Tranquillity House. Augusta Huiell Seaman

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СКАЧАТЬ looked about it in surprise. “Why, no!” I said. There didn’t seem anything strange about it—a great, airy, beautiful room, furnished, as was all the rest of the house, with wonderful old mahogany heirlooms and looking as if all the colonial governors, not to speak of Washington and Lafayette and all the rest, might have occupied it with perfect propriety. “No, it seems all right to me.”

      “Of course it’s all right!” she cried. “What isn’t, in Tranquillity House? But does anything about it seem queer to you?”

      Again I looked around and this time a partial light did dawn on me. “There’s just one thing,” I ventured; “the furnishing seems—seems—yes, I believe I see what you mean. Every bit of this furniture just exactly duplicates what's in Uncle Benham's room, almost every single piece, and even the position of it is pretty nearly the same. That’s a little strange, because, as I remember, all the other bedrooms are quite different. It’s curious I never noticed it before.”

      “No, it isn’t strange,” declared Connie, “because—you’ve never been in this room before!”

      “Nonsense!” I cried. “I’m sure there isn’t a room in this house we haven’t explored over and over again!”

      “Not this one,” persisted Connie. “The door has always been shut—not locked, but just closed. I remember once when I was quite little (you didn’t happen to be around at the time) I opened the door one day and was going to play in here when Uncle Benham came along and told me not to, that he preferred not to have the door opened at all—that I could play anywhere I chose except in this one room. I was too little to think anything about it at the time, and soon forgot all about the affair. But I never tried to come in again.”

      “I always supposed the door opened into a closet,” I added. “I remember being a little surprised yesterday when Beulah opened this door and came in here. I thought Uncle meant the next room down the hall. But I was so upset over your accident that I didn’t have much time to think about it. Uncle told me afterward that he put you in here because it was the most comfortable room in the house and he wanted you to have the very best. He didn't say anything else about it. How curious this is!”

      “It’s more than curious—it has something to do with that—that other affair,” Connie went on mysteriously. She is very clever at guessing riddles and solving puzzles and is never happier than when she has something of the kind to mull over.

      “That’s impossible!” I cried. “Where can you find the slightest connection between the two things?”

      “You haven’t heard, yet, all I have to tell,” she answered provokingly—and then sent me for a fresh drink of water, just to keep me on tenterhooks, I believe. Connie is that way—loves to tease and exasperate and keep one guessing. It amuses her to see people fuss! Well, I got her the drink and then begged her to go on.

      “It was a conversation—or just a wee bit of a one—between Uncle Benham and Tomkins that I couldn’t help but overhear last night. It was late and Miss Carstair had gone to her room—she’s in the one right next and leaves me this bell to ring in case I need her. My door was partly open and the light was out, and I guess they thought I was asleep. Uncle Benham's door was partly open too, and Tomkins was fussing around in there getting him ready for the night, I suppose. Presently I heard him say: “And what shall we do with this chest, sir? It is most greatly in the way on the closet floor. There is no room, sir. Uncle Benham’s reply was in so low a tone that I couldn’t hear it, but I did catch Tomkins's next remark: ‘Yes, yes, sir! Of course, sir. Until Miss Connie is well, sir, we can most certainly get along with it here. I’ll lock it in the secretary-desk when the room is vacant, sir!’ And then he said something in a lower voice that I couldn’t hear, but it ended with, ‘most appropriate place for it anyway, sir! And to that Uncle Benham replied something like, ‘No matter, no matter! Thee must not refer to that!' in a sort of half-vexed tone. That was all, but it certainly set me to thinking! What do you make of it?”

      Very naturally, I couldn’t make anything of it and said so. Everything she had told me simply made the mystery deeper. And we had just settled down to a good old talk about it when back came Miss Carstair, long before her time, saying that the walking was so bad on account of the thaw that she’d decided to give up her walk and come in and read to Connie. Of course, it was very kind of her to think of it, but we were both secretly furious with her for interfering with our chat. However, there was nothing to be done but leave her with Connie and “David Copperfield,” and I went on home to think about the strange new developments.

      Before I left the house, however, another queer thing happened. At least, it seemed strange to me. Perhaps another might not have noticed it particularly, but by that time I was on the watch for every little event that had the slightest bearing on this queer state of affairs. As I was going down the stairs, whom should I see on the lower landing by the window but Mr. Cookson, the secretary. I must explain right here that Mr. Cookson frequently had to go off on business trips for Uncle Benham. Uncle had two or three large dairy-farms in Pennsylvania and the business connected with these was mainly transacted by Mr. Cookson. That was what Uncle kept him for, as he himself was not able to travel much and the business was rather large. Mr. Cookson had evidently just returned from one of these trips. He was standing there by the window with his grip in his hand and staring hard at the panel in the wainscot that Tomkins had put in and freshly painted the night before.

      Now, I can’t exactly explain why it seemed strange to me that Mr. Cookson should be staring so at that panel. It did look slightly different from the rest of the wood, because the paint was just a little fresher and whiter than the woodwork around it. But then, on the other hand, there was so little difference that a person not acquainted with the circumstances would not have been at all likely to notice it, and Mr. Cookson had only that moment arrived (I saw the taxi he came in from the station just driving away). He certainly hadn’t had time to be informed of yesterday’s events, so why the interest in that panel?

      At any rate, I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him anything, for as I’ve said before, both Connie and I disliked him extremely and he certainly showed no wild enthusiasm over us. We usually avoided each other, except for politely passing the time of day when we met. So I came on down just as if nothing unusual were the matter. I wondered how I was going to pass him, as he was occupying just about the whole landing, with his grip planted right in the way. But he didn't appear to notice me at all. When I got right up to him I said, “Good afternoon!” and this simple remark seemed to have a very surprising effect. He started violently and appeared to notice me for the first time and hastily moved aside, mumbling something I suppose was meant for a polite reply. He did not mention anything about the panel, but snatched up his suitcase and hurried off upstairs, and I went on out. The little happening stayed in my mind, how ever, and I couldn’t forget it all that evening.

      The next day was Saturday and I had more time to be with Connie. By that time she was over the worst of the pain and just had to be pretty quiet, waiting for the break in her ankle to knit. In the morning, as usual, Miss Carstair was full of business and I scarcely got more than a glimpse of Connie. So I spent a few moments with Uncle Benham (who by that time seemed quite restored to his usual quiet serenity and was also around and downstairs, though walking with a cane), and then went back home till later.

      In the afternoon, however, Connie and I had a wonderful time together, for Miss Carstair had asked leave to go to Philadelphia and be away till dinner, and Uncle Benham had gone off with Tomkins for a long drive and a call on some one, and Mr. Cookson, if he was in the house at all, was nowhere to be seen. So except for Beulah, Connie and I had the place almost to ourselves—and we certainly made the most of those precious three hours!

      “I’ve got something special to tell you!” СКАЧАТЬ