Tranquillity House/Chapter 4

T was the next day—Sunday—that things seemed to break loose at Tranquillity. Mother and Daddy took turns going over to spend part of the morning with Connie, and I drove to First-day Meeting with Uncle Benham at his request. He has always liked to have me go with him to Friends' Meeting, because I enjoy sitting there quietly even if nothing happens during the whole hour of the service. I love to watch the calm, serene faces about me. It makes me wish my life could be as peaceful and well-ordered as theirs must be. Connie is always a little more restless and fidgets a bit, especially if there is no speaking. But I like the silence.

A dear old Quaker lady, in the quaint costume that a few of them still wear, was the only one who spoke that day. I remember she spoke (singularly enough!) on being prepared for the unexpected and striving not to be upset by it—or something to that effect and she ended with the words from the Bible, “‘I say unto you all—watch!’” Her talk seemed to affect Uncle Benham very much, and when the meeting was over we stood out side waiting for the carriage to drive up and looking out over the wide valley beyond the meeting-house. It was a beautiful mild day for winter and a lavender haze hung over the valley. Uncle laid his hand on my shoulder and sighed a little and then said:

“Thee must not think it strange—what has happened at the house this past week, Elspeth. There are many curious things that transpire in a lifetime—and I have lived long. I have seldom been taken unawares, but I confess that I was—on Thursday. A chapter, a painful one, that I had long thought closed, was reopened. It was like a thunderbolt. But it is over now, I trust. Some day, perhaps, I may tell thee about it—but not now, not now.” Just then the carriage drove up. (Uncle still likes to ride in the carriage on mild days, behind those beautiful horses. When it storms he uses the limousine.) All he said to me after that was, as we got in: “Thee understands, I’m sure, Elspeth. We will not speak of this again.”

Of course, my curiosity was roused to the limit, but I would sooner have been beheaded than ask any more questions. Uncle urged me to stay to dinner, but I thought I ought to go and help Mother out with Baby Ralph and talk to Daddy a while, who was so much better that he was going back to business next day. So I told Uncle I’d be over later in the after noon and sit with Connie while Miss Carstair went out for her two hours, and perhaps stay to tea. I followed out that program, and it turned out to be a very eventful afternoon and evening.

To begin with, I met Mr. Cookson in the big living-room downstairs before I had a chance to get up to Connie. As he never took the trouble to say more than “Good day” to me, I was passing him with the same remark and had turned to the stairs (which come down right in one corner of the same room) when, to my surprise, he broke the ice by saying most affably what a pity it was my sister had had such a bad accident and how frightened I must have been.

I replied that I had been very much frightened at first, but that Connie was less hurt than we had feared and was doing very well. Then, as there didn’t seem any more to say and as I didn’t care to talk to him anyhow, I moved off to the stairs. But he followed right after me and his manner was extremely nervous, I thought. At the foot of the stairs, he pointed to the freshly painted woodwork and remarked, “Did quite some damage to the stairs, didn’t she?” There was something so strange about his way of saying this that it put me on my guard right away. I knew as well as if he had told me in so many words that he was trying to pump me as to how much damage she had done. And I made up my mind then and there he’d never get the information from me! So all I answered was, “Oh, it seems to have been fixed very nicely with a little paint!”

Maybe I imagined it, but I’m almost certain that the expression which came into his face on hearing this was one of relief. Anyway, nothing more was said on the subject and I went along up to Connie's room. He came up right afterward and went in to Uncle Benham. I don’t know why it was, but something about him always put me in mind of Uriah Heep in “David Copperfield.” Not that he looked like him (Mr. Cookson was really a rather impressive-looking man in his way) or was “oily,” like Uriah, but there was something about him that seemed not real to me, and Connie felt the same. But Uncle Benham liked him and trusted him implicitly with all his affairs. I always thought that Mr. Cookson had no sympathy with children and rather disliked them, and that this was-what we felt.

Connie was restless and fretful that afternoon. The novelty of her accident and being at Tranquillity House in the capacity of invalid had all worn off, and she was as unreasonable and hard to manage as could well be imagined. Also, she was rather annoyed because nothing new had happened to keep up her interest in the mystery that her accident had so curiously opened up. I began to read to her, but she didn’t care about that and soon said so. Then I tried talking and told her all about the Meeting that morning and about my encounter with Mr. Cookson, coming up the stairs. But as neither event led us any nearer a solution of the puzzle, she soon grew impatient over that too.

“It’s just maddening to have to lie here in bed and think of all the strange things that must be going on and not be able to be up and around or do a thing!” she moaned. I reminded her that she probably wouldn’t be able to do anything if she were up and around, so it was useless to fuss about that. Presently she declared she was sleepy and would try to take a nap; so she turned over with her back to me and closed her eyes and I began to read a book I was interested in.

The door of the room stood partly open and I could see from where I sat right across the hall to the door of Uncle's room, which also was partly ajar. Mr. Cookson had evidently gone out, as Uncle never transacted any business on “First Day” and allowed his secretary freedom to do as he pleased. I had heard him go out earlier in the afternoon; Tomkins also was off somewhere and the place was very, very quiet indeed—so quiet that a mouse scratching behind the woodwork somewhere sounded like a terrific racket. I heard Uncle get up and walk about his room for several moments and then go back to sit down again by the fireplace. Right after that there was a sudden sharp noise, as if he were wrenching something apart, or breaking something, and then a silence for a long while.

By that time Connie had plainly gone to sleep and I had grown so interested in my book that I hardly realized how much time elapsed; but I suppose it must have been about half an hour when I heard a strange sound from Uncle Benham's room. It was something between a groan and a call, but so faint that I couldn’t be sure which it was; so I listened hard, thinking it might come again. Presently it did, this time more distinctly, and I was sure I heard him trying to speak my name. Of course, I hurried right out, on tiptoe so I shouldn’t wake Connie, and crossed the hall to his open door. But when I looked in, the sight I saw there almost stunned me with surprise.

In his chair, half lying back and over to one side, sat, or rather lay, poor Uncle Benham. That something terrible was the matter I could easily see at the first glance. His face was almost scarlet in color, and there was a queer, limp look about him that I could not understand. Some things were scattered all about on the floor, but at first I didn’t stop to notice what they were.

“Oh, what is it? Are you ill, Uncle Benham?” I cried, kneeling down by him. For answer, his lips moved, but not a sound came from them. Thinking that perhaps he was too weak to do more than whisper, I leaned my ear close to his mouth and then caught the words, hardly more than breathed, “Chest—lock—”

Not till then did I look down at the floor. Open at his feet lay the old teakwood chest, and scattered all around were papers and letters and various legal-looking documents and one flat red velvet case or box. He had evidently been looking these things over when he was taken with this strange illness.

“Do you wish me to put them away, Uncle?” I asked, and a very slight nodding of his head made me know that I had guessed rightly.

“But hadn’t I better send for Tomkins first?” I suggested; for it didn’t seem right to leave him even a moment more in that state without help. But at this he rolled his head so violently from side to side that I hastily gave up the idea and scrambled around on the floor picking up and trying to arrange in some orderly fashion the papers about his feet. And all the while his wonderful blue eyes followed me as if he longed to say something more and couldn’t. When I had them all back in the chest in some fashion, I asked him where he wished them placed, and his eyes traveled to the closet door. So I closed down the lid of the chest, discovering as I did so that he had evidently broken the lock to open it, took it to the closet, placed it on the floor, and shut the door, turning the key in the lock, for I guessed that was what he had meant when he whispered, “Lock!” I was very anxious to save him any exertion in answering questions.

What to do with the closet door-key was the next problem. Plainly, it was useless to lock the door and then leave the key in it; so I took out the key and turned to ask him where he wished it put, when I realized that he had grown suddenly very much worse. He had slipped farther down in his chair and his eyes were closed and his face had lost the bright red color. I was frightened to pieces, for I thought surely he must be either dead or dying. But when I got to him he was breathing heavily and his hands were warm. I felt his pulse, as I had seen Miss Carstair do to Connie, and found it quite strong, so I knew he was at least not so bad as I had thought.

Then commenced a wild hunt for help. I dreaded to get Beulah, for I knew as well as anything that her first performance would be exactly what it was when Connie fell. She was worse than useless. Tomkins was nowhere to be found, and then I realized that this was no doubt his afternoon off and that he had gone to the village. Mr. Cookson was away, too, and so was Miss Carstair. I did have sense enough to call up the doctor at once. He wasn’t in, but his wife said she knew where he was and would telephone him to come immediately.

I had just decided to call up Mother and ask her to come right over, and had even taken down the receiver, when who should walk in at that moment but Miss Carstair. I never was so delighted to see any one in my life. It wasn’t quite time for her return, but she said it had begun to rain and she had hurried back. No one could have been better at that moment than a trained nurse, and in less than two minutes I had taken her in to see Uncle Benham.

The rest of that afternoon will always remain in my mind as the most confusing experience I have ever lived through. Miss Carstair was a trump. She seemed to know just what to do for Uncle till the doctor got there, and I helped her the best I could. When the doctor came he immediately telephoned for more doctors, and two came all the way from Philadelphia, breaking the speed laws forty times and getting held up three times on the way, so they said. Then Tomkins arrived and I wanted to speak to him about what had happened, but I never had a chance. And later, Mr. Cookson came in, looking, or trying to look, very much concerned at the news, I thought. Of course, I didn’t speak to him about anything that had happened that afternoon!

It was lucky Miss Carstair was on hand and could give all her time to Uncle. She quite neglected Connie, for which she apologized—as if that were necessary! So Connie and I huddled by ourselves in her room and tried to make each other think that everything would be all right for Uncle. I gave Connie a hasty idea of what had occurred, but had neither the time nor the heart to go into any details just then.

About six o'clock Miss Carstair came in to tell us that they were taking Uncle away to Philadelphia, in a big, comfortable ambulance, to a hospital, where it was hoped that he would have a better chance of recovery. He was in a very serious state, she said, but not necessarily fatal, especially with the proper kind of care and some special treatment that he could get at the hospital. She said he must have had a shock of some kind, and it had brought on a partial paralysis—a trouble he had stood in dread of for a number of years, so his doctor had told her. But there was hope that it might pass off in time. Tomkins was to go with him, but she was to remain here with Connie, and she said I had better arrange to sleep over here too, so that we could all be company for each other in the big, lonely house. Of course, I knew, almost without asking, that Mother would want me too.

It was a strange supper that Miss Carstair and I had alone together that evening at Tranquillity. Mr. Cookson had complained of a headache and said he would just have some tea and toast in his room. Neither of us said much, though Miss Carstair tried very hard to be cheerful. But an air of gloom hung over us and I could have cried, for I missed Uncle Benham's beautiful smile and delightful conversation and his chair seemed so empty there at the head of the table.

Connie begged that I be allowed to sleep in her room that night because she was so lonely. Miss Carstair did not approve of it, but Connie grew so excited and tearful over it that she finally gave in and said I might if I’d be careful not to hurt Connie's ankle. It was not till the lights were all out and every one else had retired that I began to give Connie a whispered account in detail of all that had happened that afternoon and especially about—the chest.

“It’s locked in the closet, Connie,” I finished, “and no one knows about it but myself; and I have the key right in my pocket, for I didn’t know what else to do with it and didn’t dare leave it lying around. If I could have seen Tomkins alone, I would have given it to him. But there’s no one else I’d trust it with—certainly not old Cookson!”

“Well, I guess not!” cried Connie. “I think it’s just as well that we have it in our own keeping. But, Elspeth, what do you suppose caused Uncle to have that trouble? Do you think it was anything in the chest that disturbed him?”

“I don’t think it—I know it!” said I, in such an intense way (so Connie afterwards told me) that I almost scared her out of her wits.

“What do you mean?” she whispered, pinching me, unconsciously, till I almost shrieked.

“Just what I said!” I repeated. “I know it because, when I picked up the things on the floor, I saw—I couldn’t help seeing, as it lay right open in front of me—one of the papers that belonged in the chest!”