A rush of events followed. Chief among them was that of a Girl Scout picnic, inaugurated by Ted and Jerry, carried out by Nora and enjoyed by all.
It was a delightful hike out to the Ledge, that big, rugged rock that leaned over a pretty, disjoined lake, made up of tributaries from springs and rain flows. Rocky Ledge was exactly that—narrow, rocky; a table or shelf that leaned out just far enough to form a little portico over the frivolous waters beneath. It was a charmed spot, with many thrilling legends to its credit, and being different from the entire scenery surrounding, it gave the place its name—just like one girl different from her companions will stand out as an example, if she happens to be that kind of different that is interesting.
Not that other parts of this territory were commonplace. No, indeed. There was a fertile farm country, Jerry’s precious forests, Ted’s wonderful butterfly haunts and even Nora’s cedar groves; but these did not touch the high spot enjoyed by that novel little ledge; hence the whole territory was known as Rocky Ledge.
The picnic marked midsummer’s festivity. Chickadee Patrol invited members from other camps out to the Ledge, and when Pell insisted that Thistle and her aids “do up enough grub” for those invited, a strike was narrowly averted.
“You know, Pell Mell, the Mantons will bring barrels of things to eat, so why should we make samples of our miserable home-cooking failures?” demanded Thistle. Betta was standing hard by egging her on.
“They will bring the lunch, that is, The Lunch, but what about a little four o’clock snack? There are silver springs out there with water cress on the cob, and I know our girls are never loath to nibble a bite or two when out on location,” Pell reminded her mutinous crew. That was Pell. She had a way of getting things done and at the same time making a joke of it.
“Is Nora going to be inducted?” asked Betta. Next to Alma, Betta was the most avowed champion of the girl from the Nest.
“Yes, we had a letter today and Becky told us we would have a business meeting Wednesday, when your precious Babe Nora will be led to the stake. She will accept the halter of allegiance to Pell, Betta and the rest of the mob——”
“If you feel so frisky, Pell, I wish you would work off some of the extra on this tin can. I am supposed to open it with a souvenir trick can opener. I am sure Betta brought it from the state fair, B. C. 150. It has all the ear marks of antiquity without any of the teeth,” declared Wyn, who was struggling with an implement, curious and wonderful.
“That’s a perfectly good can opener,” defended Betta. “Jimbsy purloined it from his own mother’s table——”
“Which supports my theory,” interrupted Wyn. “His mother’s table is none other than antique. But there! It did cut—my hand into the bargain,” and she defied all her first-aid rules by sticking a finger in her mouth. “Glad it cut something.”
“Where’s Alma?” asked Laddie. “She always gets out of the drudgery.”
“Alma was tagged along to town to buy things,” explained Thistle. “Becky is hearing her lessons on the way. Alma is our little freshman, you know, girls, and while she doesn’t wear mourning, she is often in sorrow.”
“She has a great time with Nora, I notice,” remarked Doro. “I fancy between the two of them they have fixed it up about the prince. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if they invited him to the picnic.”
“Now, remember,” ordered Wyn, “don’t dare say prince. Say duke if you must, but spare Alma’s feelings on the princeling. But honestly, girls, wasn’t it a joke?”
“Not to Alma,” answered Treble. “She certainly had a vision if she did not see a prince. Here she comes. Look at the bundles! Land sakes alive! If it’s more grub I’m going to duck. My fingers are mooing now from spreading butter,” and Treble plastered a slab of the yellow paste on a square of bread, quite as if it were intended as mortar for a sky-scraper.
An hour later they were on their way. Nora might have ridden out to the Ledge in the little runabout, but she preferred to walk with the girls.
“I’m so excited about joining,” she confided to Betta and Alma, her hike partners. “I feel as if I were going to have my final exams.”
“You don’t want to,” advised Betta. “You know your manual perfectly, and have nothing to worry about. But we shall all be so glad, Nora, when you are really a Scout. It is all well enough to be a lone Scout out in the wilderness, but while we’re around there is no sense in such isolation.”
“The Lone Scout! Oh, I was fascinated reading about the provisions for such an individual arrangement. Just imagine being a troop of one,” said Nora.
“About as interesting as Laddie’s collection of one piece of genuine mica,” replied Betta. “As much as I detest the girls” (she gave Alma’s arms an affectionate squeeze in explanation), “still, I would rather be pestered with them than to be a Lone Scout on the Big Mountain. There, Nora! That would make a stunning title for your coming book.”
“What book?” demanded the unsuspecting Nora.
“The one that is coming next,” serenely replied Betta. “But let us hasten! See yon girls are turning into the other yon road,” she went on. “We betta——”
A warning chuckle from Alma, cut short her “Betta.” Until this attractive girl learned to respect the all-American R she would never know peace with her companions.
Joining the others the merry party hiked along; singing, whistling, calling, laughing and making noises peculiar to girls out on picnics bent.
Mr. and Mrs. Manton rode to the Ledge, deposited their treat and were ready to be on their way and leave the girls to their own good time, almost as soon as the party arrived.
“Oh, stay,” besought Pell. “We are counting on having you in for our games——”
“I wish I could,” replied the big brown Jerry. “But the fact is this wife of mine has planned a little picnic all of her own. You see, when she got me in on this she knew I could not back out on hers. Yes,” he sighed affectedly, “she has made me promise to take her out canoeing, and I am not sure what terror she has set for me at the end of the stream.”
“Oh, are you really going down the stream?” cried Treble. “I have just longed for a ride down through the rapids——”
“Well, you best not take it,” spoke up Mrs. Ted. “I am going down the stream only to explore. And I would not go without the strong arm of a man at the keel.”
“Oh, Jimbsy, where art thou?” wailed Thistle. “Why didn’t we treat you right! Your gallant craft——”
“Get the water there, Cicero,” shouted Doro. “This lunch is to have lemonade a la carte, and there isn’t a drop of water in the house. Sorry to disturb the oration——”
“Gimme the pail,” snapped the interrupted Thistle. “I never yet started anything that Doro didn’t finish.”
But even the delightful lunch, served on a grassy table with every girl holding down her own table cloth, for a light little breeze flirted outrageously with the service—even all this did not tempt the Scouts to tarry long from the delights of the great, wild open; and before the normal eating hour had passed the girls were formed in groups and circles, to suit their individual and collective tastes, and through field and glen their laughter supplied the marching tune.
Nora was clinging to Alma, with a motive. She had seen the great field of corn just behind the Ledge, where fertility could be depended upon, and she was wondering, secretly, if little Lucia might pick weeds out there?
“Could we go over to those gardens?” she asked the leaders, when the other girls had all chosen their points for exploration.
“Why, certainly. I am glad to see that you are interested in real gardens,” replied Miss Beckwith. “Those are called the Italian gardens because Italians work there, not because they bear any resemblance to the wonderful gardens of Italy.”
The temptation was strong within Nora to tell Alma just why she wanted to go up close to the big women with hoes and rakes; but the memory of Lucia’s dark eyes, that looked so like dewy pansies when the child begged: “You will never tell,” that memory sealed Nora’s lips, while she eagerly sought out any small figure that might be that of the little slave of labor.
“I don’t like those horrid women,” said Alma. “Why don’t you want to go over the other way, out into the pretty woodlands, Nora? Come on and let’s run back. I am almost afraid of that ugly creature coming over that dug-up place,” Alma declared.
“I don’t like her, either,” admitted Nora. “I only wanted to see—them work—close by.”
“Going in for scientific gardening when we make you a real Scout?” Alma continued, as they both hurried back to the uncultivated territory. “Lots of girls are trying it, but it’s wickedly hard on the hands.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that, Alma. But I just——” She stopped and looked frankly into Alma’s gray eyes. “Alma,” she began again with an unexpected sigh, “would you think me mean if I asked you to do something to help me without, well, without explaining fully?” she floundered.
“Why, no, certainly not, Nora. You must have good reason for not wanting to confide——”
“I do want to confide,” Nora quickly took up the charge. “But this is not my own affair. I have promised not to tell.”
“Then don’t bother to explain,” said Alma, generously. “I’ll do all I can to help you. I am sure it’s for a good cause.”
“The noblest charity——” Nora checked herself. “I’ll tell you. I want to take my picnic lunch to—some place——” It was next to impossible to go on without going all the way.
“Nora, darling! You are truly a brave Scout!” declared the admiring Alma. “There you haven’t touched your lovely lunch. Saved it for a secret charity. Just you wait until you are received into the band of Chickadees! I’ll be your sponsor if I am allowed it, and I’ll find a way——”
“Alma! Alma!” gasped Nora, tragically. “You really must do nothing of the kind. As happy as I am now at the idea of being a Scout, I shouldn’t even join if I thought that in any way this secret would become known.” She was breathless at the very thought, and had jerked Alma to a standstill right in the middle of a mud patch, in her excitement.
“Oh, don’t worry,” soothed Alma. “I had no idea of telling any part of the secret, that, of course, I really don’t know anything about. I was just planning what I might say to your especial credit if the promoter should call upon me,” she finished with a tinge of disappointment.
“Then help me carry my lunch back to—the woods near our house,” said Nora while the glance she exchanged was a unspoken volume.
“I hope you are not going to give it away to some wild animal,” Alma could not refrain from remarking.
“Oh, no indeed,” Nora assured her companion.
“Then why do you not eat it?”
“I have promised——”
“Maybe it’s Jimmie,” said Alma, with a sly little chuckle.
“Jimmie! Why I have never spoken to him!”
“Oh, you should,” the Scout assured her. “He is such a nice, useful boy.”
“Does he work on the farms?” asked Nora seriously.
“I guess he doesn’t really work any place in particular, but almost every place in general,” replied Alma. “But let’s hurry. The others will think we got hoed in with the corn.”
So they did hurry back to the picnic and back to their strategy.
It was all over. Nora had been made a Girl Scout. To celebrate the enrollment Jerry and Ted gave a “large party” at the Nest, and of all her memorable social functions, this to Nora seemed most delightful.
Every one came, even Becky the patrol leader, and in their uniforms all freshly pressed out, the white summer blouse being allowed for the festive occasion, the party looked quite novel, and the girls had a wonderful time, dancing, playing games and inventing new fun provokers at every turn. Nora as the guest of honor was honored indeed, and accepted her compliments most gracefully.
“It was all a matter of opportunity,” said Ted aside to Jerry, referring to Nora’s change of heart. “She is just as good a Scout as any of them.” This was a proud boast.
“The woods are full of them,” said Jerry the champion of all girls, Scouts and near Scouts. “Just give them the chance.”
But up in her own room Nora was pondering. “It’s just like getting married,” she reflected. “That is, I guess it is,” she amended wisely. “One must clear up every secret and fix all the old troubles when one gets married, and one must clear up all the old worries and secrets when she joins the Scouts,” concluded the systematic, little self-appointed conscience cleaner.
There was that matter of the prince. Never did Alma mention it nor never did Nora hear any of the other Scouts refer to it without feeling guilty.
“I just ought to tell Alma the whole truth,” she was now deciding. It was the day after the great event.
But came the thought of Alma’s certain surprise that she, Nora, her true friend and confidante, should have deceived her so long.
Pride did not melt into humility with the bestowing of the pretty Scout emblem, so Nora did not see her way clear to tell that silly story of her Lord Fauntleroy escapade. She was repeating her Scout promise “To do my duty to God and Country and to help others at all times,” and she mentally made the promise again.
“To help others.” That clause charged her. Was she helping Alma? Did she not know, really, that the one glimpse of the person in velvets had left kind and considerate little Alma guessing ever since, and also that it had put her in a ridiculous position with her companions?
“I know, I’ll write her a letter.” The inspiration satisfied, and thus started the most remarkable correspondence—but let others tell it.
“She got a letter!” exclaimed Wyn.
“What’s wonderful about that?” asked Betta.
“It’s from the prince, that’s what,” declared the first speaker.
“Prince!”
“The very same,” chimed in Treble, stretching her long self from the bench to the boat swing.
“What nonsense!” scoffed Betta. “Alma may be romantic, but she is not crazy.” (Lucia to the contrary.)
“Just ask her,” suggested Wyn. “She’s hugging that letter as tight as tu’ pence. I always told you Alma was madly in love——”
“Hush!” Doro’s warning suspended operations along that line. Alma was upon them.
“Letter?” asked Wyn, innocently.
“Yes, and if you like you may read it. It’s from——”
“The prince?” blurted Treble, shooting her hand out.
“I’m corporal,” said Thistle, pompously. “Let me have it, dear.”
“Perhaps I should read it myself,” said Alma, pettishly, thus prolonging the agony. “It is so—personal.”
“Yes, do,” begged Wyn, coiling and uncoiling in sheer expectancy.
“Here’s a seat,” offered Betta.
“The sun’s there,” warned Thistle amiably. “Take this seat, Alma,” and she moved over so generously, the bench all but tipped end on end.
Every one waited. Alma took out her letter—it was in her crocheted bag and one could see how she treasured it.
What a thrill!
But Treble pinched Betta and almost spoiled the start.
“I received it this morning,” said Alma, “and, of course, it didn’t come through the mail.”
“How?” asked Wyn.
“Jimmie!” replied Alma.
“Oh-o-o-o-oh!”
The shout was mortifying, Betta came to the rescue.
“Jimmie isn’t your prince—Alma?” she asked sweetly.
“Jimmie!” Alma’s tone was caustic. “As if that freckled face——”
“Here! Easy on the Jimbsy!” warned Treble. “He’s a perfectly fine little Scout, and if ever this patrol extends to co-ed——!”
“Let Alma read her letter,” ordered Thistle, the corporal.
“How’d you say you got it?” persisted Wyn.
“Jimmie brought it.”
“Where did he get it?” again asked the irrepressible Wyn.
“He was pledged not to tell, but just see the stationery.” The envelope was passed around; all commented favorably.
“You see,” began Alma, “this was written as a confession.”
The older girl shouted again. Treble nudged Wyn almost off the bench.
“Don’t mind them, Alma, I’m listening,” said Betta sharply.
“Oh, we all are,” chimed in Doro.
Alma folded her letter. “If you are—going to—tease——” she faltered.
“Here!” yelled Thistle, quite uncorporal like, “The very first one that speaks will be dumped into the lake. Proceed Alma.”
From that point things went along better. Again Alma looked promising.
“As I said, the letter is a confession.” Then ignoring a number of subdued interruptions, she went on. “It is signed ‘Your loving prince.’”
Could you blame them for howling?
“Your loving—prince!!!!” repeated Wynnie. “And is there a Jimbsy to that?”
“I told you,” said the offended Alma, “the only thing Jimmie had to do with it was to deliver it.”
“So far as you know,” interjected Doro, “But Jimmie is a far-sighted lad.”
“Let me read it, Alma,” said Thistle in desperation. “I can’t see why some girls can’t have more manners.”
“And why some can’t have some?” retaliated Treble.
“Once more, shall I read it?” asked Alma, sighing.
“You shall,” declared Betta. “The first one that interrupts—— Oh, I say girls, it is almost time for drill. Have some sense and let’s hear it.”
Murmurs approved.
“‘I feel constrained to write this, dear,’” Alma actually read, “‘because I feel I have done you a great injustice.’” (Moans.)
“‘After you saw me and I fleed——’” Alma paused. “He means flew, of course.”
This started another outburst, and what he didn’t mean by “fleed” simply wasn’t worth meaning.
“Go ahead, Alma, we know he—fleed,” prompted Betta.
“‘After I ran’” (prudent Alma), “‘I never had the courage to make myself known to you,’” she perused. “‘But when I heard your companions taunt you——’”
“There! Taunting her! I told you to be good——” Wyn’s interruption was inevitable.
“It is no use in my trying to be sociable,” said the sensitive Alma. “But I thought you would all be interested.”
“There is not much more to read,” announced the popular member. “He just says that soon—soon he will come.”
“Oh, joy!” shouted Doro, rolling over in the grass. “Let me know in time!”
“They’re just idiots, Alma. Come on with me and leave them to guess the rest,” proposed the astute Betta, the confidante of girls. “I want to hear it if nobody else does.”
Without even a giggle they jumped up and seized Alma. One could not be sure whose arm was most restraining, but she changed her mind about going with Betta. Instead she opened the famed sheet again and read:
“‘My conscience has troubled me ever since, dear, but I was forced to do as I did. Drop your answer——’” She paused. “I don’t intend to read that part,” she calmly announced, and no amount of coaxing would induce her to relent. No one should know where the letter to the prince was to be mailed, Alma was determined on that point at least.
Nora was disconsolate. For two days the dainties left for Lucia had remained untouched. The bread box which Vita had given her to play with, and into which the food was deposited for Lucia, stood upon the tree stump with the sliced lamb, the piece of cake, and the big orange which comprised the last installment offered by the sympathetic Nora, just as she had left it.
“Can anything have happened to her?” Nora asked herself. She was almost too disappointed to sit down and rest in the cool, quiet shade. Cap sniffed the box but did not put a paw up to beg, and even the big noisy blue-jay scorned a few crumbs that lay on a fallen leaf.
“Suppose he—murdered her!”
It was not unusual for a girl like Nora to think the very worst first, in fact the normal, childish mind is very apt to leap at a sensation, but only the high spot is sensed, the detail is always conspicuously lacking.
“Of course she is deadly sick. Oh, why didn’t she let me know where she lived,” Nora wailed secretly. “I could visit her and bring her all sorts of lovely things——”
She lifted the paper napkin that covered the food offering.
“What’s this?” she exclaimed. A stiff little green leaf made of very shiny paper appeared, and with it, Nora found, was an old fashioned nose-gay, the sort beloved by the Italians and the Polish peasantry. Nora picked up the spray. It was tied with a green ribbon and somehow gave Nora a distinct shock.
“Oh! She’s dead, this is what they—have at funerals!”
Tears welled up into the blue eyes, and hands holding the silent message trembled. Nora sat down and Cap nosed up to her; he knew something was the matter.
Such a pathetic little bouquet! One stiff pink rose, one yellow daisy, two bright red carnations and three very stiff green leaves, all made of a sort of oil-cloth paper.
A tear fell into the heart of the rose. If it were not really a flower it was at least a good picture of one, just as a photograph can so vividly remind one of the original.
Nora went back to the box. “When can she have put it here?” she wondered. It was under the paper plate.
Then she recalled that this last donation had been hastily deposited in the box, for it was late and Nora had to hurry back to get ready for her own tea at the time she placed it there.
“I must have it put right on her flowers,” she pondered. “Poor, abused, little Lucia!”
Picking up the untouched food Nora discovered a slip of soiled paper beneath it. There was writing on it, a scrawl of some kind. She carried it to the light out from under the dense trees.
“Yes, it’s a note,” murmured Nora, as if Cap, her only companion, understood. And it just says “‘Goodbye, with love.’”
Nora read and reread the scribble. It was written, she decided, in Lucia’s hand, for it was such a crooked, uneven scrawl. The paper was a leaf torn from a book, and this assured Nora that at some time Lucia must have gone to school.
“After all my joy, the party, the enrollment and everything, this has to come,” thought the discouraged girl. “I hoped today I could induce her to come over and see Ted and Jerry.”
It was too disappointing. For the first few days Nora had felt it was safer to allow Lucia to have her way, and when she waited and waited, until the Italian girl appeared, then coaxed and urged that she come over to the cottage, Lucia showed signs of real fright. She would have run from the tree-tent and never returned, if Nora had not promised to agree to her secrecy. After that the benefactor brought the food but was never able to get more than a fleeting glimpse of Lucia, as she scurried off like a little black rabbit with her precious food and her strange secret. And now she was really gone and had said goodbye.
“Why didn’t I tell Alma?” sighed Nora, regretfully. “She might have known a better way to have helped her.”
Too late to reason thus, Nora with a heavy heart again covered the tin box, hoping something would bring Lucia back; then she took the quaint floral token and started for the Nest.
Her plans to help Lucia had included everything from a change of home to a complete change of identity, for Nora felt the stranger must have been in sore need, and why couldn’t she induce Cousin Ted to adopt such a pretty, forlorn child?
It was characteristic of Nora to decide on the most dramatic course, for such a possibility as a mother, father, or family in the background of Lucia’s life was not thought of.
And was this to be the end of her precious secret? She squeezed the paper bouquet until the humble ribbon wrinkled into a sad bit of stuff, and then decided to put the token away with her most precious belongings. Maybe Lucia would come back, and if she ever did Nora decided positively she would then tell someone about the child, even tell Cousin Ted if need be, and, certainly, Alma.
“And now I must go to my letter box,” she told Cap, the faithful.
Looking up and down, in and out, far and near, to make sure no one saw her, Nora followed the trail to the bent willow—the hiding place of Alma’s correspondence with the fabled prince.
She had been there, the moss was a shade lighter where feet had pressed the velvet nap, and the leaves of the bushes were still “inside out” from a hasty brushing made to clear a path to the bent willow.
Under the stone, as directed, Alma had placed her answer to the prince’s letter, and finding it there she quickly hid the envelope in her deepest blouse pocket. She would read it in more comfort, enjoy it more at home, with the door locked.
“What an exciting vacation I am having, really!” she reflected. “When I came all I could think of was pretty things.”
Had she been that Nora once so filled with foolish fancies that life, brief as it had been to her, seemed too full of nonsense to admit of real joys with girl companions, and any number of adventures?
“A real vacation indeed,” concluded the girl in khaki, holding close Lucia’s flowers and Alma’s letter. She was sorely tempted to peek into the latter, but that would spoil the delicious secret reading, which to be complete would have to be made in solitude.
It had been days since she went out “on location” with the cousins—Jerry always called surveying “doing location,” as the moving picture folks termed their work, but so many other things claimed her attention it seemed difficult to get them all in. Cousin Ted was very busy herself, but had managed to write Nora’s mother. A glowing account of the Scout interests was surely given in that letter, and Jerry was disappointed when Ted refused to ask permission for Nora to stay during the winter. To this, woman-like, Mrs. Jerry Manton had not agreed, because to go to school in the wilderness is always more picturesque than practical.
But Nora had endeared herself to those generous hearts, and even the thought of that real mother with an unreal name did not thrill her as did the knowledge that she had “made good” with these devoted friends.
Home now—that is to the Nest, Nora rushed up to her room to devour Alma’s letter. She ignored Vita’s appeal to come see the wonderful flowers sent from some one for Mrs. Manton. She must read the letter before going down to dinner.
In the biggest chair by the open window beyond locked doors she unfolded the precious page.
“She writes a pretty hand,” was the first comment. Then she read:
“‘Camp Chickadee.
“‘My dear Prince:
“‘How wonderful to get a letter from you! As you have guessed I did think of you ever since. Please tell me who you are and where you live? We Scouts would love to know you and perhaps we can tell you some interesting things about America, if, as I surmise, you are a visitor here.’”
“Oh mercy,” gasped Nora. “I have only made matters worse. She actually believes I am a prince. What ever shall I do?”
The letter lay mute and yet accusing. Nora had written Alma a first letter to prepare her for the second. True, she did not explain—but she fancied somehow Alma would come to the tree, and then perhaps they would meet and settle the whole troublesome business.
“But it’s worse, heaps worse,” sighed Nora. The call from down stairs was unanswered, for she must plan something else and that quickly.
First she thought of writing another letter with a complete and full confession, but she dreaded it, shrank from it and finally abandoned the idea.
“If it only were not Alma,” she sighed. “I would almost enjoy the joke on some of the others, but Alma!”
Nothing could be worse than this nagging at her conscience. She must conquer it. And here was the new trouble about Lucia!
“I always thought secrets were such fun, and yet these are positively—tragic,” she thought. “If only I could tell Alma about Lucia, at least that would be a comfort.”
Another call from Vita. Cousin Ted and Cousin Jerry were in now. The cheery whistle and the joyful “Whoo-hoo!” must be answered.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Nora. “I suppose things always happen that way.” She gave Lucia’s flowers an affectionate squeeze, dropped them into her ivory box, slipped Alma’s letter under the cushion and went down to dinner.
It was growing dusk—the sunset seemed in a great hurry to get away, and day time was evidently going to the same party. The Mantons failed to induce Nora to accompany them on a “bug hunt,” Jerry’s term for Ted’s moth expedition. Vita too seemed in haste to get somewhere, and altogether the evening was especially popular to make escapes in.
Nora was going over to camp, she announced, and would be there long before dark. The girls would come home with her, she had assured the prudent Ted.
So everything was settled and the Nest would be unoccupied, with Cap as guard, for that evening.
Not a smile broke the serious look on Nora’s face. It was evident the program for the evening included something very important.
“Goodbye,” called out Ted. “Be sure to go over to camp, right away, or the dark will—catch you.”
“Yes’m,” echoed Jerry, “and Mr. Dark knows no distinctions at Wildwoods. He throws a big black blanket over the whole kaboodle.”
Nora replied, but even the joke did not cheer her. A few minutes later she stood at the foot of the attic stairs, drew a long breath; then dashed up.
Over to the chest that contained the costumes long ignored, she literally dashed, yanked up the lid and dragged out the Lord Fauntleroy outfit.
She counted the pieces, waist, jacket, knickers, sash—where was the cap?
Nervously she fumbled over the tangle of garments, but did not find it.
“I had better dress first,” she decided, “and come up again for the cap. I am—so—nervous——”
No need to make the confession, for even her hands, young and usually steady, actually dropped the velvet coat right on the dusty attic floor.
No time for looking in the mirror. The knickers were kept up with round garters now, a Scout acquisition, and the thin white blouse that went under the jacket, went under very quickly—fullness and strings jabbed in wherever space allowed.
In a remarkably short time she was inside the entire outfit. One glimpse in the glass assured her she was again garbed as the fickle prince. Then for the cap.
“I have time to run and get it,” she assured herself. “Of course, I must have that cap.”
Back to the attic, now a shade darker, and then again into the mysteries of the costume chest, she rummaged.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I’ll be—here it is! Thank goodness!” She just jabbed it on her head. A sound startled her. She stood still, every sense alert.
“What was it?” she instinctively asked.
Again. It—was—a low—moan!
Pausing only long enough to make sure her nerves were not fooling her, Nora heard again, distinctly, a sound, a human or inhuman moan! Then she rushed down the stairs, kept on rushing until she reached the street door, and realizing no person was upon the premises, ran down the road, straight for Chickadee Camp.
No thought of her appearance concerned her; she must get the girls to come back and find out what was in the attic!
Only once she stopped, just to make sure the cap was not going to fall off her yellow head.
Voices and laughter came to meet her. That was Thistle and Wyn——
Gulping back a choking, nervous gasp, she rushed on. The next minute she dashed into Chickadee Camp and stood before an amazed group of Scouts.
“The prince!” went up a shout.
“My prince!” corrected Alma.
“Why, it’s Nora——”
“Girls!” gasped the intruder. “Listen, please, I am no prince——”
“You are indeed. Just look at the dandy outfit. Alma, we most humbly apologize——”
“Wyn,” shouted Thistle, “please listen! Can’t you see there is something the matter?”
“Oh, there is really, girls,” panted Nora. “Come quick! There is someone—dying in our—attic!”
“Dying?”
“I was up there—getting these things, and I—heard the awfulest moans——”
“Maybe it was Cap,” suggested Treble. Her eyes had not wandered from the surprising spectacle.
“Oh, no, he was outside,” said Nora, “and no one is home, not even Vita. Oh, please do come! I know someone is in agony,” and her voice trailed off into agony of her own.
“I’ll lead,” volunteered Thistle. “Come along, every one. Alma, you can take care of your—prince,” she could not resist injecting.
“Oh Alma,” sighed Nora. “I was planning to come to explain to you——”
“You don’t need to,” and a most affectionate and all encompassing look went from Alma to Nora. “I know all—about it now, and you are my prince, just the same.”
“Come along, you two lovers,” ordered Thistle the leader. “You had a ‘crush’ on Nora from the first, Alma. Now we all know why. Fall in there, Betta. No need to wait for guns——”
“I am not going without some weapon of defense,” declared Betta. “Nora knows her own attic, and she knows when someone is moaning. It may be a lunatic. There is always an asylum in a pretty place like this.”
“Oh, is there?” cried Nora. “I would be afraid to face a—lunatic in that big, dark, attic——”
“I should think you would, lunatic or just plain, human being,” agreed Laddie. “You look delectable enough for anyone to just eat you up——”
“Can’t you girls realize this is an emergency, not a debate?” snapped Thistle. “We don’t suppose Nora is dying of fright just for fun. Betta, run over and tell Becky.”
“Oh, don’t let’s have her along,” interrupted Treble, bent on making the most of the adventure. “You know she would have to do something we wouldn’t.”
“Right,” agreed Wyn. “Come along Scouts! ‘Jeuty’ calls us.”
They had been “coming along” all the time. These expressions merely gave vent to pent up energy.
Nora, although thoroughly frightened, was thankful that the dark helped hide her dismay. Alma had her arm, and Alma was thinking in terms of “prince,” even the pretender was conscious of that.
The girls giggled and talked, as they always did, and as Betta took time to remark, “they would be apt to do it at their own funerals.” There was no suppressing Wyn, and Treble fell but a peg below in volubility.
“Look out there!” called Thistle.
Everyone halted.
“What?” demanded Wyn.
“A puddle,” replied the heartless leader. “And I’m responsible for the shine on your shoes, lunatic or no lunatic,” she declared loudly.
“When my turn comes to lead for a week I’ll have that wretched girl up every day at dawn,” threatened Betta. “She has the cruelest way of raising one’s hopes.”
“Had you hopes for the lunatic in the mud puddle?” demanded Laddie.
“You had better get your sense valve working,” suggested Doro. “We are almost there.”
“Right,” added Treble. “I can see the gate light now.”
“How ever will we go up there in the dark?” Nora asked Alma. “I will be afraid to go into the house.”
“Don’t you worry, dear,” Alma was still under the influence. “We will all go in together, and Thistle isn’t afraid of man or beast.”
Arrived at the Nest Nora was confronted with a light at the back of the house.
“Someone home?” suggested Thistle.
“There shouldn’t be,” declared Nora. “Everyone is out for the evening.”
“Where is Vita?” asked the same leader. They had stopped at the natural hedge, and now stood under the picturesque, homemade arc light—Jerry’s lantern with the red globe.
“Vita went out somewhere. She often does, and you see I was going over to camp, so there was, really, no one at home.”
“Your dying princess has come down stairs to die,” suggested the irrepressible Wyn.
“Princess?” scoffed Nora.
“Or was it merely a maid in waiting—excuse me, your man in waiting.”
“Wyn,” shouted Laddie, “can’t you see you are making yourself ridiculous at a time like this?”
She probably couldn’t for she went off into a gale of laughter and had to go behind a bush to enjoy it.
“There is someone in the kitchen,” declared Treble. “Here she comes!”
She did; she came right out and greeted them.
It was Vita!
For a moment no one spoke—they were all so surprised.
“Hello!” called out Vita. “What’s this? A party?” Her English was perfect.
“No, it isn’t Vita,” Nora managed to answer. “I was almost scared to death——”
“Let me tell her, Nora,” interrupted Thistle, the leader.
“I’m not going in that house with her until Cousin Ted comes home,” declared Nora. “Vita is always putting me off. She knows what that noise up in the attic is.”
“Have you heard it before?” asked Betta.
“Yes, a number of times——”
“Then, if the moaner did not die before, Nora, what makes you think the present attack would be fatal?” Wyn came out from the bush to inquire.
“Land sakes, Wyn! Will you hush? Fun is all right in its place but this is serious,” warned Pell.
“Looks it,” whispered the same Wyn, into Betta’s unwilling ear.
“Nonsense, standing here like a——”
“Serenading party,” finished Laddie. “Let’s begin.”
“Serenading?” An uncertain and feeble whistle followed, but in the dark no one owned up to it.
“You coming in? No?” asked and answered Vita.
“No. We are not coming in,” declared Nora, who had stepped up to the door at which the spacious Vita stood. “We heard a noise up in the attic and we were coming in to investigate, but we won’t now.”
The girls were audibly disappointed. They said so outright.
“Perhaps she doesn’t know a thing about it,” suggested Laddie. “Don’t you think, Nora, we ought to go in and look around?”
“No, I don’t. She is in the plot, or secret or whatever it is,” declared Nora aside. “When I first came here I heard it——”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” demanded Doro. The parade had come to a useless halt.
“I don’t know,” murmured Nora. “You know I had queer ideas at first,” she faltered, unconsciously smoothing down the pretty little velvet knickers and slipping a nervous hand into an inadequate pocket.
“We know, but we all have—at first,” admitted Laddie. “I used to think I would love Thistle, and see what she has done to us with her old bossing.” The challenge went unanswered.
“Can’t we go to the bench and talk it over?” suggested Betta, unwilling to leave the scene thus unsatisfied.
“Oh, no, please don’t,” begged Nora. “I don’t know just what I fear, but actually, girls,” she did whisper this, “I am as much afraid of Vita now as I am of the thing up in the attic.”
“Your nice, fat, good natured Vita?” asked Pell in surprise. The person spoken of had gone indoors discreetly.
“I don’t mean that I am afraid of her all the time,” Nora hastened to correct. “She is as good as gold, generally, and I am sure Vita is honorable. But it is that attic affair—she is in some way connected with that, and I am not going to take a chance of getting frightened again tonight. You have no idea how I felt, up there all alone, in fact I was all alone in the house when I heard that groan.”
“Groan?” Wyn could not resist. “I thought it was a moan?”
But no one paid any attention to the remark. Betta suggested they agree with Nora and all go back to camp.
“We can bring Nora back home about the time she expects her Cousin Jerry,” Betta’s suggestion included. “There is no sense in subjecting her to more terror with the Italian woman.”
“For once I agree with you, Betta,” answered Thistle. “March back to the Chickadee, every Scout of you, and see that you don’t wallow in that mud puddle.”
“But the prince?” inquired Wyn. “Is he to walk through ordinary mud puddles?”
“No. Of course not. You and the other big girl, Treble by name, are to carry him. Avaunt!” ordered the leader.
“Oh please——” protested Nora; but in vain. She was upon the shoulders of Wyn and Treble before she had a chance to finish her useless appeal.
“Put your royal arms around me,” chanted Treble.
“If you don’t you may be dumped,” warned the other slave.
“Listen!” ordered someone. “Here comes the whole camp! Are we out after hours?”
“If we are we can plead emergency,” explained Thistle. “How could we wait for permission when someone was moaning to death?”
They took up the march in real earnest. As faithful Scouts they always kept to regulations and found pleasure in doing so. Only Nora’s call of distress had lured them away as darkness was setting in.
“Please let me walk,” begged Nora. “I know you must get back as quickly as you can, and I am sure I have given you enough trouble.”
“We love to carry you,” insisted Wyn. “Besides, we know it’s our last chance. Alma will be unconscious in the throes of love from this on,” she finished with a lurch that brought the erstwhile prince to “his” feet in spite of their intentions.
A few more accidents, minor and major, according to the way said accidents were accepted, and the squad arrived at Chickadee. Nora was now more embarrassed than ever. How could she again go in among all those sensibly-clad girls in that ridiculous costume? Besides, now she was bound to tell the whole miserable story.
“Where have you girls been?” began Becky, who stood waiting. “Did you not know this was story night?”
“We have been out scouting, and we did,” replied Thistle in her most docile tone. “Becky, love, we have the bravest thrill of our entire career to unfold.”
“Begin, please, by explaining the infraction of hours,” said Miss Beckwith, although her manner belied her demand, and the summer twilight lasted.
“The thrill is none other than someone, anyone, dying of moans,” said Wyn. “We have with us tonight——”
At this she craned her neck over the tallest of them to locate little Nora. But she, the guest of honor, was hiding behind Treble.
“When you hear the whole wonderful tale,” promised Pell, “you will only be sorry you were not along. We have been out gunning for attic ghosts.” After more talk of this variety Nora was dragged forth.
How pretty she looked in the camp light! A glow from the fire that had been lighted for stories, surrounded the little prince, and, as the picturesque figure stood in the center of the group of admiring eyes, even the glory of the modern Scout uniform was threatened with eclipse. In the late twilight the effect was entrancing.
“Isn’t she darling?”
“Just look at those—panties?”
“Oh, don’t you remember——”
“Sweet Alice Ben Bolt.”
“No, not Alice, but the night we fought over those bloomers,” recalled Treble.
“They’re not bloomers. They’re rompers.”
Then began that whole foolish debate which ended up by Thistle declaring they might be overalls for all it mattered, if only the girls would let Nora tell her story. Pell and Treble agreed. The introduction was briefly outlined for Becky’s benefit, then Nora was allowed to tell it as it appeared to her—that is, she was allowed to begin to tell it that way, but what with the interruptions, the suggestions, the questions, and the qualifying clauses, it was small wonder the willing culprit made poor headway.
As the story took the shape of a confession Nora seemed to be the culprit, but judging from the approval voiced by the multitude they all had little regard for her brand of “crime.” In other words, Nora only imagined she had offended, the entire detail made a most interesting story as it was told around the campfire blaze of Chickadee Patrol.
She admitted frankly that her early notions were anything but practical, she bravely recounted her weakness for fancy things, including ivory bureau sets and pink ribbons, to which more than one Chickadee added her own little admission, in fact, Pell said she always did and always would love pink; brown khaki and smoked pearl buttons to the contrary notwithstanding.
The telling of her attempt at attic tenancy brought forth peal after peal of laughter, in which Nora joined. Then she told all about her disguise as the fabled and famous prince.
“I think it is all too jolly for words,” insisted Laddie, “and what do you say, girls, to our adopting Prince Adorable for our mascot?”
This precipitated more trouble. Nora was put on the table, that long box used when weather was pleasant and drenched when weather was wet, and from that grandstand, or throne, she was called upon to make silly speeches, prompted by Wyn and interrupted by Betta.
Alma objected. She insisted Nora had hinted to her something she ought to tell the others. And she further maintained it was a matter serious enough to put a stop to all nonsense, and “if the girls aren’t willing to listen quietly, I shall take Nora over to the other tent, where she can tell Becky in peace,” threatened Alma.
This put a soft pedal on all unnecessary sounds: even Wyn desisted.
“Tell us, Nora, please do tell,” begged Wyn. “We have had fun enough to give our poor jaws a rest. Mine are aching from laughing.”
So Nora began.
It was a fascinating tale. Every detail told by Nora took on new value as it was silently applauded by her eager audience. Thus encouraged she waxed eloquent, and when she finished all about the wearing of the Fauntleroy costume, then her desire to tell Alma the truth, when she knew the Scouts were teasing the Tenderfoot, the recital might well have been called a credit, even to the girl who felt guilty of its secrets.
“You see,” she said naïvely, “I was always so much alone. I had no companion but Barbara, and she agreed with everything I said.”
“What a change this must be!” murmured Wyn.
“Hush!” warned Betta. “Funny as you are, Wynnie, you can be rude.”
“And now, girls,” said Nora in a brand new tone of voice, “as I have told you all of that, I feel anxious to tell you something else. I have another secret and I think it is much more serious than anything else that has happened on this wonderful vacation.”
“Out with it,” begged some one, but Nora did not hear the thoughtless phrase.
Miss Beckwith sat with the girls, encouraging their confidences, and the usual safety in numbers was surely a clue to the satisfaction of the novel meeting. Secrets were best shared by the multitude, then what one was not wise enough to know, some one would surely be clever enough to guess—so far as solution of the problem went.
“One day when I was wandering around—it was the day we had such a wonderful time——” Nora started.
“When you learned to swim?” prompted Wynnie.
“I think it was. Well, I just walked along a lane I had never found before,” continued the prince—for she was still that noble character, “and under a cave of pines—they grew so thick I could hardly see there, it was almost as dark as night; and right there, in a bed of leaves I saw something move.”
Just who was it that choked back Wyn’s interruption does not matter, but presently Nora continued:
“At first, of course, I thought it was a dog or something like that, but all of a sudden it sat up!”
“Oh!” exclaimed the sympathetic Alma.
“Yes, it sat up and looked at me with eyes like coals of fire.”
“Nora!” shouted Laddie. “I am all goose flesh, please tell us who had the eyes.”
“I’m trying to,” said Nora, realizing the value of pauses. “I was so frightened I wanted to run, but before I could do so the creature showed how frightened she was——”
“She!” This was Betta.
“Yes, it was a poor, miserable little girl, all rags and eyes, and so sad looking! Really girls, my heart went out to her,” declared the story teller in her most Nora-esque manner.
Titters barely tinctured the atmosphere. Miss Beckwith begged the girls to listen politely.
“I managed to get her to tell me her name,” said Nora next. “And it was Lucia.”
“Lucia,” repeated a chorus in perfect time, pronouncing it “Luchia.”
“Yes, a poor, neglected, little Italian girl, who has to work on one of the big farms——”
“There!” almost shouted Alma. “I knew when you saved your picnic lunch it was for something noble. It was for Lucia, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but after bringing her food for days she suddenly disappeared.”
“What happened to her?” asked Pell.
“How can I tell?” sighed Nora. “I have done everything to find out. I have even had Cousin Ted drive me around the big farms hoping to get a glimpse of her, but I never saw any one who even looked like her. Then, I haven’t told you the most pathetic part,” she paused again. “The last day I went to fetch her a lovely piece of pie, you know I used to put food in a big tin box Vita gave me; well, there was all that I had left the day before. Of course, I was awfully disappointed and I felt so—sorry I had not told you girls——”
“If you had, Nora,” said Miss Beckwith, gently, “we might have found a way to help the child.”
“I know that, Becky, and I am telling this now partly to——”
“Ease your conscience,” prompted Pell.
“Yes; I don’t want any more secrets. They are more worry than they can possibly be worth,” said Nora tritely.
“You were telling us about the box,” prompted Alma.
“Oh, yes; but I must hurry, I have to go home very soon. It is time the folks were back.”
“Tell us the rest and we won’t interrupt once,” promised Wyn in a contrite tone, and she seemed to mean it.
“I found a little paper bouquet in the box,” Nora continued. “And a scribbled bit of paper.”
“What was on it?” Betta could not help asking.
“Just a few words, ‘Goodbye, I love you.’” Nora stopped suddenly.
“The poor, little thing,” commiserated Alma. “And could you find no way to tell who she was or where she lived?”
“I didn’t dare ask anyone outright,” answered Nora, “because you see, I had promised not to tell anyone about meeting her. She was in terror of a man she called Nick.”
“Nick?” repeated a number.
“Yes; she would only say he was a bad man, and I know she feared him for she would tremble so when she mentioned his name.”
Miss Beckwith had remained in the background. If she knew a way to solve the mystery, evidently she did not think the time had come to disclose it.
“But when I found she was gone—I knew what a mistake I had made in not telling anyone about it. Even if she was afraid, I could surely have trusted—Alma,” sighed Nora.
In the semi-darkness none could see the look of affection Alma threw out. Her sensitive soul had found solace in the companionship of the almost equally sensitive Nora.
“I must go,” insisted Nora. “The folks will be home and I am going to tell them about that attic noise tonight, Vita or no Vita.”
“You are perfectly right in that,” said Miss Beckwith. “Come along, girls, we will all see Nora home this time.”
They wanted to carry her back, but costumed and all that she was, Nora felt little like partaking in their frolic. She feared something. That moaning was human, of this she was certain; and it was equally certain that Vita was in too good health when she appeared at the door, to have been in any way implicated, physically.
“If your folks have not returned will you come back and stay all night?” suggested Betta. “We could leave a message for them and you know you have not stayed a single night at camp yet.”
“I am sure they are at home, I see the light in the living room,” responded Nora. “But thank you, just the same, Betta. I shall love to stay a night soon, I have been counting on having that treat before this vacation is over.”
They had rounded the curve and the Nest was now in full view. Presently they were at the door and Nora touched the knocker.
There was no immediate response and she wondered. “I can see inside, the curtain is up, and I don’t see a soul,” she declared.
“Nor hear a sound,” added Pell who was listening at the keyhole.
Here was another cause for wonderment. Nora rapped the knocker until the sound seemed doubly loud, reverberating in the dusk.
But there was no answer. “What can it mean?” asked Nora anxiously. “I am sure some one lighted the lights, can they have gone out looking for me?”
“Can’t you get in?” asked Miss Beckwith.
“Yes. I know where to find the emergency key. But I don’t think I’ll go in.” Nora seemed doomed to spend the night at camp after all.
The girls crowded around. Plainly any excitement was a welcome diversion for them.
“Maybe the groaner lighted up,” suggested Wyn, facetiously. “She seems to like traveling.”
“You are so brave, Wynnie,” said Miss Beckwith, “I wonder would you be brave enough to go in and investigate?”
“Certainly,” came the quick rejoinder. “I’d like nothing better. Volunteers?” she called out.
“Hush!” begged Nora. “It may be that Vita is upstairs and has not heard us, although she must have heard that knock.”
Again she rapped the knocker.
“Hark!” said Betta. “I honestly thought I heard a cry.”
Everyone was now breathless.
“I do hear some one crying,” declared Alma. “Whoever can it be?”
“That up-attic person, I’m sure,” said Wyn. “Better get the key, Nora. We can’t let them cry to death while we are all here, listening in.”
“I think I heard crying,” said Miss Beckwith. “Perhaps you had better open the door, Nora.”
From under the fern dish Nora procured the key.
Miss Beckwith took it, and presently the door was open. The hall was flooded with light, but everyone instinctively stepped back.
There was no sound.
“Where’s Cap?” asked Nora. “We left him here.”
“There is really nothing to fear,” said Miss Beckwith. “Here we are, a half dozen of us. I think we had better go inside. Maybe poor old Cap is locked in somewhere and held captive.”
“Oh, that’s so,” replied Nora. “He has a habit of getting in closets and he might have sprung the door shut. Sometimes he moans——”
That was enough to excite practical sympathy, and everyone promptly stepped inside. Once within, it did not seem so fearful. Pell prowled around and Wyn made foolish noises; but Nora hung back.
After satisfying themselves there was nothing wrong on the first floor they decided to investigate the second.
“I can always hear it right over my room,” said Nora when the band of Chickadees inundated that territory. “There! Did you hear that?”
“Yes, someone is crying upstairs,” declared Miss Beckwith, “and we must see who it is.”
“But suppose——”
“Here’s Cap. He would not let anyone touch us,” declared Nora. “But Becky——”
“Come along, girls, that is not the voice of a man or woman. Come, we must do something. It sounds like——”
Bouncing up on Nora, Cap whined. “There, he knows, he wants me to go up. What is it, Cap?” Nora asked again, and again the dog whined piteously.
Now, everyone was willing to lead, yet they formed quite an orderly drill.
This was an emergency and emergency always means order for Scouts.