The meeting which Miss Allen had begun with such formality ended in a turmoil. Everyone jumped up excitedly at the news of Frieda's disappearance and at the interpretation which Ruth gave to the occurrence.
For all the girls in the school—even those who were not Scouts—knew about Frieda Hammer. They were aware, too, of the fact that the Japanese fête had been given to raise money to support her, and it was common knowledge that over a hundred dollars had been cleared.
But only the Scouts themselves knew the details: that, after five weeks' board had been paid in advance, Frieda had been given fifteen dollars, which she was to use for her ticket home on Thanksgiving. This idea had been Marjorie's; she wanted by some such outward sign to testify to the girl that the Scouts trusted her. Miss Phillips, Ruth, and one or two others had opposed the plan, but Marjorie's enthusiasm had finally carried it.
So now Marjorie had this double tragedy to face: she had not only lost her canoe, but her confidence had been betrayed. And Ruth, who had prophesied something of the sort from the first, had triumphed!
Miss Phillips was too wise to call a Scout meeting immediately; she wanted to give the discussion a chance to simmer down. Besides this, she felt deeply for Marjorie. The girl had encountered a terrible disappointment; older and more experienced people than Marjorie had broken down under parallel circumstances. Miss Phillips wanted to give her a good chance to cry; after that, she depended upon Lily's good sense and tact to console her.
Accordingly, nothing was done until the next night, when Miss Phillips called the Scouts to a meeting.
The subject was hardly mentioned before Ruth Henry sprang to her feet.
"Captain," she began, talking rather fast, for she had in her own mind a number of points that she wished to make, "we all have to admit that we have failed. The idea—social service, Good Turn, whatever you want to call it—is splendid; but the person we selected, unworthy. Let's forget all about it; for we can't get back Marjorie's canoe. It's probably sold by now.
"Well, this is my suggestion: hold our bazaar just as we have planned, and use the money, first to buy Marjorie a new canoe, and then to bring a niceChristmas to some needy family, in the village, with lots of children."
"Hurray! Good for you, Ruth!" cried several of the girls impulsively when she sat down.
Amid their shouts, however, Marjorie stumbled to her feet. She looked pale, as if she had slept little the previous night; and her eyes bore the traces of tears. But outwardly she was calm.
"It is awfully good of Ruth," she said, seriously, "but I really wouldn't want the troop to replace my canoe. I won't need it much longer this fall, and perhaps father will give me one for my next birthday. And I like Ruth's suggestion about the poor family. But"—she lowered her voice and pronounced each word slowly and very distinctly—"is the troop going to accept this defeat as final?"
"You mean, Marjorie, that you would like to give Frieda another chance?" asked the Captain.
"Yes." The word was little more than a whisper.
Miss Phillips said nothing; she was simply astounded at the girl's generosity. Frieda Hammer had stolen Marjorie's dearest possession, and yet the latter was ready to forgive her!
But Ruth interpreted Marjorie's attitude merely as the usual opposition to her own suggestions.
"Then would you like to put a detective on the case?" she asked.
"No! A thousand times, no!" protested Marjorie, emphatically.
"Then what could we do to trace her?"
"I could at least telegraph to her mother, with a prepaid reply," put in Miss Phillips.
"Oh, do—please do!" begged Marjorie; and the affair rested at that.
"Now," said Ethel, anxious to change the subject, "let's talk about our Hallowe'en party. It's only a little over a week off!"
The tone of the meeting changed from that of serious-minded discussion of a theft and its treatment, to care-free chatter about an evening of fun. Even Marjorie put aside her trouble for the time and entered heartily into the preparations.
The Hallowe'en party was to be the last event of the Scout troop as it now stood. The day following—November first—the reports would be issued, and the new Scouts would officially join the troop at the next meeting. This would necessitate new divisions into the patrols, re-elections, etc.
The fifteen girls who now belonged to Pansy troop felt especially close together. All, except Helen Stewart and Anna Cane, had lived side by side at camp, eaten at the same table, gathered around the same camp fire at night, been comrades on many hikes, and competed in the contest which Marjorie had so unexpectedly won. They wanted their troop to grow, and to take in new girls, especiallyif a troop was to be established at the rival seminary: but they were glad to be allowed this party for themselves.
The day after the Scout meeting, Miss Phillips sent a telegram to Frieda Hammer's mother, and received the following reply:
"No signs of Frieda. Is she kidnapped?—M. Hammer."
"No signs of Frieda. Is she kidnapped?—M. Hammer."
Marjorie's last hopes vanished as she read the telegram. There was nothing to be done; she must be content to give up her dream. Miss Phillips suggested that the girl might come back again after her money was all spent; upon this meager supposition Marjorie fastened her expectations.
In the meantime, preparations for the Hallowe'en party were in full swing. Miss Phillips had suggested that each girl dress to represent a character in history.
"Choose a man or a woman, whichever you please," she told them; "but don't try to get your parents to send you costumes! Make them yourselves, for they needn't be too elaborate. Then we can guess which one each character represents, as well as the identity of the girl who wears the costume."
The gymnasium was decorated with corn stalks and autumn leaves, and here and there against the walls stood stuffed paper witches, to remind the guests that it was really Hallowe'en. Weird, softmusic was coming from the victrola to remind one that ghosts were abroad that night.
George and Martha Washington, with powdered hair and silver buckled shoes were the first guests to be greeted by the committee. Soon after them came Pocohontas, and a Quaker who was intended to be Elizabeth Fry, but who might have represented almost any member of the Society of Friends.
Marjorie and Lily came as John Alden and Priscilla—proud because they were on time for once, and enjoying the fun of acting the part of lovers.
"It reminds me of the masquerade at camp," whispered Marjorie; "remember?"
"Yes, wasn't that ridiculous? But you know this is really clever. Oh, look at these!"
Eight masqueraders, all dressed as women and representing various characters from Queen Elizabeth to Florence Nightingale, came in, walking rather awkwardly, as if hampered by their skirts.
"But who can they be?"
"There are too many of them!" laughed Lily; "wouldn't you say that there were more than fifteen of us here now?"
Lily made an effort to count, but the guests moved so constantly that the act was almost impossible. However, when seven more masqueraders arrived in a group, the girls' suspicions were confirmed. Miss Phillips must have invited outsiders! Perhaps she even knew the marks, and from them wasable to ascertain which girls would be Girl Scouts, and wishing to surprise the troop, had secretly invited them.
The riddle was too much for them; Lily gave it up, and returned to the fun of acting the part of lover to Marjorie. She was just putting her arm affectionately about her room-mate, when the trained nurse, who was supposed to represent Florence Nightingale, approached, and, in a very squeaky, obviously disguised voice, said,
"I'm jealous, young man. Won't you please kiss me?"
Lily laughingly leaned toward the intruder and was about to grant the request, when her eyes fell upon the nurse's hand. It could not belong to a girl!
"Who are you?" she demanded indignantly.
"Florence Nightingale!"
Lily stamped her foot impatiently. "No, I mean in real life!"
The other raised the mask obediently, and to the girls' astonishment, revealed himself as Dick Roberts!
"The Boy Scouts!" cried Lily, out loud, and the news spread like wild fire.
The guessing began, and the votes were taken. After a few moments, the prize was awarded to General Pershing—a girl, evidently—who was dressed in a real Army uniform, adorned with manymedals and campaign bars. Across the front, on a white ribbon, she wore, to the amusement of everyone, these letters:
"COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!"
That, and her mustache, made a mistake impossible.
But no one guessed her identity, until Marjorie noticing her hands, exclaimed,
"Ruth Henry!" and the victor laughingly unmasked.
It was another triumph for Ruth!
Miss Phillips called for the boys to volunteer to carry in the tubs of water filled with apples, and as Marjorie watched the proceeding a homesick feeling stole over her. John Hadley was no longer there!
She glanced at Lily, radiant with the excitement and pleasure, and decided that she, too, would find some boy to be interested in. Turning around at the mention of her own name, she found David Conner waiting to put her name on his dance program.
The Scouts played games and danced until ten o'clock, and then Miss Phillips announced that refreshments were ready in the basement.
"The basement!" repeated Frances, in amazement. "Do you mean that, Captain?"
"Yes; and we are going to reach it through the underground connection between the gym and the main building," explained Miss Phillips; "so weshall walk over to the main hall and go down the cellar and then follow single file through this dark passage to the basement. You may see something weird!"
"Who's going to lead?" asked Ruth, her eyes shining with excitement.
"We'll draw lots!"
And, by the irony of chance, the part fell to Doris Sands, the most timid girl in the troop.
"Oh, Captain, I'll die of fright!" she protested.
"It's only play, Doris! You won't mind."
Laughing and chatting gaily they strolled in groups across the driveway to the main building; then down the narrow cellar steps at the rear of the hall, and across the cellar to a dark passage.
"Here we are!" announced Miss Phillips, calling everyone to a halt. "Now get in single file."
Doris went first, with Roger Harris behind; then came Ruth, Jack Wilkinson, Marjorie, and Lily—all eager for the adventure. Forming a long chain with their right hands on the shoulders in front, they advanced cautiously. After the first few steps, the passage became lower, and pitch-black; they had to bend down and feel their way step by step as they went.
"Oh!" shrieked Doris, stopping suddenly. "Look! Ugh!"
Roger and Ruth, peering around her shoulder,caught sight of a pair of gleaming eyes piercing through the darkness.
"It's a cat!" cried Roger, reassuringly. "But how in the world did you succeed in keeping it there?"
"I tied a chicken-bone to a stone," answered Miss Phillips. "And nothing will induce pussy to leave."
Frightened by the voices, the cat fled immediately, and the procession continued. In a minute or two, Doris caught sight of a ghost. But this time she was not really frightened.
"I know it's only a dummy!" she said. "I'm not afraid any more!"
But when the ghost actually began to stretch out its arms and move towards her, Doris admitted that she was scared, and clung, trembling, to Roger. For the hands of the ghost were the bony structures of a human skeleton, and its head was an empty skull!
"That's our lab skeleton, I'll bet!" exclaimed Roger. "But who's moving it?"
"I am!" laughed David Conner, throwing off his disguise.
With another yard, light was visible ahead, and the basement of the gymnasium came into view. Doris breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's nice to stand up straight again, isn't it?" remarked Marjorie, as the whole party reached the less cramped quarters. "But that was a great idea, Captain!"
"Wouldn't it make a jolly place to haze freshmen?"commented Ruth, who never grew tired of playing tricks.
"Refreshments are ready!" announced the Captain. "Look for your place-cards."
The basement was so cleverly camouflaged and the table so charmingly decorated that the effect could not have been better in the most elaborate dining hall. Corn-stalks, crêpe-paper, candles, and favors worked wonders with the usually ugly room.
It seemed, too as if there were everything imaginable to eat—sandwiches, doughnuts, cider, apples, nuts, and candy—indeed, Marjorie regretted that she must eat carefully, for she was still in training.
Seated with David Conner next to her on one side and Dick Roberts on the other, she had not a single dull moment in which to regret the absence of John Hadley. All too soon the party came to an end.
"If only our good turns were as successful as our good times," remarked Marjorie, as she and Lily made their way to their room, "Pansy troop would be wonderful!"
"You're worrying about Frieda Hammer again," remonstrated Lily. "Do try to forget her!"
"I almost wish I could!" replied the other, with a sigh.
It was the first of November, the day when the reports were to be given out!
Marjorie had no fears for her own marks now, she knew that she would pass creditably. But she glanced sympathetically towards Alice Endicott, and Daisy Gravers, those freshmen who were so anxiously waiting for the deciding factor.
She recalled the parallel situation, early last spring, when she had awaited her own report with such trepidation. And then to have been disappointed—through Ruth's cruel dishonesty! She hoped with all her heart that there was no such disappointment in store for Alice.
Miss Allen's secretary read the list, and the girls came forward to receive their reports, stumbling back to their seats in their haste to examine them. Marjorie found herself calm when her own name was called, but actually trembling when Alice answered the summons.
Miss Phillips had promised to hike to a certain so-called"haunted house" in the vicinity, taking a picnic supper,—in celebration of the new Scouts. The troop had agreed to meet for a moment at the rear of the assembly room to learn who these girls would be.
But Marjorie did not need to wait for the meeting to know the news from Alice. The girl's expression of bitter mortification told the story only too plainly! Marjorie dropped her eyes; she could not bear to see her cry.
And then an overwhelming feeling of remorse took possession of her. Perhaps it was her fault! Perhaps, if instead of wasting time and thoughts upon good-for-nothing Frieda Hammer, she had helped Alice in her studies, she might now be a Scout! And yet Marjorie was sincere enough with herself to know that she did not, even now, care so much about Alice or her success, as she did about Frieda. She realized, too, that although a week had gone by, she was still hoping that the runaway would return. Every day she went to the library to read the advertisements and personals in the newspapers in search of a clue. And every day, too, she read about the crimes, fearful lest she might discover Frieda's name, or a description of her, among the accounts.
Bringing her thoughts back with an effort to Alice Endicott and the Scouts she hurried over, at the dismissalof the assembly, to the place where the freshman was standing.
"What branch did you fail in, Alice?" she asked, in the most matter-of-fact tone she could assume. She knew that here in public was no place for sympathy.
"Chemistry!" answered Alice, with a brave effort to suppress a sob.
"Chemistry?" repeated Marjorie. "But I don't understand—I thought you made ninety-five in that test!"
"I did; but I cut three afternoon lab periods for hockey!"
Marjorie laughed in relief. "Why, child, you can easily make that up! In less than a week you'll be a Scout! Is everything else all right?"
"Apparently."
Immensely cheered by Marjorie's words and manner, Alice proclaimed herself ready to join the Girl Scouts at the other end of the room. Here they encountered wild hilarity. Everybody was congratulating the new girls. Mae VanHorn, Florence Evans, Daisy Gravers, and Barbara Hill had all made the required mark.
Alice, now quite calm and self-controlled, told her story, to which Marjorie added her own interpretation.
"But you'll miss the hike!" exclaimed Florence.
"Oh, are you going right away?" asked Alice, dolefully.
"This very afternoon!" replied Miss Phillips. "I'm sorry, Alice, but the arrangements are all made. Anyhow, we'll soon have another!"
The leaves were falling, and the air was quite sharp; the Scouts wore heavy sweaters and woolen caps to protect them from the cold.
"We'll look for nuts," said Miss Phillips. "Remember our lesson on edible plants?"
"Yes, indeed!" they all cried. "But you didn't tell us anything about nuts."
"We'll make it a game," answered the Captain. "Each girl who finds a new variety will get a point. Whoever has the greatest number of points by the time we reach the haunted house, wins!"
"How are we to know the haunted house, Captain?" asked Doris. "I've never seen it. Is there a story about it?"
"There is really no way of telling that the house is haunted, Doris; it looks like any other house, except that it is larger, and was once upon a time much finer than any of the other houses for miles around. I have seen it on a number of occasions, and I have heard the legend that is still told about it; but I've never been inside, so I'm rather curious to see what it's like. That's why I suggested that we have our suppers there."
"But does anyone live there?" asked Lily.
"No," replied Miss Phillips; "it has not been occupied for years and years—not since anybody around this locality can remember. Some of the uneducated people hereabouts still believe it is haunted, I understand; but it is rather unreasonable to suppose that any of the more cultured ones take any stock in the old story. While the fact that it was supposed to be haunted may have kept people from living in it a good many years ago, I think the real reason it is vacant nowadays is because it is so large that it would require a fortune to fix it up—it never seems to have had any care taken of it—and another fortune to keep it going after it had been made habitable. I believe it is still owned by the heirs of the original owner, who live in England, and that the estate is looked after by a firm in Philadelphia, which rents the ground to the farmers. Why, a few years ago, I passed by the house often, and after I had heard the legend, I determined to go inside, but I could never get up enough courage."
"Did you use to live around here, Captain?" asked Marjorie.
"That was when I was a student at Miss Allen's," answered Miss Phillips.
"A student at Miss Allen's?" echoed the girls, in surprise.
"I never knew that," said Marjorie. "You never told us before, Captain," she added reproachfully.
"Didn't I?" laughed their leader. "Well, I did goto Miss Allen's; and I liked it so well that I did not want to leave; so when I finished college, I went back as teacher."
"No wonder you seem so much like one of us," remarked Marjorie.
"Do I?" said the other, rather flattered by the suggestion, in the girl's remark, of the place she held in their affections. "Perhaps that is because I feel like one of you."
"Captain, won't you tell us the story of the haunted house?" begged Doris, who, while she was the most timid girl among them, was always the most eager to hear about ghosts, as if she really enjoyed the creepy feeling that it gave her.
"Oh, it's too long to tell now, Doris. But I may tell you some other time; perhaps if I told you now, some of you would not want to visit the place."
"Captain! I've got a chestnut!" cried Ruth, holding up a small, familiar nut.
"Sure enough—there's the tree! Let's stop here a minute, and all get some."
Most of the girls succeeded in gathering a handful, before they started on. They proceeded at a leisurely pace, pausing now and then to hunt for nuts or to examine other objects of interest to the student of nature.
"Why, there are some birds, and they're not sparrows, either!" said Daisy Gravers, indicating several slate-colored birds about the size of Englishsparrows. "I didn't know there were any other winter birds around here!"
"They are Juncos, or Snowbirds," explained the Captain. "They are a winter bird with us, and as soon as the warm weather comes they will fly north. Don't forget to put them down in your notebooks, girls."
They had now reached the outskirts of the woods, through which they had been walking for some time, and Miss Phillips called a halt and suggested that they count their nuts. Ruth, who had been the most diligent searcher, won the game, having found a greater number of varieties than any of the other girls. The Scout Captain told them something about each variety and the tree upon which it grew, before they continued their walk.
"Only a short distance along this road, and we reach the haunted house," said Miss Phillips.
The girls walked closer around her. They had emerged into open country, and were climbing a winding road which extended before them uphill; on their left the land descended gradually to a valley below them, where in the distance, they could see the scattered houses nestled among the fields of fertile farm-land.
"The nearest village is about a mile down the valley," the Captain informed them. "When the haunted house was built it was the farthest awayfrom the village, but since that time a number of others have sprung up all around here."
Mounting to the top of the hill, they found that the road, instead of dipping suddenly down again, was level; and that to the right of it there started a high stone wall which followed the irregularities of the road for a considerable distance. It was covered with lichen and moss, and showed gaps here and there where the mortar had crumbled away and the stones fallen in a heap upon the ground; while in other places, the tangled growth of ivy vines almost entirely obscured the stonework.
The Scouts kept to the road until they came to a break in the wall which formed the gateway. Wide open and sagging inward, two massive gates of iron grill-work had rusted and settled upon their hinges until they were firmly imbedded and immovable in the ground. The girls stopped and were examining the intricacy and beauty of the design in the wrought iron-work, when an old woman came hobbling along the road towards them. Doris shivered; in fact, all of the girls trembled in spite of themselves: for the creature, thin, tattered, and old, reminded them of a ghost herself.
"I wouldn't go in there, if I was you girls," she warned them, holding up her bony hand. "There was a strange-lookin' figer there last week or so! Nobody seen her come, and nobody seen her go—only once or twice some of us that lives near-by sawher through the winder. Some said she were a human, out of her mind, some says she were a spirit—only but for the boat she brung with her, and went away in again!"
"The boat!" repeated Marjorie, breathlessly. "Was it a canoe?"
But the old woman shook her head; she did not know any distinction among varieties of boats.
"She must 'a come by the stream at the back of the house, and vanished the same way," muttered the stranger; "but whoever she was, she wan't no good! What with her, and the old ghost that some says shrieks around the house o' nights nobody'd get me inside! I wish you wouldn't go in!"
"Oh, nothing will hurt us," said Miss Phillips, gently. "We want some place that is protected from the wind where we can eat our supper."
"It was Frieda! I know it was Frieda!" cried Marjorie, after the old woman had left them.
"Well, what if it was?" remarked Ruth. "You'll never see your canoe again, so there's no use of your getting so excited."
"Probably not," assented Marjorie, making a desperate effort to calm herself. For Ruth could never understand what the thing meant to her. Nevertheless, she was encouraged to have this much information about the girl.
Close together, and keyed up with excitement, they advanced eagerly along the lane leading to thehouse, which they could see about a hundred yards away, gray-white through the grove of tall trees which surrounded it. And as they drew nearer their agitation seemed to become intensified, as if they were about to discover—they knew not what!
The house itself was a perfect example of old Colonial mansion, with its wide, hospitable doorway before which tall columns supported a balcony. Its exterior, despite the appearance of age and decay that was everywhere apparent, was still impressive by reason of its great beauty of design.
Standing among the rank weeds which grew waist high about the place, they gazed in awe at the walls which once were white, but now were streaked and weather stained; at the windows, whose broken panes admitted the rain or the sunshine, and from which the shutters were sagging or had fallen completely away; at the shingles of the roof, violet-toned and curling up; and at the nests the birds had built in the chimneys and eaves.
As Miss Phillips stepped upon the low porch, the rotting boards bent beneath her weight. Trying the knob of the massive door, she found it locked.
"I guess we'll have to get in some other way," she said. "Let's walk around and investigate."
They followed her around to the back, where through the trees they caught sight of the glistening water of the stream. But here also the doors were locked, and not wishing to effect an entrance througha window if a door were available, they passed around to the left wing. Here they mounted the broad piazza, and Ruth turned the knob of the door, which opened. She entered boldly, while the rest of the girls followed more cautiously behind her. They were in a large room, well lighted by its many windows. A damp, musty odor pervaded the place.
"This was evidently the conservatory," remarked the Captain. "Let's look farther."
They explored room after room, holding their breath as they entered each one, as if they were about to discover something strange and terrifying there. But there was nothing but dust and cobwebs to greet their eyes. They went about opening doors, investigating bedrooms, peering into closets; but they could find nothing interesting or exciting—not the slightest vestige of a ghost.
"I guess this ghost only walks at night," said Lily,—"or at certain seasons of the year."
"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?" agreed Doris, grown quite brave.
Up to this time, not one girl had actually admitted to herself that she did not expect to find a ghost; and none could tell from the Captain's expression what she thought of it; but now they were positive that they did not believe in ghosts—the idea was too preposterous—especially when Lily, upon opening a closet-door, exposed an old wig-formwhich lay on the shelf, and which caused them great amusement.
"I dare say the people who lived here wore artificial wigs, both men and women," commented Miss Phillips; "it was about that period."
If there ever was a ghost, it was one which left no traces; and the girls became more at ease in this atmosphere of emptiness. They did, however, have one brief moment of panic. They had all climbed the stairs to the third floor and had paused upon the landing, undecided as to which way they should go first, when a sharp whirring or rustling was heard in the room nearest them.
For an instant they all stood perfectly still, paralyzed by fright. Then Miss Phillips, with a quick step forward, flung open the door. This act started the rustling again; and through the open doorway they could see that it was nothing but a swallow which had in some way become imprisoned there. Marjorie caught it in her hand, where it lay palpitating distressedly; and thrusting her arm through a broken pane of glass, allowed the creature to escape.
The short autumn day was drawing to a close, and the chillness of the damp, musty atmosphere was beginning to affect the girls unpleasantly. The sight of another fireplace—there seemed to be one in every room—recalled Miss Phillips's thoughts to practical things.
"Let's go down to that big room," she suggested, "and prepare our supper."
In fifteen minutes a bright fire was going and the kettle boiling cheerily. The girls were so busy hurrying to and fro in preparation of the meal that they had forgotten the ghost.
It was only after they were seated on the floor, and had time to look around, that Marjorie recalled the situation to their minds by remarking,
"Can you imagine Frieda Hammer staying here all night long by herself?"
The girls shuddered at the suggestion.
"Wouldn't it be great if we could trace her?" said Edith, after a moment's silence. "I hate to think of her all alone—with no protection."
"Yes," answered Miss Phillips, "though I haven't said much about the matter, the girl has been constantly in my mind. And I wanted to tell you that I have written to a friend of mine, a woman who is a private detective, and asked her to look into the matter. She would, of course, make nothing public, but would only try to bring Frieda back here, or send her home.
"But I have been thinking that perhaps some of you girls might have a plan, so I am going to offer a medal of merit to any Scout who locates her. During Thanksgiving—well, I will leave it to you! But we simply must find Frieda!"
The fire had died down to the coals, and the girlsgrew silent as they gazed dreamily at the pictures their imaginations invented. It was Doris who spoke first.
"Now is a good time for the story, Captain. Please tell us!" she pleaded.
Miss Phillips hesitated, glancing keenly at the eager faces of the girls around her, who now seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed. Then she looked at her watch; it was not quite six o'clock. There would still be time; but she hesitated to tell a ghost-story in the same house—in the very room!—where the ghost was supposed to appear. It was the girls' own tranquil manner that decided her.
"When I was a freshman at Miss Allen's," she began, "I roomed with a sophomore whose home was not far from here. Several times I went with her to spend week-ends with her parents. On one of these occasions, after we had finished dinner and were comfortably seated around the open fire, her grandfather—a very old man with snow-white hair—was talking of his boyhood in this neighborhood. Even then this house was believed haunted, but the story was better known than it is now, when there are few living who could tell the details. It was my good fortune to hear it from his own lips, just as his grandfather had told him.
"His grandfather, he said, was a frequent guest here in the old days. The man who built this house came over from England, it was said, to escape scandal.Very wealthy, handsome, and of noble birth, to all appearances he was a gentleman, having a very gracious way about him; but in reality he was wayward, headstrong, and dissipated. He entertained lavishly, and his parties were the talk of the countryside—especially the dress-ball which he gave every New Year's Eve, starting at midnight and continuing throughout the next day and night. It was after one of these New Year's parties, which was particularly riotous, that he disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. Friends who called at the house several days after the event found that the servants and the furniture had vanished, no one knew whither, and the house completely empty. Naturally, this gave rise to much speculation on the part of the townsfolk, who invented many stories; some said that he had repented of his evil ways and fled into retirement; others that the devil had carried him off for a companion in wickedness.
"Meanwhile, the house remained deserted, and decay set in. It was not until the following New Year's Eve that it was seen occupied again; then, two men who were returning late from a revel took a short-cut through the garden in front of the house. The moon, flooding the house with a pale light, showed shadows passing and repassing before the windows of the reception hall. The watchers clutched at each other in sudden fear.
"'This is the anniversary!' said one, in a hoarsewhisper; and they went home to talk it over.
"They agreed to say nothing about it; but when the next night still another saw the same occurrence, they made the story known. That was the beginning of the ghost legend. And while the place continued deserted and silent at all other times, year after year on the anniversary of the great ball, some late reveler was sure to report tales of strange doings there. It formed a fine topic of discussion on a winter evening at the inn, when the wind outside howled about the four corners.
"Now there were those who believed in these old wives' tales, and those who did not; and numbered among the scoffers was one Simon Some-body-or-other, whom the village folk called Simple Simon, partly because of his foolish appearance, and partly because of his great love for pies. Simon was the village fiddler—in fact, he had never been known to do anything else—and was in great demand at all the feasts and dances about the countryside. His awkward, angular form was a familiar sight at all such festivities, where he could be found in a corner by himself, out of the way, his head cocked to one side, eyes gazing up at the ceiling, and an idiotic smile on his face, fiddling as if his life depended on it. If the dancers had been as tireless as Simon, they would never have stopped to rest, for he ran on from one tune to another without the slightest intermission; indeed, the only times he paused at all would comeright in the middle of the piece, and the dancers would wait, stranded in the center of the floor, while he raised the mug of ale which always stood well filled at his elbow; for they never allowed him to go thirsty. This eccentricity they overlooked, because Simon was himself so obliging.
"One night in the inn-parlor, three gossips, heads together and elbows on the table, were discussing the haunted house. Simon joined them, scoffing as usual.
"'I tell you what I'll do,' said one. 'You sleep the night there, this coming New Year's Eve, and I'll buy you a keg of the best ale in this cellar!'
"Simon could only gasp at this proposal; but the magnificence of the reward was too much for him. 'Done!' he cried; and without considering the consequences, agreed to pass a night among the ghosts. The only requirement was that he should go to the house before midnight, and remain there until sunrise.
"The weeks passed, and the wager was apparently forgotten; at least, Simon hoped that it was, for he had repented his rashness. But it was not forgotten; when the time drew near, he was reminded of it, and became more apprehensive. Were those stories true? He doubted. Only at night, as he lay in bed sleepless, he felt a peculiar sinking sensation within him. It was noticed that he became pale and worn, was quieter than usual, and played more outof tune; and he even seemed to be losing his appetite for pies.
"But none of these things let him off; and when the fateful evening came, Simon, with his beloved fiddle tucked beneath his arm for companionship, and a lantern, appeared at the inn. They wished him good luck and pleasant dreams, doubting nevertheless that he would have either; and the landlord, a kindly soul, slipped a cold snack and a jug of his best ale into his hand.
"Outside he paused to look back upon the cheery comfort of the inn-parlor. Well, there was nothing now but to go ahead with it, he reflected; and with a heavy heart, he turned his steps in the direction of the haunted house.
"Though the moon had not yet risen, there was sufficient light from the stars for him to see his way. It was strange, he thought, how familiar objects which he had never particularly noted before, now had a friendly look, with the whiteness of the frost upon them. Simon walked fast, as if to keep up both his circulation and his courage, and his step sounded crisply upon the hard dirt road.
"When he was abreast of the house, he hesitated. The moon, mounting above the treetops, was shining upon the windows. There was no sound, no movement, from within. Breathless, he entered. His own footsteps echoed and re-echoed about the bare, vault-like hall, emphasizing its emptiness. He closedthe door behind him, made a light in his lantern, and whistling loudly to keep up his courage, entered the living-hall. The air was damp and chilly; his breath came like smoke from his nostrils. Setting his lantern upon the floor, he crossed to the fireplace and tossed in fagots and logs from the supply which was still there. The merry crackle of the burning logs, and the warmth and light of the fire cheered him, somewhat; and he attacked the jug and the meat-pie provided by the thoughtful landlord. Revived by the food, he lit his pipe, and taking up his violin, commenced to play. He went over all the tunes he knew, played them in different keys and with variations, to while away the evening; and every time he felt his courage deserting him he turned to his jug for moral support. As you can guess, he did this pretty frequently until, just as he was draining the last drop, he heard a door bang somewhere upstairs, and a rustling in the hall above him. Almost afraid to breathe, he sat there waiting for a recurrence of the sound. Everything was perfectly still except the burning logs in the fireplace. After a while Simon began to fancy that he had not really heard anything, but that his overwrought nerves were playing a trick upon him; so he rose, tiptoed across the room and stood back in the shadows of the great curving stairway, listening. Again he heard sounds above him, more rustling, and footsteps this time. A chill passed over himand the blood froze in his veins; at every fresh noise he felt as if a million pins were pricking his scalp. But nothing happened, and when the sounds had apparently ceased, he waited where he was, leaning against the stairway, so paralyzed with fear that he could not move from the spot.
"He remained thus, listening, while the evening wore away. In spite of his fear Simon became drowsy. The wind outside had risen, and was rattling the shutters and roaring in the chimney, causing the fire to brighten and burst into a feeble flame. Then a wonderful thing happened! The great hall suddenly became ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles. In wonder Simon raised his head and saw a stately procession of men and women, fully fifty couples, arm-in-arm descending the stairs. They wore beautiful clothing—not a bit like the people in the village—but such as Simon had never seen before, except in pictures. He who was apparently the host strode over to the fire and kicked the logs into a blaze, while others gathered about it to warm their hands. Simon thought the scene a grand sight, with their lace ruffles, knee-breeches, wigs, and buckled shoes; and he was lost in admiration of the women, with their powdered hair and white shoulders, their jewels, and their bright eyes which shone so coquettishly above their fans. If these were ghosts, he reflected, they were very gallant ones, and good to look at; he was beginning tobe glad he had come when the host suddenly clapped his hands together, and looking his way, ordered the music to begin. There seemed nothing out of the way in all this to Simon as he tucked his fiddle beneath his chin, and drawing the bow across the strings, commenced playing a waltz. Partners were chosen, and the dancing began. Simon, as usual, went from one tune to another, but these people never tired; all night long the dancing continued; and when Simon, weary and thirsty, paused from habit to reach for the mug of ale which was not at his elbow, the host glared at him so furiously that he went on playing more frantically than ever. Faster and faster the mad phantoms danced, swirling around and around the room; faster and faster he fiddled, till his arm ached and his back felt broken; and just as the revel had reached the highest pitch and the fiddle was squeaking its loudest, the stairway against which he was leaning seemed to give way, and Simon fell with a crash. Dazed and bruised from the fall, he sat up; the phantoms had vanished, the lantern was out, and the fire had burned down and was casting flickering shadows about the walls. In growing horror, Simon ran screaming from the house, and down the road to the inn as fast as his legs could carry him. He burst in upon them, his fiddle clutched tightly in one hand, the picture of terror.
"Of course, his story was greeted with knowinglooks and sly winks behind his back; and he told it to all who would listen. He continued to fiddle about the village as he had done before, but he was never quite the same after that adventure; the haunted house seemed to have a fascination for him, and it was noticed that he hung about it frequently, though he never entered. And when he announced his intention of spending the next New Year's Eve with the phantoms, the people knew he was crazy and urged him not to do so. But he could not resist; early in the evening of that last day of the year, he was seen making his way towards the haunted house, his fiddle beneath his arm.
"He never came back!"
"And I thought all along that Miss Phillips didn't care!"
Marjorie made the remark softly, almost as if she were talking to herself instead of to Lily, as the girls sat together in their room crocheting after supper. All the Scouts had pledged the hour of seven to eight in the evening, unless something unusual was going on, to work for the bazaar.
"Didn't care about what?" asked Lily. "Men?"
Marjorie laughed. "No, not that. I mean about Frieda's being lost."
"Yes, I thought it was funny, too, though, of course, I didn't expect her to throw up her job and go on an aimless sort of journey to find her. Miss Phillips has too much good sense for anything wild like that."
"She has done the wisest thing possible by using that private detective," continued Marjorie; "but somehow, Lil, I don't think she'll ever find her. I think it's sort of up to us."
"But how?"
"That I don't know, except to keep our eyes open."
"Oh, Marj!" exclaimed Lily, interrupting her, and changing the subject. "Do you 'spose the mail's been sorted? It was late to-night, you know."
"What makes you so anxious?" teased Marjorie. "Hearing from Dick Roberts?"
"Now Marj—don't be silly!"
"But you are expecting something?"
Lily toyed with her crochet needle, pulling out a long loop of the wool and holding it over her finger. The baby's sweater that she was making was almost finished.
"Guess I will run down to the office," she said, putting her work upon the table; "I'll be right back."
By the time she returned Marjorie had forgotten all about the mail; her thoughts were again with Frieda, imagining all sorts of horrors for the ignorant, unresourceful girl, in some strange place.
"Three letters!" cried Lily, triumphantly. "I didn't open mine either; I waited for you!"
Marjorie's eyes brightened; mail was always welcome.
"You have to guess the postmark, or who it's from!" teased Lily, holding her hand over the letter.
"Princeton?" asked Marjorie, bending over her crochet to hide a blush.
"Nope!"
Lily tossed the missile into the other girl's lap, for she was too eager to open her own two letters to cause any further delay. She and Marjorie had each received square, khaki-colored envelopes, with the well-known fleur-de-lis on the flap. They were from the Boy Scouts.
"A dance!" cried Marjorie, jumping up in glee, and dropping her crochet upon the floor. "In honor of the hockey team!"
"Isn't it great, Marj? Who's inviting you?"
"David Conner! Who's your partner?"
"Dick!"
"Of course he is! I needn't have asked."
"John Hadley had better look out," remarked Lily; "or somebody else will have his girl."
"I'm not anybody's girl!" protested Marjorie, indignantly. And then, demurely—"Only father's!"
"A dinner-dance!" repeated Lily, reading her invitation for the third time. "Marj, have you ever been to one?"
"Never!"
"How do you suppose they got Miss Allen's permission?"
"Oh, Miss Phillips saw to that! She can get anything she wants!" returned Marjorie.
"I hope we beat Miss Martin's team, or we'll feel rather blue. And think of so much in one day—a hockey game with them, and a dinner and a dancewith the Boy Scouts! And all the day before we go home for Thanksgiving!"
"Who's your other letter from, Lil?" asked Marjorie, noticing the envelope unopened on the table.
"Oh, I forgot! And I ought to be ashamed. It's from mama."
She read a few lines and her face lighted up happily. "Marj," she said, looking up shyly, "mama and papa want you to spend the Thanksgiving holidays with us. Can you? Oh, please——"
Marjorie threw her arms about Lily, squeezing her for joy.
"I'd love to! I've never been in New York. Oh, if father and mother will only let me!"
"We'll go to the theater, and ride on the bus—and maybe invite John and Dick there for dinner—and—and——!"
Marjorie let go of her room-mate, and went over to her desk. "I'm going to write home this very minute," she announced, and seated herself to begin the task.
The Boy Scouts had included thirteen girls of the hockey squad in their invitation, and Miss Phillips, of course. Twelve of these girls were Girl Scouts; Alice Endicott, who had not yet made up her chemistry laboratory work, was still outside of Pansy troop.
The hockey game, the dinner-dance, and the holiday preparations made the very air seem to tinglewith excitement and anticipation. When the day came, Marjorie made no attempt to reserve her energy for the later events; she sang and danced about all morning with happiness. This year she was well prepared to meet Miss Martin's team, not only individually, for she was in good practice and excellent physical trim herself, but as captain of her own team, she felt confident of her players.
The girls were out on the field early, practicing "passes," and warming up for the game. Everyone on the team expected to play; but Helen Stewart and Barbara Hill, besides one or two other moderately good players, came in readiness to substitute should they be needed.
As the team from Miss Martin's approached the field, the critical observer could mark the difference between these girls and those from the home team. Long hikes, sensible clothing and food, and two weeks at the Scout camp with exposure to all kinds of weather, had hardened Miss Allen's girls and added something almost boyish to their bearing. And in Marjorie they had an excellent captain, resourceful and confident of success, whose calm assurance inspired them.
From the opening stroke when Marjorie, the center forward, sent the ball at one bound across the field to her left forward, who dodged the opposing half-back, the game seemed almost a walk-over for Miss Allen's girls. Only once did Miss Martin'sside make a goal, and then Lily Andrews took all the blame for it upon herself.
"I thought it was too easy," she afterward explained to Marjorie, "and I didn't work hard enough. It served me right, but I'm sorry for the team."
At the end of the first half, with the score six to two in their favor, Miss Phillips decided to give both the regular substitutes a chance. But instead of making it easier for the opponents, it became more difficult, for Helen Stewart had always been a good player, and Barbara Hill, who had successful streaks, seemed to be particularly lucky. It was an easy victory for Miss Allen's girls; the final score was fourteen to two.
"This decides me!" exclaimed Miss Martin, after she had congratulated Miss Phillips and her team. "Now I am convinced of the value of a Girl Scout troop."
"If you'd see our reports, you'd be still more convinced," remarked Miss Allen, coming up behind her, and overhearing the remark.
"When can you come over and demonstrate?" pursued the visitor, turning again to the gym teacher.
"Better wait till after Christmas, hadn't we?" suggested Miss Phillips. "Does that suit you?"
"Perfectly," replied the other.
Marjorie and Lily lingered only long enough toavoid being rude to their guests, and then hurried off to their room to prepare for the party.
"Isn't it fun to be able to wear something besides the Scout uniform?" remarked Lily, as she removed the muslin with which her pink canton-crêpe was covered. "I don't believe the Boy Scouts have ever seen me in anything else! And I'm going to curl my hair."
Marjorie smiled; Lily certainly did look better in pretty dresses, for she was not the type of girl who could wear a uniform to advantage.
They dressed leisurely, and by half-past five were ready to go over to the gymnasium, where they were to meet the other girls. They arrived early, but Ruth and Mae and several others were already there.
"It doesn't seem like an athletic event," remarked Ruth, glancing at the dainty dresses of the girls. "It seems more like a musical comedy."
"And that reminds me," said Miss Phillips, who had just come in, charming in a gray georgette with a lavender girdle, and wearing a bouquet of violets, "that reminds me that I would like the Scouts to give a sort of musical comedy in the spring."
"Great!" cried Ruth. She had a passably good voice, and she knew it—also, she knew that Marjorie could scarcely carry a tune.
By this time everyone had arrived, and they all started for the tea-room in the village which the boys had obtained for the occasion. Marjorie wascurious to know who gave Miss Phillips her violets, but not daring to tease her, she tried to content herself by whispering about it to Lily.
If the girls, in their pretty party dresses, made a sensation with the boys, the latter, in their turn, appeared very different in their neat, dark suits to the girls, who were so accustomed to seeing them in their official uniforms. There were only thirteen boys present, who had been chosen according to their standing, and Mr. Remington, the Scoutmaster.
The girls descended the stairs, after leaving their wraps in the dressing room, and each boy sought his own particular partner to escort her to the dining-room. Two long tables, each seating fourteen persons, were beautifully decorated with yellow crêpe-paper, favors, and large bunches of chrysanthemums in the center. The lights, too, were covered with yellow paper.
"It's lovely!" cried Marjorie with delight. "And hockey season's over, so we can just eat and eat!"
It was a typical Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey and brown gravy, and cranberry sauce. There was only a simple salad but everybody was expected to eat both mince pie and ice-cream, and to finish with nuts, raisins and candy.
"I'll never be able to dance a step," sighed Lily at the conclusion of the feast, as she languidly stirred her coffee.
"We're not going to, for a while," answered David. "For we have other entertainment."
"What?" asked Ruth, overhearing the conversation, and always eager for novelty.
"A fortune teller!" he replied. "She is going to tell all the girls' fortunes!"
Marjorie clapped her hands. "What fun! Nothing could possibly be nicer," she said, happily.
"And will she answer questions?" asked Lily.
"One question for each girl!" said Dick.
"I know what mine will be!" declared Marjorie, without the least hesitation.
"'Does Princeton miss me?'" teased Ruth.
"Wrong again, Ruth," said Marjorie, shaking her head.
The fortune teller, a real gypsy, arrived in a few moments, and the party adjourned to the dance room to listen. Sitting down upon the floor near the fireplace, she produced a soiled pack of cards; then, addressing the girls one by one, she painted glorious futures for them, with ocean trips, "dark" or "blond" men, letters, and inheritances. It was all good fun, and most of the girls did not take her seriously. Their favorite question was, of course, "Will I get married?" to which the woman invariably answered "Yes"—or, sometimes, "Twice!"
But Marjorie's question was a little different.
"Where is Frieda Hammer?" She asked it seriously, trembling in spite of herself.
The fortune teller half closed her eyes, and there was intense silence for a moment. Then she replied slowly,
"New York!"
"Oh, thank you!" cried Marjorie, believing in spite of her better judgment. "And we'll find her, Lil!" she added, glancing significantly at her room-mate.
Around nine o'clock the dancing began, David Conner had naturally arranged Marjorie's program to give himself the first dance.
"Did you know Jack invited me home with him for Thanksgiving?" he asked, watching her closely, hoping to see an expression of pleasure cross her face.
But her eyes did not change.
"That's nice," she replied. "I'm sorry I won't be there—I've accepted an invitation to go home with my room-mate."
David looked disappointed. Did Marjorie still care for John Hadley, to the exclusion of all other boys? He could not help wondering about it, and, somehow, felt vaguely jealous.
The hour and a half of dancing passed all too quickly, and the girls were summoned by Miss Phillips to get their wraps. As the boys joined them to accompany them back to school, David sought Marjorie, hoping to have her to himself. But he did not find her conversation very satisfactory, for her mindseemed far away, and he was relieved to have Lily and Dick join them.
Marjorie had enjoyed her evening, but now she was eager to be alone with Lily, to discuss, in private, what the fortune teller had said about Frieda's whereabouts.
"And I really can't help attaching some importance to what she said," she remarked, when the girls were finally alone. "Oh, Lil," she added, "just suppose we should find her! This very week, perhaps!"
"But New York's a big place, Marj!" observed Lily, rubbing her eyes, sleepily. "So don't get your hopes too high!"