Mistletoe
There were many historic spots in Jockey Hollow. Arden had found out some
facts from the library book, and Dick knew others gleaned in various
ways. As they rode along they talked about it all.
Dick pointed out rows of chimney stones where once had stood the log huts
that housed the 10,000 men of Washington’s army camped in the Hollow that
winter of 1779. Washington himself had a mansion in a near-by town long
famous in history, Dick took pleasure in reminding them.
Dick located a grove of locust trees, shrouded now in white where, he
said, several hundred men of the unfortunate Continental Army had died
and were buried along the banks of Primrose Brook which now was frozen
over and covered with downy snow.
“Well, when they get the park laid out and finished,” suggested Arden, “I
suppose they’ll put up a bronze tablet somewhere around here to
commemorate the valiant men.”
“A pity they can’t keep the old Hall standing. That would be a fine
monument,” suggested Sim. “It could be a memorial hall.”
“The Hall is doomed,” said Dick sadly. “We have given up all hope.” He
urged his horse ahead briskly.
“He doesn’t know what you are going to tell Granny!” whispered Dorothy to
Harry.
“I hope something comes of it,” he remarked in a low voice. “At least,
the whole matter will be thoroughly gone over, and if there is anything
in her claim, and any money due her that can be paid, my lawyers will
arrange it. They are smart men, I am sure of that.”
It was almost dark when the riders returned to Sim’s house. Dick and the
other groom went back with the horses. The ride had been enjoyable for
all of them.
“Don’t forget to let me know when you want to go out again,” Dick called
with gay freedom. “If I can get money enough for an education out of my
commissions from Ellery, that will be fine,” he suggested as he rode
happily away.
Terry was eagerly waiting for her friends when they got back.
“What, no ghosts?” she exclaimed when they trooped in to tell her of
their ride.
“Not a ghost—not even scolded by Viney Tucker. She should have told us
that we rode too long,” laughed Arden. “Viney, by the way, is out of the
way.”
“Where?” Terry asked.
“Off visiting, so Dick says. Oh, but I’m hungry!” cried Sim. “Where is
Moselle? You’ll stay to dinner, of course, Harry?”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid I can’t. I want to get in touch with the lawyers
on the telephone, and Dr. Thandu, to make sure that there will be no
hitch in the plans for Granny’s Christmas party. And I shall probably
need to put in calls and wait for answers. I’d be jumping up from the
table off and on. No, I’ll go back to the hotel. I can phone nicely from
there. But I’ll keep this invitation in reserve, if I may.”
“Of course. Any time. This will keep.”
Terry’s ankle was much improved by morning, though the doctor said she
must not yet step on it.
“In another day you may be able to hobble about the house on a cane,” he
had said.
“She will be an invalid with a most interesting limp,” declared Dot.
That day Harry telephoned to say that matters connected with the legal
aspects of Granny’s case were coming along most satisfactorily.
“You will be able to assure her at the Christmas party,” he told Arden,
“that she has the best chance she ever had to get something out of the
estate. At any rate, if we fail, she will have the satisfaction of
knowing that all that could be done has been done.”
“And if it fails,” asked Arden, “will she and the young folks have to
give up hope?”
“I’m afraid so. But it’s better to give up a hope than to have it linger
forever, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Oh, I do hope it turns out all right!”
“So do I.”
Arden, who happened to answer the telephone to take the message from
Harry, reported to the other girls, and Sim said:
“I think we ought to go over to the Hall and see whether Harry’s idea of
a warm and cozy room can be carried out in this cold spell.”
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Arden.
“Oh, I wish I could go!” sighed Terry, looking at her bandaged foot.
“Don’t chance it!” warned Dorothy. “You’ll want to be at the party. I’ll
stay here with you, Terry, if Arden and Sim want to prance down to the
Hall and look it over.”
“Let’s, Sim!” Arden exclaimed. “Only we won’t prance. We’ll go in the
car.”
To this Sim agreed and, the housekeeping plans for the day having been
disposed of, she and Arden started out in the sturdy little roadster. It
had stopped snowing, and the sun was shining brightly with a dazzling
luster on the white ground. It was snappy and cold, so the girls wore
furs and arctics, for they wanted to walk around near the Hall. That
opportunity always fascinated them.
Reaching the Hall, they tramped up the steps. Sim and Arden pushed open
the heavy front door and stood with their heads just within the hall,
listening before venturing in all the way.
“No use taking any chances,” Sim remarked.
“What chances?” Arden asked, though, as a matter of fact, the same
thought was in her own mind.
“Well, ghosts or some irresponsible workmen who might be camping out in
here since they had the last séance.”
“Or tramps,” suggested Arden.
“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?”