THE SAPPHIRE SIGNET
Margaret was far from well, even for her. For two weeks she had been
ailing, and appeared weak and listless. Corinne was not very much
surprised on coming in one afternoon to find her no longer in her
wheel-chair by the parlor window, but upstairs in bed in her room on
the second floor. This had never happened before since the day that
Corinne had first visited the little house in Charlton Street, and her
heart misgave her as she climbed the stairs with the twins. But she
entered the room, assuming a cheerfulness she was far from feeling.
"Taking a vacation in bed, Honey? Well, I don't blame you, in such
wretched weather! It was sleeting and freezing as I came in, and the
walking is simply abominable. How cozy you are here with another open
fire! You seem to have one in every room. I wish _we_ did!"
Margaret greeted her with something of her old animation, but presently
relapsed into listlessness again. Corinne chatted on for a time, as
though nothing out of the ordinary were the matter:
"I've got some news from the latest member of the Antiquarian Club!
He has a proposition to make. He says that when the first nice
spring weather comes, he's going to invite the club to a series of
'antiquarian outings.' They're to take place every pleasant Saturday
afternoon. He will have a big, comfy automobile come here, and we're
all to pile in,—Margaret in the comfiest place of all,—and we're
going to 'do' old New York—the real, historic parts, I mean. One day
we'll take a run up to Van Cortlandt Manor, and see that place, which
was Washington's headquarters at one time. Then another day we'll do
the lower part of the city, and have lunch at Fraunces' Tavern. And,
oh! he's planned a lot of things like that. It's going to be great
fun, I tell you!"
But Margaret failed to be roused to any extent even by this delightful
prospect, though the twins were thoroughly enthusiastic. At last,
when Bess and Jess had gone downstairs to investigate the refreshment
proposition, Corinne determined to fathom, if possible, the curious
apathy that seemed so new to Margaret.
"Honey, dear," she crooned, sitting on the bed-side and putting her
face down by Margaret, "something's bothering you, and I want you to
tell me what it is! Something's troubling your mind. Can't you tell me
about it, dear, even if you haven't any one else?"
Margaret raised herself on her elbow and faced Corinne. "Yes, something
_is_ bothering me," she acknowledged, "and no one but you has seemed to
notice it. But I'm going to tell you, Corinne, because I love you, and
I haven't any secrets from you. I'm just worried _sick_ because that
journal was destroyed! It was my fault. I'm responsible for it all! It
might have been very valuable, and been sold for a good deal of money.
And that would have helped Mother a lot, because we're not very well
off, and she has to work awfully hard!"
"But, Margaret," exclaimed Corinne, "this is all nonsense! Of course,
it's unfortunate that the thing happened, but you can't even blame
Sarah, for _she_ didn't know it was anything of value, and she thought
she was acting for the best, and saving you from getting sick.
_Nobody's_ to blame! It's just one of those unlucky things that happen
sometimes. It isn't as if you or any one else had been _careless_ about
it!"
"But you don't understand me!" insisted Margaret. "It _was_ my fault,
because I kept insisting that this thing should be a secret, and nobody
else was to be told. It was terribly foolish—I can see that plainly
now! And I never should have kept such a valuable thing in such an
insecure place. We ought to have shown it at once to your father and
let him keep it. Oh, I'll never forgive myself—never, never!" She
turned her face into the pillows and lay a long time silent,—not
crying, but just in an apathy of self-reproach.
Corinne, meanwhile, argued and pleaded and consoled—in vain. Margaret
would neither look up nor respond. And at last, in despair, she
exclaimed:
"Margaret, I want to tell you something Father said last night. It may
make you feel better about this very thing. He said that even though
the original journal was destroyed, that didn't alter the fact that
we youngsters had made a most remarkable 'find,' and had discovered a
mystery that was well worth tracking to its finish. He says he's proud
to be a member of the Antiquarian Club, and hopes you haven't let any
one else into the secret. He wants it kept quiet till we've fathomed
the riddle, if we ever do! You _haven't_ told any one yet, have you?"
Margaret raised her head, at this, with a faint spark of interest.
"No, I haven't even told Mother," she said, "because I hated to have
her know how near we'd been to finding something valuable, and then
disappointing her by saying it was lost. Of course, we've told her all
about your father's visit, and she thought he was so kind to take such
an interest in us. She said she supposed it was for _your_ sake. Sarah
has never said another word, even to me, about the things she burned
up. I think she's half ashamed of it, and yet feels that she really
did right in taking away something that she supposed was hurting me.
She's awfully worried because I don't seem so well, and she's almost
killing herself taking care of me and doing all her other work, too.
But, Corinne, did your father say he'd _really_ like this all kept a
secret still? That's awfully nice of him, and makes what _I_ did seem
not quite so foolish! I believe I'll feel a little better about it from
now on!"
Margaret certainly appeared to improve in spirits after this interview,
but still her bodily strength did not return, and day after day she
remained confined to her bed. Her mother and Sarah grew almost ill
themselves with anxiety about her. The doctor said it was the drain of
the winter on her frail system, and prescribed a strong tonic, but even
this did not seem to have the desired effect. But Corinne came in one
day with news that actually brought a tint of pale pink to the little
invalid's white cheeks.
"Father's been doing some tall _thinking_ lately," she announced, "and
this is the result. He wants me to submit the matter to the Antiquarian
Club for due consideration, and would like every member present when I
do so. Where are the others?"
The twins and Alexander were promptly gathered into Margaret's room,
and Corinne continued:
"This is what Father's been puzzling over. He says that sapphire
signet must have been a very valuable thing, and it ought to be found,
if there's the slightest possibility of finding it. He knows a lot
about precious stones and their history, and he says that a _sapphire_
signet, especially an old one, is a very rare thing. The reason is
that sapphires are so hard that it's very difficult to engrave them,
and so signets were not very often made of them. So, if this signet
were found, it would probably be worth a great deal of money. But, more
than that, he thinks we owe it as a duty to the memory of little Alison
to make some _effort_, at least, to find it and restore it to her
descendants or family, if she has any left."
"That's what I've always thought, too!" murmured Margaret,
parenthetically.
"Well, he says he's been doing some '_Sherlock Holmes_' thinking,
and trying to imagine where she could possibly have concealed that
trinket. He doesn't think she kept it hidden about herself anywhere.
She would probably have thought that too dangerous, for she might have
been searched. And he can't bring himself to think that she concealed
it anywhere about the house or in the grounds,—there would have been
such slight chance, in such a case, of it ever getting back to Bermuda,
or her relatives ever having a chance to find it. But he did wonder
whether it might have been hidden in the secret beam with the other
half of the journal. You would surely have found it, then, wouldn't
you, Alexander?"
"Bet your life!" replied that youngster, promptly. "If that dinky
little do-dab had been in there, yours truly would have cabbaged it all
right! I knew well enough it was my last chance at _that_ old dump, and
I clawed over every square inch of it a dozen times before I rung off.
No sirree! it wasn't _there_, and you can take your Uncle Dudley's word
for it!"
"Then we'll count that out," went on Corinne. "Father didn't think
there was much likelihood of it—only a remote possibility. Then there
remain only two other possibilities, and he thinks the most likely one
was—the old leather covers of the journal!"
"Oh, why did we never think of it ourselves!" cried Margaret excitedly.
Then, a moment later, with the droop of disappointment to her mouth:
"But if that's so, then it's gone forever—thanks to Sarah! She had a
red-hot fire that day, I know, and the thing would have dropped in the
ashes and never been found in the world!"
"But how could the signet have been hidden in the cover?" queried Bess,
skeptically. "It must have been rather bulky, and _we_ never saw any
evidence of such a thing!"
"No," corrected Corinne, "Father says the signet was probably rather
flat, and if Alison was at all clever, she could easily have slid it
under the lining of one of the covers (which were very thick, if you
remember) and pasted it up so it would never be noticed. He says he's
known of stranger things than that being done. Anyhow, he thinks that
is the place in which she would have been most likely to hide it. And
if she did, of course, we have no hope of ever finding it now. But
there's one other possibility—and that's our 'last chance'!"
"Oh, what _is_ it?" they all demanded, as she came to a provoking pause.
"_The little hair-trunk!_"
Margaret raised herself in bed and shouted feebly, "Hurrah!" and then
added, "But how in the world are we ever to get at it?"
"That's just the point!" added Corinne. "He says we must devise a
way of getting at that trunk, somehow, and since you all are better
acquainted with Sarah and her vagaries than he is, he leaves it to
you to concoct some plan. If you can't think of _any_ other way, we'd
better tell your mother, and have her order Sarah to unlock the attic.
But of course that would spoil our secret society, and we won't try
that except as a last resort."
"I have an idea!" cried Margaret, suddenly. "I'll ask Mother to-night
about the trunk, and beg her to let me have it to keep some of my books
and things in, because I've taken a fancy to it. I'm sure she won't
refuse me. And if she orders Sarah to let me have the trunk, Sarah'll
just have to do it!"
They all agreed that the plan looked exceedingly hopeful, and Corinne
left for home with the assurance that the trunk would soon be theirs to
search from end to end.
But when Margaret came to talk it over with her mother that night, she
met with an unexpected objection.
"Dear heart," said Mrs. Bronson, "you know that I'd do everything in
my power to grant you any reasonable wish, but don't you see that your
request is a rather inconvenient one at present? You know that you
haven't been really well for some time, and Sarah has been working
very, very hard taking care of you days—and nights too, often. She's
very tired now and has been rather ill-humored lately. Now, I don't
know just what she keeps in that little trunk, but I'm perfectly sure
that, if I ask her to empty it and change things about in the attic,
she won't take it very pleasantly and _may_ make an awful fuss! And we
can't afford to have her get upset and leave just now, can we, dear?"
Margaret ruefully agreed, and had to be satisfied with her mother's
assurance that perhaps, when she got better, and household matters had
smoothed out, Sarah might be approached on the subject.
But this arrangement did not at all suit the rest of the Antiquarian
Club when they held a solemn council next day.
"Suffering Simpson!" exploded Alexander. "If we wait for that hunk o'
misery, Sarah, to get in a good humor, we'll wait until horse-radish
tastes good on your ice-cream! Nix on _that_!"
"Well, What are we going to do, then?" demanded the others,
despairingly.
"Just you leave it to yours truly!" announced Alexander. "I've got a
little scheme!"
"Quick! Tell us what it is!"
Alexander gave an impudent wink, and remarked casually: "I'm going to
nose out where Sarah keeps the key to the attic!"
"Splendid!" cried Corinne. "And what then?"
"_Then_—" he finished dramatically, "we're going to have a grand old
meeting of the club some day when she's out, and rip the stuffing out
of that trunk!"
It had seemed a simple thing, when Alexander announced his plan, and
every one supposed it would soon be accomplished. But it turned out
to be a harder task than even he had anticipated. With infinite
caution he searched Sarah's room and all her belongings when he knew
she was safe in the kitchen, and the twins aided him by keeping guard
on the stairs. But the key was not there. Next, one night when all
the household was abed, he crept down and inspected every shelf and
cubbyhole and possible or impossible receptacle in the kitchen and
pantry. Neither was it there. Margaret declared that she knew Sarah did
not carry it in her pocket, nor did she appear to have anything hanging
round her neck.
"Then that lallypaloozer must have _swallowed_ it!" affirmed Alexander,
angrily. "But I'll make one more grand hunt in her room this afternoon,
if the twins will help me out by watching the stairs. Maybe I
overlooked something!"
[Illustration: He began to tap the inside of the trunk all over,
carefully, with the handle of his penknife]
Half an hour later he burst into Margaret's room with a whoop. "Call a
meeting of the whole club for next Thursday afternoon—it's Sarah's day
out!" he whispered jubilantly. "I found it!"
"Oh, where, where?" demanded Margaret, scarcely believing it could be
true.
"_In the toe of one of her old shoes!_"
On the last Thursday afternoon of each month it was Sarah's custom
to go out by herself for three or four hours, leaving the house and
Margaret in charge of the twins. This was the only outing she ever
took. On the day in question it was understood that Corinne and her
father (who insisted on being present at this important meeting) should
arrive at three-thirty—after Sarah had gone, or she might, on seeing
them, change her mind and stay home! Alexander was then to filch the
key from her shoe, open the attic, and, with the help of the twins,
carry the trunk down to Margaret's room.
Everything worked smoothly. Sarah departed as usual, Mr. Cameron
and Corinne arrived, tingling with excitement, Alexander opened the
attic, and the wonderful old trunk was at last deposited in triumph
before Margaret's bed. They turned out the family's summer flannels
carefully, that no spot or wrinkle on them might in the future disturb
the equilibrium of the uncertain Sarah, and examined the false bottom
with an actual thrill to think that here, in this very spot, poor
frightened little Alison was wont to conceal the telltale journal.
But when the false bottom was removed, there appeared no trace of a
jewel (as they had all secretly hoped there might be) nor any crack
or crevice where it might be concealed. The old-fashioned lining was
absolutely intact. Margaret gave a little sigh of disappointment, but
Mr. Cameron remarked:
"Don't be discouraged! We haven't finished yet!" And he began to tap
the inside of the trunk all over, carefully, with the handle of his
penknife. Then, suddenly, they beheld him open the knife and skilfully
slip up the figured lining far in one corner. In another second he had
inserted his fingers in the opening and was feeling about eagerly. The
next moment he laid something in Margaret's lap, with just this quiet
remark:
"At last, Miss President! _The sapphire signet!_"
There was an instant of amazed silence. Then, at an indistinct sound
from downstairs, Bess uttered a horrified cry:
"Merciful goodness! Sarah's come back already! What _shall_ we do!"