CHAPTER II
THE TEAKWOOD CHEST
CONNIE and I often wonder now what would have happened if I had gone straight to Uncle Benham and told him about the broken wainscot without bothering to look in the hole first. I’m sure I can’t imagine how it would have turned out. Perhaps the same, for Tomkins might have discovered it, though it is possible that he mightn’t have. At any rate, I did look into it and discovered the curious old box that was the cause of all the confusion and mystery.
The only thing I could see, as I peeped into the hole, was a dark, oblong affair, about a foot and a half long but not so wide. As well as I could see, for the dust, it seemed to be of some dark-colored or black wood, all carved around the edges, and a metal handle in the middle of the top. I could see that it stood about eight or nine inches high. My first impulse was to get it out, of course; but this was not possible unless I made the hole in the paneling larger, and it didn’t seem right to do that. Then I decided to tell Uncle Benham about it and let him settle what was to be done. So I took the big day-book back to the library and went up to his room.
I’ve never seen a stranger change than that which came over him when I explained my discovery. It seemed as if he, whom I had never before seen anything but perfectly calm and collected, suddenly lost all the beautiful serenity that makes him different from any one I ever knew. He started up in his chair as if to rise, then dropped back with a little groan of pain. And his eyes had the expression of a happy child that has suddenly been alarmed and hurt.
“A box or—or chest, did thee say?” he stammered. “Of what sort is it? Describe it to me again, please!”
I did so, the best I could, and he seemed to grow more excited every moment.
“Could thee not get it out if thee broke down the woodwork a little more?” he next demanded.
I said I thought I could, and he sent me flying down post-haste to try. I managed to wrench away the entire board that had been splintered, and when that was done, it was an easy matter to reach in with both hands and draw out the box. I had expected to find it rather heavier than it was (I don’t know why); I was a little surprised to find that I could lift it and carry it upstairs without difficulty.
So I took it to Uncle’s room and, at his request, placed it on his knees as he sat by the fire. I thought he turned actually pale as he placed his hands on it, and he bit his lips as if to control himself better. If only Connie hadn’t called me just at that moment, I might have seen what happened when he tried to open it. But just then there came the sound of her faint little voice calling me, and I had to see what she wanted.
It was a drink. The poor child was feverish and horribly thirsty all the time, and the trained nurse hadn’t arrived yet. While I was giving it to her, she asked me what all the fuss was about, as she’d heard me running up and down, and sounds as if I were breaking something at the foot of the stairs. I tried to explain to her hurriedly, as best I could, all the while crazy to get back to Uncle Benham and see what he was doing with the box. But I was destined to a horrible disappointment.
For when Connie at last consented reluctantly to let me go and I had rushed back to Uncle Benham's room, I found Tomkins there with him, Uncle sitting back quietly in his chair again—and not a trace of the box to be seen! This seemed remarkably strange, as I hadn’t been gone so very long, and made me feel a little queer, too, about speaking of the matter. But my curiosity made me ask if he had discovered what the strange old box was.
Before he answered me, he turned to Tomkins and said: “Go downstairs at once, get the necessary tools and wood, and fix that hole in the wainscot, if thee will, Tomkins. And when thee has finished, put several coats of white paint over the work. I wish the spot to be so well mended that it will not be noticed.”
Tomkins went out at once to get at the work. I must say right here that Tomkins once told me he had been a carpenter in his younger days, so I did not think it strange, his being called on to patch up the hole; only it seemed a little queer that Uncle Benham should be in such a hurry about it.
When he had gone, Uncle Benham called me over to him and bade me sit by his side. He seemed to have recovered a good deal of his usual calmness, but there were still traces of uneasiness and upset in his kindly blue eyes.
“Thee must think it very strange, Elspeth,” he began, “all that has happened this afternoon—especially about the—the box. That, I must tell thee, is an old Chinese teakwood chest that has been in the family for a great many years. It was given to my grandfather by a sea-captain, who said it had been with him on his travels all over the world. It was always regarded as a great curiosity. A number of years ago the thing disappeared, and I never could find out what had become of it. But Connie's accident has brought it to light in a very curious way, and I am glad to know again where it is. I shall now put it away so safely that it can never more be lost.”
When he had said this, I thought he looked at me a little wistfully, as if he wished me to accept this explanation and ask no more questions about it. Perhaps I ought to have taken the hint, but I’m only human, after all, and, much as I think of him, it just seemed as if I couldn’t be put off in this way after having had such a terrific amount of curiosity aroused!
“But, Uncle Benham, did it have anything in it?” I cried; “and how do you suppose it came to be hidden in such a queer place?”
He sighed—a long, tired sigh—before answering. “Yes, it had some—some important papers in it,” he said, “and—and other things. But thee must not ask how it came to be in this strange place, for I have no means of knowing and am as much puzzled about it as thee is. Sometime—perhaps—I shall know. But I am going to ask thee to do me a great favor. Promise me that thee will say nothing about this—this affair of the hole in the wainscot to any one. For—”
“But I’ve already told Connie!” I interrupted.
“That will not matter, for she will keep it secret too. None know about it except ourselves—and Tomkins. I wish no others to know. I have been much upset by this affair—Connie's fall and—and this discovery, and I know thee will forgive me for—for my reticence?”
“Why, of course, dear Uncle Benham!” I cried. “It’s all right and, you can depend upon it, Connie and I won’t say a word! I'll run now and sit with her a while, if you don’t need me, for I think she’s a bit lonesome.” I thought he saw me go with a good deal of relief in his expression, but I may have been mistaken. Anyway, I ran in to Connie, so bursting with excitement and curiosity that I could hardly explain to her sensibly all that had happened.
We did not have time to talk about it very long, for the trained nurse Uncle had sent for came in a little while and took Connie completely out of my hands, if I may express it that way. She was a very commanding sort of a person, this Miss Carstair,—nice, but extremely businesslike,—and she hustled me out of the room as soon as I’d had a chance to finish telling her about Connie's fall. She said Connie had a temperature and that it wouldn’t be best for her to talk any more, and that I could safely go home and leave her now, as everything would be all right till morning. I kissed Connie good-by and went—very meekly—though Connie whispered to me imploringly to stay. But I knew it wouldn’t have been any use even to suggest it. Besides, Mother was waiting anxiously to hear all the details, for I’d only had a chance to telephone her about what had happened.
Before I left, however, one thing more happened that added to the mystery of the affair. On the way downstairs, I encountered Tomkins with a kit of carpentering tools and some boards, busily engaged in mending the hole. I must explain a little about Tomkins. He’s a queer, interesting sort of man, not so very much younger than Uncle Benham, and has been in his service more than forty years. He came over here from England as a young man and went to work on the big dairy-farm that Uncle Benham owns. Uncle took a great liking to him and soon took him into his personal service. That was what Tomkins liked best, so there he has been ever since. But he has never dropped his English ways.
As he had the bottom landing pretty well littered with his tools and things, I sat down on an upper step and watched him work and talked to him a little while, for we have always been great friends and I was curious to see what he thought of the affair.
“Your poor sister, miss!” he began, shaking his head dolefully. “She must have had a turrible fall! ’Tis a fair wonder she didn’t kill herself—making such a hole as this here!”
“Oh, Connie’s not so bad!” I assured him. “The doctor says she came off pretty easily, for her ankle isn’t badly broken and she might have been hurt internally—which would have been much more serious. He says the big book saved her—it broke her fall, probably. But that’s some hole you have to mend there, Tomkins! And you’re making it look as good as ever. By the way, was there anything else inside? I didn’t think to look after I found—” Here I stopped pretty abruptly, for I just remembered that Uncle Benham hadn’t wanted me to speak about the box to any one else. But I needn’t have worried about Tomkins. He knew all about it!
“No, miss, you can set your mind at rest! I felt all around before I began, and there isn’t another livin' thing in there. But it’s fair strange about that there chest!” Here he lowered his voice mysteriously and shook his head again. Now I knew Tomkins had been associated with Uncle Benham long enough to be pretty well acquainted with his affairs, at least in an outside sort of a way, and I did long to have him go on and say something else. I didn’t feel it right to ask him straight out anything about it—that would have seemed like prying. But if he would only say it himself, I thought I’d be perfectly justified in listening. Well, it almost seemed as if he guessed my thought, for he went on:
“It would have been well—it would have been best—if that there thing hadn’t never come to light!” he said ominously, still shaking his head, not realizing at all how simply bursting I was with interest and curiosity. “He’s all upset over it. He hasn’t been so upset since—well—er—I mean—I don’t know when I’ve seen him so upset!”
Now, naturally I was “all upset,” too, when he stopped so abruptly after that “since” and changed what he was going to say! It was rather maddening! For the life of me, I couldn’t help but ask: “How did it happen that it disappeared, Tomkins? I suppose that must have upset him a good deal, too.”
Tomkins gave me a queer look, at that, and his manner grew several shades more mysterious.
“I’m very sorry, miss, not to be at liberty to tell you all about it. You see, I’m Mr. Benham's confidential man, so of course, I keep my mouth shut. But you’d be surprised if you knew what had happened here some years past!”
“Then you know the whole thing?” I couldn’t help the question.
“Well, no, miss. I’m bound to confess I’m not by any means acquainted with all the facts. Some of it is rather blank to me. But I know how it began, so to speak. It took Mr. Benham several years to get over the blow. This—this here to-day is like opening an old wound, if I may say it that way.” But after this, evidently feeling he had said enough, possibly too much, he shut up like an oyster and would only shake his head again and again while he worked.
So, as there seemed nothing else to be gained by lingering around, I ran off home, going out the back way through the kitchen, as it was the shortest. Beulah tried to bribe me with a big piece of apple pie to stay and tell her all the news she’d missed by being in the kitchen; but I shook my head and hurried on, for I was awfully anxious to see Mother and talk it all over with her. And then I remembered that I couldn’t talk it over with her, at least the most mysterious and exciting part of it, because of my promise to Uncle Benham, and it made me feel queer.
“Well,” I thought, “at least to-morrow, when I go over to see Connie, I’ll get a chance to discuss the strange affair—that is, if Miss Carstair will only leave us alone.”