Meg of Mystery Mountain Part 29

After a thoughtful moment, he continued: "We found most of the cabins unnumbered, or, if they had once been so marked, time and storms had done away with the numerals. But we did find a tunnel above which the figures 10 had been chipped out of solid stone. The opening of the small tunnel was closed, however, by red rocks that had fallen evidently in a landslide. I suggested that we lift them away one by one, but Gerry thought it a waste of time as the carving on the handle had been 'Cabin 10' and not Tunnel 10. But I was not so sure, and so we went to work and in half an hour we had an opening large enough to enter one at a time. I had my flashlight with me, and stooping, I looked in. Strangely enough, I saw a faint gleam of daylight at the other end."

Bob paused and glanced about the group to make sure that they were all properly curious before he continued: "The tunnel was not high enough for even Gerry to stand in erect and so on all fours we crept through it.

Since the opening had been stopped up I did not fear meeting wild creatures, but as we neared the other end, the daylight grew brighter and then to our great surprise we came out upon a wide ledge which hung there in the most dizzying manner. On it was a rustic cabin, and back of that a fenced-in dooryard. Surely, we decided, this was Cabin 10. There was no way of reaching it except through the tunnel, as the mountain wall was almost perpendicular above and below the ledge.

"We were greatly elated and at once tried the door and found it unlocked.

There was only one room and it looked like the den of a student. Books and papers were everywhere in evidence; dust-covered and yellowed with the years. On the desk a bottle of dried ink was uncorked and a rusted pen lying there seemed to indicate that someone had suddenly stopped writing, and, for some reason, had never again taken up the pen. As further proof of this we found a letter which was lying near, with even the last sentence unfinished. It is addressed to 'My dear pet.i.te daughter--Eulalie.' We didn't stop to read it because it was getting late and so we started for home."

Meg, no longer able to keep silent, leaned forward, asking eagerly, "Bob, may I see the letter that my father left for me?"

"_Your father?_" Jane and Merry exclaimed almost simultaneously. Even then Meg's calm was not outwardly disturbed.

"Yes," she said, turning her wonderful eyes toward her friends. In them the girls saw an expression of radiant happiness which told them more than words could how great was Meg's joy that she had at last learned who her father really was. Jane and Merry were perplexed. How did Meg know?

Their question was answered before it was asked. "I should have told you girls this afternoon. When Dan spoke the name that he had found carved on the handle of the old shovel, instantly memory recalled to me that, as a very small child, I had been taught to lisp that my name was Lalie Giguette."

"O Meg, what a beautiful name. May we begin at once to call you Eulalie?"

The mountain girl smiled at Jane. "If you wish, dear friend." She then held out her hand for the letter which Bob had gone to his sweater coat to procure.

"We found several books with your father's name on them as author," the boy informed her, and the girl looked up brightly to say, "O, I am so glad! Did you bring them?"

"No," Bob replied, "we thought perhaps you would like to visit the cabin and find everything there just as he left it."

"I would indeed!" Meg rose, and going to the center table, she spread the letter under the hanging lamp. After a moment's scrutiny, she turned toward the silently waiting group. "It is clearly written," she said. "I will read it aloud:

"'To my dear pet.i.te daughter Eulalie,'" Meg read,

"'Poor little wee la.s.sie! Not yet three and no one to care for you. I shall try to get back to New York before the end comes, but there is no one, not even in France, where I lived as a boy. All--all are dead.

"'But you will want to know much and I will be gone when you are old enough to question. When I was twenty-one I came to New York and married a girl who was as all alone as I. We were very happy, but my loved one, your mother, died when you were born. For a long year I grieved until my health was broken. For your sake, Lalie, I followed my doctor's advice and came to the Rocky Mountains. I was about to put you in a convent school, but you clung to me and would not loosen your hold. I feared I had not long to live and I did so want you with me, hence I brought you here. But if I do not get stronger soon, I will take you back to the kind sisters, who will make you a home.

"'We reached this deserted mining camp after weeks of wandering and I built for us a cabin where we could be alone and unmolested. At last my lost ambition had returned. I wrote the book of my dreams and sent it to my publisher in New York. I hope, dear little daughter, that it will be a success for your sake, but as yet I do not know.'"

Meg looked up and her dusky eyes were filled with tears. "That is all on the first sheet," she said. "The next was written at a later date." Then again she read:

"'A tribe of Ute Indians has taken possession of the deserted cabins in the camp, but, as there is little game hereabouts, I doubt if they will long remain.'

"Two weeks later: 'I have not been as well as I had hoped to be. I did very wrong to spend so many hours writing my dream book, but now that it is completed I will write no more until I am stronger. Every day with a pick and shovel I dig in different places for recreation and exercise, endeavoring to find the fabled gold mine, the vein of which was lost, or so I have been told by an occasional miner who has pa.s.sed this way.

Before starting out I take you each afternoon to the cabin of a most kindly squaw who understands some English and since I pay her well, she is willing to care for you during my absence.'"

For a long moment Meg ceased reading and Dan, noting that her hands trembled, went to her side, saying with tender solicitude: "Dear girl, what is it? I fear that reading aloud this letter from your father is very hard for you. Wouldn't you rather read it to yourself?" The girl lifted tear-filled eyes. "It isn't that, Dan," she said. "I want to share it with my friends who are so loving and loyal, but I cannot decipher the rest."

There was a faded blur on the paper as though the pen had fallen. Then it had evidently been picked up again, but the scrawled letters that followed were very hard to read. Slowly the girl deciphered: "Lalie, when you are eighteen, get box ----" Then there was another blot and the pen had evidently rolled across the paper.

The girl held the letter up to Dan. "I fear we will never know where the box is," she said, "for that is all."

But the lad, after scrutinizing the sheet, held it up to the light.

"There is more written, but evidently a drop of ink spread over it.

Gerry, bring the magnifying gla.s.s." The small boy, glad to be of a.s.sistance, leaped to get it. Dan gazed through it for a long five minutes. Then he began to name the letters, and Bob, who had seized a pencil and paper, wrote them down. "_B-a-n-k._" Dan glanced questioningly at Meg. "What kind of a bank do you suppose it means?" Then to Bob: "Were there any banks of dirt near the cabin?" That lad shook his head.

Jane suggested: "Would it not be more natural to suppose it to be a New York bank, since that had been Mr. Giguette's home for years?"

They all decided this to be true. Then Merry asked: "Meg, or may I say Eulalie, are you willing that I should wire my father all that we know?

He is a lawyer in New York and be will gladly find out what he can."

How the dusky face brightened. "Oh, thank you, Merry. Please do!" Then, rising, the mountain girl held out both hands to Jane and Merry. "I must go now," she said, "to the dear old couple who have been all the father and mother I have ever known."

Dan accompanied Meg up the winding mountain road.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

THE MYSTERY SOLVED

"What a glorious moonlit night it is!" Merry exclaimed when, Meg and Dan having gone, the others turned back toward the cabin.

"I say, sis," Bob exclaimed, "why not get that telegram written and let me take it down to the village. You can put heaps more into a night letter."

"Why, Bobby, it must be after nine. The innkeeper's family will be asleep by the time you could get there."

Jean Willoughby explained: "They have two sons, and one of them is always on duty as night clerk. Strangers motoring through put up there at all hours." Then the young overseer added: "I wish now that I had ridden over and you could have used my horse."

"We sent the two we had back to the Heger cabin," Bob said, but added, as he took a handspring to prove to his sister that he was not at all tired, "I'd just as soon walk." Then, as another thought occurred to him, he turned to the younger lad, asking, "If you're game, Gerry, come along with me. We'll put up at the inn for the night and bring back the answer from father as soon as it comes."

Since there was no particular reason why they should not do this, Merry and Jane made no further remonstrances. Going indoors, a carefully planned night letter was prepared and in great glee the two boys started out, each carrying a gun, as Jean told them that they _might_ meet a wildcat.

"Huh! I hoped you were going to say a grizzly bear."

Gerry's tone seemed to imply that they were quite fearless.

Soon after the boys had departed, Dan returned. Glancing at Jean, he questioned: "Ought we to follow them?" But the other lad replied:

"They're safe enough! Moreover, I told Bob to swing a red lantern three times when they reach the inn. The night is so clear, we surely can see it."

And so they waited, and an hour later the expected signal was plainly seen by all of them.

"Now to bed, everybody!" Dan sprang up and held both hands toward his sister Jane. Julie had been prevailed upon to retire soon after the lads started out and was sound asleep.

The girls had decided to be up at an early hour, but because they had gone to bed much later than usual they overslept.

It was after noon before Meg appeared.

"Ma Heger" had needed her help, was all that she said. Jane and Merry decided not to tell her about the night letter, for the suspense would be far harder for her to bear than it was for them.

But after a time Meg began to wonder why, at frequent intervals, one or another of the young people went to the top of the stone stairs, and through field gla.s.ses, gazed down the mountain road. It was two o'clock when the old stage was seen slowly ascending.

"I entirely forgot that the stage pa.s.ses us on Sat.u.r.day afternoon," Dan exclaimed. "Of course, Bob and Gerry waited to ride up."