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Dorothy Dale's Queer Holidays

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<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> <h3>THE HAUNTED WOODS</h3> That night Dorothy Dale retired to her own cozy little room with her head swathed in cooling cloths. The excitement of the day had cost her more than mere experience and an unexplainable interest in the pale little woman in black. When the whole matter had been discussed, Major Dale was naturally indignant, and declared in plain terms that the unwarranted zeal some detectives evinced in trying to convict supposed wrongdoers without sufficient evidence would some day bring these selfsame sleuths into serious trouble. Mrs. White, too, was annoyed and anxious. Dorothy was not the type of girl who would soon forget her experience. The boys, even to little Roger, declared the whole thing an outrage, and they wanted to go right to town and tell somebody so. But Dorothy tried to make the best of it, and said her head would be all right after a night's rest. "If you are really better, Doro," whispered Roger, kissing her good-night, "we may go to Tanglewood Park for the Christmas tree. Nat promised we could—and then perhaps we will see Tavia's ghost." "Tavia's ghost?" repeated his sister. "Oh, you mean the ghost Tavia was telling us about. Well, I am sure to be better, and then we may have a chance to prove that there is absolutely no such thing in this world as ghosts," and with a fond embrace Dorothy dismissed the boy with the yellow hair, so like her own, and eyes just as blue. Surely Roger and Dorothy belonged to the Dales, while Joe, with his dark, rich coloring, was like the other branch of their family. It was not an easy matter, however, for Dorothy to actually get to sleep that night. So many thoughts crowded her brain: Tavia was acting queerly about something, and it was perfectly plain to everybody she wanted to talk to Nat alone, directly after the evening meal. Tavia was not a silly girl—she would never risk such criticism if something quite serious did not make it necessary. Then how that woman in black looked at Tavia when they entered the train for home! She had to take the same train to get back from town; that was easily understood, as few trains passed in and out to the city, even in holiday time. But why did she sit opposite them again? And Tavia was sure she just wanted to confess—about the ring. So Dorothy's thoughts ran riot, and her head ached proportionately. Finally she heard Tavia steal into the room; felt she was looking down to see if slumber had come; then, being satisfied that Dorothy was actually asleep, she went out and turned the hall light very low. Dorothy was asleep. She dreamed of everything—the superintendent's office, of Miss Allen's sweet face, of how confused the other clerk became—it was all perfectly clear yet so closely interwoven as to be inextricable, after the manner of most feverish dreams. It seemed she had been sleeping a long time when she heard whispering at her door—or, rather, just outside the second door that led into Tavia's room. "But it was so foolish," she heard some one protest. "I wouldn't think it so wrong as so foolish." It was Nat's voice. Then she heard Tavia whisper: "Hush! she might be awake!" "I'd advise you to make a clean breast of it," insisted the other. "It is bound to leak out some way." "Not unless you tell," said Tavia. "As if I would," spoke Nat again. By this time Dorothy was wide awake, and realized that she had overheard a conversation not intended for her ears. She coughed and cleared her throat. Tavia was beside her almost instantly. "Do you want anything?" she asked, with ill-concealed anxiety. "Is your headache better?" "Yes, I guess so," faltered Dorothy. "I slept well, and just awoke." She had no idea of deceiving Tavia, but she did intend to set her mind at ease concerning how much of the whispered conversation she might have heard. "Then turn right over before you get too wide awake," advised Tavia. "Here is some lemonade Aunt Winnie said you were to drink." Tavia always called Mrs. White Aunt Winnie. "And you are to remain in bed for breakfast. Oh, for an aristocratic head that would ache! And oh, for one dear, long, luscious, lumpy day in bed! With meals à la tray, and beef tea in the intervals. But I must not talk you awake. There," and she kissed her friend lightly, "I'll tumble in, for I really am dead tired." "It must be late?" asked Dorothy. "Not so very," answered Tavia evasively. "Good-night," called Dorothy. "Good-night," replied Tavia. But Tavia's head did not ache. She "tumbled in" as she promised, but did not immediately try to sleep. She was, instead, trying to arrange some things clearly before her much-confused faculties—trying to decide what she should write home. She had her mother's pin and Johnnie's steam engine, thanks to Dorothy's good nature, but what about paying Dorothy back? Where was the money to come from, and what possible explanation could she make? Tell her she had not spent her own five dollars, but instead had mailed it to a strange woman in a strange place, on the printed promise that in place of five she would get—— "But how on earth can I ever tell so silly a thing to Dorothy?" she found herself answering. "Why, it is too absurd——" She deliberately got out of bed, went to the drawer of her dresser and took from it an envelope. It was the very one she had dropped in the train, and which the strange woman noticed. Closing the door softly, Tavia took from the blue envelope a printed slip. She looked it over critically, then with a look of utter disgust replaced it in the envelope, and folding that so it would fit into a very small compass, put it away again. "And to think I should have gotten Nat into such a thing!" she was thinking. "It was good of him to be so nice about it—but, all the same, I did feel awfully, and I wish this very minute I was at home in my own shabby little room, next to Johnnie's." Tavia rarely cried, but this time she felt there was simply nothing else left to do. Bravely she struggled to choke her sobs; then at last fixing her mind successfully upon a plan to straighten out her difficulties (or, at least, she thought it would adjust them), the girl with the tear-stained, hazel eyes and the much-tangled, bronze braids, found herself forgetting where she was, what she was thinking about, whether she was Nat or Dorothy. And then Tavia was asleep. The cracking of everything out of doors next morning brought both Tavia and Dorothy to the realization of the fact that another day had come—another day bitterly cold. They had hoped for snow, but Tavia, being first to reach the window, called to Dorothy that not a single flake had fallen. "Then perhaps we can ride out to the woods and get a Christmas tree," said Dorothy, mindful of little Roger's wish of the previous night. "We would freeze," declared Tavia. "Why, everything is snapping and cracking—but there must be fine skating," she broke off abruptly. "Likely," answered Dorothy, "but I am anxious to get the tree, and if we do not get it before the storm comes we will have to take a boughten one. But I do so love a hand-picked tree. It has always been a part of our Christmas to get one." Tavia was not at all particular about that part of it—whether it was hand-picked or peddler-purchased, and she said so promptly. But the severe cold of the morning precluded the idea of an auto ride in search of the tree, and the time was spent in many little preparations for the holiday—odds and ends that ever hang on, in spite of the most carefully-laid plans to get through in good time. By noon, however, the weather had moderated. Clouds hung thick and heavy, and not a glimmer of sun appeared, but the cold was less keen and the winds had almost entirely subsided. Joe and Roger went off to the skating-pond directly after luncheon, and Dorothy, eager to get the tree before the storm should break (for every one said it would surely snow before nightfall), proposed the trip to the woods. Nat and Ned, as well as Tavia, readily agreed, and with plenty of extra wraps, as well as the patent foot-warming attachment from the auto radiator in operation, the party started off. "Now, where?" asked Ned, who was at the wheel. "I saw a dear little tree over Beechwood way," said Dorothy, "but perhaps you boys know where we might find a larger one." "Never bother about pines or cedars," answered Nat, "but I would first rate like a spruce—I love the smell of a good fresh spruce. Makes me think of—a good smoke!" "Next day in the best lace curtains," added Tavia. "That's about how much spruce smells like real smoke." "Try the Duncan place," interposed Nat. "Used to be plenty of pretty trees about there." Following this suggestion the Fire Bird was directed toward the Glen, where, set in a deep clump of trees, could be seen one of the very old residences of the township. "Is it inhabited?" asked Tavia as they swung into the rough drive. "Oh, yes," replied Nat. "Old Cummings and his wife live there. It's a fine old place, too. Pity all the old places are allowed to go to rack and ruin." "No Christmas trees around here," declared Ned, wheeling about along the turn in the drive. "Queer, I would have bet I saw spruce in this grove." "I'll tell you," exclaimed Nat. "Tanglewood Park. That's the very place for a choice selection of real old cheroot spruces." "Yes," groaned Ned, "five miles away." "I don't think it's very cold," ventured Dorothy. "But the air is full of snow," announced Ned. "Well, do we go to Tanglewood Park or back to The Cedars?" asked Ned. "How long will it take to go to the Park?" questioned Dorothy. "Oh, we may as well try it," concluded Ned, turning the Fire Bird in the direction of the open road and starting off. "Your haunted house, you know, Tavia," said Nat as they whizzed along. "Now we will, have a chance to make the very intimate acquaintance of a real, up-to-date ghost." "Oh, is that the place?" said Tavia in surprise. "Well, I'll just be tickled to death to pay a visit there. I have never quite made up my mind whether the light was in the house or——" "A halo around the head of old Bagley, your tongue-tied driver. Now, take it from me, Tavia, it was simply the brilliancy of your own——" "Oh, here, quit!" called Ned from the front seat. "If there is one thing I like more than another on a day like this it isn't spooning." "There's the snow!" announced Dorothy as some very large, lazy flakes tumbled down into the laps of the party in the Fire Bird. "Won't amount to much," Nat predicted. "Never does when it starts that way. The larger the flakes the shorter the storm. Like a kid howling—the louder he starts the sooner he quits." "Well, that's worth knowing," said Tavia, laughing. "I won't feel so badly next time the baby on my right starts in." Meaning Nat, Tavia enjoyed her little joke, but the young man pretended not to understand. Lightly the Fire Bird flew along the hard road, and soon the tall trees of old Tanglewood Park could be seen against the dull, dark landscape. "We won't have time to get half a dozen trees, Doro," said Ned, "so if you have it in mind to supply all the poor kids between here and Ferndale, as you usually do, you had best cancel the contract." "I did hope to get one for little Ben," confessed Dorothy. "He is always so delighted when I tell him how things grow away out in the woods. Poor little chap! Isn't it a pity he can never hope to be better?" "It sure is," replied Ned, with more sympathy in his voice than in, his words. "But I really think it will be dark very early this evening." "Almost that now," put in Nat, who had been listening. "Better for ghosts," declared Tavia. "I have always heard that no respectable ghost ever comes out in the bold, broad light of day." "Here we are!" announced Ned as he turned into the darkly-arched driveway of Tanglewood Park. "My, but it's spooky!" murmured Tavia, trying to crawl under the robes. "I thought you particularly wanted to see the ghost?" teased Nat. "There, what's that? I am sure I saw something up in the castle. Come on, let's get out and try the old knocker. If some of the antique fellows knew old brass affair was on that door they would come over and get the door." "Oh, don't go up to the house," faltered Tavia, who really showed signs of fear. "Not pay our respects to the light of ages—or whatever you might call it? And we on the very spot! For shame, girl!" continued Nat. "Methinks thou art a coward." "Think away, then," snapped Tavia, "but if you go up to that old ramshackle house I'll just——" "Scream! Oh, do; it will add greatly to the effect," and Nat, in his boyish way, continued to joke and tease, until Tavia was obliged to laugh at her own fears. Presently Dorothy espied a tree—a pretty young spruce—that seemed to meet all the requirements of a Christmas tree. "Over there," she directed Nat, who with hatchet in hand was making for the desired tree. The particular tree was situated near a side path, quite close to the old mansion. Dorothy left her seat and followed Nat, but Tavia remained behind in the car with Ned. Suddenly they were all startled by a noise—a shrill scream—or perhaps it was some wild bird. "Oh!" cried Tavia, "let's get out of this creepy place. Dorothy! Dorothy!" she called, "do come along and never mind the tree. I feel I shall die, I am so—frightened!" "You!" said Ned with a light laugh. "Why, I thought you just loved ghosts." "Now, just stop!" insisted the girl. "If you had gone through the scare before, as I did, perhaps you would not be so merry." Dorothy and Nat came toward the car. They had heard the shriek, and could not understand it. The tree still stood on its frozen mound and was likely to remain there, for one more night, at least. "I was not frightened," explained Dorothy, "but I heard you call. Perhaps we had better go. It is almost dark." "But I would first rate like to bag that owl," said Nat. "I believe I could teach a bird like that to talk English." "It certainly said some thing," his brother added. "Well, I suppose we will have to please the ladies and turn out," he finished. Then Dorothy and Nat climbed back into the car, and the pretty Christmas tree was left behind with the other queer things in Tanglewood Park. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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