The Quest for the Rose of Sharon

The Works of

Burton E. Stevenson

L. C. Page & Company, Publishers
New England Building Boston, Mass.

“‘BEEN DIGGIN’, HEV YE! LOOKIN’ FER THE TREASURE, MEBBE!’”
(See page [128].)

THE QUEST FOR THE
ROSE OF SHARON

By

BURTON E. STEVENSON

Author of “The Marathon Mystery,” “The Halliday
Case,” “The Young Section Hand,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON L. C. PAGE &
COMPANY MDCCCCIX

Copyright, 1906
By The Butterick Publishing Co.
Copyright, 1909
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)
All rights reserved
First Impression, April, 1909
Electrotyped and Printed at
THE COLONIAL PRESS:
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

Contents

List of Illustrations

The Quest for the Rose of Sharon

Chapter I
Grandaunt Nelson

Grandaunt always was eccentric. Indeed, I was sometimes tempted to call her a much harsher name in the dark days when the clouds hung so heavy above us that I often doubted if there really was a sun behind them. But, as Mr. Whittier says, “Death softens all resentments, and the consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies the severity of judgment;” and, looking back through the mist of years which blurs the sharp outlines of those days of trial, I can judge grandaunt more leniently than it was then possible for me to do. So I will let the adjective stand as I have written it.

I remember our first meeting as distinctly as though it had happened yesterday.

I had wandered down the shining path of slate to our front gate, one morning. It had rained the night before, which accounted for the path shining so in the sun’s rays; and the air was soft and warm, and the world altogether beautiful—but not to me, for I was oppressed by a great sorrow which I could not in the least understand. So I stood for a long time, clutching the slats of the gate, and gazing disconsolately out at the great, unknown world beyond.

Solitary pilgrimages into that world had always been forbidden me, and I had never questioned the wisdom or justice of the edict; being well content, indeed, with the place God had given me to live in, and desiring nothing better than to stay in my own little Paradise behind the shelter of the gate, with the Angel of Peace and Contentment guarding it, and watch the world sweep by. But that morning a hot rebellion shook me. Things were not as they had been in my Paradise,—all the joy had gone out of it; the sun seemed to shine no longer in the garden; the Angel had flown away. Why I scarcely knew, but with sudden resolution I reached for the latch.

And just then a tall figure loomed over me, and I found myself staring up into a pair of terrifically-glittering spectacles.

“What’s your name, little girl?” asked the stranger.

“Cecil Truman, ma’am,” I stammered, awed by the severity of her face and a certain magisterial manner which reminded me of the Queen of Hearts—as though she might at any moment cry, “Off with her head!”—and far more effectively than the foolish Queen of Hearts ever did.

“Cecil Truman, ma’am,” I repeated, for she said nothing for a moment, only stood looking down at me in the queerest manner, and I thought she had not understood.

“Cecil!” she said, at last, with a derisive sniff. “Why, that’s a boy’s name! Yet it’s like him, too; yes, I recognize him in that! Nothing sensible about him!”

I hadn’t the least idea what she meant, but dug desperately at the path with my toe, certain that I had committed some hideous offence.

“Is that the only name you’ve got?” she demanded, suddenly.

“Dick calls me ‘Biffkins,’ ma’am,” I said, hesitatingly. “Perhaps you’ll like that better.”

But she only sniffed again, as she leaned over the gate and raised the latch.

“I’m your Grandaunt Nelson,” she announced, and started up the path to the house. Then she stopped, looking back. “Aren’t you coming?” she demanded.

“No, ma’am,” I answered, for it did not seem probable to me that Grandaunt Nelson was calculated to bring the sunlight back into my Paradise. “I’m going away.”

“Going away!” she repeated sharply. “What’s the child thinking of? Going away where?”

For answer, I made a sort of wide gesture toward the world outside the gate, and reached again for the latch.

But she had me by the arm in an instant, and with no gentle grasp.

“You’ll come with me,” she said grimly, and hustled me beside her up the path, so rapidly that my feet touched it only occasionally.

I do not remember the details of my mother’s reception of grandaunt; but I do remember that I was handed over to her by my formidable relative with the warning that I needed a spanking. And presently mother took me up to her room to find out what it was all about; and when I had told her, as well as I could, she kissed me and cried over me, murmuring that she, also, would love to run away, if she only could; for the beautiful Prince had vanished from her fairy kingdom, too, and was never, never coming back. But, after all, she said, it was only cowards who ran away; brave people did not run away, but faced their trials and made the best of them.

“And oh, Cecil,” she added, smiling at me, though the smile was a little tremulous, “We will be brave, won’t we, and never, never run away?”

I promised, with my head against her shoulder, but I must confess that, at the moment, I felt anything but brave.

There was soon, no doubt, another reason why she should wish to run away, and why she needed all her courage and forbearance to keep from doing so; for not only was her Prince vanished, but she was a queen dethroned.

From the moment of her arrival, grandaunt assumed charge of things; the house and everything therein contained were completely under her iron sway, and we bowed to her as humbly as did the serfs of the Middle Ages to their feudal lord, who held the right of justice high and low.

Dick and I were both too young, of course, to understand fully the great blow which had befallen us in father’s death. Dick was eight and I was six, and we had both grown up from babyhood with that blind reliance upon a benevolent and protecting Providence, characteristic of birds and children. We had no thought of danger—no knowledge of it. Now that the bolt had fallen, we were absorbed in a sense of personal loss; we knew that we should no longer find father in that long room under the eaves, with its great north light, and its queer costumes hanging against the walls, and its tall easel and its pleasant, pungent smell of paint. Once or twice we had tiptoed up the stairs in the hope that, after all, he might be there—but he never was—only mother, sitting in the old, armless chair before the easel, the tears streaming down her cheeks, as she gazed at the half-finished painting upon it. I shall never forget how she caught us up and strained us to her—but there. The Prince had left his Kingdom, and the place was fairyland no longer—only a bleak and lonely attic which gave one the shivers to enter. Its dear spirit had fled, and its sweetness.

I have only to close my eyes to see Grandaunt Nelson sitting at the table-head, with mother at the foot, and Dick and me opposite each other midway on either side. Mother had been crushed by the suddenness of her loss, and drooped for a time like a blighted flower; but grandaunt was erect and virile—uncrushable, I verily believe, by any bolt which Fate could hurl against her. Her face was dark and very wrinkled, crowned by an aureole of white hair—a sort of three-arched aureole, one arch over each ear, and one above her forehead. Her lips were thin and firmly set in a straight line, moving no more than was absolutely necessary to give form to her words, so that sometimes her speech had an uncanny ventriloquial effect very startling. Her eyes were ambushed behind her glasses, which I never saw her without, and was sure she wore to bed with her. Her figure was tall and angular, and was clothed habitually in black, cut in the most uncompromising fashion. I must concede grandaunt the virtue—if it be a virtue in woman—that she never made the slightest effort to disguise her angles or to soften them.

These external characteristics were evident enough, even to my childish eyes; of her internal ones, a few made an indelible impression upon me. I saw that she pursued a policy of stern repression toward herself, and toward all who came in contact with her. If she had emotions, she never betrayed them, and she was intolerant of those who did. She thought it weakness. If she had affections, she mercilessly stifled them. Duty was her watchword. Again, one of the great aims of her existence seemed to be to keep the sunlight and fresh air out of the house—I believe she thought them vulgar—just as her mother and grandmother and greatgrandmother, I suppose, had done before her.

She converted our bright and sunny parlour into a gloomy, penitential place, that sent a chill down my back every time I peeped into it, which was not often. The only thing in the world she seemed afraid of was night air, and this she dreaded with a mighty dread, believing it laden with some insidious and deadly poison. To breathe night air was to commit suicide—though I have never been quite clear as to what other kind of air one can breathe at night.

Yes—one other fear she had. I remembered it afterwards, and understood, though at the time I simply thought it queer. Mother tucked me in bed one evening, and kissed me and bade me good-night. I heard her step die away down the hall and then I suppose I fell asleep. But I soon awakened, possessed by a burning thirst, a cruel and insistent thirst which was not to be denied. The moon was shining brightly, and I looked across at mother’s bed, but saw she was not there. There was nothing for it but to go after a drink myself, so I clambered out of my cot and started along the hall. Just about midway, I heard someone coming up the stairs and saw grandaunt’s gray head and gaunt figure rising before me. I shrank back into the shadow of a door, for I did not wish her to see me; but she did see me, and gave a shriek so shrill and piercing that it seemed to stab me.

“What is it?” cried mother’s voice, and she came running up the stair.

Grandaunt, who was clutching the stair-rail convulsively, did not answer, only pointed a shaking finger in my direction.

Mother hurried forward, and an instant later was bending over me—a little white crouching figure in the semi-darkness.

“Why, it’s Cecil!” she said. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I—I wanted a drink,” I sobbed, my face hidden in mother’s bosom. “I was so thirsty.”

“There, there,” and she patted me gently. “Don’t cry. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sure Aunt Nelson will say so too.”

But grandaunt had stalked stiffly away to her room.

The incident did not serve to raise me in her esteem; and no doubt I quite unconsciously did many other things to annoy her—which is, in itself, an annoyance. It was not her fault, of course; she had never been used to children and did not understand them. I think she regarded them much as she did dogs and cats—nuisances, to be permitted in the house as little as possible, and then only in the kitchen. Her pet abhorrence, the annoyance which she could endure least of all, seemed to be the clatter of Dick’s shoes and mine over the floor and up the stairs. More than once I thought of the front gate and liberty; but I no longer dared make a dash for freedom, for I knew that I could never succeed in hiding from the piercing gaze of those glittering glasses. She would have me back in a trice and then, “Off with her head!”

Grandaunt devoted a day or two to studying us, much as she might have studied a rare and curious species of insect; turning us this way and that, with no thought that we could object, or caring if we did. Then, having made up her mind, she called a family council, and formally announced her intentions with regard to us.

“Now, Clara,” she said to mother, “you know I never did approve of your marriage, though I did give you half a dozen hem-stitched tablecloths. I hate gossip, and so I had to give you something. For you’re my niece—sister Jennie’s only child. Though Jennie and I never did get along together, and I must say you’re like her. But after all, blood’s thicker’n water, and I’m goin’ to do what’s right by you. It’s my duty.”

Mother shivered a little. She never liked that word, duty—neither did I. If people did only their duty, what a dreary, dreary world this would be!

“But first,” continued grandaunt, inexorably, “we’ve got to talk things over, and find out what we’ve got t’ go on. What did your husband leave you?”

Mother raised a protesting hand, but grandaunt waved it aside impatiently.

“Now, see here, Clara,” she cried, “you’ve got t’ look things in the face, and the sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll get used to it. Did he leave any money?”

“No,” answered mother, faintly, her face very white. “That is, not much—about a hundred dollars.”

“I always said a man couldn’t earn a livin’ by paintin’ picters,” observed grandaunt. “Who wants to pay out good money for foolishness like that? Did he have his life insured?”

“Yes,” answered mother, her face whiter still; “but I—I—think he allowed the policy to lapse—”

“Of course,” nodded grandaunt fiercely. “Jest like him. But this house is yours, ain’t it?”

“Oh, yes; the house is mine.”

“It’s worth about three thousand—not more’n that,” said grandaunt, judicially. “And it’ll be hard to sell, for it’s built the craziest I ever saw—all twisted around from the way a sensible house ought to be.”

“We thought it very beautiful,” said mother meekly.

“Everyone to his taste. Mebbe we’ll find some fool ready to buy it. But even three thousand ain’t a great deal to raise two children on,” she added grimly, as she surveyed us through her glasses. “And mighty hearty children, too—big eaters and awful hard on their clothes.”

“Food is cheaper than medicine,” retorted mother, with some faint revival of her old self; but she collapsed again under grandaunt’s severe gaze.

“Some food is,” snapped grandaunt, “and some food ain’t,” and she directed her gaze toward a plate of oranges which stood on the sideboard. “And clothes,” she added, surveying our garments with disapproval. “But we’ll change all that. As I said, I’ll look out for you. But I’ve got to work out a plan. It’s a good thing you’re my only relatives, and there ain’t nobody else to think about.”

With that she dismissed us, and we went our several ways—Dick and I to the nursery, where we selected a little white-haired doll, dressed it in black, and solemnly hanged it on a gallows of Dick’s improvising. Mother came in and caught us at it; and laughed a little and cried a little, and then sat down with us on the floor and drew us to her and told us gently that we must not mind grandaunt’s abrupt ways; that she was sure she had a kind heart beating under all her roughness, and that we should grow to love her when we came to know her better. But I, at least, was not convinced.

Just at first, I think, mother was rather glad to have someone to cling to, someone to tyrannize over her and order her steps for her. She was like a ship without a rudder—grateful for any means of guidance. But as the days passed, the yoke began to gall. Grandaunt, accustomed practically all her life to having her own way, exacted an instant and complete obedience. She disdained to draw any glove over the mailed fist—that would have seemed to her an unworthy subterfuge. And at last, she announced the plan which she had formulated, whereby to work out our salvation.

“Of course you can’t stay here,” she began, when she had us assembled before her. “I’ll try to sell the house.”

“Yes,” agreed mother, with a sigh, “I suppose that is best.”

“Best!” echoed grandaunt. “There ain’t no best about it. It’s the only thing you can do. Besides, I can’t stay idlin’ around here any longer. I want to get back to my own house at Plumfield, where I expect to pass the rest of my days; I hope in peace,” she added, though by the way she looked at us, it was evident she had grave doubts as to whether the hope would be realized. “I’ve been away too long already,” she continued. “I dare say, Abner and Jane are lettin’ the place run to rack and ruin—I’ve never been away from it for this long in forty year. You, Clara, and the girl—we’ll try to find a sensible name for her—I’ve been thinkin’ about Martha or Susan—”

“Oh, no,” I broke out passionately; “I won’t be—” But grandaunt silenced me with one flash of her glasses.

“You two,” she continued, “will go home with me. But I can’t have any boy rampagin’ around my house—the girl’s bad enough!” and she stopped to glare at Dick, to whom she had taken an unaccountable dislike. “So I’ll place him at a school I know of—a place where he’ll be given the right kind of trainin’, and get some of the foolishness took out of him—”

“But we can’t be separated, Aunt Nelson!” cried mother. “It would break my heart and—look at him!—I know it would break his.”

Indeed Dick was turning a very white and frightened face from one to the other, with his hands clutching at his chair; but he choked back the sob that rose in his throat and pressed his lips tight together with that pluck I always admired in him. Old Dick!

“Tut-tut!” cried grandaunt. “Break, indeed! who ever heard of a heart breaking outside of silly novels? Nonsense!”

“Indeed it isn’t nonsense!” and mother looked at grandaunt with such a fire in her eye as I had never seen there. “I tell you plainly, Aunt Nelson, that I will never consent to any such plan.”

There was a tone in her voice which could not be mistaken. Grandaunt glared at her a moment in astonishment, as at a sheep turned lion; then she hopped from her chair as though it had suddenly become red-hot.

“You’ve made up your mind?” she demanded. “Is that your last word?”

“Yes,” said mother, resolutely. “If you will help us on no other terms, then we must get along as best we can without your help.”

Grandaunt’s lips tightened until her mouth was the merest line across her face.

“Very well, Clara,” she said, in a voice like thin ice. “You’ll go your road, then, and I’ll go mine! I’ll always have the comfort of knowin’ that I offered to do my duty by you. I hope your children’ll thank you for this day.”

“They will!” cried mother, her head erect, her eyes blazing. “They will!”

“The more fools they!” snapped grandaunt, in return, and with that she sailed out of the room, leaving a somewhat awed and frightened family behind her.

“SHE SAILED OUT OF THE ROOM.”

We sat there in tears—which were not in the least tears of sorrow—hugging each other, listening fearfully, as she tramped around in her room up-stairs. Then she came down again; and I think a swift fear that she was, after all, not choosing wisely fell upon mother, for she half rose and made as though she would go to her.

But Dick and I held her fast, and she looked down at us, and sank back again and strained us to her.

A moment later the front door opened and closed again with a bang. From the window I caught a glimpse of a tall, black figure hurrying down the street, and that was the last I saw of Grandaunt Nelson.

Chapter II
The Messenger from Plumfield

The history of the eight years that followed forms no portion of this story, and need be touched upon here only in the most casual way. After grandaunt had washed her hands of us, as it were, and definitely abandoned us to our fate, mother threw off her despondency by a mighty effort of will, and went seriously to work to plan for our future. I like to believe that Grandaunt Nelson really expected to hear from us, really expected mother to appeal to her for help, and stood ready to answer that appeal, once her terms were accepted, just as a besieging army will kill and maim and starve the enemy, but rush in with food and comfort once the white flag is run up. But I suppose there was a strain of the same blood in both of them, for mother, having chosen her path, nerved herself to walk in it, unassisted, to the end.

She found it steep and stony, and difficult enough. Rigid economy was necessary and we children, of course, felt the pinch of it, though mother guarded us all she could; but we had each other, and I am certain none of us ever regretted the decision which had cut us off from grandaunt’s bounty. Yet even the most rigid economy would not have availed, but for a fortunate chance—or, perhaps I would better say, a meting out of tardy justice.

One morning—it was a Saturday, and so I chanced to be at home—there came a knock at the door, and when I answered it, I saw standing there a man with a close-bearded face and long, shaggy hair. He inquired for Mrs. Truman, and I asked him in and ran for mother.

“You are the widow of George Truman, I believe, madam?” he said, rising as she entered the room.

“Yes,” mother answered. “Did you know him?”

“Not personally, I am sorry to say,” replied the stranger; “but I know him intimately through his work. It was never appraised at its true value during his lifetime—”

“No,” agreed mother, quickly, “it was not.”

“But he is coming to his own at last, madam. The world treated him just as it has treated so many others—stones while he lived, laurels when he died.”

A quick flush had come to mother’s face and an eager light to her eyes.

“Are you speaking seriously, sir?” she asked, her hands against her breast.

“Most seriously,” he assured her. “Did you see the report of that sale of paintings at the Fifth Avenue Art Galleries last week? No? Well, one of your husband’s was among them—‘Breath on the Oat’—no doubt you remember it. Do you happen to know what your husband got for it?”

“Yes,” said mother, “I remember very well. It was one of his first triumphs. He sold it for one hundred dollars.”

Our visitor laughed a little cynically, and his face clouded for a moment.

“Well, Senator Bloom paid four thousand for it last week,” he said. “Of course, the senator is not much of a judge of pictures, but a representative from the Metropolitan went to three thousand, which shows the way the wind’s blowing. Your husband’s lot was one common to artists. It’s the dealers who get rich—not all of them,” he added, with a wry little smile. “For I’m a dealer. That’s what brings me here. I thought you might perhaps have a few of his pictures still in your possession. I’ll promise to treat you fairly.”

“There are only some studies, I fear,” answered mother, her hands trembling slightly. “Would you care to see them?”

“I certainly should,” he cried, and they went away up-stairs together.

I know what it cost mother to let them go—the contents of those portfolios, or such of them as were marketable—the sketches, the studies, the ideas which had developed into finished pictures. They were a part of him, the most vital part of him she had left; but her duty was to her children, and she never hesitated. And one morning, nearly a month later, came a letter. The sketches had been sold at auction, they had awakened a very satisfactory interest, and the net result, after deducting the dealer’s commission, was the check for two thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars, which was enclosed.

It came at a good hour, as I learned long afterwards; at an hour when mother found herself quite at the end of her resources, and failure staring her in the face—at an hour when she was thinking that she must swallow her pride and appeal for help to Plumfield; hoist the white flag, as it were, and admit defeat.

As to grandaunt, we never heard from her nor of her. When she slammed our front door behind her that morning, she passed from our lives completely. Mother wrote to her once, but received no answer, and would not write again; and gradually we children came to forget, almost, that she existed, or remembered her only as a kind of myth—a phantom which had crossed our path years before and then disappeared for ever. Yet I now know that she sometimes thought of us, and that, as the years went by, the anger she felt toward us passed away, and left, at worst, only a settled belief in our foolishness and incapacity. Perhaps we were foolish and incapable, but we were happy, too!

So eight years rolled around, and again we faced a crisis. For one must eat and be clothed, and even the sum we had got for father’s sketches would not last for ever. Both Dick and I were old enough now to be taken into the family council, and mother wisely thought it best to confide in us wholly, and we were very proud to be taken into her confidence. Briefly, our home was mortgaged to its full value, and would have to be sold, since there was no way of paying off the indebtedness, nor even of meeting the interest on it.

“We will move into a smaller house,” said mother. “We really don’t need so large a one as this,” but her eyes filled with tears, despite herself, as she looked around at the familiar room. “Our expenses are not great, and with the little we will realize from the sale of the house, I hope—”

Her chin was quivering a little, and her voice not wholly steady. I understood now why she had worn her last gown so long; I understood many things—and sprang into her arms sobbing, for suddenly I saw how thoughtless and selfish I had been; I had not helped her as I might have done, and the thought wrung me. The hat I could have done without, the ribbon I did not need, the ticket for the matinee—

“I’ll go to work, dear mother!” cried Dick, jumping out of his chair, his face aglow. “Here am I, a big, hulking fellow of sixteen! It’s time I was doing something!”

Mother looked up at him with a proud light in her eyes, and I went over to give him a hug. I never knew but one other boy who was anything like as nice as Dick.

“And so will I,” I said. “I’m sure there’s lots of ways even a girl can make money—though of course not so easily as a boy,” and I looked at Dick a little enviously.

“Never you worry,” he said, confidently. “I’ll take care of you, mother, and of you, too, Biffkins. I’ll start right away.”

“There’s no such hurry,” said mother, smiling a little at our enthusiasm. “The mortgage isn’t due for two months yet, and I’d like you to finish this term at school, dear Dick. I had hoped that you could graduate, but I fear—”

“We won’t fear anything!” cried Dick, throwing his arms around us both. “We’ll show this old world a thing or two before we’re done with it!”

“That we will!” I echoed, with never a doubt of our ability to set the world whirling any way we chose.

But in the days that followed, we both of us began to realize that the world was very big and indifferent, and our position in it exceedingly unimportant. Dick managed to pick up some odd jobs, which he could do out of school hours, but the actual returns in money were very small; and as for me, I soon acquired a deep distrust of those writers who described, in the columns of the magazines, the countless easy ways in which a girl could make a living. I tried some of them disastrously!

And then, one bright April morning, came the great message! My heart leaps, even yet, when I think of it.

Just as I was starting for school, a handsome, well-dressed man of middle age turned in at our gate.

“This is where Mrs. Truman lives, isn’t it?” he asked, seeing me standing in the door.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and wondered with some misgiving whether mother could have been mistaken in the date of the mortgage.

“I should like to see her for a few minutes, if she is at home,” he added.

“Come in, sir,” I said, “and I will call her.”

But we met mother coming down the front stair as we entered the hall.

“This is my mother, sir,” I said.

“My name is Chester, Mrs. Truman,” began our caller. “I come from Plumfield.”

“From Plumfield!” cried mother. “Oh, then—Aunt Nelson—”

“Is dead—yes,” said Mr. Chester, gently.

“Sit down, sir,” said mother, a little tremulously, leading the way into the sitting-room. “I—I fear,” she added, as she sat down opposite him, “that I have been neglectful of her. Oh, I am so sorry! I had always hoped to see her again and tell her— If she had only sent me word that she was ill!”

“She wasn’t ill,” broke in Mr. Chester. “Not ill, at least, in the sense of being bed-fast. She was in her usual health, so far as any of her neighbours knew. She was not very intimate with any of them, and lived a rather secluded life. She owned a great, old-fashioned house, you know, with large grounds surrounding it, and she lived there with two old servants, a man who attended to the outdoor work, and his wife, who acted as cook and house-servant. Three days ago, the latter found her mistress dead in bed. She was smiling, and had evidently passed away peacefully in her sleep.”

“But three days ago!” cried mother. “Why was I not told at once?”

“I was simply carrying out her commands, Mrs. Truman. She was a very peculiar woman, as you doubtless know.”

“Yes,” mother agreed. “But she had no other relatives, and I should have been there.”

“I know you should,” assented Mr. Chester, visibly ill at ease. “But I really had no option in the matter. Let me explain. My place happens to adjoin Mrs. Nelson’s, and so we got to know each other, though not nearly so well as neighbours usually do. I am a lawyer by profession, and she entrusted a few of her business affairs to my hands—among other things, the making of her will. She enjoined me strictly that under no circumstances were you to be informed of her death until after the funeral—”

“After the funeral!” repeated mother, mechanically.

“Which took place yesterday.”

“Oh, this is worse than I thought!” said mother, miserably. “I should have been there, Mr. Chester! She was still angry with me, then. We—we had a disagreement many years ago; but I had hoped she had long since forgotten it.”

“My dear Mrs. Truman,” protested Mr. Chester, quickly, “please put that thought out of your mind. Mrs. Nelson was not in the least angry with you—as you will see. Her not desiring you at her funeral was simply another of her peculiarities. She was very old, you know,” he went on, hesitatingly, as though uncertain how much he should say, “and in her last years took up some queer beliefs. I don’t know just what they were, but I do know that she belonged to no church, and that she also forbade that any minister should be present at her funeral.”

Mother gasped, and sank back in her chair staring at him with eyes dark with dismay.

“However,” he hastened to add, “there were some lengths to which I did not feel justified in going—and there was a minister present.”

Mother drew a breath of relief.

“I am glad of that,” she said. “But why have you come to tell me all this, Mr. Chester?”

“I came to take you back with me for the reading of the will.”

“The will? Am I interested in that?”

“As her only living relative, you are deeply interested. Mrs. Nelson, you know, inherited a considerable property from her husband. I wanted to make certain you would be present when the will was opened.”

A vivid flush had crept into mother’s cheeks, and I confess that my own heart was beating wildly.

Perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—

“When is it to be?” asked mother, after a moment.

“‘OH, I SUPPOSE I CAN GET READY,’ FALTERED MOTHER, A LITTLE DAZED.”

“To-day, if we can get there in time. There is a train at ten-thirty—it’s not quite nine, now. Can you be ready by then? If not, of course we can put it off till to-morrow.”

“Oh, I suppose I can get ready,” faltered mother, a little dazed by the suddenness of it all. “That is, if you advise it.”

“I do advise it most strongly,” said Mr. Chester, emphatically. “Mrs. Nelson’s will is a most peculiar one—by far the most peculiar I ever had anything to do with—and it is only fair to you that it should be opened as soon as possible.”

“Very well, we will go!” said mother, rising. “You will excuse us?”

“Certainly. Permit me to suggest,” he added, “that you take things enough with you for a short stay—for two or three days, anyway.”

“Oh,” said mother, looking at him in surprise, “we can’t come back to-night, then?”

“No; there are some details you will have to look after,” explained Mr. Chester, hesitatingly. “You will, of course, use your own judgment, but I believe you will decide to stay.”

“We might as well go prepared,” mother agreed, and hurried away to get our things together.

The school bell had rung long since, quite unheeded by me, who had been hanging breathless over the back of mother’s chair, and now, while mother got ready for the journey, I raced away to summon Dick. He had started for school earlier than I, having some errands to do on the way, so to the school-house I had to go after him. He turned quite white when he came out in answer to the message I sent in for him and saw me standing there, fairly gasping with excitement.

“What is it, Biffkins?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Not—”

“Grandaunt Nelson’s dead,” I began; “and, oh, Dick! we’re to go down to hear the will—by the ten-thirty—we must hurry!”

“All right,” he said, his colour coming back. “Wait till I get excused,” and he hurried away to tell the principal of the sudden summons.

He was back in a moment, cap in hand.

“All right,” he said. “Come along,” and we hastened from the building.

“You’re not angry with me, Dick?” I asked, for he still seemed a little white and shaken.

“Angry?” he repeated, looking down at me with a quick smile. “Why, no, Biffkins. But you needn’t have frightened a fellow half to death. I thought—I thought—no matter what I thought.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you, Dick. But I haven’t told you all about it yet,” I went on, trotting along by his side. “There’s a mystery—you know how I adore mysteries!”

“What sort of mystery?” he asked, with provoking coolness.

“I don’t just know, but Mr. Chester—he’s the lawyer—says it’s a most peculiar will. Oh, Dick, am I really awake?” and I pinched him on the arm.

“You can’t tell whether you’re awake by pinching me,” he protested. “But I guess you are, all right. You seem a little delirious though—got any fever?”

“Only the fever of excitement, Dick,” I said. “How can you keep so cool about it? I think it’s wonderful!”

“What’s wonderful?”

“Why, the legacy—of course it’s a legacy, Dick. We’re her only living relatives! And she lived in a big, old-fashioned house, which she inherited from her husband. I never thought of grandaunt as having a husband,” I added, reflectively. “I wonder what sort of man he was.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” retorted Dick. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t matter. Only, if grandaunt—” But I didn’t finish the uncharitable sentence. “And, oh, Dick, if it comes true, you can go on and graduate—you won’t have to go to work.”

“But I want to go to work,” said Dick, and his face was quite gloomy, as we turned in at the gate together.

Chapter III
The Problem

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:

“I, Eliza Nelson, being in full possession of health and mental faculties, hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.

“I bequeath to my niece, Clara Truman, and to her heirs for ever, the whole of my property, real and personal, provided that within one month from the date of my death, she or her heirs will have discovered, by means of the key furnished them herewith, the place in which I have deposited my stocks, bonds, and other securities. If they have not brains enough to accomplish this, as I fear may be the case, it is evident that they are not fit and competent persons to administer my property.

“Consequently, in the event of their failure to discover the depository of said stocks, bonds, etc., within the space of one month from the date of my death, the whole of my property, real and personal, shall revert to the trusteeship of my friend and instructor, Silas Tunstall, who shall have absolute and undisturbed possession thereof for use in propagating the philosophy of which he is so earnest and useful a disciple, under such conditions as I have set forth in a document to be delivered to the said Silas Tunstall, should the property pass to him.

“Therefore, one month from the date of my death, in the event of the failure of my niece, Clara Truman, or her heirs, to fulfil the above conditions, the keys to my residence shall be delivered to the said Silas Tunstall, and he shall be given absolute and undivided possession thereof; until which time, Clara Truman and her heirs shall have undisturbed possession of said property, in order that they may, if possible, fulfil the conditions upon which their inheritance of it is dependent.

“Provided further, that whoever inherits the property shall be bound to pay to Abner Smith and his wife, Jane, during life, an annuity of $300, and to permit them to retain their present positions as long as they care to do so.

“I hereby appoint Mr. Thomas J. Chester as my executor, without bond, to see that the provisions of this my last will and testament are duly complied with.

“In witness whereof, I have hereunto affixed my hand this eighteenth day of January, A. D., 1899.

“Eliza Nelson.”

“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:

Key to be given my niece, Clara Truman, or her
heirs, on the day on which my will is opened.

“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:

“The Rose of Sharon guards the place

Where the Treasure lies; so you must trace

Four to the right, diagonally three,

And you have solved the Mystery.”

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.

Chapter IV
Our New Home

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.

“The Rose of Sharon guards the place

Where the Treasure lies; so you must trace

Four to the right, diagonally three,

And you have solved the Mystery.”

“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!

Chapter V
I Begin the Search