The quest for the rose of Sharon

It was only an hour’s run to the little station of Fanwood, which is as near as one can get to Plumfield by rail; and there Mr. Chester had a carriage waiting for us, and we drove over to the little village a mile away, where Grandaunt Nelson had lived nearly all her life. The road was a pleasant one, winding between well-kept hedges, and just rolling enough to give one occasional views of the country round about. In the distance, to the west, we could see a range of hills, and Mr. Chester told us that from their summit, on a clear day, one could see the ocean, forty or fifty miles away to the eastward.

Plumfield struck me as a very fragmentary and straggling sort of village—so straggling, in fact, that it was scarcely recognizable as a village at all, and seemed to have no beginning and no end. There were two or three little stores, a church and a few houses—

“Though,” Mr. Chester explained, “the village isn’t so small as it looks. It is spread out a good deal, and you can’t see it all at one glance.”

We had lunch at the old inn, which had been built before the Revolution, so they said, and where our arrival created quite a commotion. Mr. Chester had hurried away to make the arrangements for opening the will, and came back in about an hour to tell us that everything was ready. We walked down the street and around the corner to a tiny frame building, with “Notary Public” on a swinging sign over the door, and Mr. Chester ushered us into the stuffy little office.

The notary was already there, a little, wrinkled man, with very white hair and beard which stood out in a halo all around his face. He held his head on one side as he talked, and reminded me of a funny little bird. He was introduced to us as Mr. Jones, and was evidently very nervous. I judged that it had been a long time since his office had been the scene of a ceremony so important as that which was about to take place there.

Scarcely were the introductions over, when the door opened and another man came in,—a tall, thin man, with a red face framed in a ragged beard. He wore an old slouch hat, and a black bow tie, and an ill-fitting black frock coat and white trousers which bagged at the knees—the whole effect being peculiarly rural and unkempt, almost studiously so. Indeed, as I glanced at his face again, I fancied that, with the fantastic beard shaved off, it would be a very clever and capable one. His eyes were very small and very bright, and as they rested upon me for an instant, I felt a little shiver shoot along my spine. The notary did not even look at him, but busied himself with some papers on his desk. Mr. Chester, however, nodded to him curtly, and informed us in an aside that his name was Silas Tunstall, and that he also was interested in the will. The newcomer, without seeming in the least abashed by his chilly reception, sat down calmly, balanced his hat against the wall, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and after helping himself to a chew of tobacco from a package he took from his pocket, folded his arms and awaited events.

“I think we are all here?” queried the notary, looking inquiringly at Mr. Chester.

“Yes,” nodded the latter. “We may as well go ahead.”

The notary cleared his throat and carefully polished and adjusted his spectacles. Then he picked up from the desk before him an impressive-looking envelope, sealed with a great splurge of red wax.

“I have here,” he began with great solemnity, “the last will and testament of the late Eliza Nelson, which has been delivered to me by Mr. Chester, properly sealed and attested. You have been summoned here to listen to the reading of this document, which will then be filed for probate, in the usual way. I will ask Mr. Chester to read it,” and he opened the envelope and drew forth a paper covered with writing.

“It is not a very long will,” remarked Mr. Chester, as he took the paper, “but it is, in some respects, a most peculiar one, as you can judge for yourselves;” and he proceeded to read slowly:

“It is witnessed by Jane and Abner Smith,” added Mr. Chester, “the two servants mentioned in the will. It is regular in every way.”

We sat in a dazed silence, trying to understand. After a moment, Silas Tunstall leaned forward.

“Kin I see it?” he asked, and held out his hand, his little eyes gleaming more brightly than ever.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Chester, and passed the paper over to him.

He examined the signatures and the date, and then, settling back again in his chair, proceeded to read the document through for himself. While he was so engaged, I had a chance to look at him more closely, and I was struck by the profound meanness of his appearance. What sort of philosophy could it be, I wondered, of which he was an earnest and useful disciple? Not one, certainly, which made for largeness of character, if Mr. Tunstall himself was to be taken as an example, and if I read his countenance aright. I saw that my aversion was shared by the other two men present, who no doubt knew Mr. Tunstall well. Both of them sat watching him gloomily, as he read the will, but neither spoke or showed the impatience which they probably felt.

When he had finished, he handed the paper back to Mr. Chester, without a word, but his face was positively glowing with a satisfaction he made no effort to conceal.

“Yes,” he said, “thet’s all reg’lar. Anything else?”

Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to me.

“Doesn’t it say that there is a key to be furnished us, Mr. Chester?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said quickly. “I had forgotten. Here it is,” and he handed mother a little sealed envelope. “You will see it is addressed to you, Mrs. Truman,” he added.

“It doesn’t feel like a key,” she murmured, holding it between her fingers. Then she read what was written on the outside of the envelope:

“I have no idea what the envelope contains,” said Mr. Chester. “It was brought to me sealed as you see it.”

“Oh, don’t you see!” I cried, fairly jumping in my chair with excitement. “It’s not that kind of a key—not a for-sure key—it’s a key to the puzzle—a key to where the bonds and things are.”

“Well, we’ll soon see,” said mother, and tore open the envelope with trembling fingers. Mr. Chester, I think, had half a mind to stop her, but thought better of it and leaned back in his chair again.

I couldn’t wait—I was dying with impatience—and I skipped over to her side.

The only contents of the envelope was a little slip of paper.

“Why, it’s poetry!” I cried, as mother drew it out and unfolded it. And, indeed, there were four rhymed lines written upon it:

Not good verse, perhaps; but sufficiently tantalizing!

I don’t know precisely how it happened, but as I stooped to take the slip of paper from mother’s fingers, it somehow fluttered away from us, and after a little gyration or two, settled to the floor exactly at Silas Tunstall’s feet. He picked it up, before any one could interfere, and calmly proceeded to read the lines written upon it, before he handed it back to us. I saw the quick flush which sprang to Mr. Chester’s face, but the whole thing was over in a minute, almost before anyone could say a word.

Mr. Tunstall’s face was positively beaming, and he chuckled audibly as he picked up his hat and rose to his feet.

“Thet’s all fer the present, ain’t it, Mr. Chester?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s all, I think.”

“Let’s see—when did Mis’ Nelson die?”

“Three days ago—the seventeenth.”

“One month from thet’ll be May seventeenth, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“All right; don’t ferget the date. May seventeenth—I’ll see ye all ag’in then. Good day, madam,” he added, with a deep bow to mother.

He smiled around upon us with malicious meaning, and I fancied his eye lingered upon me for an instant longer than the rest. Then he went out and shut the door behind him.

I could have sworn that I heard him chuckling to himself as he went down the steps to the street.