The Boarded-Up House (10 page)

“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:

M
Y DEAREST
M
OTHER
,—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,

F
AIRFAX
.

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!”

T
HE 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.

“Let's commence with geometry,” she suggested, opening the text-book. “Here we are, at Proposition XVI.”

“All right,” assented Joyce, with deceptive sweetness. “Give me a pencil and paper, please.” Cynthia handed them to her and began:

“Angle A equals angle B.”

“Angel
A equals
angel
B,” murmured Joyce after her.

“Joyce, I wish you would
not
say that!” interrupted Cynthia, sharply.

“Why not?” inquired Joyce with pretended surprise, at the same time decorating the corners of her diagram with cherubic heads and wings.

“Because it confuses me so I can't think!” said Cynthia. “Please call things by their right names.”

“But it makes no difference with the proof, what you call things in geometry,” argued Joyce, “whether it's angles or angels or caterpillars or coal-scuttles,—it's all the same in the end!” Cynthia ignored this, swallowed her rising wrath, and doggedly began anew:

“Angle A equals angle B!” But Joyce, who was a born tease, could no more resist the temptation of baiting Cynthia, than she could have refused a chocolate ice-cream soda, so she continued to make foolish and irrelevant comments on every geometrical statement, until, in sheer exasperation, Cynthia threw the book aside.

“It's no use!” she groaned. “You're not in a studying frame of mind, Joyce—certainly not for geometry. I'll go over that myself Monday morning; but what
you're
going to do about it, I don't know—and I don't much care! But we've got to get through somehow. Let's try the algebra. You always like that. Do you think you could put your mind on it?”

“I'll try,” grinned Joyce, in feigned contrition. “I'll make the greatest effort. But you don't seem to realize that I'm actually working
very
hard to-night!” Cynthia opened her algebra, picked out the problem, and read:

“‘A farmer sold 300 acres—'” when Joyce suddenly interrupted:

“Do you know, Cynthia, I heard the most interesting problem the other day. I wonder if you could solve it.”

“What is it?” asked Cynthia, thankful for any awakening symptom of interest in her difficult friend.

“Why, this,” repeated Joyce with great gravity. “‘If it takes an elephant ten minutes to put on a white vest, how many pancakes will it take to shingle a freight-car?'” Cynthia's indignation was rapidly waxing hotter, but she made one more tremendous effort to control it,

“Joyce, I told you that I was serious about this studying.”

“But so am I!” insisted the wicked Joyce. “Now let's try to work that out. Let
x
equal the number of pancakes—” The end of Cynthia's patience had come, however. She pushed the books aside.

“Joyce Kenway, you are—
abominable!
I wish you would go home!”

“Well, I won't!” retorted Joyce, giggling inwardly, “but I'll leave you to your own devices, if you like!” And she rose from the table, walked with great dignity to a distant rocking-chair, seated herself in it, and pretended to read the daily paper which she had removed from its seat. From time to time she glanced covertly in Cynthia's direction. But there was no sign of relenting in that young lady. She was, indeed, too deeply indignant, and, moreover, had immersed herself in her work. Presently Joyce gave up trying to attract her attention, and began to read the paper in real earnest,—a thing which she seldom had the time or the interest to do.