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.

It was only when she was safely outside the gate that Janet stopped to draw breath, to realize how her knees were trembling and how her heart was pounding. Yet it stopped suddenly and seemed to miss a beat when she realized something further, that she still held in her hand the miniature of Cicely Hallowell.

“Can I go back?” she wondered desperately, but knew instantly that she could never find courage to do so. She went on, hurrying and stumbling as she made her way down the lane. Only once she ventured to look over her shoulder and saw Anthony Crawford standing on the doorstep staring after her while the scarecrow that was so vaguely like him seemed to be lifting its straw-filled arm in a mocking gesture of farewell.

Janet and Oliver held an anxious conference that evening as they sat on the terrace, for until that moment they had not been alone together. She brought out the miniature and told of the astonishing and disturbing manner in which it had come into her possession, while Oliver wondered, in frank dismay, how it was to be restored to its owner.

“I can’t think how I came to carry it away with me,” wailed Janet. “Of course it was clutched tight in my hand and I was so frightened that I didn’t think of anything but getting away. I thought of putting it down on the grass by the gate, but it is too valuable to risk being lost like that. And that man will say I stole it. I don’t know what to do.”

“We shall have to give it back to him,” said Oliver firmly. “To-morrow we will” but he stopped in the middle of his sentence, unable, even in imagination, to contemplate facing Anthony Crawford and giving him the miniature.

“Shall we tell Cousin Jasper?” Janet suggested, but Oliver declared against it.

“Anthony Crawford will be quite ready to say that Cousin Jasper sent you to get it from him. The miniature and the pictures seem to be part of the trouble, though I don’t understand why. So if that man comes here with such an accusation, it would be better for Cousin Jasper to be able to say he knew nothing about it.”

“Yes,” assented Janet. “I believe, if he knew, Cousin Jasper would try to shield us and Anthony Crawford would use it as one more thing to hold over him. I am beginning to understand both of them better. We we have overlooked a good many things about Cousin Jasper.”

It was only a few minutes later that Cousin Jasper joined them, nor had he yet sat down in the long wicker chair that Oliver placed for him, before Hotchkiss came out with a message.

“John Massey is in the kitchen, sir, and he says to tell you that he would like to see you about something important.”

“Bring him out here,” Cousin Jasper directed, and, when the somewhat embarrassed visitor in his worn best clothes appeared upon the terrace he got up with as elaborate courtesy as he would have accorded the most distinguished guest.

“What is it, John?” he asked, for the sunburned farmer was evidently an old acquaintance. The other burst out with his news and his errand at once.

“I’ve been turned off, sir,” he said. “Told to leave the farm, with no notice at all and my crops all in the ground. I’ll admit I’m a little behind on my rent, but not many landlords around here collect as closely as Mr. Crawford does; they get all their money at the end of the season and don’t haggle over it month by month when the farmer has nothing coming in. And what can you do on land that’s never improved? He lets the place run down and then turns me out because I can’t make a fortune for him on it. I I was wondering if you couldn’t do something for me, sir.”

“Do something for you?” echoed Jasper Peyton. “I can’t use any influence with Anthony Crawford, if that is what you wish.”

“I don’t understand it,” the man persisted. “Three years ago you were my landlord and none of us ever had dealings with Anthony Crawford except that we used to know him when he was a boy. The whole bottom land along the river was yours and all your tenants were farming it for a fair rent and every one was satisfied. But then he comes, and the upper half is his, we hear, and it is bad luck for us, as we soon know. Everything runs down, no one is treated fairly, and here I am, turned off at a word, and all his doing. Couldn’t you make room for me farther down the river somewhere, sir, where the land is yours?”

He looked so red and anxious and unhappy that Janet’s heart was fairly wrung for him. His wife was ailing, she knew, the season was backward, and here he stood, facing the loss of all his work and the necessity of beginning all over again. She waited eagerly to hear what offer Cousin Jasper would make.

“I I can’t help you, John,” he said at last, very slowly and heavily. “Even if I made room for you on one of the lower farms, it would only stir up trouble, and you might wake up some day to find that Anthony Crawford was your landlord again, after all. I can give you the money to pay your rent, if you wish to stay where you are, but that is all that I can do. There are times when we are none of us free agents, or masters of our own affairs.”

“I don’t care to stay on, sir,” John Massey returned. “I’ve had too many words with Anthony Crawford for things ever to go easy again. I’ve been patching up the dike with my own spare time, and maybe the farm has suffered by my doing it; anyway he says so and calls me a fool. I thought perhaps you would help me, since I’d been your tenant so long before he came.” His voice, dragging with disappointment, trailed lower and lower. “I don’t seem to know just where to turn. Well, good night to you, sir.” He turned and walked heavily away.

They sat very silent after he was gone. Oliver was leaning against the terrace rail, Janet in her big chair was clenching her hands in her lap, Cousin Jasper, with his hands on the railing, stood in absolute quiet, staring out over the garden. The light of the house came through the long windows, falling on his face that was so pale and tired. He had seemed weary and unhappy for some time, but to-night he looked desperate. The minutes passed, but still he stood in silence, staring straight before him.

The sight of his distress seemed more than either of the two could bear. Oliver could think of nothing to say, but stood dumbly helpless, while Janet moved closer to their cousin and spoke with shy hesitation:

“Couldn’t we help you? Won’t you tell us what you are thinking?”

“I was only thinking,” Cousin Jasper answered very slowly, “I was wondering, as I do sometimes lately, how strangely life can change and twist itself and make things seem other than they should be. If you have lived all your years following your own sense of honor, if you have tried, in everything you do, to be fair and just, how can it be, when the years have passed, that suddenly all the results of honest dealing should be swept away? How can it be that a man who has disgraced himself, whose ways are known to be everything that is devious and unfair, how can he gain power over you, threaten to take from you everything that is yours, even say that he can destroy your good name? How can every effort you make toward a fair settlement only render matters worse? Is there really something so wrong with the world that a dishonest man can work more harm than a man of honor can ever undo? Do you think so?” he concluded, turning to regard them from under his knitted brows as if he must, in his distress, find some word of reassurance somewhere.

“No,” said Oliver emphatically, finding his voice somewhat to his own surprise. “I don’t think so at all. I believe a man who does dishonorable things can can mix you up and make you miserable, but he can’t go on forever. His plans are bound to come to grief in the end.”

His halting words carried the real earnestness of conviction. They seemed to give Cousin Jasper some sort of comfort, for his face relaxed, he moved from his tense attitude, and turned to walk up and down the terrace through the patches of light and shadow that lay between the windows. Janet thrust a friendly, affectionate hand under his arm as she walked beside him. It was a hot night, at June’s very highest tide, with the garden at the summit of its beauty. The Madonna lilies were in bloom, showing ghostly white through the dark, rows and ranks and armies of them all up and down the walks and borders, sending sudden ripples of sweetness upward to the terrace whenever the faint breeze stirred. There was no moon yet, but the stars were thick overhead, and the moving lanterns of the fireflies glimmered among the trees, low down still as they always are in the first hours of the dark. Janet was thinking that when the world was so beautiful, it was difficult to believe that things could go entirely wrong in it, but she did not find it possible to put her idea into words. It may have been that Cousin Jasper was thinking the same thing as he stopped and stood for a long time at the head of the brick-paved stair leading down from the end of the terrace into the garden. At last he began to descend slowly, unable to make out the steps in the dark, so that he put his hand on her shoulder to steady himself. He spoke very suddenly.

“It is not only in body but in spirit that the old must sometimes lean upon the young,” he said, and then, with his voice quite cheerful again, began to talk of how well the flowers were doing this year.

Oliver had followed them to the top of the stair and stood above them, listening, but not, apparently, to what Cousin Jasper was saying. His head was bent and he was straining every nerve to hear some far-off sound. His face looked troubled, then cleared suddenly as he came down the steps.

“Cousin Jasper,” he said, “didn’t I tell you that the gardener wanted you to know that the night-blooming cereus is open just now? Suppose we walk out to the back of the garden and see it.”

His cousin hesitated.

“It is rather late,” he answered. “It will be open still to-morrow night.”

“Janet has never seen one,” persisted Oliver, putting a firm arm through Cousin Jasper’s, “and it might rain or something to-morrow night. She would be so disappointed and so would the gardener.”

They went down the last steps together, into the sea of white lilies and drifting fragrance, and disappeared into the darkness toward the back of the garden.

In spite of his insistence, Oliver did not seem so deeply interested as the others in the plant that was slowly opening its pink flowers that have so brief and beautiful a season. The gardener, hastily summoned, came across the lawn to exhibit his favorite plant with the greatest pride, but Oliver left the others to admire and ask questions and, in ten minutes, came back alone. Coming upon the terrace again, he saw Hotchkiss, just inside the long window, ushering out a visitor who was talking in loud, easily recognizable tones.

“No, he doesn’t seem to be here,” Anthony Crawford was saying, “though I didn’t believe you, until you let me come in and see for myself. I had something of great importance to say to him and to the girl. Well, I will come again to-morrow.”

He passed down the room and must have come very close to the light, for his shadow loomed suddenly, misshapen and bulky, all across the library, even dropping its black length over the terrace outside. It followed him, a striding giant, from window to window and then dwindled suddenly again as Anthony Crawford himself stood under the light in the doorway giving Hotchkiss final directions.

“Be sure to tell him that I shall be here to-morrow night and that I shall expect him to be at home,” he ordered, then climbed into the creaking cart and drove away.

Hotchkiss stood peering into the dark after him, evidently sending no good wishes to speed him homeward. Seeing Oliver coming up the steps at the far end of the terrace, he walked down to speak to him.

“There was something more than usual wrong to-night,” he said anxiously. “He vowed that he must see Mr. Peyton and didn’t want to take my word for it that he was out. It was fortunate that he had gone into the garden.”

“Yes,” responded Oliver, “I thought I heard that miserable rattletrap turning in at the gate and I remembered, all of a sudden, that the gardener told me yesterday about the night-blooming cereus. I I thought they ought to look at it at once.”

Hotchkiss had been nervous and agitated during what must have been a stormy interview, and he found this sudden relief too great for the composure even of a butler. He burst into a great laugh of delight and slapped his knee in ecstasy.

“That was the way to serve him!” he cried. “To think that prying scoundrel found some one that was too clever for him, for once.”

Oliver grinned broadly, but recovered himself in a moment.

“Hotchkiss,” he said with great gravity, “you would never do for the movies.”

Janet was eating her breakfast very deliberately next morning, lingering even after Cousin Jasper had left them and while Oliver sat back in his chair fidgeting in frank impatience. When her brother finally urged her to make haste she broke forth into an explanation that was almost a wail.

“It is because I can’t forget where we have to go to-day,” she declared. “Oh, why why did I make such a terrible mistake and carry that miserable picture away?”

Even Oliver looked none too cheerful at the prospect before them.

“We have to do it,” he agreed, “but I think we will go over to the Windy Hill first. I promised Polly’s father I would tell him what I saw from the boat. But after that there will be plenty of time and we will go to Anthony Crawford’s.”

“I ought to go alone,” Janet said, “for it was I who made the trouble. And shall we tell the Beeman?”

“Not until afterward,” replied Oliver. “If there is difficulty about the picture it would be easier if no one were concerned but just ourselves. And indeed you won’t go alone! We are in this thing together.”

It had rained in the night so heavily that the clumps of larkspur and more tender plants were beaten down and only the shower-loving lilies lifted their wet, shining faces above the green. The sky was still overcast, with threats of another downpour, yet the two put on their raincoats and set forth undeterred.

“There is an old apple shed in the corner of the orchard where we can leave the car,” said Oliver. “Polly showed me, last time, where we could drive in.”

The highway was smooth and wet and the river was perceptibly higher under the bridge. They pressed onward, up the grass-covered road, drove through the gap in the orchard wall, and felt their way along the open lane between the apple trees. The car was finally housed in the shelter of the shed and Janet and Oliver raced up the hill, for the first drops of a new shower were just beginning to fall, and Polly, in the doorway of the cottage, was beckoning them to make haste. The downpour was a sharp one that pattered on the roof, ran streaming from the eaves, and blotted out the hills opposite. The grass and the orchard, however, seemed to grow greener every moment under the refreshing rain, and the clumps of pink hollyhocks that crowded about the doorstep lifted their heads gratefully.

“We can’t do much with the bees for an hour or two,” observed the Beeman, sitting down in the corner with his pipe. “Now tell me what you saw on the river, Oliver. I noticed your sail and knew that you were out.”

Oliver made his report upon the scouring banks while the Beeman listened and nodded gravely.

“That is something we must look into,” he declared. “It is like Anthony to have let things go. And now, if you have time to wait, suppose we have a story.”

They had ample time, they assured him, being only too glad to postpone the errand that must come later. They were eager for another tale, moreover, for they were beginning to realize that these were not mere haphazard narratives, but stories with some definite bearing upon the places and people about them.

“We have plenty of time,” Oliver assured him. “We are in no hurry at all. You might even make it a very long one.”

The Beeman nodded assent with that queer smile that seemed to betray an uncanny understanding of the whole situation.

“A long one it shall be,” he agreed, “for I have a good deal to tell you.”