Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 February 1914 — THE UNLUCKY ROOM [ARTICLE]

THE UNLUCKY ROOM

By EDNA R. PATTERSON.

Mrs. Tillings, landlady, looked at the girlish figure before her with a certain softening of her thin, practical features. Then, her glance traveled vaguely' around the neat little room; and after she had needlessly adjusted the pincushion and straightened a chair next to the bureau, she looked at her prospective lodger again, and cleared her throat. “I think I ought to tell you,” she began, as if with reluctance. “You seem to like this room, and there’s nothing the matter with It as far as I can see—but it’s an unlucky room.” The young stranger’s brown eyes ppened wonderingly. “Why, what do you mean? Unlucky—in what way?" “Well, It’s this way. I wouldn’t bother-telling you at all if you were a man, or older, or—or —now, It isn’t spooks or anything like that, but hard luck seems to go with the room, and I guess it’s got on my nerves. First, there was Mrs. Taylor whose husband | died on -his way from the Philippines. Then a medical student took the room.

and he got hit by an auto truck and was sent home crippled. And a cousin of Mr. Tillings came in, and he lost the position he’d held for twenty years—lost it the very next week — and the next party was a crook, and we had the police here and had a terrible tipie.” The girl’s big eyes met those of the narrator unflinchingly. “I can’t see what the room had to do with any of those misfortunes,” she-remarked politely. • “No-o, of course not; but I begun to feel queer about it. And when you came along—and—” ‘ls that all? I think you haven’t told me all.” The young girl challenged her companion with a gentle but direct glance. Mrs. killings laughed shortly. “My dear —how wise you are! No, It isn’t quite all. The last lodger was a young girl like yourself, only more delicate and dispirited-looking when she came here. But she was very young and stlone —and she was very uDlucky.” The color was mounting in the cheeks of Belle Doan, and her eyes glistened. “A girl like me —young and alone,” she repeated, softly. “Who was she? And what became of her?” “She was an artist from up-state, and she couldn't make a success of it, and she lost hope—and she killed herself,” , “Oh!” The girl’s hands clasped together tightly, and her bright face contorted with horror. “Here, In this room?” she gasped. “Oh, the poor thing!”

“No. not here. She was found In the park. And she had always said she had no near relatives, and I couldn't And any addresses among her things, so I sold her bits of jewelry* and gave her a decent burial. Hut it was a shock, I tell you.” Belle sat thinking. "Weil, I’m not an artist, and I have plenty of relatives and some money and a cheerful disposition,” she said, finally. “I like this room better than any I’ve seen, and I like you, Mrs. Tillings. So I’ll stay, and risk the influence oi tne hoodoo.” Belle sent foi* her trunk and took possession of the unlucky room. Mrs. Tillings would not h%ye referred to its past tenants again, but her new lodger seemed to be interested in her unfortunate The landlady knew fittle, after all, for the young artist had been of a quiet, uncommunicative disposition, but the element of mystery made the affair even more absorbing. There was a small photograph for Belle to see-r-a pale, wistful face with smoky masses of hair and haunting eyes, the face of ona who had known unspoken longings and unfulfilled desires. “She was never bright and happy like you,” said Mrs. Tillings. “Some folks are born for misery.” • ‘‘Bright and happy,” reflected Belle, alone, in her room later.. “I thought I was —but —I’m not so sure!” She leaned her chin on her hands and stared out into the busy street. “I thought I was doing a fine thing when I came away to live my own independent life, but somehow things haven’t seemed as gay as I expected. If they all hadn’t bothered me so much

About Bliss Thatcher —if he hadn’t been eo persistent—l wouldn’t have run away. As if matrimony was the only carder for a girl—the only thing she could hope to attain. Pooh!:’ Belle’s thoughts often ran backward after that, and she became restleßß and dissatisfied. She bfegan to dread her hours of solitude. M I don’t know what ails me.” she thought, one rainy afternoon. "I can’t put my mind on reading or sewing any more. People bore me, and I’m as tired of the town’s pleasures as if 1 was a jaded old woman. I guess the hoodoo of this room is at work. I was never so wretched in my life!” She recalled her last hour with Bliss Thatcher: the quarrel that had terminated their long friendship. She had not heard from him or of him since her flight to the city. It seemed strange to her that Bliss could be so obstinate after his faithful service to her. Perhaps he had found consolation in another girl’s society—May Williams, for instance, *ho had always aimed her soft coquetries in his direction. Belle writhed in spirit at the idea. “But I won’t go back,” she vowed fiercely. ‘‘lf Bliss cares, let him make the first dign.”

As the season vote on Mrs. ’Fillings’ new lodger showed indications of drooping. The roses dimmed in her cheeks and her laughter was less ready. She spent much time away from home, and appeared in many changes of fashionable finery, but her moods were uncertain, and she seemed often low-spirited. ‘ Mrs. Tillings observed the change with increasing concern. “Why, she’s getting as peaked and mournful as that other poor girl,” she, considered“l wonder what’s the matter.’.’ The matter was entirely simple. Belle Doan had not appreciated the blessings of her previous years until now. Her high spirits and flashing temper had cut her adrift from the man who, once insignificant in her sight, now/• loomed tormpntingly important and desirable. Her sole consolation was that Bliss Thatcher was of the faithful kind ants would ■wait for her. Fate might them together some day. But time passed, and the girl’s distress and unhappiness grew. She refused invitations arid avoided her new friends. She: even sought employment to keep her mind occupied. “I think I’ll go away,” she decided one day. “I never imagined life could seem so dreary.”

She sighed and began to pack her trunk. As she emptied a drawer of the dressing table, a folded paper cafhe into ‘view. Curiously Belle began to read the written pages, her eyes dilating and her breath coming quickly as,she proceeded. / “Oh!” she quavered. “That other girl—the artist —she wrote this and left it here so it’s a copy of a letter. It was her secret, and I have read it!”

“I have found life hard and 1 bitter.” the message ran, “but I know now I could have stood it all if you had not failed me, Arthur. I thought you would wait for me —that your love would last forever. But while I have been dreaming those dreams that could never come true, you have found some one else to take my place in your heart. It does not seem fair — I know I am to blame. I am alone in my defeat, but, Arthur, I want you to know tliat I loved you better than I knew, and that ashamed and repentant, I was coming back to you to ask your forgiveness. My poor little talents were never worth the sacrifice I made and now, with the light of your love gone when I need It most, life stretches out before me so black and so empty that I am afraid—”

Tears were streaming down Belle’s cheeks as she bent about the unfinished message. Had it ever been sent? Was this the reason of the final tragedy? Thinking of the girl who had desired—too late —to reclaim a scorned love, and of the man who had grown impatient waiting, Belle was plunged into sudden panic. What if Bliss Thatcher had forgotten her? What if she were already too late? Oh, what would her life be without love —Bliss Thatcher's love? Broken and repentant in spirit now that her heart had been revealed to her, she wrote a hasty but tender note to the man she had disdained. Two days later, a rosy, smiling young creature danced into Mrs. Tillings’ presence.

“Oh, Mrs. Tillings,” cried Belle Doan, “I’m going to leave you—l'm going back home! I’ve been waiting for good news and it just came. I can’t tell you everything—” her face grew grave and her voice softened — “it’s my secret —and another's; but something has happened that I shall be grdteful for all my life. And it happened while I was living in your unlucky room! ” “Really—how strange!” exclaimed the landlady. "Well, it’s time the spell was broken, and I’m glad you’re the one who’s done it, my dear.” (Copyright, 1914. by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)