“Y’ see,” explained Abner, apologetically, reading my thought, perhaps, “we was both a gittin’ old, miss; an’ they’s a mighty lot o’ work t’ do around a place like this. They was a lot thet had t’ be done—thet th’ missus allers made it a point t’ see was done—so this here rockery—an’ the hull garding fer thet matter—had t’ look out fer itself. We hadn’t no time fer flub-dubs.”
“Yes,” I interrupted, “but which is the rose of Sharon?”
“This here is th’ rose o’ Sharon, miss,” and he pointed with his spade to a tall shrub in the middle of the rockery, upon which the spring had not yet succeeded in coaxing forth any hint of green. The old, brown seed-pods of the year before still clung to it, and, on the whole, it did not look very promising of beauty.
“Now I must go, miss,” added my companion. “Jane’s waitin’ fer thet horse-radish, an’ I’ve got t’ help with th’ milkin’.”
“Very well,” I said; “only leave me your spade, please. Perhaps I can straighten things out here a little.”
“I doubt it, miss,” he said; “them vines need a good, sharp pair of clippers more’n anything, an’ a man behind ’em thet ain’t afeard t’ use ’em.” But he leaned his spade against the wall and shuffled away.
Close against the wall, a rustic seat had been built in some bygone year, and although it had crumbled somewhat and come apart in places under wind and weather, it would still bear my weight, as I found upon cautiously testing it. So I sat down to think out my plan of action. The lengthening shadows warned me that I had no time to lose; but I believed that I had my finger on the key of the puzzle, and I was determined to test my theory at once.
The spot had evidently at one time been a favourite resort of somebody; and grandaunt had lived here so long that it must have been she who had the rustic seat built and arranged the rockery. I could fancy her sitting here in the cool afternoons, when she was younger, knitting placidly, perhaps, or working some piece of embroidery. Perhaps it was here, where she was first married—but my imagination was not equal to the flight. Grandaunt a bride! The idea seemed to me preposterous—which only shows how young and thoughtless I was, for grandaunt, of course, had, once upon a time, been a girl like any other, with a girl’s heart and a girl’s hopes.
I know now more of her life than I knew then. She was married when quite young to a man much older than herself, who brought her to this house, and shut himself up with her there; a crabbed and high-tempered man, who set his stamp upon her and moulded her to his fashion. He had died many years before, but grandaunt had gone on living as she had lived, so compelling is the force of habit! And if she came to regard all the world with suspicion, and to fall into queer prejudices and beliefs, why, she was not so much to blame, after all!
But, for whatever cause, it was evident that grandaunt had at one time been fond of the garden, with its fountain and rockery and rustic seat. They offered her a distraction and relief from the sordidness of her life—a distraction which she came to need less and less, as she grew accustomed to it. Just at first, no doubt, she had often come here; the spot had once held a prominent place in her affections; and it was to it that her thoughts turned when she had been seeking a hiding-place for the treasure. But just where had she chosen to conceal it?