“I’m obliged to Mrs. Packard,” now fell from Miss Thankful’s lips, “and to you, too, young lady, for acquainting us with this accident. The passage we extended ourselves after taking up our abode in this house. We—we did not see why we should not profit by our ancestor’s old and undiscovered wine-cellar to secure certain things which were valuable to us.”
Her hesitation in uttering this final sentence—a sentence all the more marked because naturally, she was a very straightforward person—awoke my doubt and caused me to ask myself what she meant by this word “secure.” Did she mean, as circumstances went to show and as I had hitherto believed, that they had opened up this passage for the purpose of a private search in their old home for the lost valuables they believed to be concealed there? Or had they, under some temporary suggestion of their disorganized brains, themselves hidden away among the rafters of this unexplored spot the treasure they believed lost and now constantly bewailed?
The doubt thus temporarily raised in my mind made me very uneasy for a moment, but I soon dismissed it and dropping this subject for the nonce, began to speak of the houses as they now looked and of the changes which had evidently been made in them since they had left the one and entered the other.
“I understand,” I ventured at last, “that in those days this house also had a door opening on the alley-way. Where did it lead—do you mind my asking?—into a room or into a hallway? I am so interested in old houses.”
They did not resent this overt act of curiosity; I had expected Miss Thankful to, but she didn’t. Some recollection connected with the name of Saunders had softened her heart toward me and made her regard with indulgence an interest which she might otherwise have looked upon as intrusive.
“We long ago boarded up that door,” she answered. “It was of very little use to us from our old library.”
“It looked into one of the rooms then?” I persisted, but with a wary gentleness which I felt could not offend.
“No; there is no room there, only a passageway. But it has closets in it, and we did not like to be seen going to them any time of day. The door had glass panes in it, you know, just like a window. It made the relations so intimate with people only a few feet away.”
“Naturally,” I cried, “I don’t wonder you wanted to shut them off if you could.” Then with a sudden access of interest which I vainly tried to hide, I thought of the closets and said with a smile, “The closets were for china, I suppose; old families have so much china.”
Miss Charity nodded, complacency in every feature; but Miss Thankful thought it more decorous to seem to be indifferent in this matter.
“Yes, china; old pieces, not very valuable. We gave what we had of worth to our sister when she married. We keep other things there, too, but they are not important. We seldom go to those closets now, so we don’t mind the darkness.”
“I—I dote on old china,” I exclaimed, carefully restraining myself from appearing unduly curious. “Won’t you let me look at it? I know that it is more valuable than you think. It will make me happy for the whole day, if you will let me see these old pieces. They may not look beautiful to you, you are so accustomed to them; but to me every one must have a history, or a history my imagination will supply.”
Miss Charity looked gently but perceptibly frightened. She shook her head, saying in her weak, fond tones:
“They are too dusty; we are not such housekeepers as we used to be; I am ashamed—”
But Miss Thankful’s peremptory tones cut her short.
“Miss Saunders will excuse a little dust. We are so occupied,” she explained, with her eye fixed upon me in almost a challenging way, “that we can afford little time for unnecessary housework. If she wants to see these old relics of a former day, let her. You, Charity, lead the way.”
I was trembling with gratitude and the hopes I had suppressed, but I managed to follow the apologetic figure of the humiliated old lady with a very good grace. As we quitted the room we were in, through a door at the end leading into the dark passageway, I thought of the day when, according to Mrs. Packard’s story, Miss Thankful had come running across the alley and through this very place to astound her sister and nephew in the drawing-room with the news of the large legacy destined so soon to be theirs. That was two years ago, and to-day—I proceeded no further with what was in my mind, for my interest was centered in the closet whose door Miss Charity had just flung open.
“You see,” murmured that lady, “that we haven’t anything of extraordinary interest to show you. Do you want me to hand some of them down? I don’t believe that it will pay you.”
I cast a look at the shelves and felt a real disappointment. Not that the china was of too ordinary a nature to attract, but that the pieces I saw, and indeed the full contents of the shelves, failed to include what I was vaguely in search of and had almost brought my mind into condition to expect.
“Haven’t you another closet here?” I faltered. “These pieces are pretty, but I am sure you have some that are larger and with the pattern more dispersed—a platter or a vegetable dish.”
“No, no,” murmured Miss Charity, drawing back as she let the door slip from her hand. “Really, Thankful,”—this to her sister who was pulling open another door,—“the look of those shelves is positively disreputable—all the old things we have had in the house for years. Don’t—”
“Oh, do let me see that old tureen up on the top shelf,” I put in. “I like that.”
Miss Thankful’s long arm went up, and, despite Miss Charity’s complaint that it was too badly cracked to handle, it was soon down and placed in my hands. I muttered my thanks, gave utterance to sundry outbursts of enthusiasm, then with a sudden stopping of my heart-beats, I lifted the cover and—
“Let me set it down,” I gasped, hurriedly replacing the cover. I was really afraid I should drop it. Miss Thankful took it from me and rested it on the edge of the lower shelf.
“Why, how you tremble, child!” she cried. “Do you like old Colonial blue ware as well as that? If you do, you shall have this piece. Charity, bring a duster, or, better, a damp cloth. You shall have it, yes, you shall have it.”
“Wait!” I could hardly speak. “Don’t get a cloth yet. Come with me back into the parlor, and bring the tureen. I want to see it in full light.”
They looked amazed, but they followed me as I made a dash for the drawing-room, Miss Thankful with the tureen in her hands. I was quite Mistress of myself before I faced them again, and, sitting down, took the tureen on my lap, greatly to Miss Charity’s concern as to the injury it might do my frock.
“There is something I must tell you about myself before I can accept your gift,” I said.
“What can you have to tell us about yourself that could make us hesitate to bestow upon you such an insignificant piece of old cracked china?” Miss Thankful asked as I sat looking up at them with moist eyes and wildly beating heart.
“Only this,” I answered. “I know what perhaps you had rather have had me ignorant of. Mrs. Packard told me about the bonds you lost, and how you thought them still in the house where your brother died, though no one has ever been able to find them there. Oh, sit down,” I entreated, as they both turned very pale and looked at each other in affright. “I don’t wonder that you have felt their loss keenly; I don’t wonder that you have done your utmost to recover them, but what I do wonder at is that you were so sure they were concealed in the room where he lay that you never thought of looking elsewhere. Do you remember, Miss Quinlan, where his eyes were fixed at the moment of death?”
“On the window directly facing his bed.”
“Gazing at what?”
“Sky—no, the walls of our house.”