The Quest for the Rose of Sharon
The Works of
Burton E. Stevenson
The Quest for the Rose of Sharon $1.25
The Young Section Hand 1.50
The Young Train Dispatcher 1.50
The Young Train Master 1.50
L. C. Page & Company, Publishers
New England Building Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: “‘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
CHAPTER PAGE
I. GRANDAUNT NELSON 1
II. THE MESSENGER FROM PLUMFIELD 18
III. THE PROBLEM 33
IV. OUR NEW HOME 43
V. I BEGIN THE SEARCH 53
VI. I FIND AN ALLY 67
VII. VARIETIES OF THE ROSE OF SHARON 80
VIII. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 101
IX. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE ENEMY 119
X. RETRIBUTION 137
XI. THE SHADOW IN THE ORCHARD 149
XII. BEARDING THE LION 168
XIII. SURRENDER 183
XIV. THE ROSE OF SHARON 191
List of Illustrations
PAGE
“‘BEEN DIGGIN’, HEV YE? LOOKIN’ FER THE TREASURE,
MEBBE!’” (_See page 128_) _Frontispiece_
“SHE SAILED OUT OF THE ROOM” 16
“‘OH, I SUPPOSE I CAN GET READY,’ FALTERED MOTHER,
A LITTLE DAZED” 29
“I SAW FROM THEIR FLUSHED FACES THAT THEY HAD,
INDEED, MADE SOME DISCOVERY” 99
“‘JANE!’ I GASPED.... ‘JANE, OH, JANE, I’VE FOUND
IT!’” 194
“HE STRETCHED OUT A LEAN HAND TO TAKE IT, BUT
MR. CHESTER SNATCHED IT HASTILY AWAY” 199
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.
[Illustration: “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.