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
wall-paper, 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 thus 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 after-thought.
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,
businesslike-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!"