can remember the first time I saw him, soon after I had come to Mr. Peyton, a year ago. The fellow rang the bell as bold as anything, but when I saw that rickety outfit drawn up to the steps, I was about to tell him that the other entrance was the place for him. He must have read my eye he’s a sharp one for he said, ’Your master won’t thank you for turning me away, when I’m a member of the family,’ and sure enough, there was Mr. Peyton behind me in the hall telling me to bring him in. He was nervous and put out with everybody after the man was gone, and he is more and more upset each time he comes. And the fellow begins to come often. I thought that if he was a member of the family you might know who he was and how we could get rid of him.”

The heat of the last words put an end to any possible thought that the man’s questions were prompted by a servant’s unwarranted curiosity concerning his master. It was plain that Cousin Jasper was a well-beloved employer and that the two chief persons of his household had been laying their heads together over the mystery of his evident trouble.

Hotchkiss was about to tell them more, when a bell, sounding below, summoned him away. There was an interval during which they tried to return to their books, but found their minds occupied with thoughts of what the butler had said. Who could this man be, whom they had both noticed and both set down as odious, and whose coming seemed to have such an unhappy effect upon Cousin Jasper? A relative? It did not seem possible. Presently Hotchkiss was at the door again, more troubled than ever.

“Mr. Peyton wants the motor, but it’s Jennings’ evening off and he has gone to town,” he said. “Didn’t I hear you tell him, Mr. Oliver, that you knew how to drive that make of car?”

Oliver had, indeed, dropped such a hint two days before, hoping that the dullness of his visit might be lightened by his being invited to take the car out for a spin. The statement had fallen on quite unheeding ears in Cousin Jasper’s case, but had been treasured up by the butler.

“Yes, I can drive it,” agreed Oliver, rather doubting whether Cousin Jasper would really desire him as a chauffeur. He got up and went downstairs, to find his cousin waiting in the hall, so nervous and impatient that he made no other comment than:

“We must make haste.”

Oliver hurried out to the garage, backed out the heavy car, paused under the portico for Cousin Jasper to climb in beside him, and sped away down the drive.

“Which way?” he asked, as they came out through the gate, and was directed along the road he had followed that afternoon.

“You may go as fast as you like, I am in a hurry,” was Cousin Jasper’s unexpected permission, so that Oliver, nothing loath, let out the car to its full speed. It was very dark, for the moon had gone under a cloud. The road, showing vaguely white through the blackness, was nearly empty and the tree trunks flashed by, looking unreal in the glare of the lamps, like the cardboard trees of a scene on the stage. The big car hummed and the wind sang in Oliver’s ears, but for only the briefest moment, for they seemed to come immediately to a crossroad, where Cousin Jasper bade him turn. A slower pace was necessary here, for the going was rough and uneven, yet not so difficult as that of the narrower lane in which they presently found themselves. Here the machine lurched among the deep ruts, rustled through high grass and low-hanging trees, and finally came to a stop before a gate.

“No, wait here,” directed Cousin Jasper as Oliver made a move to get out. “I shall not be gone very long.”

He climbed out and jerked at the gate, which, one hinge being gone, opened reluctantly to let him pass. He stalked away, a tall, awkward figure in the brilliant shaft of light from the lamps, walking with a fierce, determined dignity up the path that disappeared into the dark. Oliver felt a sudden rush of pity for him and of shame that he had so nearly deserted him.

“It must be hard,” he thought, “to be so miserable and anxious, and to have no one to talk it over with. And I do wonder what is the matter?”

He waited an hour and another. He had dimmed his lamps and could see vaguely the outline of a house, with one dull light in a window. A dog barked somewhere beyond the gate, and presently a child began crying. It cried a very long time, then at last was quiet, but still no one came. Oliver fell asleep finally against the comfortable leather cushions, and slumbered he knew not how long before he was aroused by the protesting creak of the broken gate. He thought, as he was waking, that a man’s voice, high-pitched with anger, was talking in the dark, but when he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he saw no one but Cousin Jasper.

“I had not thought it would be so long,” was all his cousin said as he got in, and after that there was no word spoken until they entered their own gate and rolled up to the door.

“You drive well for a boy. Good night,” said Cousin Jasper as he climbed out and entered the house. In his hurried, awkward way, he was attempting to express his gratitude, but he had managed to say the wrong thing.

“For a boy, indeed,” snorted Oliver, as he guided the car into the door of the garage, and repeated it as he went up the stairs to his room: “For a boy!”

The big clock in the hall was solemnly striking one.

Oliver was wondering, as he came down to breakfast next morning, what his cousin would say in explanation of their midnight expedition, but discovered that Cousin Jasper had adopted the simple expedient of saying nothing at all. The matter was not even referred to until just as they were leaving the table, and then only indirectly.

“I should have thought of it before,” their host said, “that it might give you some pleasure to take out the car. Use it every day, if you wish, and take Jennings or not, just as it suits you. I have real confidence in your driving, Oliver.”

It was surprising how completely matters were put upon another footing by what he had said. If Cousin Jasper had confidence in him, Oliver thought, he need no longer feel like a neglected outsider, one who was of no use or worth in the household.

“Get your hat, Janet,” he urged promptly.

He had not an instant’s hesitation in deciding where they would go first.

Just as Cousin Jasper was entering his study he turned back to say:

“Now about your Cousin Eleanor

But Oliver either did not or would not hear, as he sped away toward the garage. Perhaps Cousin Jasper understood the smile that Janet gave him, for he smiled himself and said no more.

In the very shortest time possible, Oliver and Janet were bowling along the smooth white road with all the blue and golden sunlight of a cool June morning about them. Oliver laughed when he thought of his dusty progress along that way the day before. There was little danger of his running away now, for the dreaded Cousin Eleanor was quite forgotten and he was certain that the time would not pass slowly since he had acquired this splendid new plaything.

He wondered, as the highway spun away beneath the swift wheels, which of the crossroads that he passed was the one that he had traveled the evening before, but the night had been so dark and their speed so great that he was quite unable to decide. It was only after exploring a good many of Medford Valley’s lesser thoroughfares, after awkward turns in narrow byroads that proved to be mere blind alleys, that they began to come closer and closer to the foot of the hill. Not being able to find a direct path, Oliver finally drew up beside the low stone wall and plunged, on foot, through the high grass of the orchard.

“Wait until I see if they are here,” he instructed Janet, “and then I will come back for you.”

His new acquaintances were sitting on the bench beside the doorway as he came up the hill, Polly in a very trim blue dress and without her apron, but the Beeman in his same dilapidated overalls. The girl had a notebook on her knee and was putting down records at her father’s dictation.

“Here is our friend in need, of yesterday,” said the Beeman cordially as Oliver came up the path, “but we can’t put him to work to-day because we are just about to set off to fetch some new beehives. There are more colonies than I thought that need dividing, and I find I am out of hives.”

“Let me get them for you,” Oliver offered at once, and explained the presence of his sister in the car below.

“Polly can go with you to show you the way,” the Beeman agreed willingly. “John Massey, who makes our hives for us, lives a good many miles away, at the upper end of Medford Valley. I shall be glad to save the time of going myself. Come to the top of the hill, so that I can point out the direction of the road to you.”

They took the little path beyond the house, leading upward to the very summit of the hill. In the direction from which Oliver had come, up the gentler incline of the southern slope, the view was narrowed by the woods and the orchard, showing only the long vista that led away toward the high ridge opposite and the blue dip of shining sea. On the eastern face of the hill, however, the ground fell away steeply to a sweep of river and a broad stretch of green farming country. It lays below like a vast sunken garden, with great square fields for lawns and clumps of full-leaved, rounded trees for shrubbery. The yellow-green of wheat and the blue-green of oats stretched out, a smooth expanse that rippled and crinkled as the wind and the sweeping shadow of a cloud went slowly down the valley. There were no country houses of high-walled, steep-roofed magnificence here, only comfortable farm dwellings with wide eaves and generous barns, a few with picturesque, pointed silos and slim, high-towering windmills.

“Most of that farming land belongs to your Cousin Jasper,” the Beeman said, while Oliver, too intent upon staring at the view below him, failed to wonder how he happened to know so much of their affairs. “That whole portion of the valley was waste, swampy ground at one time; it was an uncle of Jasper Peyton’s who drained the land thirty years ago and built dikes to keep the river back. He arranged to rent it out to tenant farmers, for he said one man should own the whole to keep up the dikes and see that the stream did not come creeping in again. Medford River looks lazy and sleepy enough, but it can be a raging demon when the rains are heavy and the water comes up. Your cousin owns all of it still except for a portion up there at the bend of the stream. That has passed out of his hands lately. It is at the far end, on the last farm, that John Massey lives.”

Oliver from this vantage point could pick out the intricate succession of lanes and highroad that he must take to cross the river and reach John Massey’s place, showing from here as only a dot of a gray house at the angle of the stream. The sunshine was very clear and hot over the valley below, but the oak tree spread its broad shadow all about them and bowed its lofty head to a fresh, salt-laden wind.

“See how still the trees are along the river,” said the Beeman, “but the oak tree is never quiet. The breeze comes past that gap in the hills, yonder where you can look through to the sea, and it seems never to stop blowing. So we call this place the Windy Hill.”

The three set off on their errand very gayly in the big car, although Polly and Janet, in the back seat together, were a little shy and silent at the very first. At the end of a mile, however, they were beginning to warm toward each other and had set up a brisk chatter before they had gone three.

“I knew Janet would like Polly,” Oliver was thinking. “She is the sort of girl I like myself, not like Cousin Eleanor. The kind that makes you feel that your clothes and your manners are all wrong and that you haven’t anything to say those are the girls I can’t stand.”

He quite forgot that this harsh judgment of his unknown relative was not based upon any real evidence.

When they reached the floor of the valley they found it as level as a table, with a straight road running from end to end, along which they sped in a whirling cloud of dust. Other cars passed them, driven by prosperous farmers, the growl and clatter of motor tractors sounded from the fields on either hand. Halfway up the valley the character of the places seemed to change, the houses had the look of needing paint, the weeds were taller along the fences, and there were no silos nor tractors to be seen. As they neared John Massey’s house, the road came close to the river, with the high, grass-covered bank of earth that was the dike rising at their left as they drove along.

They were obliged to stop where some horses were walking in the road ahead of them and seemed slow in making way. The big gray and brown creatures were dragging huge flat stones, each hooked to the traces with an iron chain, scuffling and scraping along in the dust.

“I’m sorry,” said the sunburned man who drove the last team, looking back to where the car waited in the road. “We’ll make room in a minute, but the horses are doing all they can.”

“We are in no hurry,” responded Oliver. “Where are you taking the stones and what are they for?”

“To mend the dike, quite a way downstream. It takes a lot of patching to keep banks like these whole and strong, but they guard some valuable land. The dike looks as though it needed repairs up here at this end, but nobody does much to it. Mr. Peyton has us go over his section of the banks every year.”

The horses moved forward, leaving room for them to pass, and the car went on.

John Massey’s house was the last one at the end of the road, a little place with a roof that needed new shingles and with sagging steps leading up to the door. Oliver, with some difficulty, squeezed the big car through the gate and followed the rutty driveway to the open space behind the house. There was a stretch of grass, a well, two straggling apple trees, and a row of beehives. An inquisitive cow came to the gate of the barnyard and thrust her head over it to stare at them with the frank curiosity of a country lady who sees little of strangers.

“Here is John Massey,” said Polly, as a rather heavy-faced, shabby man with kindly blue eyes came out of one of the barns. “My father gave him some of these beehives and taught him how to make new ones. He is very clever at it, and it means a good deal to him to make ours, for he is very poor. He works very hard on his farm, but it never seems to be much of a success.”

The hives were brought out and paid for and stowed in the back of the car. Oliver was just making ready for the somewhat difficult feat of backing the car around in the narrow space between house and barn, when there came a rattling of wheels through the gate and a loud, rasping voice was heard calling for John Massey.

“That’s Mr. Anthony Crawford,” said the farmer, who had been standing by the car admiring wistfully its shining sides and heavy tires. “He owns this place and he comes up here nearly every day to see how I’m farming it. I don’t accomplish much with him always around to give me sharp words and never a dollar for improvements. I’ve told him a hundred times that the dike ought to be looked after this year or we’ll be having a flood, but he always says he guesses it will hold. Yes, sir, I’m coming.”

The calls had grown too loud to be disregarded, although it was plain that John Massey was in no haste to obey the summons. In a moment the owner of the voice came jingling and rattling around the corner of the house, the same narrow-faced, gray-eyed man that Oliver had met on the road, driving the same bony, knock-kneed horse.

“Whoa, there, whoa!” cried the driver, for the old white steed had caught sight of the car and was testifying to its dislike of it by grotesque prancings and sidlings that threatened to wreck the ramshackle trap. “Here, get out of my way!” he ordered Oliver, “that is, if you know how to handle that snorting locomotive that you think you’re driving.”

Red with anger, Oliver started his engine and embarked upon a maneuver that was difficult at best, and, under the present unfavorable circumstances, proved to be nearly impossible. He turned the car half round, collided with a pigsty, backed into the barnyard fence, and narrowly missed taking a wheel off Anthony Crawford’s decrepit wagon. That gentleman assisted the process with jeering remarks and criticisms, while Oliver grew redder and redder with fury and embarrassment. At last, however, the car was turned and stood for a moment in the driveway, facing the white horse which seemed to have resigned itself to the presence of the puffing monster and to be very reluctant to move.

“I have got out of your way, now will you be good enough to get out of mine?” said Oliver very slowly, lest the rage within him should break out into open insult.

In spite of his anger he could not help noticing that the man before him moved with a curious easy grace, and that when he smiled, with a white flash of teeth, he was almost attractive. It was impossible to deny that, except for his thin lips and his hard gray eyes, he was handsome.

“He must be about Cousin Jasper’s age,” Oliver thought as he sat looking at him while the other stared in return.

“I should like to pass,” the boy persisted, since the other made no move.

“So you shall, Mr. Oliver Peyton,” returned the man, “only don’t expect me to move as fast or as gracefully as you did. You wonder how I know your name, I suppose. Well, if that precious Cousin Jasper of yours and mine were a little more outspoken about his affairs, you would know all about me. If you want to know where I live, just look over the back wall of your cousin’s garden. Do it some time when he isn’t looking, for he doesn’t love to think of what lies behind that wall where the fruit trees are trained so prettily and where the trees and shrubs grow so high.”

He had made way at last and the car moved forward, but he turned to shout a last bitter word after them.

“If you want to know one of your Cousin Jasper’s meanest secrets, look over the wall.”