“I feel exactly as you do about it, though I don’t often speak of it,” said Cynthia. “But, by the way, did it ever strike you that we might find it interesting to look over some of the books in that old library? Some of them looked very attractive to me. And even if it didn’t lead to anything, at least it would be good fun to examine them, I love old books! Why not do it this afternoon ?”
“Just the thing!” agreed Joyce. “I’ve thought of that too, but we’ve never had much chance to do it, till now. This afternoon, right after lunch!”
So the afternoon found them again in the dim, musty old library, illuminating the scene extravagantly with five candles. Three sides of the room were lined with bookshelves, reaching nearly to the ceiling. The girls surveyed the bewildering rows of books, puzzled where to begin.
“Oh, come over here!” decided Joyce, choosing the side opposite the fireplace. “These big volumes look so interesting.” She brushed the thick dust off their backs, revealing the titles. “Look!—They’re all alike, with red backs and mottled sides.” She opened one curiously. “Why!—they’re called ‘Punch’! What a strange name! What kind of books can they be?” And then, on further examination,—“Oh! I see. It’s a collection of English papers full of jokes and politics and that sort of thing. And this one is from way back in 1850, Why, Cynthia, these are the most interesting things!—”
But Cynthia had already extracted another volume and was absorbed in it, chuckling softly over the old-time humor. Joyce grouped the five candles on the floor and they sat down beside them, from time to time pulling out fresh volumes, reading aloud clever jokes to each other, and enjoying themselves immensely, utterly unconscious of the passing moments.
At length they found they had skimmed through all the volumes of “Punch,” the last of which was dated 1860, and had them piled up on the floor beside them. This left a long space on the shelf from which they came, and the methodical Cynthia presently rose to put them back. As she fitted in the first volume, her eye was suddenly caught by something back of the shelves, illuminated in the flickering candle-light.
“Joyce, come here!” she called in a voice of suppressed excitement. And Joyce, who had wandered to another corner, came over in a hurry.
“What is it?”
“Look in there!” Joyce snatched a candle and held it close to the opening made by the books. Then she gave a long, low whistle.
“What do you make of it?” demanded Cynthia.
“Just what it is! And that’s as ‘plain as a pikestaff’—a keyhole!” Cynthia nodded.
“Yes, but what a strange place for it—back of those shelves!—” They brought another candle and examined the wall back of the shelves more carefully. There was certainly a keyhole—a rather small one—and around it what appeared to be the paneling of a door, only partially visible through the shreds of old, torn wall-paper that had once covered it.
“I have it!” cried Joyce, at length. “At least, I think this may be an explanation. That’s a small door, without a doubt,—perhaps to some unused closet. Maybe there was a time, when this house was new, when this room wasn’t a library. Then somebody wanted to make it into a library, and fill all this side of the room with book-shelves. But that door was in the way. So they had it all papered over, and just put the shelves in front of it, as though it had never been there. You see the paper has fallen away, probably through dampness,—and the mice seem to have eaten it too. And here’s the keyhole! Isn’t it lucky we just happened to take the books out that were in front of it!”
“But what are we going to do about it?” questioned Cynthia.
“Do? Why, there’s just one thing to do, and that is move the shelves out somehow,—they seem to be movable, just resting on those end-supports,—and get at that door!”
“But suppose it’s locked?”
“We’ll have to take a chance on that! Come on! We can’t move these books and shelves away fast enough to suit me!”
They fell to work with a zest the like of which they had not known since their first entrance into the Boarded-up House. It was no easy task to remove the armfuls of books necessary to get at the door behind, and then push and shove and struggle with the dusty shelves, In a comparatively short time, however, the floor behind them was littered with volumes hastily deposited, and the shelves for a space nearly as high as their heads were removed. Then they tore at the mouldy shreds of wallpaper till the entire frame of the paneled wooden doorway was free. Handle there was none, it having doubtless been removed when the place was papered. There seemed, consequently, no way to open the door. But Cynthia was equal to this emergency.
“I’ve seen an old chisel in the kitchen. We might pry it open with that,” she suggested.
“Go and get it!” commanded Joyce, bursting with excitement. “I think this is going to be either a secret cupboard or room!”
Cynthia seized a candle and hurried away, coming back breathless with the rusty tool.
“Now for it!” muttered Joyce. She grasped the chisel and inserted it in the crack. pushing on it with all her might. But the door resisted, and Cynthia was just uttering the despairing cry,—
“Oh, it’s locked too!” when it suddenly gave way, with a wholly unexpected jerk, and flew open emitting a cloud of dust.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Joyce, between two sneezes, “That almost knocked me off my feet. Did you ever see so much dust!” Snatching the candles again, they both sprang forward, expecting to gaze into the dusty interior of some long unused cupboard or closet. They had no sooner put their heads into the opening, than they started back with a simultaneous cry.
The door opened on a tiny, narrow stairway, ascending into the dimness above!
CHAPTER XI
THE ROOM THAT WAS LOCKED
BEFORE Cynthia could realize what had happened or was happening, Joyce seized her and began waltzing madly around the library, alternately laughing, sobbing, hugging, and shaking her distractedly.
“Stop, stop, Joyce! Please!” she begged breathlessly, “Have you gone crazy? You act so! What is the matter?”
“Matter!—You ask me that?” panted Joyce. “You great big stupid!—Why, we’ve discovered the way to the locked-up room!—That’s what’s the matter!” Cynthia looked incredulous.
“Why, certainly!” continued Joyce. “Can’t you see? You know that room is right over this. Where else could those stairs lead, then? But come along! We’ll settle all doubts in a moment !” She snatched up a candle again and led the way, Cynthia following without more ado.
“Oh, Joyce! It’s horribly dirty and stuffy and cobwebby in here! Couldn’t we wait a few moments till some air gets in?” implored Cynthia in a muffled voice.
“I sha’n’t wait a moment, but you may if you wish,” called back Joyce. “But I know you won’t! Mind your head! These are the tiniest, lowest stairs I’ve ever seen!” They continued to crawl slowly up, their candles flickering low in the impoverished air of the long-inclosed place.
“What if we can’t open the door at the top?” conjectured Cynthia. “What if it’s behind some heavy piece of furniture?”
“We’ll just have to get in somehow!” responded Joyce. “I’ve gone so far now, that I believe I’d be willing to break things open with a charge of dynamite, if we couldn’t get in any other way! Here I am, at the top. Now you hold my candle, and we’ll see what happens!” She handed her candle to Cynthia, braced herself, and threw her whole weight against the low door, which was knobless like the one below.
Then came the surprise. She had expected resistance, and prepared to cope with it. To her utter amazement, there was a ripping, tearing sound, and she found herself suddenly prone upon the floor of the most mysterious room in the house! The reason for this being that the door at the top was covered on the inner side with only a layer or two of wallpaper, and no article of furniture happened to stand in front of it. Consequently it had yielded with ease at the tremendous shove Joyce had given it, and she found herself thu
s forcibly and ignominiously propelled into the apartment.
“My!” she gasped, sitting up and dusting her hands, “but that was sudden! I don’t care, though! I’m not a bit hurt, and—we’re in!” They were indeed “in”! The mysterious, locked room was at last to yield up its secret to them. They experienced a delicious thrill of expectation, as, with their candles raised above their heads, they peered eagerly about.
Now, what they had expected to find within that mysterious room, they could not perhaps have explained with any definiteness. Once they stood within the threshold, however, they became slowly conscious of a vague disappointment. Here was nothing so very strange, after all! The room appeared to be in considerable disorder, and articles of clothing, books, and boyish belongings were tossed about, as in a hurry of packing. But beyond this, there was nothing much out of the ordinary about it.
“Well,” breathed Cynthia at length. “Is this what we’ve been making all the fuss about!”
“Wait!” said Joyce. “You can’t see everything just at one glance. Let’s look about a little. Oh, what a dreadful hole we’ve made in the wall-paper! Well, it can’t be helped now, and it’s the only damage we’ve done.” They commenced to tiptoe about the room, glancing curiously at its contents.
It was plainly a boy’s room, A pair of fencing-foils hung crossed on one wall, a couple of boxing-gloves on another. College trophies decorated the mantel. On a center-table stood a photograph or daguerreotype in a large oval frame. When Cynthia had wiped away the veil of dust that covered it, with the dust-cloth she had thoughtfully tucked in her belt, the girls bent over it.
“Oh, Cynthia!” cried Joyce. “Here they are—the Lovely Lady and her boy. He must have been about twelve then. What funny clothes he wore! But isn’t he handsome! And see how proudly she looks at him. Cynthia, how could he bear to leave this behind! I shouldn’t have thought he’d ever want to part with it.”
“Probably he went in such a hurry that he couldn’t think of everything, and left this by mistake. Or he may even have had another copy,” Cynthia added in a practical afterthought.
Garments of many descriptions, and all of old-time cut, were flung across the bed, and on the floor near it lay an open valise, half packed with books.
“He had to leave that too, you see, or perhaps he intended to send for it later,” commented Joyce, “Possibly he didn’t realize that his mother was going to shut up the house and leave it forever. Here’s his big, business-like-looking desk, and in pretty good order, too. I suppose he hadn’t used it much, as he was so little at home. It’s open, though.” She began to dust the top, where a row of school-books were arranged, and presently came to the writing-tablet, which she was about to polish off conscientiously. Suddenly she paused, stared, rubbed at something with her duster, and bending close, stared again. In a moment she raised her head and called in a low voice:
“Cynthia, come here!” Cynthia, who had been carefully dusting the college trophies on the mantel, hurried to her side.
“What is it? What have you found?” Joyce only pointed to a large sheet of paper lying on the blotter. It was yellow with age and covered with writing in faded ink,—writing in a big, round, boyish hand. It began,—
“My dearest Mother—” Cynthia drew back with a jerk, scrupulously honorable, as usual, “Ought we to read it, Joyce? It’s a letter!”
“I did,” whispered Joyce. “I couldn’t help it, for I didn’t realize what it was at first. I don’t think it will harm. Oh, Cynthia, read it!” And Cynthia, doubting no longer, read aloud:
MY DEAREST MOTHER,—the best and loveliest thing in my life,—I leave this last appeal here, in the hope that you will see it later, read it, and forgive me. We have had bitter words, but I am leaving you with no anger in my heart, and nothing but love. That we shall not see each other again in this life, I feel certain. Therefore I want you to know that, to my last hour, I shall love you truly, devotedly. I am so sure I am right, and I have pledged my word. I cannot take back my promise. I never dreamed that you feel as you do about this cause. My mother, my own mother, forgive me, and God keep you.
Your son,
FAIRFAX.
When Cynthia had ended, there was a big lump in Joyce’s throat, and Cynthia herself coughed and flourished a handkerchief about her face with suspicious ostentation. Suddenly she burst out:
“I think that woman must have had a—a heart of stone, to be so unforgiving to her son,—after reading this!”
“She never saw it!” announced Joyce, with a positiveness that made Cynthia stare.
“Well!—I’d like to know how you can say a thing like that!” Cynthia demanded at once. “It lay right there for her to see!”
“How do you account for this room being locked?” parried Joyce, answering the question, Yankee fashion, by asking another. Cynthia pondered a moment.
“I don’t account for it! But—why, of course! The boy locked it after him when he went away, and took the key with him!” Joyce regarded her with scorn.
“That would be a sensible thing to do, now, wouldn’t it! He writes a note that he is hoping with all his heart that his mother will see. Then he calmly locks the door and walks off with the key! What for ?”
“If he didn’t do it, who did?” Cynthia defended herself. “Not the servants. They went before he did, probably. There’s only one person left—his mother!”
“You’ve struck it at last. What a good guesser you are!” said Joyce, witheringly. Then she relented. “Yes, she must have done it, Cynthia. She locked the door, and took the key away, or did something with it,—though what on earth for, I can’t imagine!”
“But what makes you think she did it before she read the note?” demanded Cynthia.
“There are just two reasons, Cynthia. She couldn’t have been human if she’d read that heart-rending letter and not gone to work at once and made every effort to reach her son! But there’s one other thing that makes me sure. Do you see anything different about this room?” Cynthia gazed about her critically. Then she replied:
“Why, no. I can’t seem to see anything so different. Perhaps I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Look at the windows! Are they like the ones in the rest of the house?”
“Oh, no!” cried Cynthia. “Now I see! The curtains are not drawn, or the shutters closed. It’s just dark because it’s boarded up outside.”
“That’s precisely it!” announced Joyce. “You see, she must have gone around closing all the other inside shutters tight. But she never touched them in this room. Therefore she probably never came in here. The desk is right by the window. She couldn’t have helped seeing the letter if she had come in. No, for some reason we can’t guess, she locked the door,—and never knew!”
“And she never, never will know,” whispered Cynthia. “That’s the saddest part of it!”
CHAPTER XII
A SLIGHT DISAGREEMENT
THE Friday afternoon meeting of the Sigma Sigma literary society broke up with the usual confused mingling of chatter and laughter. There had been a lively debate, and Joyce and Cynthia, as two of the opponents, had just finished roundly and wordily belaboring each other. They entwined arms now, amiably enough, and strolled away to collect their books and leave for home. Out on the street, Cynthia suddenly began:
“Do you know, we’ve never had that illumination in the Boarded-up House that we planned last fall, when we commenced cleaning up there.”
“We never had enough money for candles,” replied Joyce.
“Yes, I know. But still I’ve always wanted to do it. Suppose we buy some and try it soon,—say to-morrow?” Joyce turned to her companion with an astonished stare.
“Why, Cynthia Sprague! You know it’s near the end of the month, and I’m down to fifteen cents again, and I guess you aren’t much better off! What nonsense!”
“I have two dollars and a half. I’ve been saving it up ever so long—not for that specially—but I’m perfectly
willing to use it for that.”
“Well, you are the queerest one!” exclaimed Joyce. “Who would have thought you’d care so much about it! Of course, I’m willing to go in for it, but I can’t give my share till after the first of the month. Why do you want to do it so soon?”
“Oh, I don’t know—just because I do!” replied Cynthia, a little confused in manner. “Come! Let’s buy the candles right off. And suppose we do a little dusting and cleaning up in the morning, and fix the candles in the candelabrum, and in the afternoon light them up and have the fun of watching them?” Joyce agreed to this heartily, and they turned into a store to purchase the candles. Much to Joyce’s amazement, Cynthia insisted on investing in the best wax ones she could obtain, though they cost nearly five cents apiece.
“Tallow ones will do!” whispered Joyce, aghast at such extravagance. But Cynthia shook her head, and came away with more than fifty.
“I wanted them good!” she said, and Joyce could not budge her from this position. Then, to change the subject, which was plainly becoming embarrassing to her, Cynthia abruptly remarked:
“Don’t forget, Joyce, that you are coming over to my house to dinner, and this evening we’ll do our studying, so that to-morrow we can have the whole day free. And bring your music over, too. Perhaps we’ll have time to practise that duet afterward.”
“I will,” agreed Joyce, and she turned in at her own gate.
Joyce came over that evening, bringing her books and music. As Mr. and Mrs. Sprague were occupying the sitting-room, the two girls decided to work in the dining-room, and accordingly spread out their books and papers all over the big round table. Cynthia settled down methodically and studiously, as was her wont. But Joyce happened to be in one of her “fly-away humors” (so Cynthia always called them), when she found it quite impossible to concentrate her thoughts or give her serious attention to anything. These moods were always particularly irritating to Cynthia, who rarely indulged in causeless hilarity, especially at study periods. Prudently, however, she made no remarks.
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