Arden Wonders
Communing with herself, Arden Blake, as she dashed out of the strange old
mansion, was wondering just what it was all about and what, exactly, had
happened.
Dick, anxious about the horses and doubtless believing there was no
danger to Arden, who had been left to be the last out of the house, did
not pause as she called to him.
“She’ll be in the open in another second,” reflected the young groom.
As she hastened out Arden had many conflicting thoughts.
“Another mystery,” she told herself, half whispering. “Can there be
ghosts? If ever there was a place made for them, Sycamore Hall is. But
ghosts in the daytime! Perhaps those men did it to annoy us for coming
around while they are working. But what object could they have in doing
that? Oh, if it’s another mystery, I hope it turns out as well as the one
in the orchard did.”
At last she was away from the strange big house, and she fairly jumped
down the broad steps. With a sigh of relief she saw the girls and Dick.
Outside, the horses were straining at their bridles. With ears laid back
and eyes frightened, every now and then one gave a nervous little tap on
the hard ground with dainty fore feet.
Sim tried to mount Teddy unassisted, but every time she put her foot in
the stirrup the frisky animal wheeled about, leaving her hopping
helplessly. At last Dick had to hold him while Sim climbed up. Then
helping up Arden and Terry, Dick mounted his own horse with practised
ease, and they turned away from the ghost house.
So nervous were the animals that the girls did little talking. They were
occupied in keeping them under control. Dick cautioned them about letting
the horses bolt. Headed to the stables as they were, once they got going
it would be difficult to stop them, and a dash across the heavy traffic
streets of Pentville would be dangerous.
Arden did manage, when her horse settled down a bit and danced along
beside Dick’s for a stretch, to ask him what had gotten into their
usually well behaved mounts.
“They’re frightened at something,” he answered. “They were scared stiff
when we came out.”
“So were we all,” Arden admitted. “Do you suppose the horses could feel
our fright?”
“Some people claim that a horse feels his rider’s every mood,” Dick
answered. “I really don’t know. But I surely believe these horses sensed
something, perhaps more than we did. But——” Then Dick’s shining black
mare broke into a sudden trot, and he could not finish what he started to
say.
But Arden was persistent. She urged her steed forward and was again
riding beside the groom while Terry and Sim pranced on ahead.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Dick?”
He hesitated a moment and then slowly answered: “I believe that people
often see just what they expect to see in haunted houses, so called, and
hear just what they want to hear.”
Arden was plainly disappointed at this matter-of-factness on Dick’s part.
She had hoped for something more concrete than this. But remembering
Dick’s, or, rather, his grandmother’s, connection with Sycamore Hall, she
did not press her point.
“Let’s catch up to the others,” she proposed, and Dick assenting, they
were soon close behind Terry and Sim, who were still talking soothingly
to their mounts to quiet the restless animals. After a ride of several
miles through woodland they reached a straight open stretch of road and
broke into a smart canter. The girls were a little breathless when they
dismounted at the stables.
“Do you young ladies want to make another date for the end of the week?”
asked Titus Ellery, owner of the riding academy, as he came forward on
much-bowed legs. He was not an attractive man, but he knew horses. Rather
stingy and grasping was his reputation. “How about it?” He was respectful
enough but persistent.
Sim spoke up.
“Not just now. We’ll phone.” Telling Dick to “charge it,” she and the
girls walked toward the waiting roadster.
Dick opened the door.
“Don’t let this adventure scare you,” he said in a low voice. “It was
probably nothing but those excited men imagining something.” He seemed
worried lest they cancel further riding engagements during the holidays,
and Dick probably made a little commission.
“Don’t worry,” Terry answered. “We loved it! See you later; and thanks,
Dick!”
They were off, Sim driving with a little less than her usual abandon.
Arden was the first to notice it.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Scared?”
“No, just thinking.”
“It was queer,” murmured Terry. “I was really frightened.”
“The men were, anyhow,” said Arden. “And when we heard those bumping
sounds coming out of an old uninhabited house——” She shivered a little.
“Probably falling plaster!” laughed Sim.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Arden.
“She’s thinking of what happened in the orchard,” remarked Terry.
“Well, something happened there all right,” Arden responded.
“Let’s forget it a while,” proposed Sim, and she stepped on the gas in
her usual manner.
Home again, they were greeted at the door by the smiling Moselle who
answered their ring.
“You-all have a nice ride?” she asked cheerfully.
“Grand,” answered Terry. “And we met up with some very fine ghosts,
Moselle.”
“_Ghosts?_” Moselle’s eyes were wide.
“Over by Sycamore Hall,” Terry continued.
“Um—uumm!” Moselle shook her head. “I don’t know what your mother will
say, Miss Sim. Chasing after ghosts. You-all ought to keep away from that
place. I know it’s dangerous. Plumb full of ha’nts, that what it is.”
“Why, Moselle! Do you know anything about it?” Sim asked, surprised.
“Yes’m, Miss Sim, I sure does! Only las’ night Brutus Jackson tole me he
was going to work there ’cause he needed a little change, and ain’t half
hour ago he came dashing into my kitchen with Sam Brown and tell me they
done quit.”
“He did—why?” Arden frantically signaled Sim to let her continue the
questioning of Moselle.
“Why, he say,” went on the colored woman, “a funny old soldier with a
bloody bandage around his haid come clumping down the stairs and stood
pointing for Sam and him to get out the door and, yes, ma’am, he say they
sure did git!” Moselle made unbelieving noises.
Terry turned to Sim. “Gosh, I’m sorry we didn’t stay. What’d you run for,
Sim?”
Sim started to reply, but seeing Moselle listening intently said
casually, “Oh, I just felt like it.” Then, addressing the curious cook,
she asked: “How about lunch, Moselle?”
“Yes’m, Miss Sim, in just a few minutes. You-all got time to change if
you like,” she said, quick to realize she was being dismissed.
“Good! Come on then, kids, let’s go up;” and before Arden or Terry could
ask any more questions Sim, taking them by the elbows, steered them up
the stairs.
By unspoken consent they gathered in Sim’s room.
“Gee, Arden, I was afraid Moselle would get all worked up, and then you
know what she’d do? Write to Mother and Dad and get them all excited. She
doesn’t miss a thing. And she’s very superstitious.”
“I forgot about her,” Terry admitted pulling a turtle-necked sweater over
her head. “Wounded soldier! I guess that’s what we heard. Certainly
sounded like footsteps to me. Don’t you love it? What did Dick say,
Arden?”
“Not much,” Arden answered. “We were too busy with the horses. Did you
notice how scared they were?”
“Say,” interrupted Sim happily, “won’t Dot love this! Bet she won’t want
to sit around and play contract now.”
“Oh, contract—who wants to do that? There’s something queer about that
place, and I’m going to find out what it is before I have to go back to
school,” announced Arden emphatically.
“We’re with you, Arden! You can’t leave us out of any such excitement as
that,” Terry decided. “Can she, Sim?”
“I should say not!” Sim said, and striking a dramatic pose sang out: “All
for one, one for all! Arden, Terry, and Sim!”
“And Dorothy,” supplemented Arden. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Let’s take
her out to see the house in the afternoon.”
“Yes,” agreed Sim. “That will be fun, and maybe we’ll see the soldier.”
At this point in their plans the dulcet tones of the luncheon bell could
be heard coming from below, and Terry was obliged to slip her sweater on
again. In the end they all ate in riding clothes and talked of subjects
far from their minds lest Althea, who was serving, should carry ghost
stories back to her mother in the kitchen.
The lamb chops were done to a turn, and the peas were startling in their
lovely greenness. The pie, lemon meringue, was a fluffy dainty that
disappeared with remarkable quickness when put before the girls.
Everything in its place was their motto; ghosts belonged to Jockey
Hollow, and food came under Moselle’s supervision. After a half year of
college fare, food was, after all, important.
Arden Blake, Terry Landry, and Sim Westover had been schoolmates and
chums ever since they started in Vincent Prep. They were graduated at the
same time and went to Cedar Ridge College for their freshman year
together. The first term of the college had just ended and they were home
for the Christmas holidays.
As told in the first volume of this Arden Blake mystery series, entitled
_The Orchard Secret_, almost as soon as the three freshmen signed in at
Cedar Ridge things began happening. There was something strange about the
college orchard, where so many gnarled, weird, black trees stretched up
their waving branches in the night. And when Arden saw the poster of the
missing and rich Henry Pangborn, there was another complication.
But Arden and her two chums solved the puzzle, much to the benefit of the
college swimming pool, which had had to be abandoned because there was no
money to repair it. And thus Sim remained at college, for she was
determined to become an expert swimmer and diver, and when she had found
the swimming pool was so sadly out of commission, she had threatened to
leave. But Arden’s success in solving the mystery had made everything all
right.
When the three girls had finished lunch in Sim’s beautiful home on the
outskirts of Pentville, a few miles from Jockey Hollow, Arden went to the
library across the hall and began to scan the shelves impatiently.
“Know anything about these books, Sim?” she asked.
“Yes, of course I do. What do you want to know?”
“I want to find out something about our Revolution. Perhaps we can get a
volume that will tell who really lived in Sycamore Hall in Jockey
Hollow.”
“That’s a great idea, Arden! At times you seem almost brilliant,” laughed
Sim.
“Well, suppose you help me to shine a bit,” Arden proposed.
“Let me help,” begged Terry.
They delved among the books but though they found some American history
lore and much about the Revolution, there was nothing on Jockey Hollow or
Sycamore Hall.
“I’ll have to try somewhere else,” Arden sighed.
The girls spent most of the afternoon talking over their strange
adventure, at times hardly believing it had happened, again with a little
thrill of fear mingled with doubt as to what it all meant.
“Well, I’m going to find out something,” finally announced Arden the
impetuous.
“How?” drawled Sim.
“I’m going to the library. They ought to have something there about
Jockey Hollow. Goodness knows it was important enough!”
“Tell us when you come back,” begged Terry.
“Don’t you want to come with me?”
“No. I’m for a nap. Riding always makes me drowsy.”
“I’m with you, Terry,” announced Sim. “Come on.”
She led the way upstairs, where she and Terry changed from riding clothes
to lounging pajamas. But Arden donned a polo coat and low-heeled shoes
and started out.
“Don’t you want my car?” sleepily called Sim, lolling on her bed.
“No, I’m going to walk, thank you.”
She was on her way, though she scarcely realized it, to the beginning of
another strange mystery.