Tranquillity House

Front matter

TRANQUILLITY HOUSE

“Oh my ankle! I’ve hurt it awfully,” she whispered

BY Author of “The Mystery at Number Six,” “The Dragon’s Secret,” “The Crimson Patch,” “The Slipper Point Mystery,” “Three Sides of Paradise Green,” etc.

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I

CONNIE FALLS DOWNSTAIRS–AND PUTS HER FOOT IN IT

UP to the day when Connie fell downstairs at Tranquillity House, and broke her ankle, I had never connected anything strange or mysterious with the place or with Uncle Benham. Her accident changed all that. From the moment she put her foot through the wainscot on the lower landing—things began to happen!

But perhaps it would be just as well to explain at once how Connie came to tumble downstairs at Tranquillity House and how we came to be there at all. For old Mr. Benham isn’t our real uncle, though we have called him that ever since we were babies, when we moved next door to him in the new little house right close to the Benham grounds.

It was before Connie remembered anything much, as she was only two and a half and I was about four when we left Philadelphia a dozen years ago, with Father and Mother, and moved out to Penryd in New Jersey. As every one knows, that is a dear little old fashioned village sitting cozily on the banks of tiny, lovely Sawmill River. Father had been lucky enough to find a delightful little new house rather outside the town itself, built right alongside of the beautiful Benham place, with no other near neighbors. In fact, the ground had been a part of the Benham place, but old Mr. Benham had become tired of living all alone out on Sawmill Road and thought that if he built an attractive little house near by, he might acquire some nice neighbors. Father heard of the place through a mutual friend, and that was how we came to live here.

Well, naturally, Connie and I hadn’t been in the new house long before we began to tumble over the low stone fence that separated ours from the big, park-like grounds of the Benham place and toddle about in there. Mother, of course, didn’t realize it, as she was too busy getting settled, or she would have forbidden our trespassing. But we didn’t know any better, as we’d always lived in the city before that, and thought, I guess, that all country spaces belonged to everybody. Anyhow, the second day, as we were toddling along together down one of the beautiful garden paths (I remember it was the box garden, where the most wonderful box plants grow—some more than a hundred years old!) we suddenly came upon the dearest old gentleman, who acted quite bowled over for a minute to see two tiny girls, perfect strangers, calmly making themselves at home in his grounds.

“Hel-lo!” he said, sort of startled, and we both said, “Hello!” and Connie toddled off to pick some nasturtiums that she liked the looks of. Something about our calmness must have amused him, for he suddenly sat down on a bench and chuckled and lifted me to his knee and asked our names. I told him I was Elspeth Curtis and that was my sister Constance and we lived in the little house beyond the wall.

“I like this place,” I told him. “I’m glad we moved into a park with a nice red house in the middle!”

He laughed another chuckling laugh at that and said: “Thee must come often to the nice red house. And the park belongs to thee too, and the little sister also, as often as thee wishes to play in it!”

I wondered very much, I remember, that he should call me “thee,” and didn’t quite understand it. But at that time I had never before met a real Quaker, and, as I later discovered, Mr. Benham was a “Friend.” He often reminds me of the statues and pictures of William Penn, with his long, straight white hair and his beautiful bright blue eyes and the broad flat hat he wears.

He called on Father and Mother that evening and asked them to allow us children to run in and out of his place as freely as we pleased and regard it as a second home. He said he dearly loved children and was so lonely that it did him good to see us about. This is how it came about that we practically grew up at the Benham place. Old Beulah, the colored cook in the kitchen, simply adored us, especially Connie, who could always wheedle a piece of hot gingerbread from her, no matter how cranky she was; and Beulah was (and still is) desperately cross at times.

Tomkins too, who is Mr. Benham’s valet and butler, would do anything in the world for us. But we neither of us ever liked Mr. Cookson, the secretary, a long, lanky man, and always grouchy, who acted as if he was too busy to notice us—not that we wanted him to, for we detested him so that we rarely came to the house when he was about. But he was often ill with indigestion and in bed for days, or else off on long business trips, so we never saw much of him.

I haven’t yet said anything about the house itself, but I must describe it now, as it is the most fascinating place that two children ever had to grow up in. It is big and rambling and built of red brick trimmed with white wood-work—white shutters, with crescent moons in the top of each, and a four-pillared portico, also of white, that reaches above the second story. Off at the back are a number of ells and additions, which make it rather hard work to find your way about in it at first. Inside, it is all white woodwork, with beautiful carvings, great open fireplaces, and the most wonderful mahogany heirlooms for furniture that I have ever seen. It is almost like a museum. Mr. Benham said that his father's great grandfather left Pennsylvania and settled here way back in the days of William Penn, because the climate suited his health better. He built the house and laid out the grounds, and his descendants have lived here ever since. Mr. Benham feels it a great pity that when he dies there will be no descendants to leave it to, as he is the last of them all and has never married.

One of the rooms is a great library, with shelves of books reaching clear to the ceiling, and here Connie and I have browsed all our lives. We hardly needed to belong to the circulating library in the village, as we could find almost everything we wanted here. All over the house are portraits of his Quaker ancestors, most of them in the Friends’ costume. One of them even married a nephew of William Penn and had a wedding in this very house, so he said.

It wasn’t long before he asked us to stop calling him “Mr. Benham” and say “Uncle Azariah” instead. Connie couldn’t quite man age “Azariah,” with her baby tongue, but made it “Uncle Benham.” From this we both settled into calling him “Uncle Benham,” and, as time went on, we quite forgot that we weren’t his very own nieces, and I believe he did, too.

Years before, when I was eight and Connie six, we began to go to school in the village. As it was at least three quarters of a mile away, Mother and Daddy were a good deal worried about our getting back and forth. Mother began by walking there with us and going for us every day (we didn’t have a car then), but Uncle Benham found it out and insisted that his carriage should be used to take us. He said the horses needed exercise and ought to have an excuse for being taken out. He often drove with us, and we felt pretty fine rolling up to school every day behind that handsome team. On Sunday he would frequently take us to Friends’ Meeting in the fine old Quaker meeting-house on the other side of the village, overlooking the valley. Connie and I soon got used to sitting still through that quiet hour, when sometimes no one said a single word. But we always liked it best when “the spirit moved” Uncle Benham to speak.

So in a hundred ways he came to be woven in with most of the things of our lives. And when we weren’t to be found at home, we could always be located somewhere over at “Tranquillity House,” as Uncle Benham’s place is called, from the word “Tranquillity” in old English letters over the fan-light of the front door. As we grew older, we almost preferred it to our own home, dear as that always is and will be. But we found we could study better in Uncle Benham's library, where everything was so quiet (especially after Baby Ralph grew old enough to make our house so rackety!), and Uncle Benham was always at leisure to help us over the hard places in our arithmetic, and, later, in our Latin and algebra.

For a week before Connie had her accident, Uncle Benham had been confined to his room with a severe cold and rheumatism. It was partly this that accounted for one reason that led to the accident. He was still confined to his room that afternoon, and Mr. Cookson was away for several days. Connie and I came over to study our natural science and look up some notes in the library. We stopped in the kitchen on the way, and Beulah gave us some hot cookies. Then we ran up to see Uncle Benham, who was sitting in his room reading by the open fire.

Before we went down to study, he said to Connie: “Will thee do me the great favor, Connie dear, to bring me the big ledger that is in my office? I wish to look up something that is rather urgent. Cookson is away in Philadelphia, and I have just sent Tomkins to the village on an errand, or I would not ask it. I hope thee won’t find it too heavy!”

Connie laughed at the idea of finding a ledger too heavy, when she’s been doing all sorts of stunts in the gymnasium, and ran downstairs to Uncle Benham's office, which is a small room off the library. She came back carrying a big book; but when Uncle Benham saw it, he exclaimed: “Oh, this is too bad! Thee has brought me up the day-book instead of the ledger. They look alike and are in the same rack. Never thee mind, child. Another time will do just as well!”

But Connie jumped up and said she was so sorry to have made such a stupid mistake and took it away, to get the right one. The next thing we knew, there was the most awful sound, as if a couple of chairs were tobogganing down the staircase. Uncle Benham started to get up, but sank back quickly with the pain of his rheumatism. But I rushed out to the head of the beautiful curving staircase, and there at the bottom landing lay Connie, all mixed up somehow with the unwieldy book that was sprawled open on top of her. She was moaning softly, and when I got down to her she whispered: “Oh my ankle! I’ve hurt it awfully. Don’t let Uncle know!”

“What nonsense!” I cried, not realizing for a moment that she was hurt so badly. “As if he didn’t hear you coming down like a ton of coal!” But just then she fainted away from pain, so of course she couldn’t answer.

By that time, Beulah had come hurrying out from the kitchen, for she’d heard the racket. But the only thing she did when she saw Connie was to throw her apron over her head and rock back and forth and groan. So she wasn’t much help. I was pretty nearly distracted—the only able-bodied person who had any sense left, apparently, and Connie lying there unconscious, with that big book spread all over her like a cover.

“Help me lift her up!” I cried to Beulah; but she only rocked back and forth harder than ever.

“Oh, she’s daid—she’s daid! O Lawd, hab mussy on us!” she howled.

But suddenly the quiet voice of Uncle Benham floated down the stairs, just as calm as if there were nothing the matter.

“Stop that performance, Beulah!” it hardly more than murmured. “Put down your apron and help Elspeth to lift her sister.”

I never saw such an amazing change as came over Beulah at the sound of his voice. Down came the apron, and, with a “Yas, suh, Mr. Benham!'” she bent and lifted Connie in her strong arms.

“Bring her up here and lay her on my couch,” the calm voice went on. And Beulah strode upstairs with Connie in her arms like a baby, and me trailing behind.

Connie came to by that time, and Uncle Benham directed me to telephone for the doctor at once. Fortunately I was able to catch him just before he left his office, and he was up there fifteen minutes later.

During that time, Uncle Benham directed that Beulah and I open the room across the hall, light a fire there, and prepare the bed for Connie. When I asked if she hadn’t better be taken home, he said: “No, thee must run over later and tell your mother that we will keep Connie here while she is laid up. Thee has enough trouble at home without this extra burden.”

This was true, as Father was just getting a wee bit better after a severe attack of influenza, and Mother was worn out with nursing him and trying to get Baby Ralph through his teething besides.

Well, we got Connie into bed in the room across the hall, and the doctor set her ankle,—and a pretty painful performance it was, and Uncle Benham got a trained nurse from Philadelphia in the course of the next two hours. He declared that Connie was to remain where she was till she was well, because it was his fault, anyway, that she had the fall, since she was carrying the big book at his request, and he was going to see that she got over it as comfortably as possible.

After the excitement was all over, I went downstairs to put away the book, which no one had yet had time to pick up from where it lay near the foot of the stairs. The stairway in Tranquillity House is different from ordinary ones. It sweeps down from the upper floor in a beautiful wide curve—one of those exquisite white stairways with mahogany railing and mahogany treads. Just before it reaches the bottom, it spreads out into a landing, and, opening on this landing, a door at the left goes into the kitchen region. Right in front is a beautiful semicircular window with a low seat. Then, at the turn, the stair goes on three more steps to the bottom.

It was on this landing that Connie was lying after she fell. But as I went to get the book, which some one had stood against the wainscot below the window-seat when we picked her up, I received the shock of my life! There was a great hole in the wainscot and a piece of splintered wood driven right in—at first I couldn’t think by what, till I realized that it must have been by poor Connie’s foot, and doubtless it was striking this so hard that had broken her ankle.

Of course, I couldn’t resist the impulse to examine the thing. The white-painted wood was a rather thin piece, and evidently grown brittle with age. There was a big space left inside under the window-seat, so I put in my hand to pull out the piece of wood that had been broken in. Groping about for it, my hand struck something that felt queer—like some sort of wooden box, with something rough around the edge. This seemed very strange! Before I had time to think whether I was doing anything out of the way, I ran to the library, where I knew Uncle Benham kept a little electric torch, brought it back, turned it into the hole, and also got as much of one eye as I could into the opening.

And what I saw there is the cause of all the curious things that happened afterward at Tranquillity House!

Chapter 2

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.