I Find an Ally
AS I ran around the corner of the house, I saw mother standing at the
front door.
“Why, Cecil,” she said, reproachfully, as I sprang up the steps, “where
have you been all this time?”
“It isn’t so late, is it, mother?”
“It’s very late, and I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why, look at
your hands!” she cried, as she saw me more clearly. “And your frock!
Where have you been, Cecil?”
“I was out in the garden, mother,” I answered, suddenly conscious that
my hands were very dirty, and that great green splotches on my skirt
showed where I had been kneeling on the moss which covered the rockery.
“In the garden?” she repeated. “What on earth--”
“Looking for the treasure, weren’t you, Biffkins?” called Dick’s voice
mockingly from the darkness of the hall.
“Yes, I was,” I snapped. Really it was provoking that Dick should take
the matter so lightly.
“Well, better luck next time, Biffkins,” he went on, coming to the
door, and looking me up and down with a broad grin. “Why, she’s been
digging!” he cried. “I’ll bet anything she’s got a blister!”
Tears of mortification sprang into my eyes; for I _did_ have a blister
and it hurt, though I wouldn’t have acknowledged it for the world! Why
can’t girls work as boys can?
“But never mind, Biffkins,” added Dick. “Don’t get discouraged. Just
wait till I set my massive brain to work at it--”
“Oh, that’s all that’s necessary!” I retorted, with cutting irony.
Really this puzzle was beginning to get on my nerves a little; I
wondered that Dick could jest about it when it meant so much to all of
us. It showed a heartlessness that I had never suspected in him--an
indifference to his family which was really shocking.
I started to say so, but mother cut short the discussion by chasing
me before her into the house and up-stairs to her bed-room--a
high-ceilinged, deliciously-roomy one, with a great four-poster in
one corner, to which one mounted by a little flight of carpet-covered
steps. I would have stopped to admire it--for if there is one
thing more than any other for which I have a passion, it is
old furniture--but mother, lighting a lamp which stood on the
dresser--another old-fashioned piece, the golden glow of whose mahogany
warmed my heart--bade me sternly to set to work upon my toilet.
“But, oh, mother, what a delightful room!” I cried, struggling with my
buttons. “Was it grandaunt’s?”
“No,” said mother, “Aunt Nelson’s bed-room was at the front of the
house overlooking the drive. I think it better to leave it undisturbed
for the present.”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed, for I knew what mother meant. “But whose room was
this?”
“This, Jane says, was the spare room. It hadn’t been opened for months
apparently, and smelt dreadfully close; but I dare say we shall do very
well. There’s another for Dick just like it across the hall.”
I remembered grandaunt’s aversion to sunlight and fresh air, and did
not wonder that the rooms had seemed stuffy. However, the sweet, cool
air, blowing through the trees had already banished all that.
“Is Dick’s room furnished like this?” I asked.
“Yes, very much the same.”
“I must see it the first thing in the morning. And, mother,” I went
on, in growing excitement, “did you ever see such a lovely old
grandfather’s clock as the one in the lower hall--and just look at that
old wardrobe, with its--”
“Now, Cecil,” interrupted mother, sternly, “I want you to get that
hair of yours in order--and here’s your clean frock. I do hope you’re
not going to be so thoughtless and impolite as to make us late for Mr.
Chester’s dinner!”
“No, mother,” I promised obediently, “I’ll hurry;” but it was just as
well she stayed with me to hold me to this duty, for there were so
many delightful things in the room that, with the best intentions in
the world, I should inevitably have been late without her. It is very
difficult to comb one’s hair and at the same time admire the carving
on the mirror before which you are doing it--and such carving it was,
so graceful and expressive and right! As it was, we had just reached
the lower hall again, and mother was dragging me past the grandfather’s
clock, when the knocker sounded against the door and reverberated
through the hall in a quite startling manner; and there on the step
was Mr. Chester, shaking hands with Dick, who had no passion for old
furniture, and whose toilet, besides, was much simpler than mine--one
of a boy’s great advantages which I have often envied.
“It’s such a delightful night that I didn’t bring the carriage,” said
Mr. Chester, shaking hands with each of us in turn. “And it is really
only a step.”
“It would have been sacrilege to ride,” agreed mother, as we went down
the steps together, and indeed the evening was deliciously soft and
warm, with the fragrance of spring in the air.
“Do you know,” he added, “I never thought of your baggage until--”
“We sent Dick after it,” interrupted mother, quickly. “We certainly
didn’t expect you to bother with it--you’ve been so kind already. He
was only too eager to go--it was quite an adventure for him to drive
over to the station.”
“Though Susan seems to be a horse with a past rather than a future,”
supplemented Dick; whereat we all laughed.
“Yes,” said Mr. Chester, “I’ve seen her trotting meditatively along
many a time. I dare say her past is a blameless and useful one--well
worth meditating upon.”
The night seemed to grow more beautiful every minute, and just as we
turned out of the grounds into the road, the big yellow moon sailed
slowly up over the eastern horizon, sending long streamers of golden
light through the naked branches of the elms. I turned for a last look
at the house, where it loomed soft and dim through the vista of trees
leading up to it: I could see the white door, the grey steps, flanked
by graceful pillars. What a home it was! And I sighed again as I
realized that it was not really ours, and perhaps might never be.
I have wondered since at my instant affection for it, which grew and
grew in warmth until it amounted to positive adoration. I have entered
many houses before and since, many of them more beautiful than this,
but not one of them so moved and won my soul’s soul as did that square
old mansion. And I have often thought that perhaps for some of us there
is on earth a predestined dwelling-place, which we somehow recognize
and long for, and apart from which we are unhappy. Unhappy--it is worse
than that--the ceaseless, miserable yearning! How well I know!
As I looked back that evening, something of this feeling came to me, as
though I were leaving something infinitely dear and precious. It was
only by a positive effort that I kept on with the others, down the
path and through the gate and along the road. We had not far to go, for
a short walk soon brought us to another gate, through which we turned
along a broad path, which led to an open doorway beaming with cheerful
welcome. At the sound of our footsteps, a woman and a boy appeared
against the light in the hall, and came down the steps to meet us.
“My dear,” said Mr. Chester, “this is Mrs. Truman--my wife, Mrs.
Truman--and these are Cecil and Dick. Come here, Tom, and meet your new
neighbours,” he added to the boy.
As the boy turned so that the light fell on his face, I gave a little
gasp of astonishment, and he tried in vain to suppress the snigger that
burst from him.
“This is my son,” went on Mr. Chester, and then stopped as he saw my
suffused face and his son’s distorted countenance. “Tom, you rascal,”
he cried, “what mischief have you been up to now?”
“It wasn’t any mischief, sir,” I hastened to explain. “Only--only--I
was in the garden, and he was on the wall, and he wanted to come down
on our side.”
“And she said I shouldn’t till she’d found out more about me!” cried
Tom. “She said she’d ask you, sir.”
“And very wise of her,” nodded his father. “I’m afraid I can’t give a
very good account of you, sir.”
“I warned her that you were prejudiced, sir,” cried Tom.
“But he came down on our side without waiting for permission,” I added.
“Of course,” said Mr. Chester, laughing. “That was quite in character.
You must put him on probation, Cecil. He’s the biggest mischief in
three counties. He seems to possess an inborn facility for getting into
scrapes.”
“And for getting out of them,” added Mrs. Chester. “Let us do him that
justice.”
Laughing together, we went into the house, and a few moments later were
at the table. Such a pretty room it was, and such pleasant people!
My heart warmed to them instantly, for it was plain to see that they
were wholesome and genuine. For a time, the talk drifted from topic to
topic, but it was inevitable that it should at last turn toward the
will.
“Oh, I do hope that you will be able to keep the place!” burst
out Mrs. Chester, impulsively. “It would be such a relief to have
companionable neighbours after--after--”
She did not finish the sentence, but we could all guess what she meant.
“Besides,” she added, “it would be too terrible to have it fall into
the hands of that horrible Tunstall. Why, I should be afraid to go out
of the house after dark!”
“What is the ‘philosophy of which he is such a distinguished
disciple?’” I asked, quoting the will.
Mr. Chester laughed shortly, and then grew suddenly grave.
“Spiritualism,” he answered. “Not the real thing, of course, in
which there may be some basis of truth, for all I know; but a kind
of insincere hocus-pocus designed to catch the ignorant. I beg your
pardon,” he added quickly. “I must not forget that Mrs. Nelson was a
relative of yours.”
“She was my mother’s sister,” answered mother, quietly, “but I knew her
very slightly. I saw her only three or four times in my life. I know
she had queer ideas--that is, indeed, about all I do know about her.
Pray speak as frankly as you like.”
“Of course,” went on Mr. Chester, “I have no personal knowledge of
what went on over there, but I’ve heard weird tales of his doings in
other quarters. He came here over a year ago--nobody knows from where.
He lives in a little cottage some distance down the road, and is said
to have many visitors, especially at night, though that may be mere
gossip. The only other occupant of the place is an old woman who acts
as housekeeper and general factotum. The house stands so far back from
the road and is so surrounded by shrubbery that no one can see what
goes on there. It belonged to an eccentric old bachelor, who lived
alone there and who surrounded it with a grove of evergreens to keep
the world away, I suppose. There are all sorts of stories told about
it, but most of them are pure fictions.”
“Mr. Tunstall seems to be quite a character,” commented mother.
“He is,” agreed Mr. Chester; “but aside from his disagreeable
personality, there is really nothing against him, except that he seems
to have no adequate means of support. I believe that the stories about
his nocturnal visitors are largely myths, and as far as his other
practise is concerned, it can’t be very lucrative. I’ve never heard
that he ever attempted to obtain money illegally, and I think it’s as
much because he has no visible means of livelihood as from any other
cause that people distrust him. Mrs. Nelson’s case is the first in
which I’ve had reason to suspect he used undue influence--and that’s
only a suspicion. In fact,” he added, reflectively, “now that I try to
formulate some charge against him, I find there isn’t anything to get
hold of.”
“There’s such a thing as circumstantial evidence,” remarked Mrs.
Chester; “and one’s instincts go for something.”
“I don’t know,” rejoined her husband, thoughtfully; “I don’t altogether
trust what you call instinct. I’ve seen it go wrong too often. I’ve
always fancied that Tunstall is a much cleverer man than he appears to
be--too clever by half to be wasting his time the way he seems to be
doing. He’s absent a good deal--drives away in his buggy--yes, he keeps
a horse--and doesn’t come back for days and days. Where he goes nobody
knows.”
“I declare, dear,” said Mrs. Chester, laughing, “you’re growing quite
poetic over Mr. Tunstall. But for all that, I still contend it would be
a real affliction to have him for a neighbour.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mr. Chester; “he’s not an engaging person, I grant
you that; and I should be very sorry indeed to have him move in next
door; more especially,” he added, looking at us, “since that would mean
that our present neighbours must move out. We want you to keep the
place.”
“We should like to keep it, too, of course,” said mother, smiling a
little wistfully, “but I’m afraid that Aunt Nelson has set us a problem
we shall never be able to solve.”
“Biffkins has already had one try at it, though,” put in Dick, slyly.
“Biffkins?” repeated Tom, quickly. “Who’s that?”
Dick indicated me with a little gesture.
“Cecil didn’t seem quite to describe her,” he explained, smiling
broadly.
“I think Biffkins a bully name,” said Tom. “Ho!” he added, suddenly,
looking at me with quick interest, “was that what you were digging in
the garden for?”
“Of course it was,” laughed Dick. “I told her I’d bet she had a
blister.”
“Well, maybe she has,” retorted Tom, quickly. “I dare say I’d have one
too, if I’d dug up as much dirt as she did. Why, when I looked over
the wall--”
A sudden wave of crimson swept over my face and I glanced at Tom
appealingly. Only too distinctly did I remember what I was doing when
he looked over the wall!
“She was digging away like mad,” he went on calmly; “you should have
seen her!”
I shot him a grateful glance. How many boys would have been so generous?
“And he offered to help,” I said. “If it hadn’t been so late--”
“But you’ll let me help next time?” he questioned eagerly. “You must,
you know. I’m a good digger, anyway; and I’ve got a pretty good head
for puzzles.”
“Tom!” cried his mother.
“Oh, I should love to have him help!” I burst out. “I’m sure he would
be a very great help!”
“Done!” cried Tom. “Shake hands on it!” and he danced around the table
and caught my hand in his.
And as I looked into his honest brown eyes I knew that I had found an
ally.