IN WHICH ALL MYSTERIES ARE SOLVED
At last the two on the staircase heard footsteps approaching the door,
and a pleasant voice called out:
"Where are you both, little ladies? Will you not come and join us? I
think we must have some things to be explained!" They came forward, a
little timidly, and their latest visitor held out a hand to each.
"You wonderful two!" he exclaimed. "Do you realize that, had it not been
for you, this would never have happened? My mother and I owe you a debt
of gratitude beyond all expressing! Come and join us now, and we will
solve the riddles which I'm sure are puzzling us all." He led them over
to the sofa, and placed them beside his mother.
Never was a change more remarkable than that which had come upon Mrs.
Collingwood. Her face, from being one of the saddest they had ever
seen, had grown fairly radiant. She looked younger, too. Ten years
seemed suddenly to have dropped from her shoulders. Her brown eyes
flashed with something of their former fire, and she smiled down at them
as only the Lovely Lady of the portrait had ever smiled. There was no
difficulty now in identifying her with that picture.
"Oh, please--" began Joyce, breathlessly, "won't you tell us, Mr.
Collingwood, how you come to be--_not dead!_--and why you gave another
name at the door--and--and--" He laughed.
"I'll tell you all that," he interrupted, "if you'll tell _me_ who
'Joyce Kenway' is!"
"Why, _I_ am!" said Joyce in surprise. "Didn't you guess it?"
"How could I?" he answered. "I never supposed it was a _girl_ who sent
me that note. I did not even feel sure that the name was not assumed to
hide an identity. In fact, I did not know what to think. But I'll come
to all that in its proper place. I'm sure you are all anxious to hear
the strange story I have to tell.
"In the first place, as it's easy to guess, I wasn't killed at the
battle of Shiloh at all,--but so very seriously wounded--that I came to
be so reported. As I lay on the field with scores of others, after the
battle, a poor fellow near me, who had been terribly hurt, was moaning
and tossing. My own wound did not hamper me so much at the time, so I
crawled over to him and tried to make him as comfortable as possible
till a surgeon should arrive. Presently he began to shiver so, with some
sort of a chill, that I took off my coat and wrapped it round him. The
coat had some of my personal papers in it, but I did not think of that
at the time.
"When the surgeons did arrive, we were removed to different army
hospitals, and I never saw the man again. But he probably died very soon
after, and evidently, finding my name on him, in the confusion it was
reported that _I_ was dead. Well, when I saw the notice of my own death
in the paper, my first impulse was to deny it at once. But my second
thought was to let it pass, after all. I believed that I had broken
forever with my home. In the year that had elapsed, I had never ceased
to hope that the note I left would soften my mother's feelings toward
me, and that at least she would send me word that I was forgiven. But
the word had never come, and hope was now quite dead. Perhaps it would
be kinder to her to allow her to think I was no more, having died in the
cause I thought right. The more I thought it over, the more I became
convinced that this was the wisest course. Therefore I let the report
stand. I was quite unknown where I was, and I decided, as soon as I was
able, to make my way out West, and live out my life far from the scenes
of so much unhappiness. My wound disqualified me from further army
service and gave me a great deal of trouble, even after I was dismissed
from the hospital.
"Nevertheless, I worked my way to the far West, partly on foot and
partly in the slow stage-coaches of that period. Once in California, I
became deeply interested in the gold mines, where I was certain, like
many another deluded one, that I was shortly going to amass an enormous
fortune! But, after several years of fruitless search and fruitless
toil, I stood as poor as the day I had first come into the region. In
the meantime, the fascination of the life had taken hold of me, and I
could relinquish it for no other. I had always, from a small child, been
passionately fond of adventure and yearned to see other regions and test
my fortune in new and untried ways. I could have done so no more
acceptably than in the very course I was now pursuing.
"At the end of those hard but interesting years in California, rumors
drifted to me of golden possibilities in upper Canada, and I decided to
try my luck in the new field. The region was, at that time, practically
a trackless wilderness, and to brave it at all was considered the limit
of folly. That, however, far from deterring me, attracted me only the
more. I got together an outfit, and bade a long farewell to even the
rough civilization of California.
"Those were strange years, marvelous years, that I spent in the mountain
fastnesses of upper Canada. For month on month I would see no human
being save the half-breed Indian guide who accompanied me, and most of
the time _he_ seemed to me scarcely human. And all the while the search
for gold went on, endlessly--endlessly. And the way led me farther and
farther from the haunts of men. Then,--one day,--I found it! Found it in
a mass, near the surface, and in such quantities that I actually had
little else to do but shovel it out, wash it, and lay the precious
nuggets aside, till at length the vein was exhausted. On weighing it up,
I found such a quantity that there was really no object in pursuing the
search any farther. I had enough. I was wealthy and to spare, and the
longing came upon me to return to my own kind again. By this time,
fifteen years had passed.
"You must not, however, think that in all these years and these
absorbing interests, I had forgotten my mother. On the contrary,
especially when I was in the wilderness, she was constantly in my
thoughts. Before I left California for Canada (the war was then over
some four or five years) I had contemplated writing to her, informing
her of the mistake about my death, and begging her once more to forgive
me. But, for several reasons, I did not do this. In the first place, I
had heard of the exceeding bitterness of the South, increased tenfold by
the period of reconstruction through which it was then passing. Old
grudges, they told me, were cherished more deeply than ever, and members
of the same family often regarded each other with hatred. Of what use
for me then, I thought, to sue for a reconciliation at such a time.
"Beside that, my very pride was another barrier. I had not been
successful. I was, in fact, practically penniless. Would it not appear
as though I were anxious for a reconciliation because I did not wish to
lose the property which would one day have been mine, had not my mother
disinherited me? No, I could never allow even the hint of such a
suspicion. I would wait.
"But, in the Canadian wilderness, I began to see matters in another
light. So far from the haunts of humanity and the clash of human
interests, one cannot help but look at all things more sanely. It
occurred to me that perhaps my mother, far from cherishing any bitter
feeling toward me, now that she thought me dead, might be suffering
agonies of grief and remorse because we had not been reconciled before
the end. If there were even a possibility of this, I must relieve it. So
I sat down one day, and wrote her the most loving, penitent letter,
begging anew for forgiveness, and giving her the history of my
adventures and my whereabouts. This letter I sent off by my guide, to be
mailed at the nearest trading-post.
"It took him a month to make the journey there and back. I waited three
months more, in great impatience, then sent him back to the same post,
to see if there might be a reply. He came back in due time, but bringing
nothing for me, and I felt that my appeal had been in vain.
Nevertheless, a few months later I wrote again, with no better result.
My guide returned empty-handed. And during the last year I was there, I
made the third and final trial, and, when again no answer came, I felt
that it was beyond all hope to expect forgiveness, since she could
ignore three such urgent appeals.
"I have just learned from my mother that these letters were never
received by her, which is a great surprise to me, but I think I know the
explanation. My guide was not honest,--indeed, few of them are,--but,
strangely enough, I never discovered any dishonesty in him, while he was
with me. At that time, the postage on letters from that region was very
high, sometimes as much as fifty or sixty cents, or even a dollar. This,
of course, I always gave to the guide to use in sending the letter when
he got to the trading-post. Now, though the sum seems small to us, it
was large to him. And though I never suspected it at the time, I have no
doubt that he pocketed the money and simply destroyed the letters. So
that explains why my mother never received any of them.
"Well, I returned to California a rich man, able to indulge myself in
any form of amusement or adventure that pleased me. I found that I still
felt the lure of foreign countries, and the less explored or inhabited,
the better. I shipped for a voyage to Japan and China, and spent several
more years trying to penetrate the forbidden fastnesses of Tibet. From
there, I worked down through India, found my way to the South Sea
Islands, and landed at length in Australia with the intention of
penetrating farther into that continent than any white man had yet set
foot.
"I think by this time, I had pretty well lost all desire ever to return
to America, especially to New York. But at intervals I still felt an
inexpressible longing to see or hear from my mother. Ten or twelve added
years had slipped by, and it did not seem human that she should continue
to feel bitterly toward me. I had almost decided to write to her once
more, when in Sydney, New South Wales, where I happened to be looking
over the files of an old New York paper in the public library, I
stumbled on the death-notice of a Mrs. Fairfax Collingwood of
Chesterton, South Carolina. The paper was dated seven years before.
"The knowledge was like a knife-wound in my heart. There could be no
doubt of the truth. I knew of no other of that name, and the town was
the very one in which she lived. My mother now tells me that she knew of
this mistake, an error of the New York paper in copying the item from a
Southern journal. As a matter of fact, it was a very distant cousin of
hers who had died, a Mrs. Fanshawe Collingwood, who also lived in the
town. She was my mother's only living relative, and the paper mentioned
this circumstance. But when the New York paper copied it, they left out
all about the surviving cousin, and merely mentioned the name of the
deceased as 'Mrs. Fairfax Collingwood.' My mother had this rectified in
a later publication of the paper, but that, of course, I never saw.
"Well, I went into the heart of Australia under the impression that I
was now really motherless, and under that impression I have lived ever
since. I cannot now detail to you all my wanderings and adventures. I
will only say that I became deeply interested in the Australian gold
mines, bought up one finally, and have superintended its running ever
since. Lately, it became necessary for me to make a business trip to New
York in connection with this mine, and I decided to come by way of
Europe, since I had never seen that portion of the globe. My business
would not keep me in New York more than a week, and I intended to travel
at once back to Australia across the continent, in order to see the
changes that had taken place since I left.
"I had absolutely no idea of visiting this old home. Why, indeed, should
I? My mother, as I supposed, was dead. Nothing else mattered. I had no
interest in the property. For aught I knew it might have changed hands
twenty times since we lived there. It might not even be in existence. At
any rate, I had no wish to revive the bitterness of that memory. Then
came the strange note this morning, which I believe you, Miss Joyce,
are responsible for!
"To say that I was completely bewildered by it, would be putting it
mildly. It made a statement that was new to me, indeed, and might
account for many things. But what was I to do about it? Which way should
I turn? No use to hurry down to South Carolina,--my mother being dead.
Of whom should I make inquiries? The firm of New York lawyers that I
remembered her as formerly retaining, I dreaded to consult, lest they
think I had come to make a claim on the property. There seemed to be
absolutely no clue.
"And then I happened to look at the envelope and saw that it was
postmarked Rockridge, a region which I speedily ascertained was right in
the vicinity of my old home. That decided me to come out here at once,
this afternoon, hunt up the spot, and try to discover in this way
whether there was any use of pursuing investigations further in this
direction.
"As I have said, I naturally supposed that the property had changed
hands many times before this; and that all its old belongings had long
since been sent to my mother or sold by her orders.
"When I arrived in this street and saw the old house still standing,
forlorn, unkempt, apparently deserted, and quite unchanged since I knew
it, I was still more astonished. But when I noticed the little door in
the boarding standing open, I resolved to begin my investigations right
there, and I boldly went up and knocked. Then Miss Joyce came out and
announced that a member of the Collingwood family was here on business.
That, too, seemed incredible, as I remembered no surviving member of the
family. Discretion, however, seemed to me the better part of valor, and
I decided to give the name that I had borne during my first years in
California, till I could ascertain more definitely just what the
situation was.
"So I came in--as Mr. Arthur Calthorpe--and the mystery deepened tenfold
when I saw this old room all lit up precisely as I had remembered it so
many years ago. It so carried me back into my youth that, for a few
moments, I quite lost track of the present. And when I came to the old
piano, the impulse seized me to play a few bars and hum the lines of a
little song I had once composed for my mother. I had at that time rather
a gift for music, and this song was a sort of secret of ours-- I never
sang or played it for any one else. And she remembered it!
"Well, you know the rest!--" And he stopped abruptly. They all drew long
breaths of relaxed tension.
"There's something that has puzzled me all along," began Joyce, at last.
"I wonder if Mrs. Collingwood would object to my asking about it?"
"No, indeed, dear child," replied that lady. "Have no hesitation in
asking what you wish."
"It's this, then. I have often and often wondered why you never came
back to this beautiful old home, or at least sent for the books and
pictures and lovely things that were going to ruin here. Did you never
think of it?"
"I do not wonder that you ask," answered Mrs. Collingwood, "for it must
have seemed very strange to an outsider. Of course, for the first few
years, my anger had been so great, and my grief was still so terrible,
that I felt I could never, never look upon the place or anything in it
again. Then, as you have heard, I willed the house itself and the land
to the Southern Society, as I had no one to whom I wished to leave it,
and my means were sufficient, so that I did not need to sell it. As the
years passed on, however, and my feelings altered, I did begin to think
it a pity that the place should run to neglect and ruin.
"So strong did this conviction become, that I decided to come North
myself, and personally superintend putting the house in order. I could
not bear to leave this task to outsiders. I even thought that, if I
found I could endure the memories, I would live in it a while, for the
sake of the old happy years with my little boy. I even had my trunks
packed and my ticket bought, when suddenly I came down with typhoid
fever, so severe an attack that it was thought I could not live. That
ended all thoughts of my coming North for a long while, as I was
miserably weak and helpless for months after, and in fact, have never
quite recovered my strength. The years drifted on and with them came old
age, and the reluctance to make the long journey and endure the strain
of it all. Had it not been for Miss Cynthia's letter, I should never
have come.
"But, to change the subject a trifle, my son is very anxious to know how
you two young things have come to be concerned in all this, and I have
not yet had time to tell him--fully. Will you not give him an account of
it now? It is very wonderful."
And so they began, first Joyce and then Cynthia,--interrupting and
supplementing each other. They were still rather anxious on the subject
of meddling and trespassing, but they did not try to excuse themselves,
recounting the adventures simply and hiding nothing. The older people
listened intently, sometimes amused, sometimes touched, often more
deeply moved than they cared to show.
"We began it at first just for fun,--we pretended to be detectives. But
as it went on, we got more and more deeply interested, till at last
this--this all seemed more important than our own lives," ended Joyce.
"Only, I know we did wrong in the beginning ever to come in here at all.
We are trespassers and meddlers, and I hope you can forgive us!"
"The dearest little meddlers in the world!" cried Mrs. Collingwood. "Can
any forgiveness be necessary?" And she cuddled them both in her arms.
"There's just one thing _I'd_ like to ask, if you don't mind," said
Cynthia, coming suddenly out of a brown study. "It's the one thing we
never could account for. Why was that room up-stairs locked, and what
has become of the key?" Mrs. Collingwood flushed.
"I locked the door and threw the key down the well--that night!" she
answered slowly. "I don't suppose you can quite understand, if you are
not afflicted with a passionate temper, as I was. When my son--when
Fairfax here--had gone, and I was shutting up the house and came to his
room,--I wanted to go in,--oh, you cannot know how I wanted to go in!
But I knew that if I once entered and stood among his dear belongings, I
should relent-- I should rush away to find him and beg him to come back
to me. And I--I did not _want_ to relent! I stood there five minutes
debating it. Then I suddenly locked the door on the outside, and before
giving myself time for a second thought, I rushed down-stairs, out of
doors, and threw the key into the old well,--where I could never get it
again!
"Children, I am an old woman. I shall be seventy-five next birthday.
Will you heed a lesson I have learned and paid for with the bitterest
years of my life? If you are blessed with a calm, even, forgiving
nature, thank God for it always. But if you are as I was, pray daily for
help to curb that nature, before you have allowed it to work some
desperate evil!" She hid her face in her hands.
"There, there, little Mother of mine!" murmured her son. "Let us forget
all that now! What does anything matter so long as we are together
again--for always?" He leaned over, pulled her hands from her face, and
kissed her tenderly. The moment was an awkward one, and Cynthia wished
madly that she had not been prompted to ask that unfortunate question.
Suddenly, however, the tension was broken by Mrs. Collingwood
exclaiming:
"Mercy me! See that enormous _cat_ walking in! Wherever did it come
from?" They all turned toward the door.
"Oh, that's Goliath!" said Joyce, calmly. "He feels very much at home
here, for he has come in with us often. He led the way that first day,
if you remember. And he's been _such_ a help!-- He's a better detective
than any of us!"
"Blessings on Goliath then, say I!" laughed Mr. Fairfax Collingwood,
and, approaching the huge feline with coaxing words, he gathered its
unresisting form in his arms and deposited the warm, furry purring beast
in his mother's lap.
And while they were all laughing over and petting Goliath, a queer thing
happened. The candles, which had been burning now for several hours,
had, unnoticed by all, been gradually guttering and spluttering out. At
length only four or five flames remained, feebly wavering in their pools
of melted wax. The occupants of the room had been too absorbed with
their own affairs to notice the gradual dimming of the illumination. But
now Joyce suddenly looked up and perceived what had happened.
"Why, look at the candles!" she cried. "There are only about three left,
and they won't last more than a minute or two!" Even as she spoke, two
of them flickered out. The remaining one struggled for another
half-minute, and flared up in one last, desperate effort. The next
instant, the room was in total darkness. So unexpected was the change,
that they all sat very still. The sudden pall of darkness in this
strange house of mystery was just a tiny bit awesome.
"Well! This _is_ a predicament!" exclaimed Fairfax Collingwood who was
first to recover from the surprise. "Fortunately I have a box of
matches!"
[Illustration: Then, with one accord they began to steer their way
around the furniture]
"Oh, don't worry!" added the practical Cynthia. "There's an extra candle
that I left on the mantel. It will do nicely to light us out." Groping
to the chimney-place with the aid of his matches, Mr. Collingwood found
the candle and lit it. Then, with one accord, they all rose and began to
steer their way around the furniture toward the hall, Goliath following.
In the hall, Mr. Collingwood looked at his watch, exclaiming:
"It is six-thirty! Who would believe it!" The two girls gave a
simultaneous gasp of dismay.
"Dinner!-- It was ready half an hour ago! What _will_ they think?" cried
Joyce.
"Never mind _what_ they think, just for to-night!" responded Mrs.
Collingwood, gaily. "You can tell them when you're explaining all this,
that what you've done for us two people is beyond the power of words to
express. They'll forgive you!" She bent down and kissed them both with a
caress that thrilled them to their finger-tips. Then they all passed out
through the great front door to the wide old veranda. Mr. Collingwood,
taking the key from his mother, locked the little door in the boarding,
after them. And in the warm, waning May afternoon, they filed down the
steps. At the gate, Mr. Collingwood turned to the girls:
"I am taking my mother back to New York for a few days. She must rest,
and we have much to talk over. I scarcely need tell you that I am _not_
returning to Australia!-- We shall come back here very soon, open up
this old home, put it in order, and probably spend the rest of our lives
between here and the South.
"Dear girls, I hardly need say to you that in all the world we shall
consider that we have no closer or more devoted friends than yourselves!
This house will always be open to you. You must look upon it as a second
home. You have given back to us the most priceless blessing,--the one
thing we neither hoped nor expected to enjoy again in this world,--_each
other_!" He could not go on. He was very much moved. And as for the two
girls, they were utterly speechless under the pressure of feeling.
They remained standing at the gate, watching the two go down the street
in the sunset, and waved to them wildly as they turned to look back,
just before rounding the corner. And at last the intervening trees shut
them from sight.
When they were gone, Cynthia and Joyce turned and looked long and
incredulously into each other's eyes. They _might_ have made, on this
occasion, a number of high-flown and appropriate remarks, the tenor of
which would be easy to imagine. Certainly the time for it was ripe, and
beyond a doubt they _felt_ them! But, as a matter of fact, they indulged
in nothing of the sort. Instead, Joyce suddenly broke into a laugh.
"We'll never have to go in there by the cellar window again!" she
remarked.
"Sure enough!" agreed Cynthia. "What a relief that'll be!"
And so ended the adventure of the Boarded-up House!
End of Project Gutenberg's The Boarded-Up House, by Augusta Huiell Seaman