The Boarded-Up House Part 12

"What a strange thing it is,--this secret stairway!" she marveled aloud.

"I'm sure it _is_ a secret stairway, and that it was long unused, even before Mrs. Collingwood left here. I even feel pretty certain that she never knew it was here."

"How do you figure that out?" questioned Cynthia.

"Well, in several ways. For one thing, because it was all closed up and papered over. That could have been done before she came here, and you know she only lived in this house eighteen years. But mainly because there wouldn't have been much sense in her locking up the room (if she _did_ lock it) had she known there was another easy way of getting into it. No, I somehow don't think she knew!"

They did their dusting in the locked-up room, and tried to make it look as s.h.i.+p-shape as possible, carefully avoiding, however, the vicinity of the desk. Cynthia arranged six candles in holders, ready to light, and they went down stairs again to arrange the others,--a task that was accomplished with some difficulty, as the candelabrum was rather high, and they were obliged to stand on chairs. At last all was ready and they hurried home to luncheon, agreeing to meet at two for the "great illumination"!

When they returned that afternoon, Cynthia had smuggled over the gas-lighter, which they found a boon indeed in lighting so many candles at such a height. When every tongue of flame was sparkling softly, the girls stepped back to admire the result.

"Isn't it the prettiest thing you ever saw?" cried Joyce in an ecstasy of admiration. "It beats a Christmas-tree all hollow! I've always heard that candle-light was the loveliest of all artificial illumination, and now I believe it. Just see how this room is positively transformed! We never _saw_ those pictures properly before."

"Now it looks as it did fifty years ago," said Cynthia, softly. "Of course, houses _were_ lighted by gas then, but only city ones or those near the city. I know, because I've been asking about it. Other people had to use horrid oil-lamps. But there were _some_ who kept on having candles because they preferred that kind of light--especially in country-houses. And evidently this was one of them."

Joyce eyed her curiously.

"You've certainly been interested in the question of illumination, half a century ago,--but _why_, Cynthia? I never knew you to go so deeply into anything of this kind before!" Cynthia started, and blushed again.

"Do you think so," she stammered. "Oh, well!--it's only because this--this house has taken hold of me--somehow. I can't get it out of my mind, day or night!"

"Yes," cried Joyce, "and I remember the day when I could hardly induce you to enter it! I just had to _pull_ you in, and you disputed every inch of the way!"

"That's the way with me," returned Cynthia. "I'm not quick about going into things, but once I'm _in_, you can't get me out! And nothing I ever knew of has made me feel as this house has. Now I'm going to light the candles in the locked-up room."

"That's the one thing _I_ can't understand!" protested Joyce, as they climbed the tiny stairs once more. "You seem perfectly crazy about that room, and it makes me so--so _depressed_ that I hate to go near it! I like the library and the picture of the Lovely Lady best."

[Ill.u.s.tration: There was nothing to do but sit and enjoy the spectacle]

Cynthia did not reply to this but lit the candles and gave a last look about. Then they returned to the drawing-room. As there was nothing further to do but sit and enjoy the spectacle, the two girls cuddled down on a roomy old couch or sofa, and watched with all the fascination that one watches the soft illumination of a Christmas-tree. Sometimes they talked in low voices, commenting on the scene, then they would be silent for a long period, simply drinking it in and trying to photograph it forever on their memories. Joyce frankly and openly enjoyed it all, but Cynthia seemed nervous and restless. She began at length to wriggle about, got up twice and walked around restlessly, and looked at her watch again and again.

"I wonder how long these candles will last?" questioned Joyce, glancing at her own timepiece. "They aren't a third gone yet. Oh, I could sit here and look at this for hours! It's all so different from anything we've ever seen."

"_What's that!_" exclaimed Cynthia, suddenly and Joyce straightened up to listen more intently.

"I don't hear anything. What _is_ the matter with you to-day, Cynthia Sprague?"

"I don't know. I'm nervous, I guess!"

"There-- I _did_ hear something!" It was Joyce who spoke. "The queerest _click_! Good gracious, Cynthia! Just suppose somebody should take it into his head to get in here to-day! Of _all_ times! And find this going on!" But Cynthia was not listening to Joyce. She was straining her ears in another direction.

"There it is again! Somebody is at that front door!" cried Joyce. "I believe they must have seen these lights through some c.h.i.n.k in the boarding and are breaking in to find out what's the matter! Perhaps they think--"

_Cr-r-r-rack!_-- Something gave with a long, resounding noise, and the two girls clasped each other in an agony of terror. It came from the front door, there was no shadow of doubt, and somebody had just succeeded in opening the little door in the boarding. There was still the big main door to pa.s.s.

"Come!--quick!--quick!" whispered Joyce. "It will _never_ do for us to be found here. We might be arrested for trespa.s.sing! Let's slip down cellar and out through the window, and perhaps we can get away without being seen. Never mind the candles! They'll never know who put them there!-- Hurry!" She clutched at Cynthia, expecting instant acquiescence. But, to her amazement, Cynthia stood firm, and boldly declared:

"No, Joyce, I'm not going to run away! Even if we got out without being seen, they'd be sure to discover us sooner or later. We've left enough of our things around for that. I'm going to meet whoever it is, and tell them we haven't done any real harm,--and so must you!"

All during this speech they could hear the rattle of some one working at the lock of the main door. And a second after Cynthia finished, it yielded with another loud crack. Next, footsteps were heard in the hall.

By this time, Joyce was so paralyzed with fright that she could scarcely move a limb, and speech had entirely deserted her. They were caught as in a trap! There was no escape now. It was a horrible position.

Cynthia, however, pulled her to her feet.

"Come!" she ordered. "We'd better meet them and face it out!" Joyce could only marvel at her astonis.h.i.+ng coolness, who had always been the most timid and terror-ridden of mortals.

At this instant, the drawing-room door was pushed open!

CHAPTER XIV

THE MEDDLING OF CYNTHIA

To Joyce, the moment that the drawing-room door was pushed open will always seem, with perhaps one exception, the most intense of all her life. She fully expected to see a man stride in--more likely half a dozen!--and demand the meaning of the unwarrantable intrusion and illumination. Instead of that, the slight figure of a woman dressed all in black, and with a long heavy dark veil over her face, stepped into the room!

For a moment she paused, surprised, uncertain, almost trembling. Then, with a firm movement, she threw back her veil, and, in the soft light of the candles, stood revealed. Joyce gave a tiny gasp. In all her life she had never seen so beautiful an old lady. Ma.s.ses of soft wavy white hair framed a face of singular charm, despite its age, and the biggest, saddest brown eyes in all the world, looked out inquiringly on the two girls. There was complete silence. The three could hear each other breathe. Then the newcomer spoke:

"Which of you two friends was it, may I ask, who sent me the letter?"

Her voice was sweet and low and soft, and as sad as her eyes. Joyce gave a start and opened her lips to speak, but Cynthia was before her.

"_I did!_" she announced calmly. The lady turned to her.

"That was very lovely of you,--and very thoughtful. I began planning to come soon after I received it, and tried to arrive at about the time you mentioned. But I do not quite understand all--all this!" She glanced toward the burning candles. "And I'm afraid I do not understand how you--how you came to be in here!"

"Oh," began Cynthia, stumblingly, "I--I couldn't quite explain it all in a letter--and I didn't even know you'd pay any attention to what I wrote, anyway. But we'll tell you all about it right now, if you care to hear." A light was beginning to dawn on the bewildered Joyce.

Suddenly she sprang forward and seized the lady's hand.

"Tell me--oh, please tell me," she cried, "_are_ you Mrs. Collingwood?"

"Yes, my dear!" said the lady.

And to the amazement of every one Joyce broke down and began to sob hysterically, exclaiming, "Oh, I'm so glad--so glad!" between every other sob.

"I think I'll sit down," said Mrs. Collingwood, when Joyce had regained control of herself. "I'm very tired--and very, very--bewildered!" She sat down on the sofa, and drew each of the girls down beside her.

"Now tell me," she said to Cynthia. "Explain it all, and then show me what you think will interest me so. You see, I have traveled many weary miles to hear this strange story."

So Cynthia began at the beginning and told how they had first found their way in, and had then become interested in unraveling the mystery of the old house. Mrs. Collingwood listened with deep attention; but when Cynthia reached the tale of the hidden stairway, she started in surprise.

"Why, I never dreamed there was such a thing in the house!" she exclaimed. "The rooms were re-papered once, but I was away when it was done. None of us knew!"

"No, we thought you didn't," continued Cynthia. "And so we went into the locked-up room. And there we found something,--oh!--Mrs. Collingwood! We felt sure you had never seen it, and that you _ought_ to! You see, we knew all the rest of the--the story, from Joyce's great-aunt, Lucia Kenway. And we felt you _ought_ to see it,--at least _I_ felt that way, and so I wrote you the letter. I didn't even tell Joyce I'd done it, because--because I was afraid she'd think I was _meddling_ in what didn't concern me! But I couldn't help it. I couldn't sleep nights till I'd sent that letter, because it all haunted me so! I just sent it to Chesterton, South Carolina, because that was all the address I knew. I didn't even feel sure it would ever reach you.

"And I set a special date for you to get here on purpose, because--well, because I thought we ought to be here to receive you, and have the place look sort of--homelike. It would be terrible, seems to me, to come back to a dark, deserted house that you'd left so long ago, and n.o.body here to--to welcome you. Well, that's all, I guess. But Mrs. Collingwood, I'm so afraid we haven't done right,--that we meddled in what was no business of ours, and trespa.s.sed in a house we should never have entered! I only hope you can forgive us!" Thus ended Cynthia, brokenly, and Mrs. Collingwood put out her hands to take a hand of each girl in her clasp.

"You dear little meddlers!" she exclaimed. "This is all so astonis.h.i.+ng to me; but I feel sure, nevertheless, that you have done nothing but good! And now will you--will you show me what you spoke of?"