The quest for the rose of Sharon

I don’t know how long I lay there, but after a while, I felt a gentle hand laid on my shoulder.

“Good gracious, Miss Cecil!” said a kind voice at the bedside. “Don’t take on so, dear. You’ll make yourself sick!”

“I—I don’t care,” I sobbed desperately. “I wish I was dead. You—you would cry, too.” And I looked up at Jane’s dear old face.

“I know I would,” assented that good creature, and, indeed, at that very moment, she was compelled hastily to use the corner of her apron to check a tear that was wandering down her cheek. “But,” she added, “I’d try t’ bear up ag’in it. Lord knows, me an’ Abner’ll miss you!”

“Thank you, Jane,” I said; “I know you will.”

“An’ anyways, miss,” she went on, her housewifely instinct asserting itself, “I wouldn’t spile this here rose o’ Sharing quilt, the old missus set so much store by.”

“This what, Jane!” I cried, sitting up suddenly, and sliding to the floor, my heart leaping to my throat.

Jane fairly jumped.

“Gracious, miss!” she screamed, “but you give me a start, takin’ me up that quick!” and she pressed her hand against her ample bosom and caught her breath convulsively.

“But what was it you said I was spoiling?” I persisted, for I could scarcely believe that I had heard aright.

“Why, this quilt, to be sure,” she answered. “You was cryin’ on it, and here’s a mark from one o’ your—”

“Yes, yes!” I cried. “But what kind of a quilt did you say it was, Jane?”

Jane pressed her cool hand anxiously to my forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, child,” she said soothingly. “I might ’a’ knowed you would have arter all that worry. I was wrong t’ get ye up. You’d better lay down ag’in. Never mind the quilt—it’s an old thing, anyway.”

“Jane,” I exclaimed, with the calmness of desperation, “will you kindly tell me again what kind of a quilt you said this was?”

“It’s a rose o’ Sharing quilt, miss,” answered Jane. “Don’t y’ see these little flowers in every other square an’ this here big one in the middle? Missus allers kept it on her bed, an’ would never let any of us touch it; though I could never guess why she thought so much of it, fer it ain’t purty, to my mind.”

While she was speaking, I had rushed to the windows and thrown back the shutters; and as the bright morning sun streamed into the room, I bent over and looked at the quilt with eyes so throbbing with excitement that I could scarcely see it. Sure enough, on each alternate patch was a little rude conventional representation of the althea blossom, and on the centre patch was a much larger one of the tall, upright bush, worked with considerable care. Around the border of the quilt ran a design of leaves.

With hands that trembled so I could scarcely hold it, I snatched the quilt off the bed, and starting at the central figure, counted four squares to the right and three diagonally. But the square that I arrived at felt precisely like all the others. There was nothing under it save the thick soft stuffing of the quilt.

“You’ve got it upside down, miss,” observed Jane, who had been watching me uncomprehendingly, puzzled, but much cooler than I.

“Upside down?”

“Yes,” and she pointed to the central square.

I turned it around and tried the same formula—four to the right, diagonally three. What was this, rustling beneath my fingers? Not cotton nor wool, but something stiff, crinkling in my grasp like paper—like stocks—like bonds!

“Jane!” I gasped, falling to my knees in sudden weakness; “Jane, oh, Jane, I’ve found it!”

“Found it, miss?” repeated Jane, in bewilderment.

“Yes—the treasure! Oh, Jane!” and I was on my feet again galvanized into action at the thought. “We must get to Plumfield! We must get to Plumfield, or it will be too late!”

The meaning of it all burst in upon Jane’s understanding like a lightning-flash, and she staggered and grew faint under the shock.

“Jane,” I cried, seeing from her staring eyes that heroic measures were necessary, “if you faint now I’ll never speak to you again!” and I actually pinched her earnestly, viciously, on the arm. “Go tell Abner to hitch up the horse,” I added, “just as quick as he can. A minute or two may mean—”

“‘JANE!’ I GASPED ... ‘JANE, OH, JANE, I’VE FOUND IT!’”

“He’s out in the hill-paster,” said Jane, reviving. “He said he couldn’t stand it t’ stay around the house.”

My heart sank as I followed her down the stairs. The hill pasture was a good mile away.

“Perhaps we can hitch up ourselves,” I suggested, hugging the precious quilt to me—feeling the papers crinkle in my grasp.

“I kin hitch up,” said Jane, “but I can’t ketch old Susan, an’ never could. She jest naterally runs when she sees me a-comin’.”

“Well, we’ll try,” I said, desperately, for I hadn’t much confidence in my horse-catching abilities. “Come on,” and laying the quilt on the table in the hall, I opened the front door and ran down the steps—and right into a boy who was standing there and staring disconsolately up at the house.

“Oh, Tom!” I cried, a great load lifted from my heart. “Oh, but I’m glad to see you! Tom, I’ve found the treasure!”

For an instant, I thought he didn’t understand, he stood staring at me so queerly, with all the colour fading out of his cheeks. Then it rushed back again in a flood, and he sprang at me and caught me by the hands in a way that quite frightened me.

“Say it again, Biffkins!” he cried. “Say it again!”

“I’ve found the treasure,” I repeated, as calmly as I could. “And, oh, Tom, don’t squeeze my hands so—we must drive to town right away—to the notary’s office—maybe we’ll be too late—and will you catch the horse?”

“Will I?” he cried. “Ask me if I’ll jump over the moon, Biffkins, and I’ll say yes. Get ready,” and he was off toward the pasture, where old Susan was placidly grazing, quite unconscious of the great mission that awaited her.

I folded up the quilt and got on my hat and went down to the door; and here in a moment came Tom, driving like mad. And Jane was standing there rocking her arms—

“Hop in, Biffkins!” cried Tom, drawing up with a great scattering of gravel. And I hopped in.

“God bless you!” cried Jane, from the steps. “God bless you!” and as we turned out into the road, I looked back and saw her still standing there waving her apron after us.

“Is that the treasure?” asked Tom, when we were fairly in the road and headed for town, looking at the quilt in my arms. “It doesn’t look much like a treasure, I must say. Is that it?”

“Yes—that is, I think it is, Tom.”

“Don’t you know?” he asked.

“I—I believe it is, Tom,” I stammered, my heart sinking a little. “I didn’t want to stop to look. Feel right here.”

He took one hand from the reins and felt carefully.

“Doesn’t that feel like stocks and bonds?” I asked.

“It certainly feels like something,” he admitted. “Well, we’ll soon find out,” and he turned his whole attention to encouraging the astonished Susan.

I dare say that that old horse, in all her eighteen years, had never covered that road so swiftly; but the two miles seemed like ten to me, and I think the most welcome sight I ever saw in my life was the scattered group of houses which marks the centre of the little village. We dashed down the street with a clatter that brought the people to their windows, and stopped at last at the little frame building which served the notary for an office.

I jumped out, and without waiting for Tom, ran up the little flight of steps to the door, with the quilt flapping wildly about me. And just as I laid my hand upon the knob, the door opened from within, and Silas Tunstall stood looking down at me, his face lighted by a smile of triumph.

“Well, what’s the matter, young one?” he asked.

“I want to see Mr. Chester,” I gasped; “right away.”

“Mr. Chester? Well, he’s in there; go on in.”

He went on down the steps, but looked at the quilt in my arms with a little start as I passed him, hesitated a moment, and then came back and stood in the doorway.

But I had burst into the room as though hurled from a catapult. I saw a group about the table.

“Oh, Mr. Chester!” I cried. “I’ve found it—the treasure!”

I was thrusting the old quilt into his arms—laughing, crying—while he stared down at me with puzzled face. Then he stared at the quilt and seemed still more astonished.

“The treasure?” he repeated, mechanically. “The treasure?”

“HE STRETCHED OUT A LEAN HAND TO TAKE IT, BUT MR. CHESTER SNATCHED IT HASTILY AWAY.”

“Yes; yes!” I cried. “Four to the right, diagonally three. See!” and I guided his hand to the proper square.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, as he felt of it. “There is something here. Let us see,” and he got out his pen-knife.

“No, you don’t!” cried Silas Tunstall’s voice from the door. “It’s too late—it’s all settled, ain’t it? You’ve give up, ain’t you? That there quilt’s mine, an’ I’d thank you to return it!”

He stretched out a lean hand to take it, but Mr. Chester snatched it hastily away.

“It’s mine, I tell you!” he repeated hotly. “Give it back, ’r I’ll hev you arrested, you thief!”

I could not but admire the man. Even in a moment such as this, he had presence of mind to retain the drawl.

Mr. Chester looked at him, frowning thoughtfully, and my heart grew cold within me. To be too late now! But in a moment, his brows relaxed.

“Mr. Jones,” he said, turning to the notary, “the will specifically states that the heirs are to be allowed one month to find this treasure, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And nothing that we or anyone else can do in the meantime can alter that?”

“I should think not; no, sir, certainly not.”

“Very well. Mrs. Nelson did not die until twelve minutes after twelve o’clock; so we have still,” added Mr. Chester, glancing at his watch, “twenty minutes in which to find this treasure. If we do find it within that time, the property belongs to Mrs. Truman and her children.”

“No, you don’t!” snarled Silas, again. “Don’t try any of your lawyer tricks on me. I won’t stand it! You’ve give it up, I tell you; you can’t go back on your word!”

The room was still as death; everyone seemed to hold his breath with the suspense of the moment.

Only Mr. Chester was apparently unmoved. With a sharp snip, which cut the silence like a knife, he ripped open the square of the quilt and drew forth a flat package of papers. He opened it, and looked them over with a quick movement. I could see that his hands were trembling a little despite himself. I was watching him intent, with bated breath, but I was still conscious, somehow, of Tom’s white, strained face beside me. What a dear fellow he was!

Mr. Chester passed the papers to the notary, and the two held a moment’s whispered conference as they looked them over. Then Mr. Chester turned back to us, and his face was beaming.

“Miss Truman,” he said, “I congratulate you. You have indeed found the treasure, and the Court rules that the property is yours.”

Mother was laughing convulsively, with the tears streaming down her face; Dick’s arms were about my neck; Tom had both my hands and was shaking them wildly. There was such a mist before my eyes that I could scarcely see.

“Oh, Biffkins!” cried my brother. “Oh, Biffkins, what a trump you are!”

I can’t tell clearly what happened just then, we were all so moved and so excited. I remember hearing what seemed to be a scuffle at the door, followed by a muttered oath and a sharp command, and I looked around to see two strangers standing in the doorway, and one of them had a pistol pointed straight at Silas Tunstall, who was staring at it, his hands above his head.

We all of us stood, for an instant, gaping in amazement at this strange spectacle.

“What’s all this?” demanded Mr. Tunstall, angrily. “Turn that there gun another way, young feller.”

The “young feller,” a well-built, clean-shaven man of middle age, laughed derisively.

“Oh, come, Jim,” he said; “it won’t do,” and reaching forward with his disengaged hand, he deliberately plucked out by the roots a tuft of Mr. Tunstall’s beard. At least, I thought for a moment it was by the roots—then I saw that there weren’t any roots, but that the beard was a false one, cunningly glued on. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he added, glancing around at us, “permit me to introduce to you Mr. James Bright, the cleverest confidence man in the United States.”

The prisoner’s face relaxed; in fact he was actually smiling.

“All right, Briggs,” he said, and I saw how the others stared in astonishment at a tone which I knew to be his natural one. “What’s it for, this time?”

“This,” answered the detective, and drew a roll of new greenbacks from his pocket. “The best you’ve done yet,” he added. “And a fine plant you’ve got out there at that little place of yours. We’ve been all through it.”

“Is this one of them?” asked Mr. Chester, and produced the counterfeit which had been passed on him the day before.

“Yes, that’s a sample,” answered Briggs, glancing at it. “They worried us for a while, I tell you. Of course we knew right away it was Jim’s work.”

“You’ll have to prove it’s mine,” pointed out the prisoner.

“Oh, we can do that easily enough. Your fingers give you away.”

And, looking at them, I saw again the curious stains I had noticed a few days before. And I also suddenly understood the odour which filled Mr. Tunstall’s parlour.

“But we’ve lost track of you,” went on the detective. “It’s nearly a year since we heard of you—you’d buried yourself so well down here—and we hadn’t the least idea where to look for you. One of my men has been shadowing your house off and on for some time, because we had heard some rather curious stories about one Silas Tunstall, and we wanted to find out something more about him. But we never suspected it was you. That spiritualistic dodge was an inspiration and that disguise is a work of art.”

“Yes,” agreed the captive complacently, “I’m rather proud of it, myself. There was just one person it did not deceive.”

“Who was that?” asked the detective.

“That sharp-eyed and quick-witted young lady yonder,” said the prisoner, and bowed in my direction.

They all stared at me, and I felt that my cheeks were very crimson.

“Why, Cecil,” began mother, but the prisoner interrupted her.

“Understand, madam,” he said, “she didn’t know I was engaged in anything crooked; I don’t suppose she even suspected that these whiskers were false; but she had caught my dialect tripping in an unguarded moment, and she saw through me right away. I congratulate her,” he added. “She’s the cleverest I ever met.”

I had never liked Mr. Tunstall, but, I confess that, in this new incarnation, there was something fascinating about the man. He seemed so superior to circumstances and so indifferent to them. There he stood now, more unconcerned and self-possessed than anyone else in the room.

“I know we were dense,” said the detective, grimly; “but, anyway, we got you.”

“Who put you next?” asked the prisoner, curiously.

“Shorty,” replied the detective, smiling broadly. “We got him yesterday in New York, with the goods on, gave him the third degree and he peached last night.”

“The cur!” muttered the prisoner between his teeth, his face hard as iron. “I stayed here too long,” he added. “I’d have been away from here a month ago, but for this fool business,” and he nodded toward the packet of papers. “I was like a good many others—I thought maybe I could make enough to be honest!”

“Well, you’ll be honest for some years to come, Jim,” laughed the detective, “whether you want to or not; so perhaps it’s just as well—and Uncle Sam’ll breathe a lot easier! Put the cuffs on him, Bob,” he added, to his companion.

I saw the other man draw from his pocket something of shining steel, and take a step forward. The prisoner held out his hands—and suddenly the handcuffs were hurled full into the detective’s face. He staggered back against his companion, the blood spurting from his lips, and in that instant, the prisoner had ducked past, was out the door and away. They were after him in a moment, but by the time we got outside, the fugitive had disappeared as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him. Two or three excited people were leading the detectives toward a strip of woodland which stretched back from the road, and which formed a perfect covert; others were running out from their houses, and were soon in full pursuit; but that was the last that I, or, as far as I know, any of those then present, ever saw of the famous Jim Bright.

And that’s the story. For why need I tell of the drive home—home—yes, home! Of Abner and Jane—of the dinner that evening—oh, quite a different meal from the one of the night before. You can imagine it all much better than I can tell it. And though it was all three years ago, there is a little mist before my eyes whenever I think of it. It is sweet to think of it, and it has been sweet to tell about it.

And how we have grown to love the old place! The old furniture has been brought down out of the attic, and the horsehair hidden from view under the eaves. For my own room, I have taken grandaunt’s, and my little desk is between the two front windows, and I can look out over the walk and down to the road. And on my bed there is a quilt, rather a faded and ugly quilt—but the quilt—and it shall always stay there. And Dick is a junior at Princeton, and so is—

I hear a quick step on the walk below my window, and a clear voice, “Oh, Biffkins!”

“Yes, Tom,” I answer; “in a minute.”

Old Tom! For grandaunt’s legacy has brought me more than a beautiful home—more than stocks and bonds—I can’t write it—but you can guess! Oh, I know, dear reader, you can guess!

THE END.