“Say, there’s a thought!” Sim exclaimed. “Perhaps tramps have been creating all this disturbance.”
“Why would they?” Arden was discounting her own suggestion.
“A band or bunch or school or congregation—whatever group tramps fit into—might have picked this place as hide-out, hang-out, or rendezvous, or whatever the proper term is,” said Sim, laughing. “And they might object to being dispossessed in the winter. They might even have hit upon the plan of making ghostly noises and manifestations to scare away the workmen. Then, if their scheme worked, they would be left in peaceful possession.”
“But we didn’t find any tramps here,” objected Arden. “And Harry didn’t find any. And surely they would have piled back in here after the workmen had gone—if there is a gang of tramps playing tricks.”
“Well, maybe I’m wrong,” Sim admitted. “Anyhow, there seems to be no one in here now, so let’s have a look at the room where we are to have Granny’s Christmas party. I’m game.”
The old Hall echoed weirdly to their footsteps, echoes that always seemed to dwell in untenanted houses. But the girls were not nervous. They were only going into that one room which was close to the entrance, and if anything happened they could run out quickly.
But nothing happened. There were no screams, not even a sigh, except that of the wind. There were no thumping boots coming down the stairs and no rustling red cloaks.
“I think we can very nicely use this room,” said Arden, looking around the big long double parlor containing the immense fireplace and the picture of Patience Howe. “It can be closed off from the rest of the house. Not a window or a door has been broken.”
“And with a roaring fire on the hearth,” added Sim, “we shall be quite cozy here. Anyhow, we shan’t be here very long. But I think your idea of telling Granny the good news here is just wonderful!”
“Thanks,” murmured Arden. “I hope it is a spectacular success.”
They did not wander through any other part of the house to see if they could collect enough chairs or other pieces of furniture for seats. They took it for granted that they could manage other details, and then, having made sure that the old chimney was unobstructed—they looked up and could see daylight—so the fire would not smoke, they finally left.
“Let’s walk around a bit,” suggested Arden.
“Why not?” agreed Sim. “Walking around here is our greatest outdoor sport.”
They were well clothed and shod for tramping in the snow, so they began a circuit of the strange mansion. There was no sign, anywhere, that anyone but themselves had entered since Harry Pangborn made his investigation the day before.
They walked down what had once been a lane, arbored with grapevines and hedged in now with ugly tall weeds that thrust themselves up through the snow. In the distance were some gnarled trees and a small stone building. They had not noticed it before, but now, against the white ground, it stood up boldly.
“I wonder what that is?” asked Sim.
“Let’s go see,” suggested Arden.
They passed into the little grove of apple trees, Arden remarking how much some of them resembled those in the strange orchard at Cedar Ridge. Then she suddenly uttered a cry of delight.
“What is it?” Sim asked.
“Mistletoe!”
“No! Really?”
“I think so. Anyhow, it’s some sort of a bush with white berries on. Look!”
“It does seem like mistletoe,” agreed Sim. “But I thought that was found only down South.”
“I thought so too. But, anyhow, we can pretend this is mistletoe, it looks so much like it,” laughed Arden.
“Why should we want to pretend? Let’s be bold and say it is mistletoe!”
“Moselle might know the difference. But I’m with you to the hilt, comrade! Mistletoe it is!” Arden began quickly to gather the white-berried branches which, fortunately, broke off, making it unnecessary to cut them, which the girls couldn’t have done, as they had brought no knife.
Sim was pulling at a particularly large branch when they were suddenly startled by hearing the creaking of a door on rusty hinges. Then a voice, almost snarling in its tones, called loudly:
“What are you doing here?”
Arden and Sim had walked along until they were close to the small old stone house. But they were so interested in gathering the mistletoe that they had not noticed the slow opening of the door.
Then came the challenge.
The girls swung about in startled fear and heard the rasping voice demand again:
“What are you doing here?”
In real panic, Arden and Sim wheeled about, dropping some of the branches they had treasured. Fairly glaring at them from the small stone building was Viney Tucker. She wore a heavy black cloak and had on a black bonnet from the edges of which had escaped several wisps of straggling gray hair. What a startling picture she presented!
“What do you want here?” she asked again.
“Oh, how do you do!” greeted Sim, though the words were rather shaky. She had heard about the queer cousin from the other girls and felt she knew Viney well enough not to be afraid of her.
“I’m as well as I ever expect to be,” was the somewhat ungracious answer, and she gave the old bonnet a vicious tug.
“We thought you were away,” Arden told her kindly.
“Who told you that?” she snapped.
“Dick.”
“Hum! Young folks know too much nowadays. It was different in my time. Then children were seen and not heard!”
“Do you—do you object to us taking some of this mistletoe?” asked Arden.
“Mistletoe! That isn’t mistletoe, though lots of folks think it is. No, I can’t say I object. This place isn’t anybody’s now. Do as you like. Turn out the rightful owners!” Her voice was vindictive.
“We aren’t turning anyone out.” Sim tried to make her voice very gentle. Really she felt sorry for the old lady, who did not seem to have the resigned spirit of Granny Howe.
“Well, the state is doing it, and you’re part of the state, aren’t you? I am, so you must be.”
“Yes, I suppose we can call ourselves citizens of the state,” admitted Arden.
“Well, the state is turning me and my cousin out of our property. Making a park of it for folks to ride horses in and birds to feed in. Bah! Don’t talk to me! The state! I’d state ’em if I had my way!”
“Please don’t blame us,” urged Sim. “We really would love to help you and Granny Howe get money for this place and perhaps——”
“Ahem!” coughed Arden loudly.
“Better get back home where you belong, not out here catching cold!” snapped Viney Tucker. “Terrible weather! I hate snow!”
“I guess she hates everything and everybody,” thought Arden.
The strange old woman stood in the open doorway of the old stone building. From the footprints in the snow the girls could easily guess that she had recently entered it. Also it was plain that she had come from over a distant hill and not from Granny Howe’s cottage, which nestled in a little hollow about a quarter of a mile back of the old Hall.
“Then you don’t mind if we take some of this mistletoe?” asked Sim, after a pause.
“No! Why should I? You can settle with the state,” and she laughed scornfully. “It doesn’t belong to my folks any more. Only don’t call it mistletoe.”
“What is it?” asked Sim.
“How should I know? I’m not a botanist or a bird-sanctuary teacher.”
Really Viney Tucker must have arisen from the wrong side of her bed that morning, Sim reflected. She surely was cross.
“So you didn’t go away?” asked Arden, wondering what the next move would be.
“Yes, I did. Went to stay with Sairy Pendleton. But she and I never could get along, so I came back. I came out here to the old smokehouse to get away from everybody. Folks get on my nerves—more than often! This old smokehouse sort of sets me up—better than the perfume you girls use. Bah!”
Sim and Arden were aware of a distinctly smoky odor floating out to them above the head of Viney Tucker. They were aware, now, of the use to which the small stone building had formerly been put. In the old days hams and bacon were cured there over a fire of hickory branches and corncobs, and that smoky smell always remained. It was a curious whim of the old lady to come there for solitude; surely lonely and uncanny.
“Well, if you’ve got all that wrongly called mistletoe you want,” Viney Tucker suggested after rather an awkward pause, “you might as well take yourselves back home so you won’t catch cold.”
“Won’t you catch cold, staying out in this bleak place?” asked Sim.
“No. I never catch cold. It’s only this soft new generation that catches colds. Silly of ’em. Good-bye!”
She popped back into the smokehouse and closed the door.
Sim and Arden stood there, looking at each other in astonishment.
“Come on,” Sim whispered after a pause. “We have enough—mistletoe and smokehouses.”
“Yes,” Arden agreed. “Let’s go.”
“And enough of such a strange woman,” added Sim as they walked away from the smokehouse.
“She is strange,” Arden agreed. “But I feel sorry for her.”
“So do I, in a way. But I feel a lot more sorry for Granny Howe. She takes it standing up. This creature whines and moans.”
“She does,” Arden admitted. “But different people have a different way of taking adversity. Granny is sweet and serene.”
“And Viney Tucker is bitter—but not sweet. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world. This will be something to tell Terry and Dot, won’t it?”
“Indeed it will.”
“I wonder why she comes to such a lonesome smelly place as the old smokehouse to brood over her troubles?”
“It must bring back the days when she was a girl,” suggested Arden. “I’ve heard my father, who was born on a farm, tell how they used to smoke hams and bacon in a little house like that one.” She looked back toward it. There was no sign of Viney Tucker. She had shut herself in the strange place. “Probably,” went on Arden, “Viney used to help smoke the hams out here. They must have had a delicious flavor.”
“Not like the chemically prepared hams we have to eat,” Sim surmised. “Moselle was saying, only yesterday, that she wished she had a Smithfield razor-back ham to bake with cloves for Christmas.”
“Maybe Mrs. Tucker could supply one,” suggested Arden.
“I wouldn’t ask her.”
“No, I don’t believe it would be wise. But isn’t it queer of her to go off visiting, and then return and go sit out in an old smokehouse?”
“Very queer,” agreed Sim.
Carrying their “mistletoe,” the girls went back to their parked car. As they were passing the Hall, they noticed the front door was closed as they had left it. There were no footprints in the snow other than those they themselves had made.
“Hark!” suddenly exclaimed Arden as they were at the edge of the sagging old front porch.
“What?” asked Sim.
“Didn’t you hear a noise?”
“Where?”
They stood still and listened.
There was no doubt of it. Echoing footsteps were coming from the old mansion. Faint but unmistakable. They floated out of one of the upper windows, the frame of which had been torn away by the wreckers.
“Someone is in there!” whispered Sim.
“Well, they can stay there for all I’ll ever do to get them out!” gasped Arden. “Come on!”
They ran back to the car, not pausing to listen any further.
Tossing their branches into the rumble seat, the two girls climbed into the roadster. Sim’s trembling foot pressed the starter switch.
“Oh, I’m so glad it went off with a bang like that,” she murmured as the motor chugged into service. Steering rather wildly, Sim shot up the hill and out upon the main road and away from Jockey Hollow.
“What do you think it was?” asked Arden when they had their hearts and breaths under control.
“Haven’t the least idea.”
“We must tell Harry.”
“Of course. He may be able to figure out how noises can come from an old house when there isn’t a single mark in the snow to show that anyone has entered.”
“The scream happened that same way; no one went in, but the scream came out, he said.”
“Oh, it’s all so mysterious!” sighed Sim. “Shall we ever be able to solve it? Seems to me it gets worse.”
“I hope we can solve it,” said her companion solemnly.
They created quite a sensation when they reached Sim’s house, not only with the “mistletoe,” over which Dot went into wild raptures, but with their story of Viney Tucker and the strange noises.
“What a queer old woman,” said Dorothy. “I wouldn’t want to meet her alone in the dark.”
“Oh, I guess she’s just a poor old crank whose troubles have gotten the best of her,” said Arden. “I feel sorry for her.”
“She must be a trial to Granny Howe,” suggested Terry, who seemed much improved.
“Granny isn’t the sort that gives way to trials,” said Sim. “Oh, it will be so wonderful if we can help her!”
“Leave it to Harry,” said Arden. “And, by the way, don’t you think we had better tell him the latest happening?”
“Of course,” said Dorothy quickly. “Shall I telephone him?”
“Why—er—yes,” said Sim slowly, with a quick look at Arden and Terry.
“I’ll tell him to come over to dinner, shall I?” Her eyes were shining.
“Yes,” said Sim, smiling a little. “Harry is always welcome.”
“And if he can make anything out of this latest development,” said Arden, “he’s a wonder.”
“I think he’s quite wonderful anyway,” said Terry, snuggling a little deeper down in the bed. “Wasn’t he grand when he let us give him up and collect the reward?”
“Them was the happy days!” laughed Arden.
“I’m going to phone,” called Dot from the hall.
Harry Pangborn came over to dinner and to spend the evening. It was a most delightful meal, for Moselle and Althea had done their best, which was very good indeed. But it was the talk, the banter and laughter that lent spice to the food. Young folks are inimitable at that sort of thing.
“It certainly is mystifying,” Harry had to admit when he was told, more in detail, what Dot had sketched to him over the telephone about the “mistletoe” experience of Sim and Arden. “Very strange. You say there was no more sign of other footprints than your own?”
“Not a sign,” declared Sim.
“Could you gather why Viney Tucker was in the old smokehouse?”
“Only that it was a queer whim,” said Arden, “and she is queer.”
“Yes, such a character as hers would be whimmy.” He lighted a cigarette. Dinner was almost over.
“Is this mistletoe?” asked Dot, bringing out a branch from those her chums had gathered. “You might know, being a bird man.”
“I should think one would need to be a ladies’ man to judge mistletoe,” said Mr. Pangborn, with a laugh and a glance at each of the girls in turn. Terry was downstairs for the first time since her accident.
“Not bad! Not half bad!” laughed Arden. “But do you confirm Viney’s denial? Is it or is it not—mistletoe?”
“No, it isn’t mistletoe,” he said after an examination. “But I suppose it will answer the same purpose. Where are you going to hang it? I should like to know in advance.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” mocked Dorothy.
“I must take a piece with me and put it in Granny Howe’s hair the night of the Christmas party,” said Harry, handing back to Dot the plant she had given him. “I shall claim the privilege on the eve of the holiday.”
“Like this?” Dot challenged with mischief in her eyes as she thrust the clump of white berries into her own blonde hair and then ran laughing from the room.
It was a merry little group. Mr. Pangborn said everything was in readiness to announce to Granny, with the sanction of the head of the State Park Commission, that at least she would have a new chance to prove her claim.
“And about the party,” suggested Arden. “Just what are we going to do at it?”
“We shall need some refreshments, I suppose,” said Sim. “I can get Moselle to arrange about that. We can pack them into my car and take them to the Hall. Only we’ll be a bit crowded in the roadster.”
“I’ll bring my car,” Harry said. “But, as there are quite a few things to do, wouldn’t it be wise to take Dick and Betty into our confidence?”
“And let them help,” spoke Terry.
“Yes. Dick and I can get in the wood and put the chairs and other furniture in place. I saw a table there for the food,” said Harry.
“Oh, it’s going to be just—grand!” murmured Sim dramatically.
“But tell Betty and Dick not to let Granny know about it,” warned Arden. “That would spoil the surprise.”
“I’ll caution them,” Harry promised. “I’ll go see Dick at the livery stable in the morning and also stop at the library and tell Betty. I’ve been in there for books before.”
“What about Viney?” asked Sim. “Should she be told?”
“I’ll leave that to Dick and Betty,” said Harry. “They can use their best judgment. I only hope she doesn’t break up the little affair. She’s very queer, you say?”
“More than queer—vindictive,” declared Arden.
“But when she hears the big state news, things are going to ease up a little, I think,” said Sim.
They talked over the plan, made some changes, and when Harry left that evening all details were practically settled.
He telephoned the next day, about noon, to say that he had seen Betty and Dick and that they were delighted with the matter. They both said, Harry reported, that Viney must be told or she might break out into a sudden tantrum at the last moment when she learned about it.
“She probably won’t come to the party,” Harry said. Betty had informed him, but that would be all right, he added. The two grandchildren would escort Mrs. Howe to the old mansion the evening of the affair, at a predetermined hour, on pretense that it would probably be the last Christmas she would ever see with the old house standing.
It was the day before Christmas. Dick and Harry, with the help of a stable boy, had brought much dry wood into the old Hall. The girls had, each one, bought some little token for Granny and something for Viney, “in case,” Arden said, “she shows up at the last moment and starts a fuss. We’ll have to treat her like a child.”
Betty and Dick entered into the spirit of the affair and could not say enough in praise of the girls who had thought of it.
“Granny is going to be very happy about it all,” said Betty gratefully.
“I hope so,” said Arden. “By the way, Betty, did you ever get those old books you were looking for in the cellar?”
“I never did. But I’m going in when the house is razed. It will be light down there then. There may be some valuable volumes, the librarian says.”
In the days that passed between the one before Christmas and the episode of the “mistletoe,” nothing had happened at Sycamore Hall, as far as Arden and her chums could learn. There were no more strange manifestations. But then no workmen were engaged in tearing the place apart.
Dick and Betty decided not to say anything to Viney Tucker until the afternoon of the party. Otherwise she might have too long a time to brood over it and get some obstreperous notions busy in her old bonnet.
All the preparations were finished. Moselle had made up a delightful picnic lunch for an evening supper, with thermos bottles of coffee and chocolate. The things were taken to the Hall by Harry in his car, and a hearth fire was lighted early in the afternoon to drive the chill off the big old room.
Evening came, and after an early meal the girls and Harry went, in two carloads, to the old Hall. Candles had been brought for illumination, and there was quite a collection of flashlights for emergencies.
Then Arden, her chums, and Harry trooped into the place. More wood was piled on the fire. The hour approached when Dick and Betty were to bring in Granny Howe.
Footsteps were heard on the porch—voices—laughter.
“What in the world are you tykes up to?” Granny could be heard asking of Betty and Dick. Her voice was jovial.
They brought in the dear old lady—into the candlelighted room, where the roaring fire flickered on branches of holly that the girls, with a last moment thought, had hung around the walls.
“Oh—what—what is all this?” faltered Granny as she saw the little throng of happy, smiling faces. “What does it mean?”
“Merry Christmas, Granny! Merry Christmas!” cried the girls.
And Granny, trembling a little, took the old squat rocker before the hearth fire while the merry throng cheered around her.
This was indeed a Christmas party!
Several rather tense seconds passed after the jolly holiday greetings before Granny Howe recovered her usual poise. The smile that had been on her cheery face when Dick and Betty led her into the fire-warmed and candlelighted room of the old mansion, and she had seen the merry young people, faded as she sank into the rocker. There was a puzzled expression in her eyes.
“Well, Granny,” asked Betty, “don’t you like it?”
“Pretty fine, if you ask me,” said Dick.
“Oh, but what does it all mean?” murmured the old lady. “I can’t understand. They told me,” she went on, looking from Betty to Dick, “that someone here wanted to see me. They suggested it might be the last time I could view this dear old room, as the contractor would probably rush the work of tearing the house down after Christmas. So I came. Here I am. But what does it mean?” She was bewildered.
“We are the ones who wanted to see you, Granny Howe,” said Sim.
“We thought you would like a last little party in your old home,” said Terry, who managed to get along with only a slight limp now. “And here it is!” She pulled aside a cloth that had been put over the food piled on an old table.
“How kind of you,” Granny said. There was a suspicious brightness in her eyes.
“But it is going to be more than just a little party,” spoke Arden. “We have some good news for you.”
“News,” supplemented Dorothy, “which we hope will make your Christmas very happy.” Doubtless Dorothy felt that, like some, of her actress mother’s experiences, this was a sort of play and all the actors must contribute a line.
“What news?” faltered Granny Howe.
“Mr. Pangborn will tell you!” said Arden, pushing Harry forward, for he had shifted about until he was behind Dorothy. “It was his idea, and he must have the credit for it.”
“Oh, nonsense! I don’t want any credit. And you girls are as much in it as I am!” Harry protested. “You tell her, Arden!”
“No. It requires a man’s legal mind to go into the details. Go on, Harry. Can’t you see she is on the verge of a breakdown if you keep her in suspense much longer?” she whispered. Indeed, the old lady was trembling more than a little. Dick, too, seemed a little uncertain of what the next move was to be. But Betty’s eyes were very bright. Sim, Terry, and Dorothy were smiling happily.
“It will not take long to explain,” said Harry. Then, as simply as he could, he related the offer of the Park Commission. In effect it meant a much better chance than Granny Howe had ever had to prove her claim, assisted by the best legal minds that could be engaged.
“Isn’t that a wonderful Christmas present, Granny!” cried Betty. “Now perhaps we shall get something from the estate and I can finish my studies instead of slaving in that musty library. And Dick, too! He can go to college now!”
“Does it really mean,” asked Dick, “that we will get some of the money the state has set aside for the purchase of the old Howe property in Jockey Hollow?”
“I think you are pretty certain to get something,” said Harry. “It may take considerable time—it’s a complicated legal matter—but at least you are going to have your day in court, which you never had before.”
There was silence a moment, and Granny, looking from one to another, said gently:
“It is kind of you—more kind than I can appreciate now. I’m all in a flutter!” She laughed a little. “But I have for so long a time given up hope that now I don’t just know how to get hopeful again. I don’t want to discourage any of you, especially Mr. Pangborn, for I realize all he has done in getting this concession from the Park Commission. But doesn’t it all hinge on the fact that papers—deeds, wills, or something—are necessary for me to prove my claim?”
“Yes, I suppose it would be much easier if you had the missing papers,” said Harry. “But I understand they cannot be found, so we must do the best we can without them.”
“They have been lost for many years,” sighed Granny. “With them to prove my claim and the claims of my grandchildren, everything would be easy. Years ago I used to hunt day and night in this old house for those papers, for I always felt they must be hidden here. But I have given up that hope—long ago.”
Suddenly a change came over Granny Howe. She arose from the rocker and with a bright smile exclaimed:
“Now, enough of this! I am going to get back my hope! I thank you all from the bottom of my heart—you have been wonderful! I must not be gloomy and doubtful! Wasn’t something said about a party?” she went on with a bright glance at Arden. “And all the parties I ever attended were jolly affairs. This must be the same!”
“Hurrah for Granny!” cried Sim. “Now, on with the food!”
Then the party really did begin, and in the intervals of eating, talking, and piling more wood on the blaze, Harry sketched what he thought the probable legal action would be. He offered to take charge for Granny, and his offer was accepted with grateful thanks.
“I suppose,” he suggested to the old lady, “that you can’t throw any light on the so-called ghostly happenings here?”
“Not the least in the world,” laughed Granny. “None of them ever happened in my sight or hearing. I just don’t believe them. Though, I suppose, there must be something queer, for there are many stories dating back a long time. And surely those workmen wouldn’t act as they did unless something happened. And that one poor man wouldn’t purposely slide down an ash-chute, I think. But it’s all a mystery to me.”
“Do you know any more stories about the place you haven’t told us?” asked Arden. “I mean a sort of ghost story that isn’t about Patience Howe or Nathaniel Greene?”
“I might manage to remember one,” smiled Granny.
“Oh, do tell us!” begged Terry and Sim.
Dorothy was on the outer edge of the little circle about Granny, who sat near the crackling fire. Harry had wandered to a distant window, and Dorothy followed him.
“Are you game?” she whispered to him.
“For what?”
“To go and look for a ghost instead of sitting here listening to stories about one. Come on! I dare you!” she challenged, her eyes sparkling in the hearth glow. “We each can take a flashlight. Let’s slip away while the others are listening to Granny tell that story, and see if there isn’t a real ghost on some of the upper floors. Night and Christmas Eve ought to be a proper time for a ghost, hadn’t it? Will you come with me?”
“I will!” said Harry without a moment of hesitation.
They slipped out of the room, attracting no attention, and, flashing the beams of their electric torches ahead of them, walked softly up the broad stairs. It was cold and gloomy away from the gay Christmas room, but they did not mind. The spirit of the quest was upon them.
They walked the length of the long upper halls. In a far corner of the second one, where the work of demolition had not started, half hidden by old boards and trash, stood a cedar chest.
“Perhaps,” said Dorothy with a nervous little laugh, “the ghost lies in there. If it were a closet we might look for the skeleton. But let’s have a look, anyhow.”
Harry raised the lid, which was covered with dust and white plaster dust. Dorothy flashed her light within. Then she uttered a suppressed scream. For the first glance seemed to show in the chest the body of a woman clad in a red cloak resting beside the form of a Continental soldier with high black boots.
“The ghosts!” murmured Dorothy.
“No, only their garments!” said Harry, laughing. “But I think, Dot, that at last we are on the trail of the mystery!”
Harry tilted the lid of the chest back against the wall, and with both hands now free was thus able to flash the beams of his torch into the box, which was what Dorothy also was doing. The double illumination revealed other garments in the long narrow box. Henry lifted out the old Continental soldier uniform—coat, trousers, a hat, and the heavy boots.
“They have been worn recently,” he said. “Not much dust on them.”
“And the cloak?” asked Dorothy in a tense voice.
“That, also, has very little dust on it,” he said, lifting it out.
Then a daring project came into Dorothy’s mind.
“I dare you,” she said, “to dress up as the old soldier—just the coat, hat, and boots—and walk with me, in masquerade, into the room where Granny is telling a ghost story. I’ll put on the red cloak—and this!”