The quest for the rose of Sharon

I opened my eyes to find mother bathing my face and chafing my hands. The reaction—the plunge from certainty to disappointment—had been too much for me. I felt strangely weak and flabby. I could scarcely raise my shaking hand to my face.

But the feeling passed in a moment, and I sat up and pushed my hair away from my forehead. I confess I was ashamed of myself.

“Really, Cecil,” said mother, when she saw that I was all right again, “if you’re going to take it this way, I think the sooner we get away from here the better. You mustn’t yield to your feelings so.”

“But oh, mother,” I cried, with a little sob in my voice that I couldn’t repress, “it was cruel of her! Cruel! Cruel!”

“I’ve often heard your father say,” continued mother, “that the greatest test of character is defeat—that every manly man is a good loser. Have you already forgotten those lines of Browning which Mr. Chester repeated last night?”

“No, mother, I haven’t,” I replied, and I flung my arms around her neck and hugged her tight. “Only, just at first, it was more than I could bear. But I’m going to remember them, mother dear—I’m going to be a good loser.”

“If you learn only that,” said mother, smoothing back my hair and kissing me, “this search will be worth something to you, whether you find the treasure or not. It will be a test of character, as well as of patience and ingenuity.”

“Yes, mother; but—but please don’t tell Dick about the desk—not just yet.”

“Very well,” mother promised, understanding. “And now straighten up your hair, for it must be nearly time for lunch,” and kissing me again, she hurried away down-stairs.

Dear mother!

I went over to the old dresser, and resting my arms on top of it, stared steadily into the glass.

“Cecil Truman,” I said, sternly, to my reflected self, “you’re not going to be a coward any more, nor a whiney baby. You’re going to be a good loser. But you’re going to fight!” I added. “You’re going to fight for all you’re worth!” And somewhat comforted, I proceeded to do my hair.

Lunch was ready when I got down-stairs again, and a moment later, Dick appeared around a corner of the house, looking so important and mysterious that, but for my chastened mood, I should have been tempted to box his ears. He ate his food with disgraceful haste, scarcely speaking a word, and snatched up his cap again the moment he had finished.

“You won’t need me this afternoon, will you, mother?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

“No, I think not,” said mother, who never needed him when he didn’t wish to be needed. “Jane and I are going to drive down to the village to get a few groceries and other things. Would you care to go along?”

“Not to-day, thank you, ma’am,” and he was off.

I peeped out the window and saw that he was making for the Chester place as fast as his legs would carry him. Really, it was too bad of Dick to treat me so!

“You’d like to go, wouldn’t you, Cecil?” asked mother. “I think it will do you good to get away from this place for a while.”

But I had a sort of deadly fear that if I left the place, it would somehow get beyond my grasp entirely. I might wake up and find it all a dream. So I declined, too, and in the course of half an hour, Abner and I saw mother and Jane drive away down the road. Then, with the whole afternoon before me, I resolutely put away from me the thought of Dick’s treachery, and turned anew to the solution of the mystery.

“Abner,” I asked, as we turned back together to the house, “did you ever hear of an apple-tree called the rose of Sharon?”

“The rose o’ Sharon? Why, certainly, miss. It’s a big, red winter apple, but it don’t bear as well as it might, an’ it ain’t so very tasty. The Baldwin beats it.”

“But is there one in the orchard?”

“Yes—jest one—away over yonder in the corner near the fence. You can’t miss it. It’s the last tree as you cross the orchard. It’s an old feller, an’ a tough one—all the other trees that was near it has rotted or blowed down.”

“Very well,” I said; “and thank you.”

“Air ye goin’ out there, miss? Ef ye air, we’d best bolt the front door, fer I’m goin’ out to the barn myself.”

I agreed that it would be wise to bolt the door, which we did, and proceeded on through the hall to the back door. My tour of the morning had not included the kitchen, and there had been so many other things to do and places to visit that I had never even been in it. As I entered it now, I paused for a delighted look at the rows of shining pans, at the big range and all its paraphernalia. In years agone, the cooking had been done in a great open fireplace, fully eight feet broad, and the range had been placed right in it, with its pipe extending up the chimney. The old crane had not been taken down, but still remained in place, folded back against the wall out of the way. What feasts had been prepared in that old fireplace! My mouth fairly watered at thought of them. It was in some such place as this that the people of Dickens loved to sit and watch the spits turning and sniff the savoury odours. Dickens always makes me hungry.

Everything was spotlessly clean, and bore witness to Jane’s sterling housewifely qualities. Through an open door beyond I caught a glimpse of the milk-house and heard the tinkle of running water. I stepped to it for a glance around. Rows of crocks, covered with plates, stood in a trough through which the water ran, clear as crystal and cold as ice, brought through an iron pipe, as I afterwards learned, from a never-failing spring some distance back of the house. The whole place had a delicious aroma of milk and butter, suggesting cleanliness and health. I should have liked to linger, but I had work to do.

“It’s all perfectly delightful!” I cried, returning to Abner, who had lingered by the kitchen hearth.

“It is a nice place,” he agreed, looking about at it affectionately. “Cosy an’ homelike. A mighty nice place t’ set in winter, when the wind’s howlin’ around outside, a-bankin’ the snow ag’inst the house. I’ve set there by the fire many a winter night an’ listened to it, an’ thanked my stars thet I had a tight roof over my head an’ a good fire t’ set by.”

“I hope you’ll sit there many winters more,” I said heartily.

“Thank ’ee, miss; so do I. I don’t ask no better place; but I’m afeerd we’ll hev t’ leave it.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “Grandaunt provided that both of you should remain as long as you care to.”

“But mebbe we won’t keer,” answered Abner, his face setting into obstinate lines. “Mebbe we won’t keer when thet there ghost-raiser comes t’ live here. It ain’t hardly decent, thet business he’s in. He ort t’ be tarred an’ feathered.”

“Perhaps things will come out all right,” I said, but the words were from the lips rather than from the heart.

“Oh, I hope so, miss!” he cried. “I do hope so! We’d hate t’ leave the old place; an’ you’ll excuse me, miss, fer sayin’ so, but we like you all; we like you more’n I kin say. If they was only somethin’ we could do t’ help!”

His face was touching in its simple earnestness.

“Thank you, Abner,” I said, my eyes a little misty. “I’m so glad you like us, and perhaps you can help. You may be sure I’ll call upon you if I need you.”

“Do, miss,” he answered. “An’ upon Jane, too. Now I must be gittin’ t’ my work. Is they anything else?”

“Yes, one thing. May I have the spade I had yesterday?”

“What’d ye do with it, miss?”

“I—I—oh, yes!” I cried, overcome with contrition. “I left it where I was digging. I’ll get it!” and I ran away toward the garden, feeling the reproachful glance he cast after me, and vowing to myself never again to be so careless.

I found the spade lying among the tangle of vines where I had left it, and I sat down on the bench to review the scene of my previous day’s work. Mr. Chester had said that, in his opinion, the treasure was not in the yard at all, but somewhere in the house. So it had been; and my hands trembled a little at the memory of the morning’s disappointment. But it was there no longer—grandaunt had removed it to another and less easily found hiding-place—a hiding-place which the rose of Sharon still guarded. The picture on the calendar had proved that there might be roses of Sharon of many and unexpected kinds. I must look for them; I must get everyone around the place to help me; and I must exhaust the possibilities of each one before passing on to the next. My search must be thorough and systematic. That was my one chance of success.

Plainly, then, it would be wise to begin at once with the rose of Sharon before me; and so, discarding the rule of four to the right and three diagonally—for the four and three might mean inches or feet or even yards—I proceeded to pick up carefully all the stones arranged around the shrub. They made a circle perhaps two yards in diameter, and the task of getting them out of the way was no light one; but I kept steadily at work, not minding bruised fingers, and finally I had all the stones heaped on one side out of the way.

Then, after a short rest, I went to work with the spade and began to dig up the dirt which the stones had covered; but my back was aching and my hands smarting long before the task was accomplished, and more than once I glanced at the top of the wall, hoping to see a boy’s figure there. But none appeared, and I laboured on, reflecting bitterly upon perfidious human nature. He had said he was a good digger; he had offered to help; and we had clasped hands upon it! Oh, how one may be mistaken in a boy! Nerved by such reflections, I did not stop until the whole circle of ground had been well spaded up. Evidently there was no treasure concealed about the roots of this rose of Sharon!

Half dead with fatigue, I sank down again, with a sigh, upon the bench. The fatigue I should not have minded so much, but for the sore heart in my bosom. That one’s comrade should desert one! That was the last straw! I almost wished that we had never seen the place!

I buried my face in my hands in the effort to keep back the tears, for, as I have said already, I don’t like girls who cry. I resolved anew that I would not permit myself to grow discouraged, that I would keep right on trying. And as for Tom Chester—

“What’s the matter, little girl?” asked a voice, so near that it fairly made me jump. But it was not the voice—oh, no, quite a different voice from the one which had made me jump the day before. “Not cryin’?”

I looked up, and there was Silas Tunstall! He was dressed exactly as he had been the day before, only his white trousers were a little more soiled than they had been then, and his face wore the self-same smirk, and his whiskers were raggeder than ever and his little black eyes brighter and creepier. The rest of his face didn’t seem to fit his eyes, somehow; one had an impression of the same sort of contradiction which a wolf’s eyes in a sheep’s face would occasion.

“Not cryin’!” he repeated, eyeing me narrowly, while I sat fairly gasping with astonishment, not unmixed with fear. And then he looked about him at the signs of my afternoon’s labour. “Been diggin’, hev ye? Lookin’ fer the treasure, mebbe! Oh, yes, the rose of Sharon!” and he glanced at the shrub which stood tall and brown in the centre of the circle of upturned earth. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

But the moment had given me time to collect my scattered wits. My fear of him had passed, and in its place came a hot resolve to make the most of this encounter—to draw some advantage from it, if I could. If he really knew where the treasure was—well, surely my wits were as good as his!

“Yes, it’s a rose of Sharon, Mr. Tunstall,” I said, as calmly as I could. “You remember what the key said—‘The rose of Sharon guards the place,’ and so on. Of course I’m trying to find the treasure. You don’t blame me for that, do you?”

“Oh, no,” he answered, slowly, evidently surprised at my loquacity—which, indeed, rather surprised myself. “Oh, no; can’t say thet I do.”

“It’s such a beautiful old place—we have all fallen in love with it,” I continued earnestly, in my best society manner.

“O’ course; o’ course,” he agreed. “Most anybody would. Go ahead an’ enj’y it.”

“We are—and I’m doing my best to solve the puzzle,” I added.

“All right, go ahead if it amuses ye,” he said, with an assurance that made my heart sink. “But ef I was you, I’d jest take things easy.”

“Oh, I think it’s worth trying,” I retorted. “I’m going to investigate every rose of Sharon about the place—you know there are apples and plums and early potatoes, and I don’t know what besides, which are called roses of Sharon.”

“Air they?” he asked, laughing. “No, I didn’t know it. It strikes me you’ve got a purty big job on hand. Did ye ever hear the story of the man what left his sons a ten acre field in which he said they was a treasure hid, and they dug fer it an’ dug fer it, till they finally caught on that what he meant was the craps they raised arter diggin’ the field up?”

“Yes,” I said; “I’ve heard that story.”

“Only thet couldn’t apply here, o’ course,” he added, maliciously, “fer ye won’t hev time t’ reap any craps. Howsomever, I ain’t got no objections t’ you’re diggin’ the place up—mebbe I’ll do some reapin’ myself. Only it’s purty hard work—an’ mighty poor prospect of any pay. But I ain’t got nothin’ t’ say till the seventeenth o’ May; I’m givin’ ye a clear field. I’m playin’ fair. I’m a white man, I am.”

It was my turn to be surprised at his flow of words. The emphasis he placed upon them seemed to me a little forced, but I murmured that I was sure he was very generous and fair-minded, and that we all appreciated his kindness in playing fair.

“All right,” he said shortly. “I’m glad t’ hear it. Is thet what your maw wanted t’ tell me? Hardly wuth while fer me t’ come clear out here fer thet.”

“My mother?” I repeated, in astonishment. “But she’s not here. She drove in to the village this afternoon.”

“In to the village?” he repeated, his face flushing a little. “How long ago?”

“Oh, quite a while ago,” I answered. “She had some shopping to do.”

“Mebbe she ’lowed she’d be hum by this time,” he suggested, looking at his watch; and for the first time I noticed the deepening shadows and saw that I had consumed the whole afternoon in my work. “Now I wonder what it could ’a’ been she wanted t’ tell me?” He put his watch back into his pocket, and took a restless step or two up and down. “Ye haven’t heard her say anything about a law-suit, hev ye?” he demanded, stopping before me suddenly.

“A law-suit?” I echoed, perplexed. “What sort of a law-suit?”

“Well,” he proceeded cautiously, watching me closely, “I thought mebbe she’d got some fool notion in her head thet the courts could upset the will, ’r somethin’ o’ thet sort. These lawyer fellers air allers lookin’ out fer jobs.”

“Oh, she won’t do that!” I cried. “If we can’t get the place the way grandaunt wanted us to, we won’t get it at all—mother told Mr. Chester that only last night.”

“She did, hey?” and my visitor drew a sudden deep breath. “Well, thet’s wise of her—no use spendin’ your money on lawyers—though they’d like it well enough, I reckon.”

“I don’t believe mother thought of it that way at all,” I corrected. “She said we really hadn’t any claim on grandaunt, and that she had a perfect right to dispose of her property in any way she wished.”

My companion said nothing for a moment, only stood looking down at me with a queer light in his eyes.

“’Tain’t many people who are so sensible,” he remarked at last. “Well, I must be goin’,” he added. “Sorry I missed yer mother. The next time she sends fer me, tell her t’ be at home.”

“Sends for you?” I repeated again, more and more astonished. “Did she send for you?”

“Thet’s what she did—a boy brought me word. At least, I guess it was from her. Nobody else here’d be sendin’ me any messages, would they, an’ invitin’ me out here t’ see them?”

“No,” I answered; “no, sir; I don’t think they would.”

“Well, I come, anyway; an’ I knocked at the front door, but didn’t git no answer. Then I jest naterally wandered around a little, thinkin’ she might be out here some’rs, an’ I see you a-settin’ here—an’ quite an interestin’ conversation we’ve had, to be sure. You tell her—”

“I don’t believe she sent for you, sir,” I interrupted. “She wouldn’t have gone away, if she was expecting you, and I’m sure she hasn’t come back yet. Besides, if she wanted to see you, she could have done so when she drove to town, instead of getting you to come away out here.” I might have added that I was perfectly certain mother did not want to see him, but to have said so would have been scarcely polite.

“Thet’s so,” he agreed, and stood for a moment in deep study. “Well, I dunno,” he added, at last, slowly. “Looks kind o’ funny, don’t it? Mebbe I made a mistake in thinkin’ the message was from her. I ort t’ have asked the boy. But if anybody’s been playin’ me a trick,” and his face darkened, and he looked at me threateningly, “they’d better watch out.”

“Oh, nobody has been playing you a trick!” I hastened to exclaim. “Who would play you a trick?”

“I dunno,” he repeated. “I dunno. But I’m glad I come, anyway. It’s allers a pleasure t’ meet sech a bright little girl as you air. I know people run me down an’ lie about me; but I jest want t’ tell you thet Silas Tunstall’s heart’s in the right place an’ thet he plays square. I suppose they’ve been tellin’ you all sorts o’ things about me?”

“Oh, no,” I answered politely; “not at all.”

“Said I was a spiritualist, hey?”

“Yes, they said that,” I admitted.

“Well, ain’t I got a right t’ be a spiritualist?” he demanded hotly. “Thet don’t hurt nobody, does it? Did they say I cheated?”

“No, sir.”

“Or stole?”

“No, sir.”

“Or lied?”

“No, sir.”

“But jest because I mind my own business an’ ask other people t’ mind theirs, they’re all arter me. They can’t understand why I don’t spend my evenin’s down to the village store, chewin’ terbaccer an’ spittin’ on the stove. They can’t figger out how I make a livin’, an’ it worries ’em! Oh, I know! I’ve heerd ’em talk! Pah!” Then his anger seemed suddenly to cool. “All I want is t’ be let alone,” he went on, in another tone. “I’m a peaceful man; I don’t harm nobody; an’ I don’t want nobody t’ harm me. But I can’t bear these here busy-bodies what’s allers pokin’ their noses in other people’s business. Say,” he added, suddenly, wheeling around upon me, “s’pose we keep this here meetin’ to our two selves?”

He was smiling down at me cunningly, and I disliked him more than ever.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll have to tell mother, you know.”

“Oh, all right,” he answered, carelessly. “It don’t make no difference t’ me. I’ve got t’ go, anyway—it’s gittin’ dark.”

He turned to go, but at that instant, two figures, robed in white, dropped suddenly, as it seemed, from the very heavens, and I saw Mr. Tunstall, his face purple, struggling wildly in the coils of an almost invisible net. With a shriek, I turned to run; when our enemy, with a scream a hundred times more shrill than mine, collapsed and tumbled in a heap to the ground.