Tranquillity House/Chapter 5

T just did me good to tease Connie a bit by keeping her guessing, for she has so often irritated me in the same way. So I did not at once tell her my secret, though she almost shook me in her eagerness to hear the rest of the story. But I very soon realized that this was making her far too excited and nervous and that Miss Carstair would never approve of it. So I soothed her by saying:

“There, there, Connie! Just calm down and I’ll tell you about it at once. I didn’t mean to make you cry!” For by that time she was actually sobbing. “The paper I saw was a letter; at least I think it must have been a letter, for it began like this: ‘Dear Twin Brother.’”

There was a long silence while Connie digested this piece of news. “‘Twin brother’! How very strange!” she murmured incredulously. “But go on—go on! Don't stop there, for mercy's sake!”

“But I’ve got to stop there,” I replied, as coolly as I could.

“Why? why?” she demanded impatiently.

“Because, of course, I didn’t read any more. You don't suppose I’d go on and read another person's letter, do you? As soon as my eye had taken in that much, I folded it up quickly and put it into the chest!”

Connie sank back on her pillow. We’d both been sitting up in bed in the dark, from sheer excitement, I suppose. She heaved a great sigh and finally said:

“Well, of course that explains everything!”

“I don’t see that it does,” I retorted.

“Oh, not exactly everything, naturally, but lots and lots that we haven’t understood and have been puzzled by. For instance,” she went on, “it explains about this room. We’ve been wondering why the furnishings were exactly like those in Uncle Benham’s room; but if he had a twin brother, you can easily under stand it. Twins are about the only people who ever have clothes and things just alike.”

“Twin children,—yes,-but who ever heard of twin grown men following that custom?” I demanded.

“Well, if you can explain it any other way, I’d like to hear you !” continued Connie, sarcastically. “Now, the question is, what was the matter with this twin brother, and why has Uncle never mentioned him?”

“You remember, I told you he said this morning that the chest had something to do with a very painful chapter that has long been closed,” I reminded her.

“So he did. Something must have happened to that brother. Perhaps he got killed or met with some awful accident—or something like that. Certainly, such a thing would be painful enough!”

“But not as painful as some other things that might happen,” I interrupted her. “Do you suppose that if it had been anything like that, Uncle would have forbidden Beulah ever to speak of it under penalty of being sent back to “ol’ Virginny? Or that Tomkins would be so careful not to tell me a single thing about it, though it's plain he knows a good deal?”

“That’s true,” mused Connie. “I’d almost forgotten that. But here’s something that’s even more mysterious. This letter was in a chest that Uncle told you had been lost for years—until my accident brought it to light. Now, then, my question is, did Uncle know about the letter being in the chest—or didn’t he? Had he ever seen the letter before?”

“I think he didn’t know about it,” I answered; “and I’ll tell you why. In the first place, that chest was locked, and Uncle couldn’t have had the key to it, for he broke the lock open this afternoon. It was broken when I picked it up. That, and the fact that something must have given him a severe shock—and that letter was lying open directly at his feet!—make me almost certain it was something he had never seen before, and it must have upset him terribly.”

“Oh!” sighed Connie, “I know it’s wrong, of course, but I do wish you had just happened to see a wee bit more of that letter!”

“Two things are worrying me even more than that,” I replied. “One is, how did that chest get into such a queer place as the space under the window on the stairs. But the biggest of all is, what does Mr. Cookson know about all this and why is he so worried about your damaging the stairs? There’s something very queer about the way he acts. You said last night that he was mixed up in it, and I’m ready now to believe it!”

“He’s more than mixed up in it: he’s at the bottom of all the trouble, I believe!” declared Connie, so positively that I couldn’t help agreeing with her. “And what do you suppose is going to happen, now that he’s left alone here without either Uncle or even Tomkins to restrain him? Why, he will just have everything his own way!”

“That’s something neither you nor I can help, I’m afraid,” said I. “After all, we really know nothing about it and perhaps he isn’t planning to do anything wrong. We’ve no right to think he is, till we’re sure.”

But Connie couldn’t be persuaded to believe this, and we argued about it for a long while. Then, as we were both growing drowsy, I proposed that we stop talking and go to sleep, and Connie agreed with my suggestion. It must have been past midnight, for I heard the big old clock downstairs chime something that I thought was twelve, and I was just about to drop off when Connie pinched me hard and whispered, “''Hush! Listen!''”

I was wide awake in an instant, sitting up and asking under my breath what was the matter.

“I heard footsteps tiptoeing down the hall past this door,” exclaimed Connie, so low that I could hardly hear her. “It was certainly some one sneaking past and not wanting to be heard!” We both listened hard, after that, and—sure enough!—in a moment or two there came the faintest creak from the direction of the stairs. Then and not till then did I feel certain that Connie had not been dreaming.

“I’m going to find out who it is!” I muttered, creeping softly out of bed and finding my wrapper in the dark.

“Oh, don't!” shuddered Connie. “Maybe it’s a burglar!”

But I somehow felt certain that it wasn’t a burglar, or any one that didn’t belong in the house, and something in me just felt thoroughly indignant that, simply because Uncle was ill and away, there should be anything underhand going on. So, while Connie shivered and protested, I crept to the door and peered out.

The upper hall was dark, but Uncle had always insisted on having one light kept burning all night on the lower floor. So usually there was one burning in the living room, and the light from it would show faintly in the upper hall. To my surprise, however, all was pitch-black when I looked out. Some one must have turned off that light.

But while I stood there listening, I heard distinctly another creak on the stairs and a sound as if some one were brushing along close to the railing. Then silence again. But two minutes later I was startled to see a faint light, like that from an electric torch. It was only for an instant and out again immediately. Then, a moment after, it was flashed on again and remained on. This was too much. I could not resist another second the temptation to see what was going on, so I tiptoed along the hall and reached the head of the stairs.

If I needed any proof of our suspicions, here it was! On the floor by the window seat on the last landing knelt Mr. Cookson. He had an electric torch turned on and laid by him on the seat. He was dressed as he had been in the evening and was working away at the screws in the window-seat with a screw-driver! So furtive and so wicked did the whole thing look that it made me shudder. No need to guess what he was trying to do there! If he had shouted it aloud, he couldn’t have told it more plainly. But, as I didn’t care to be discovered watching him, I turned and hurried back to Connie.

Of course, we held a red-hot indignation meeting, huddled there in bed, not daring to raise our voices above the faintest whisper.

“Didn’t I tell you?” almost snorted Connie. “I knew all along he was up to something. He knew that chest was hidden there! Though how he came to know it, I can’t imagine. But he knew it and was pretty well scared when he thought, on account of my accident, it might have been found. As he couldn’t be sure, he’s trying to find out by unscrewing the seat, when every one he’s afraid of is away! The old coward! Well, he’ll soon have the shock of his life when he gets that window-seat off!”

As she said that, suddenly an awful thought occurred to me.

“Connie,” I whispered, “do you realize what this means? If he doesn’t find that chest in there, he'll know it was discovered and taken away, and that no doubt Uncle has it and—he'll certainly go hunting it up in Uncle's room—and—he mustn’t find it! ”

“But it’s locked in the closet, and you have the key, haven’t you?” Connie asked.

“Locks don’t mean a thing to him, I believe,” I declared. “He can get into any thing, just as he’s getting into that window seat now! What shall we do?”

“There’s only one thing I can see to do—and that is for you to go across the hall and get the chest and bring it in here. It’s the only place where it will be safe.”

But the thought of the risk I’d run almost frightened me out of my wits. “Perhaps he won’t try to get it to-night,” I said. “It’ll take him a good while to fix that window-seat back after he takes it off.”

“You make me wild!” cried Connie. “I wouldn’t be such a coward! If it weren’t for this ankle, I’d go myself, as quick as anything!”

Well, I just couldn’t stand being called a coward by my own sister, so I braced up and said certainly I’d go.

“Then you’d better do it at once,” warned Connie, “for there’s no telling what may happen when he finds the chest gone from under the window-seat!”

This was not encouraging, but I decided to give myself no time even to think about it. I got the key from the pocket of my sport-skirt and tiptoed out into the hall again. Before I ventured into Uncle’s room, I made up my mind I’d see how much progress Cookson had made and how much time I was likely to have. So I crept to the head of the stairs again and peeped over.

From what I could see in the dim light, he had several of the screws out,—about half of them, perhaps,—but I thought that it would take him at least ten minutes to take out the rest and put them all back again. And that ought to give me plenty of time. So back I crept to Uncle’s door and opened it as softly as I could. It creaked, of course! All doors do in the night, it seems to me, and especially when you don’t want ’em to! The very soft rustling and scraping sounds from down below stopped at once, and I stood rooted to the spot, not daring to move an inch. I thought that he’d come right up to see what was the matter.

But nothing happened, and I suppose he concluded that he was mistaken about hearing anything; for presently the sounds began again. At that I slid into the room, closing the door, but not latching it, as I was afraid it would creak again when I came out. I was all in the dark, of course, and had to grope my way to find the closet door. Fortunately, I knew just where all the furniture stood, or I might have stumbled over some thing. At last I reached the closet door, put in the key, and turned it without a sound. If that door creaked, at least it could not be so plainly heard downstairs as the other had been.

But the door did not creak and I bent down to raise the chest and carry it away, when a sudden thought occurred to me. It would be difficult to carry that chest across the hall in the dark without mishap. And, after all, the chest itself did not matter particularly. It was only the contents that were of any importance, so I wouldn’t bother with the chest, but empty the papers and everything into the skirt of my wrapper and carry them that way. Besides, it would be a good joke on Mr. Cook son to let him find the empty chest!

No sooner said than done, as they say in the old story-books. In a jiffy I had every single bit of the contents of the chest securely wound up in the skirt of my wrapper, had shut and locked the closet door, and was ready to creep back to our room.

I had steered successfully around all the furniture, particular avoiding Uncle’s great winged chair and footstool by the fireplace, and had reached the door without a sound—when I heard distinctly the soft, tiptoeing footsteps of Mr. Cookson coming up the stairs!