The quest for the rose of Sharon

The dawn, streaming in through the window, awakened me, and, incapable of lying still a moment longer, I climbed down softly from the four-poster, without awakening mother. I hurried into my clothes, and down the stairs to the lower hall, which seemed alarmingly grim and gloomy in the dim light. I paused an instant to give the big grandfather’s clock a little friendly pat—it seemed so kind and fatherly ticking leisurely away there in the gloom, a sober survival of that stately period when time walked instead of ran.

I had a hard struggle with the big wrought-iron bolt of the front door, but finally it yielded, and I swung the door open and stepped out upon the porch.

How fresh and bright and green everything appeared! Every blade of grass was spangled with dew, which the sun, just rising gloriously over the far eastern treetops, was eagerly drinking for his morning draught. It reminded me of Cleopatra—only the sun was drinking diamonds instead of pearls! And how sweet the air was, breathing gently over the orchard, as though loth to leave the scent of the apple-blossoms!

I crossed the lawn and made a little tour of the garden and orchard, discovering a hundred beauties which had escaped me the afternoon before. I found a hedge of lilacs which was just putting forth its first green leaves, and a moment’s inspection showed me that nearly every one of the pretty clusters sheltered a bud. What a gorgeous thing that hedge would be in a few weeks—but perhaps I should never see it! The thought sobered me for an instant; but nothing could long cast a shadow over a morning so glorious, and the cloud soon passed.

Then a bustle of life near the barn attracted me, and I found Abner and Jane busily engaged in milking two cows before turning them out to pasture. They gave me a pleasant good-morning, and I stood for a time watching the milk foaming into the pails.

“Would you like a drink, miss?” asked Jane, and when I nodded a delighted assent, handed me up a foaming tin cup full. How good it tasted, and how sweet it smelled! One would fancy it the nectar of the gods!

“Thank you,” I said, as I handed it back to her. “Some day you must teach me how to milk,” I added. “It must be very difficult.”

“Oh, no, miss,” said Jane, smiling; “there’s jest a knack about it—a kind o’ turn o’ the wrist. I’ll be glad t’ show you whenever you like.”

But I didn’t want to be shown then—there were too many other things to do. I started away on a little tour of discovery, and was surprised to find how large and well-kept the barn, stable, and other out-buildings were. It was here, evidently, that Abner had concentrated such energy as advancing age had left him. I didn’t know then, but I found out afterwards, that the especial pride of every true farmer is his barn and stable, just as the especial pride of every good housewife is her kitchen. And Jane and Abner certainly had reason to be proud of theirs.

Two horses were standing sedately in the stable-yard, their heads over the gate. Behind this was a hen-house, with a large yard surrounded by wire-fencing, and already the cackling from the house indicated that the day’s work had begun. I decided that I would make the chickens my especial care if—

There was always that “if,” everywhere I turned; and I am afraid it did finally succeed in taking some of the brightness out of the sky for me, as I turned back toward the house. Of course, as mother had pointed out, we had no claim on grandaunt; and yet she herself had said that blood is thicker than water and that we were her only relatives. Perhaps we hadn’t treated her as nicely as we might have done; perhaps we had been a little thoughtless, a little too self-centred; but how is one to live with a dragon? And, surely, whatever our faults, we seemed by way of paying dearly enough for them! Was I getting mercenary, I asked myself; was I getting covetous? Was I going to regret that decision that mother had made eight years before? Was the legacy going to prove a curse, instead of a blessing?

The question troubled me for a moment; but I did not have time to find an answer to it, for, as I turned the corner of the house, I saw Dick strolling along one of the paths of the garden.

“Oh, there you are, Biffkins!” he cried. “Come here a minute, will you?”

“Oh, Dick, isn’t it a beautiful old place?” I asked, as I came panting up.

“Scrumptious!” he answered, and stood with his hands in his pockets looking all around.

I may say here that I have never been able to discover the derivation of this word; but it was Dick’s superlative, and I was satisfied.

“By the way,” he went on, after a moment, “where was it you were digging yesterday afternoon, Biffkins?”

“Over here by the wall,” I said, and led him to the rockery, and explained to him my method of procedure. He listened closely and seemingly with considerable interest.

“You’ve got a great head, Biffkins,” he said, approvingly, when I had finished. “I don’t believe that I should ever have figured all that out.”

“Of course it didn’t come to anything,” I said, apologetically.

“That’s got nothing to do with it. Besides, maybe you’ll have better luck next time. If at first you don’t succeed, you know.”

“What was it you and Tom were talking about in the library last night, Dick?” I asked, seeing his benevolent mood and judging it a favorable moment to return to the attack.

“Now, don’t you worry your head about that,” he answered, sharply. “We were planning an expedition. But there’s a bell, and I know it means breakfast. Come on,” and he was off toward the house before I could say another word. I thought it cowardly in him to run away—I know I should have had his secret out of him, if he had only given me a fair show. Dick never was any hand at keeping secrets, especially from his sister.

“Dick,” said mother, when we were seated at the table, “there are a few more things we’ll need from home, if we’re going to stay here a month. If I gave you a list of them, and told you where to find them, do you suppose you could pack them in a trunk and bring them back with you?”

“Yes’m,” said Dick, promptly, for he never really doubted his ability to do things.

“There’s only one thing that worries me,” added mother, “that’s about your studies. Neither you nor Cecil ought to lose a whole month—you, especially, when you have so little—”

I couldn’t bear to hear her talk so, just as though it were certain that we should have to take up the old life again, with its manifold perplexities and narrow outlook.

“Oh, mother,” I cried, “we’re going to find the treasure, you know, and then Dick shall go to college!”

Mother smiled a wistful little smile.

“That would be fine, wouldn’t it?” she said.

“I hope it may come true, for both your sakes; but we mustn’t be too sure—we mustn’t set our hearts on it too much. Besides, whatever happens, I don’t think you ought to lose a whole month.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, mother,” said Dick. “I’ll bring our school-books over, and Cecil and I can put in a couple of hours every morning, so we won’t fall so very far behind. Tom Chester’s got a tutor,” he added, with some irrelevance, “who’s coaching him for the June exams. He comes over from Fanwood every morning.”

“What college is he going to, Dick?” I asked.

“Oh, to Princeton,” said Dick, as though there wasn’t any other.

I knew that it was to Princeton Dick had dreamed of going. He had never confided that dream to anyone but me. And a bold project leaped into my head, which I determined to carry out that very day.

“Well,” said mother, “you’ll never get to college, or anywhere else, if you don’t study, no matter how lucky you are in other ways. So it’s agreed that you and Cecil will put in two hours at your books every morning.”

“Yes, mother,” promised Dick; “that’s agreed.”

“Then I’ll make out a list of what we need,” mother added.

“Will to-morrow do to go after them?” asked Dick, with a note of anxiety in his voice, “because to-day Tom and I were going to—to—”

“Oh, yes; to-morrow will do very well,” said mother, as he stopped in some confusion.

“What is it you’re going to do, Dick?” I questioned, putting my pride in my pocket.

“Never you mind,” he retorted, and fell distractedly silent, only smiling to himself from time to time in a most tantalizing way.

As soon as the meal was finished, having assured himself that mother did not need him for anything, he disappeared as entirely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him; but I suspected that he was somewhere on the other side of that high wall which separated our garden from the Chester place.

Yet, after all, I did not miss him greatly, for mother and I spent the morning in a tour of the house—and such a house! I have already spoken of its exterior; of its interior I know I can give only the most inadequate idea. As I have already said, a wide hall divided the lower floor into two halves. The hall itself reminded me of the pictures I have seen of the great halls in feudal castles, with its beamed ceiling, its waxed floor, its great fireplace and its impressive furniture. On one side were the state apartments, the parlours, connected by a double door. They had apparently been hermetically closed for years, and were very musty and dusty. They were furnished in hideous horsehair, and we closed the door behind us after the merest glance into them. On the other side of the hall were the living rooms, of heroic proportions and furnished with lovely old mahogany of a style which I have since learned is called Hepplewhite. The chairs, the tables, the sideboard, were all things of beauty; graceful, substantial and right in every way. How those old cabinet-makers must have loved their work, and what pains they took with it!

Up-stairs were the bed-rooms, sewing-rooms, servants’ rooms, what not. We went on and on, through room after room, peering into innumerable closets, opening windows and shutters; stopping here and there to exclaim over some beautiful piece of walnut or mahogany, and standing fairly speechless at last among the chaotic heap of treasures in the attic. It was evident enough that the parlours had not always been furnished in horsehair! There was a pair of slender-legged card-tables, inlaid in satin-wood, with entrancing curves—but there; if I stopped to describe one-half the treasures in that attic there would never be an end!

“The Nelson family has lived here for five or six generations, so Mr. Chester told me last night,” said mother, at last. “They’ve always been well-to-do, and that accounts for all this beautiful old furniture. Besides, in those days as in these, the best was always the cheapest. Just see how strong and well-made it all is, built honestly to last many lifetimes. Aunt Nelson seems to have taken fairly good care of it; all it needs is a little upholstering and refinishing. However, it’s no use to talk of that!” and she turned sharply to go down again.

“But, mother, wait a minute,” I protested. “You remember what Mr. Chester said—that he believed the treasure was concealed somewhere in the house? Isn’t this the most likely place of all?”

“No more likely than any one of those scores of chests and drawers and clothes-presses down-stairs,” and she started resolutely to descend.

I followed her despondently. What she said was true, of course; the treasure might be in any one of the closets, or in any one of the innumerable drawers of dressers, cupboards, and bureaus, all of which seemed crammed to overflowing with the accumulations of those six generations. In the beginning, I had had some wild notion of ransacking the house from top to bottom, but I saw now what a physical impossibility that would be in the month allotted us. Alas, six days of that month were already gone!

I went out and sat down on one of the front steps to think it over. After all, I told myself, it would be foolish to go blindly about the search, hoping to look everywhere, and consequently looking nowhere thoroughly. The wise way would be to begin with the more likely places, search them carefully, and so proceed gradually to the less likely ones. And what was the most likely of all? Mr. Chester had said that grandaunt would naturally wish to keep her securities where they would be constantly under her eye and easy of access. The next instant, I sprang to my feet, fairly burning with excitement—to keep them under her eye—to keep them where she could look them over without fear of interruption—it was obvious enough! They must be concealed somewhere in her own room! How stupid I had been!

I fairly flew up the stair and to the room which had been grandaunt’s. It was situated at the front end of the upper hall, right over the front entrance, and overlooking the drive. I hesitated a moment with my hand on the knob, and a little shiver of my old fear of grandaunt swept over me; but I shook it away, opened the door and closed it resolutely behind me. This was no time for foolish sentiment. Besides, I didn’t believe in ghosts.

It was very dark in the room, but I opened one of the shutters and let in a stream of sunlight. Then I sat down to take a careful survey of my surroundings.

The room was not a very large one and was furnished in the simplest fashion. One corner was occupied by a four-poster of moderate size—a mere baby beside the huge one in the guest-chamber. The hangings were rather old and faded, but the bed had on it a quilt, intricately embroidered, which, at another time, would have awakened my enthusiasm. Preoccupied as I was, I paused for an instant to look at it and to wonder at the patience of its maker, for it evidently represented long weeks of labour.

Opposite the bed was a small dressing-table, a very gem of a thing, and in a kind of alcove between the two front windows was a desk, which riveted my attention. It was a very large one, of black walnut, and when I let down the top, innumerable drawers and pigeon-holes were disclosed. There was also a row of drawers down either side to the floor, and in the sides, opening outward behind the drawers, were partitioned receptacles for account-books. All this I took in at a glance, as it were, and my heart was beating wildly, for I knew that this desk was the natural hiding-place of grandaunt’s papers. It was just here that she would keep them!

But the rose of Sharon!

I confess that baffled me for a moment; and yet, I told myself, what was more natural than that the whole hocus-pocus about the rose of Sharon should have been devised merely to throw us off the track. At any rate, I would examine the desk as closely as I could.

There were loose papers and a number of account-books in the pigeon-holes, but a glance at them was sufficient to show me that none of them could be the documents I sought, even had it been probable that grandaunt would have kept such valuable papers so carelessly. The drawers, too, were filled with a litter of papers of various kinds and in the compartments at the sides of the desk, old account-books had been crowded until they would hold no more; but there was nothing which, by any stretch of the imagination, could be made to resemble “stocks, bonds and other securities.” How that phrase mocked me!

The search completed, I sat down again in the chair before the desk and regarded it despondently. The desk itself had been open and not one of the drawers had been locked. The keys, strung upon a wire ring, hung from a tack inside the desk. If grandaunt had kept her securities there, it would, most certainly, have been under lock and key.

There was a wardrobe in the room, but a glance into it had shown me that it contained nothing but an array of grandaunt’s old clothes, hung against the wall. If the papers were not in this desk, where could they be? The room seemed to offer no other reasonable hiding-place—

A dash of colour at the back of the desk caught my eye, and I leaned forward to descry hanging there a little calendar, bearing a picture of a dark girl in a picturesque red costume, standing beside an old well, evidently intended to be Arabian or Egyptian or something Oriental. There was a little line of print under the picture, and my heart leaped with a sudden suffocating rapture as I deciphered it—“The Rose of Sharon!”

I was so a-tremble for a moment that I clutched the arms of the chair to steady myself—to keep myself from failing forward; but the weakness passed, and left behind it a kind of high excitement. My brain seemed somehow wonderfully clear. Without an instant’s hesitation, I counted four pigeon-holes to the right and then three diagonally. The last one was stuffed with papers, which I had already examined. I did not so much as glance at them, as I took them out, but laying them on the desk, I put my hand into the hole and pressed steadily against the back. I half-expected to see the front of the desk swing outward toward me, but apparently nothing happened, though I was certain that I had felt the back of the pigeon-hole move a little. Examining it more carefully with my fingers, I felt a slight projection, and almost at the instant I touched it, a little door at the side of the desk flew open.

I sprang from my seat and peered into the opening. It was a kind of cubby-hole between the pigeon-holes at the front and the back of the desk, its door cunningly concealed by a strip of molding—a secret compartment, if there ever was one—and in it lay a black tin box, the very counterpart of the one Mr. Chester had shown us the night before!

I took but a glance at it, and then, snapping the little door shut, ran frantically for mother. I wanted her to share the joy of the discovery—to be present when the lid was raised.

I found her in the dining-room down-stairs, putting the final touches to the dinner-table.

“Why, Cecil!” she cried, as I burst in upon her. “What has happened? You look—”

“Never mind, mother,” I said, in a kind of hoarse whisper. “Come along. And oh, hurry! I’ve found it!”

Her face whitened suddenly, and she put one hand on the table to steady herself.

“You’ve found it?” she repeated.

I nodded. I was past words. Then I turned to the door, and she followed me—out into the hall, up the stair, into grandaunt’s room. I stopped before the desk.

“See,” I said, my composure partially regained, “this is grandaunt’s desk—the natural place for her to keep her papers—and here is the rose of Sharon,” I went on, showing her the calendar with its Oriental picture and the line beneath. “Here are four pigeon-holes to the right and three diagonally; I press this little spring at the back, and that little door flies open. What do you see inside, mother?”

“A tin box,” answered mother, almost in a whisper.

“And in the box,” I said, “are the papers.” And I drew it forth.

As I did so, a sickening fear fell upon me, for the box was very light. In an agony of terror, I threw up the lid. The box was empty, except for a single sheet of paper. I snatched it out and read it: