An Interview with the Enemy
I OPENED my eyes to find mother bathing my face and chafing my hands.
The reaction--the plunge from certainty to disappointment--had been too
much for me. I felt strangely weak and flabby. I could scarcely raise
my shaking hand to my face.
But the feeling passed in a moment, and I sat up and pushed my hair
away from my forehead. I confess I was ashamed of myself.
“Really, Cecil,” said mother, when she saw that I was all right again,
“if you’re going to take it this way, I think the sooner we get away
from here the better. You mustn’t yield to your feelings so.”
“But oh, mother,” I cried, with a little sob in my voice that I
couldn’t repress, “it was cruel of her! Cruel! Cruel!”
“I’ve often heard your father say,” continued mother, “that the
greatest test of character is defeat--that every manly man is a good
loser. Have you already forgotten those lines of Browning which Mr.
Chester repeated last night?”
“No, mother, I haven’t,” I replied, and I flung my arms around her
neck and hugged her tight. “Only, just at first, it was more than I
could bear. But I’m going to remember them, mother dear--I’m going to
be a good loser.”
“If you learn only that,” said mother, smoothing back my hair and
kissing me, “this search will be worth something to you, whether you
find the treasure or not. It will be a test of character, as well as of
patience and ingenuity.”
“Yes, mother; but--but please don’t tell Dick about the desk--not just
yet.”
“Very well,” mother promised, understanding. “And now straighten up
your hair, for it must be nearly time for lunch,” and kissing me again,
she hurried away down-stairs.
Dear mother!
I went over to the old dresser, and resting my arms on top of it,
stared steadily into the glass.
“Cecil Truman,” I said, sternly, to my reflected self, “you’re not
going to be a coward any more, nor a whiney baby. You’re going to be a
good loser. But you’re going to fight!” I added. “You’re going to fight
for all you’re worth!” And somewhat comforted, I proceeded to do my
hair.
Lunch was ready when I got down-stairs again, and a moment later,
Dick appeared around a corner of the house, looking so important and
mysterious that, but for my chastened mood, I should have been tempted
to box his ears. He ate his food with disgraceful haste, scarcely
speaking a word, and snatched up his cap again the moment he had
finished.
“You won’t need me this afternoon, will you, mother?” he asked, pausing
in the doorway.
“No, I think not,” said mother, who never needed him when he didn’t
wish to be needed. “Jane and I are going to drive down to the village
to get a few groceries and other things. Would you care to go along?”
“Not to-day, thank you, ma’am,” and he was off.
I peeped out the window and saw that he was making for the Chester
place as fast as his legs would carry him. Really, it was too bad of
Dick to treat me so!
“You’d like to go, wouldn’t you, Cecil?” asked mother. “I think it will
do you good to get away from this place for a while.”
But I had a sort of deadly fear that if I left the place, it would
somehow get beyond my grasp entirely. I might wake up and find it all
a dream. So I declined, too, and in the course of half an hour, Abner
and I saw mother and Jane drive away down the road. Then, with the
whole afternoon before me, I resolutely put away from me the thought of
Dick’s treachery, and turned anew to the solution of the mystery.
“Abner,” I asked, as we turned back together to the house, “did you
ever hear of an apple-tree called the rose of Sharon?”
“The rose o’ Sharon? Why, certainly, miss. It’s a big, red winter
apple, but it don’t bear as well as it might, an’ it ain’t so very
tasty. The Baldwin beats it.”
“But is there one in the orchard?”
“Yes--jest one--away over yonder in the corner near the fence. You
can’t miss it. It’s the last tree as you cross the orchard. It’s an
old feller, an’ a tough one--all the other trees that was near it has
rotted or blowed down.”
“Very well,” I said; “and thank you.”
“Air ye goin’ out there, miss? Ef ye air, we’d best bolt the front
door, fer I’m goin’ out to the barn myself.”
I agreed that it would be wise to bolt the door, which we did, and
proceeded on through the hall to the back door. My tour of the morning
had not included the kitchen, and there had been so many other things
to do and places to visit that I had never even been in it. As I
entered it now, I paused for a delighted look at the rows of shining
pans, at the big range and all its paraphernalia. In years agone,
the cooking had been done in a great open fireplace, fully eight
feet broad, and the range had been placed right in it, with its pipe
extending up the chimney. The old crane had not been taken down, but
still remained in place, folded back against the wall out of the way.
What feasts had been prepared in that old fireplace! My mouth fairly
watered at thought of them. It was in some such place as this that the
people of Dickens loved to sit and watch the spits turning and sniff
the savoury odours. Dickens always makes me hungry.
Everything was spotlessly clean, and bore witness to Jane’s sterling
housewifely qualities. Through an open door beyond I caught a glimpse
of the milk-house and heard the tinkle of running water. I stepped to
it for a glance around. Rows of crocks, covered with plates, stood in
a trough through which the water ran, clear as crystal and cold as
ice, brought through an iron pipe, as I afterwards learned, from a
never-failing spring some distance back of the house. The whole place
had a delicious aroma of milk and butter, suggesting cleanliness and
health. I should have liked to linger, but I had work to do.
“It’s all perfectly delightful!” I cried, returning to Abner, who had
lingered by the kitchen hearth.
“It is a nice place,” he agreed, looking about at it affectionately.
“Cosy an’ homelike. A mighty nice place t’ set in winter, when the
wind’s howlin’ around outside, a-bankin’ the snow ag’inst the house.
I’ve set there by the fire many a winter night an’ listened to it, an’
thanked my stars thet I had a tight roof over my head an’ a good fire
t’ set by.”
“I hope you’ll sit there many winters more,” I said heartily.
“Thank ’ee, miss; so do I. I don’t ask no better place; but I’m afeerd
we’ll hev t’ leave it.”
“Oh, no,” I protested. “Grandaunt provided that both of you should
remain as long as you care to.”
“But mebbe we won’t keer,” answered Abner, his face setting into
obstinate lines. “Mebbe we won’t keer when thet there ghost-raiser
comes t’ live here. It ain’t hardly decent, thet business he’s in. He
ort t’ be tarred an’ feathered.”
“Perhaps things will come out all right,” I said, but the words were
from the lips rather than from the heart.
“Oh, I hope so, miss!” he cried. “I do hope so! We’d hate t’ leave the
old place; an’ you’ll excuse me, miss, fer sayin’ so, but we like you
all; we like you more’n I kin say. If they was only somethin’ we could
do t’ help!”
His face was touching in its simple earnestness.
“Thank you, Abner,” I said, my eyes a little misty. “I’m so glad you
like us, and perhaps you can help. You may be sure I’ll call upon you
if I need you.”
“Do, miss,” he answered. “An’ upon Jane, too. Now I must be gittin’ t’
my work. Is they anything else?”
“Yes, one thing. May I have the spade I had yesterday?”
“What’d ye do with it, miss?”
“I--I--oh, yes!” I cried, overcome with contrition. “I left it where I
was digging. I’ll get it!” and I ran away toward the garden, feeling
the reproachful glance he cast after me, and vowing to myself never
again to be so careless.
I found the spade lying among the tangle of vines where I had left it,
and I sat down on the bench to review the scene of my previous day’s
work. Mr. Chester had said that, in his opinion, the treasure was not
in the yard at all, but somewhere in the house. So it had been; and my
hands trembled a little at the memory of the morning’s disappointment.
But it was there no longer--grandaunt had removed it to another and
less easily found hiding-place--a hiding-place which the rose of Sharon
still guarded. The picture on the calendar had proved that there might
be roses of Sharon of many and unexpected kinds. I must look for them;
I must get everyone around the place to help me; and I must exhaust the
possibilities of each one before passing on to the next. My search must
be thorough and systematic. That was my one chance of success.
Plainly, then, it would be wise to begin at once with the rose of
Sharon before me; and so, discarding the rule of four to the right and
three diagonally--for the four and three might mean inches or feet or
even yards--I proceeded to pick up carefully all the stones arranged
around the shrub. They made a circle perhaps two yards in diameter, and
the task of getting them out of the way was no light one; but I kept
steadily at work, not minding bruised fingers, and finally I had all
the stones heaped on one side out of the way.
Then, after a short rest, I went to work with the spade and began to
dig up the dirt which the stones had covered; but my back was aching
and my hands smarting long before the task was accomplished, and more
than once I glanced at the top of the wall, hoping to see a boy’s
figure there. But none appeared, and I laboured on, reflecting bitterly
upon perfidious human nature. He had said he was a good digger; he had
offered to help; and we had clasped hands upon it! Oh, how one may be
mistaken in a boy! Nerved by such reflections, I did not stop until the
whole circle of ground had been well spaded up. Evidently there was no
treasure concealed about the roots of this rose of Sharon!
Half dead with fatigue, I sank down again, with a sigh, upon the bench.
The fatigue I should not have minded so much, but for the sore heart
in my bosom. That one’s comrade should desert one! That was the last
straw! I almost wished that we had never seen the place!
I buried my face in my hands in the effort to keep back the tears, for,
as I have said already, I don’t like girls who cry. I resolved anew
that I would not permit myself to grow discouraged, that I would keep
right on trying. And as for Tom Chester--
“What’s the matter, little girl?” asked a voice, so near that it fairly
made me jump. But it was not _the_ voice--oh, no, quite a different
voice from the one which had made me jump the day before. “Not cryin’?”
I looked up, and there was Silas Tunstall! He was dressed exactly as
he had been the day before, only his white trousers were a little more
soiled than they had been then, and his face wore the self-same smirk,
and his whiskers were raggeder than ever and his little black eyes
brighter and creepier. The rest of his face didn’t seem to fit his
eyes, somehow; one had an impression of the same sort of contradiction
which a wolf’s eyes in a sheep’s face would occasion.
“Not cryin’!” he repeated, eyeing me narrowly, while I sat fairly
gasping with astonishment, not unmixed with fear. And then he looked
about him at the signs of my afternoon’s labour. “Been diggin’, hev ye?
Lookin’ fer the treasure, mebbe! Oh, yes, the rose of Sharon!” and he
glanced at the shrub which stood tall and brown in the centre of the
circle of upturned earth. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
But the moment had given me time to collect my scattered wits. My fear
of him had passed, and in its place came a hot resolve to make the most
of this encounter--to draw some advantage from it, if I could. If he
really knew where the treasure was--well, surely my wits were as good
as his!
“Yes, it’s a rose of Sharon, Mr. Tunstall,” I said, as calmly as I
could. “You remember what the key said--‘The rose of Sharon guards the
place,’ and so on. Of course I’m trying to find the treasure. You don’t
blame me for that, do you?”
“Oh, no,” he answered, slowly, evidently surprised at my
loquacity--which, indeed, rather surprised myself. “Oh, no; can’t say
thet I do.”
“It’s such a beautiful old place--we have all fallen in love with it,”
I continued earnestly, in my best society manner.
“O’ course; o’ course,” he agreed. “Most anybody would. Go ahead an’
enj’y it.”
“We are--and I’m doing my best to solve the puzzle,” I added.
“All right, go ahead if it amuses ye,” he said, with an assurance that
made my heart sink. “But ef I was you, I’d jest take things easy.”
“Oh, I think it’s worth trying,” I retorted. “I’m going to investigate
every rose of Sharon about the place--you know there are apples and
plums and early potatoes, and I don’t know what besides, which are
called roses of Sharon.”
“Air they?” he asked, laughing. “No, I didn’t know it. It strikes me
you’ve got a purty big job on hand. Did ye ever hear the story of the
man what left his sons a ten acre field in which he said they was a
treasure hid, and they dug fer it an’ dug fer it, till they finally
caught on that what he meant was the craps they raised arter diggin’
the field up?”
“Yes,” I said; “I’ve heard that story.”
“Only thet couldn’t apply here, o’ course,” he added, maliciously,
“fer ye won’t hev time t’ reap any craps. Howsomever, I ain’t got no
objections t’ you’re diggin’ the place up--mebbe I’ll do some reapin’
myself. Only it’s purty hard work--an’ mighty poor prospect of any pay.
But I ain’t got nothin’ t’ say till the seventeenth o’ May; I’m givin’
ye a clear field. I’m playin’ fair. I’m a white man, I am.”
It was my turn to be surprised at his flow of words. The emphasis he
placed upon them seemed to me a little forced, but I murmured that
I was sure he was very generous and fair-minded, and that we all
appreciated his kindness in playing fair.
“All right,” he said shortly. “I’m glad t’ hear it. Is thet what your
maw wanted t’ tell me? Hardly wuth while fer me t’ come clear out here
fer thet.”
“My mother?” I repeated, in astonishment. “But she’s not here. She
drove in to the village this afternoon.”
“In to the village?” he repeated, his face flushing a little. “How long
ago?”
“Oh, quite a while ago,” I answered. “She had some shopping to do.”
“Mebbe she ’lowed she’d be hum by this time,” he suggested, looking
at his watch; and for the first time I noticed the deepening shadows
and saw that I had consumed the whole afternoon in my work. “Now I
wonder what it could ’a’ been she wanted t’ tell me?” He put his watch
back into his pocket, and took a restless step or two up and down. “Ye
haven’t heard her say anything about a law-suit, hev ye?” he demanded,
stopping before me suddenly.
“A law-suit?” I echoed, perplexed. “What sort of a law-suit?”
“Well,” he proceeded cautiously, watching me closely, “I thought mebbe
she’d got some fool notion in her head thet the courts could upset
the will, ’r somethin’ o’ thet sort. These lawyer fellers air allers
lookin’ out fer jobs.”
“Oh, she won’t do that!” I cried. “If we can’t get the place the way
grandaunt wanted us to, we won’t get it at all--mother told Mr. Chester
that only last night.”
“She did, hey?” and my visitor drew a sudden deep breath. “Well, thet’s
wise of her--no use spendin’ your money on lawyers--though _they’d_
like it well enough, I reckon.”
“I don’t believe mother thought of it that way at all,” I corrected.
“She said we really hadn’t any claim on grandaunt, and that she had a
perfect right to dispose of her property in any way she wished.”
My companion said nothing for a moment, only stood looking down at me
with a queer light in his eyes.
“’Tain’t many people who are so sensible,” he remarked at last. “Well,
I must be goin’,” he added. “Sorry I missed yer mother. The next time
she sends fer me, tell her t’ be at home.”
“Sends for you?” I repeated again, more and more astonished. “Did she
send for you?”
“Thet’s what she did--a boy brought me word. At least, I guess it was
from her. Nobody else here’d be sendin’ me any messages, would they,
an’ invitin’ me out here t’ see them?”
“No,” I answered; “no, sir; I don’t think they would.”
“Well, I come, anyway; an’ I knocked at the front door, but didn’t git
no answer. Then I jest naterally wandered around a little, thinkin’ she
might be out here some’rs, an’ I see you a-settin’ here--an’ quite an
interestin’ conversation we’ve had, to be sure. You tell her--”
“I don’t believe she sent for you, sir,” I interrupted. “She wouldn’t
have gone away, if she was expecting you, and I’m sure she hasn’t come
back yet. Besides, if she wanted to see you, she could have done so
when she drove to town, instead of getting you to come away out here.”
I might have added that I was perfectly certain mother did not want to
see him, but to have said so would have been scarcely polite.
“Thet’s so,” he agreed, and stood for a moment in deep study. “Well,
I dunno,” he added, at last, slowly. “Looks kind o’ funny, don’t it?
Mebbe I made a mistake in thinkin’ the message was from her. I ort t’
have asked the boy. But if anybody’s been playin’ me a trick,” and his
face darkened, and he looked at me threateningly, “they’d better watch
out.”
“Oh, nobody has been playing you a trick!” I hastened to exclaim. “Who
would play you a trick?”
“I dunno,” he repeated. “I dunno. But I’m glad I come, anyway. It’s
allers a pleasure t’ meet sech a bright little girl as you air. I know
people run me down an’ lie about me; but I jest want t’ tell you thet
Silas Tunstall’s heart’s in the right place an’ thet he plays square. I
suppose they’ve been tellin’ you all sorts o’ things about me?”
“Oh, no,” I answered politely; “not at all.”
“Said I was a spiritualist, hey?”
“Yes, they said that,” I admitted.
“Well, ain’t I got a right t’ be a spiritualist?” he demanded hotly.
“Thet don’t hurt nobody, does it? Did they say I cheated?”
“No, sir.”
“Or stole?”
“No, sir.”
“Or lied?”
“No, sir.”
“But jest because I mind my own business an’ ask other people t’
mind theirs, they’re all arter me. They can’t understand why I don’t
spend my evenin’s down to the village store, chewin’ terbaccer an’
spittin’ on the stove. They can’t figger out how I make a livin’, an’
it worries ’em! Oh, I know! I’ve heerd ’em talk! Pah!” Then his anger
seemed suddenly to cool. “All I want is t’ be let alone,” he went on,
in another tone. “I’m a peaceful man; I don’t harm nobody; an’ I don’t
want nobody t’ harm me. But I can’t bear these here busy-bodies what’s
allers pokin’ their noses in other people’s business. Say,” he added,
suddenly, wheeling around upon me, “s’pose we keep this here meetin’ to
our two selves?”
He was smiling down at me cunningly, and I disliked him more than ever.
“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll have to tell mother, you know.”
“Oh, all right,” he answered, carelessly. “It don’t make no difference
t’ me. I’ve got t’ go, anyway--it’s gittin’ dark.”
He turned to go, but at that instant, two figures, robed in white,
dropped suddenly, as it seemed, from the very heavens, and I saw Mr.
Tunstall, his face purple, struggling wildly in the coils of an almost
invisible net. With a shriek, I turned to run; when our enemy, with a
scream a hundred times more shrill than mine, collapsed and tumbled in
a heap to the ground.