The quest for the rose of Sharon

I think we were all a little dazed by the scene we had just gone through. Indeed, the problem grandaunt had set us was enough to confuse anyone. For myself, I know that I have only the most confused recollection of Mr. Chester bundling us into the carriage, of a long drive over a smooth country road, past stately old houses and pretty modern cottages half-hidden among the trees, and finally of rolling through a massive stone gateway, and of getting out, at last, before a great, square red-brick house with a beautiful columned doorway, where two old people, a man and a woman, stood bobbing their heads to us and gazing at us with a curiosity not unmixed with apprehension.

“This is to be your home for the next month, at least,” said Mr. Chester, “and, I hope, for always. This is Abner Smith,” he continued, beckoning the old people forward, “and this is his wife, Jane. They were good and faithful servants to Mrs. Nelson, as she has said.”

They were a plump and comfortable-looking couple, with faces like ruddy apples and hair like driven snow, and eyes which still retained some of the fire of youth. They were good to look at, striking examples of a well-spent life and beautiful old age. One saw instantly that they were trustworthy and lovable, and as I looked at them, I knew that they would be good and faithful servants to us also. I felt, somehow, that the possession of these two old retainers gave an added dignity to the family—a sort of feudal antiquity, very pleasant and impressive, and quite in keeping with the place.

But I had only a moment for such reflections, for Mr. Chester bade us good-bye, adding that he was coming back to take us home with him to dinner.

“I’ve got a little something a-waitin’ fer ye,” observed Mrs. Abner, hesitating between a natural shyness and a desire to please. “I know how travellin’ tires a person out.”

“Indeed it does,” agreed mother cordially, and we followed our guide into the house, along a wide hall, and through an open door into a pleasant room, where a table stood spread with snowy linen, and looking most inviting.

“Why, this is scrumptious!” cried Dick. “Mrs. Smith, I think you’re—you’re a jewel!”

“It’s jest a little lunch,” she said, apologetically.

“Jest t’ take the edge off;” but her cheeks flushed with pleasure at his words.

“And I’m used t’ bein’ called Jane, sir,” she added.

“And I’m not in the least used to being called sir,” retorted Dick, “and I don’t like it. My name is Dick, and this young lady’s name is Cecil, but she prefers to be called Biffkins. Don’t you think Biffkins suits her?”

Jane looked me over with a critical countenance, while Dick watched her, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes,” she answered, gravely, at last, “I think it does.”

“I knew you’d say so,” laughed Dick. “Everybody does. Now, I gave her that name, and I’m proud of it.”

Mother had been taking off her hat and listening with an amused countenance.

“You mustn’t take these two children too seriously, Jane,” she said, warningly. “And if they don’t behave themselves properly, just let me know!”

Jane smiled at both of us, but she was evidently thinking of something else, for she stood pulling a corner of her apron nervously between her fingers.

“I—I hope you’ve come t’ stay, ma’am,” she said, at last, looking at mother with an apprehension she could not conceal. Plainly, she did not believe in the philosophy of which Mr. Tunstall was so vigorous and enlightened a disciple—or, perhaps, it was the disciple she objected to. I felt my heart warm to Jane.

“I don’t know,” said mother. “We hope to stay, too; but there’s a condition—”

“Yes’m,” nodded Jane, “I know—me an’ Abner was the witnesses, y’know,” she went on, apologetically. “I’m free to confess, we never quite understood it.”

“We none of us quite understand it, yet,” answered mother. “We’ll see what we can make of it to-morrow.”

Jane took the words for a dismissal, and left us to ourselves. We were all weary and hungry, more, I think, from excitement than fatigue, but ten minutes with the appetizing luncheon Jane had spread for us worked wonders. I remember especially a bowl of curds, or smear-case, seasoned to a marvel and with a dash of cream on top, which seemed to me the most perfect food I had ever eaten. I came afterwards to know better the perfections of Jane’s cookery, but nothing she ever made could eclipse the memory of that bowl of white-and-yellow toothsomeness.

Ten minutes after sitting down, I was myself again; I felt that my brain had returned to its normal condition, and I was fairly aching to begin working on the problem which confronted us, and which I, at least, was determined to solve with the least possible delay.

“You have that slip of paper with the verse, haven’t you, mother?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” and she drew it from her purse, where she had placed it carefully, and handed it to me.

Dick got up and came to my side, to read the lines over my shoulder.

“What nonsense!” he said, in disgust. “You don’t expect to solve any such riddle as that, do you, Biffkins?”

“Yes, I do,” I cried, and read the lines over again.

“Well, if you do, you’ll surprise me,” said Dick.

“I know one thing,” I flashed out, “it won’t be solved without trying.”

“Do you really think there’s an answer to it?” queried Dick.

“Of course there is,” I asserted confidently. “Grandaunt wouldn’t have written this unless it meant something.”

“I don’t know,” said Dick, doubtfully. “The reasoning doesn’t quite hold water. Lots of people write things that don’t mean anything.”

“Well, the meaning of this is obvious enough,” I retorted. “Mother, what is a rose of Sharon? Isn’t it a flower?”

“Why, bless the child!” exclaimed mother, setting down her cup with a little bang, “of course it is! It’s a shrub—a hardy shrub that grows quite tall, sometimes. Many people call it the althea.”

“Well, that’s the first step,” I cried triumphantly. “And now the second—”

“The second,” echoed Dick, as I hesitated. “Well, go ahead, Biffkins; what’s the second?”

“The second is to find the bush,” I said.

“And the third?”

“To find the treasure, goose!”

“It sounds easy, doesn’t it?” Dick commented, his head on one side. “We find the bush and then we find the treasure, and then we live happy ever afterwards.”

“I think it more important to find first where we’re going to sleep,” said mother. “Then, our bags are still at the station, and we’ll have to have them.”

“I’ll go after them,” said Dick, picking up his hat. “I dare say there’s a horse and buggy attached to this place.”

“And I’ll ask Jane about the beds,” said mother, rising.

“And I’ll go treasure-hunting,” said I, pausing only long enough to snatch up my hat.

“Well, good luck, Biffkins,” Dick called after me, and started back toward the barn, leaving me alone at the front door, intent on the problem.

The first thing to do, I felt, was to make a survey of the house and grounds, and this I found to be no little task. Indeed, I soon became so absorbed in their beauty that I nearly forgot the puzzle I had set myself to solve. Let me describe the place as well as I can, and you will not wonder that, as the days went on, the prospect of losing it should become more and more dreadful to me.

The house was of red brick, square, in a style which I have since been told is Georgian. In the middle front was a portico, stone-floored, with four white columns supporting its roof, and with an iron railing curving along either side of its wide stone steps, five in number. The front door was heavily panelled, and bore a great brass knocker. A wide hall ran through the centre of the house, with the rooms opening from it on either side—large, square rooms, with lofty ceilings, and heated either by means of wide fire-places or Franklin stoves. But of the interior of the house I shall speak again—it was the exterior which first claimed my attention.

It stood well back from the road, in a grove of stately elms, which must have been planted at the time the house was built, nearly three quarters of a century before. A beautiful lawn, flanked by hedges of hardy shrubs, sloped down to the road, and to the right of the house, surrounded by a close-clipped hedge of box, was a flower garden laid out in a queer, formal fashion which I had never seen before. It looked desolate and neglected, but here and there the compelling sun of spring had brought out a tinge of green. Beyond the garden was a high brick wall, covered with vines, shutting us off from the view of our neighbours.

Back of the house was the kitchen garden, nearly an acre in extent, and surrounded by rows of raspberry and currant bushes. Along one side of it was a double grape-arbour, separating it from the orchard. Cherries and peaches were putting on their bridal robes of white and pink, and as I passed beneath their branches, drinking deep draughts of the fragrant air, I could hear the bees, just awakened from their winter sleep, busy among the petals. Near a sheltering wind-break, I caught the outline of a group of stables and other out-buildings, behind which stretched rolling fields, some green with winter wheat, some stubbly from last year’s corn, some brown and fallow, ready for the plow. A respect for grandaunt, which I had never had before, began to rise within me. Surely the owner of such a place as this could not be without her good qualities. To administer it must have taken thought and care, and simply to live in it must be, in a way, softening and uplifting. If Fate would only will that I might always live in it——

I heard the rattle of wheels on the road from the stables, and there was Dick, setting forth proudly on his trip to the station. He waved his cap to me, chirruped to the horse, with whom he seemed to be already on the friendliest of terms, and passed from sight around the house, while I turned again to the inspection of the premises. At the end of half an hour, I was fairly breathless with excitement; to be mistress of this splendid estate, this wide domain! what a thought! How could life ever lose its interest here, or days pass slowly!

“It isn’t ours,” I said aloud, suddenly chilled by the thought. “It isn’t ours. But I will make it ours!” And I shut my teeth tight together, and turned towards the flower-garden. No more idling or day-dreaming! Every minute must be spent in the search for the treasure—the “stocks, bonds, and other securities,” as the will described them, which grandaunt had concealed somewhere about the place—a hiding-place to which the only clue was the rose of Sharon!