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Dorothy Dale's Queer Holidays

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<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> <h3>A STRANGE CONFESSION</h3> Had Agnes actually struck her, Dorothy could not have been more surprised. In the excitement and confusion of the finish of the performance, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for Dorothy to resent such a remark. But after she had reached The Cedars and her quiet, little room, the words seemed to burn themselves into her mind. How dared any one to speak so to her—a mere schoolgirl, with no thoughts of love? Pained and distressed, she put aside all the play finery and threw herself across the bed. Scarcely had she done so ere she heard her aunt's step approaching. "I came to congratulate you, my dear," said Mrs. White warmly. "Most of the success of the entertainment was due to—— Why—what—you are almost crying," and she stopped in some confusion. "Oh, aunty!" wailed Dorothy. "I seem to be so misunderstood lately. And Agnes Sinclair made such a queer—such a strange remark to me—just as I was leaving the last tableau." "Why, what could she say, child?" "She said—she said," and Dorothy hesitated, while the warm blood coursed to her pale cheeks—"she said—everybody knew Tom Scott was in—in love with me!" Mrs. White simply stared at her niece. Then she shook her head ruefully, but she hardly knew what to say, for fear of further embarrassing Dorothy. "Why, you dear, precious baby!" she exclaimed at length, as she placed her hand caressingly on Dorothy's head. "Doesn't everybody know what Agnes thinks of Tom? She is old enough to have such thoughts, and her reason for inflicting them on you, my dear, is merely a consequence of you—of you doing the work that older girls usually do. I should not have allowed you to take so much responsibility, Dorothy. We know, however," continued Mrs. White very gently, "that the pretty Agnes admires Mr. Scott very much. So you must excuse her seeming indiscretion." Dorothy's mind was instantly relieved. If Agnes did like Tom, of course she might have thought he was neglecting her for Dorothy. And he had only been trying to help Dorothy—there were so many things to do. "But Agnes seemed so fond of Ned," spoke Dorothy after a pause. "You are too tired to think about such things now," said Mrs. White firmly. "You are over-sensitive. Why should you care about so trifling a thing as that?" Dorothy did not answer. She was tired—very tired. Perhaps she was over-sensitive. But when she reflected that Ned had said almost the same thing—— To change the subject Mrs. White told her niece about Dr. Baker, what he had said, and how interested he was in little Mary. "Oh, I'm so glad of that," said Dorothy. "I hope——" But at that moment Tavia poked her head in the door to see what was going on in Dorothy's room, that she had not come to her chum, or summoned her, to talk over the events of the evening. "Ned is calling for you, Mrs. White," said Tavia. "I'll go at once; but remember," she commanded playfully to the two girls, "no more chattering to-night. To-morrow is another day." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Tavia, when the door had closed on Mrs. White and the two girls were alone in Dorothy's room, "I'm so frightened, Doro, dear. I should have gone home. What am I going to say to my father?" "I will do all the saying that is necessary," bravely offered Dorothy. "It was I who kept you." "Yes, and I know why." "Why, then?" "Simply to fix it up for me. You never could intrust me with such an important commission." "Well, I am sure when I have a chance to speak to your father—but, dear me, there are so many things!" "Oh, Doro, I just want to ask you if you saw the 'Babbling Brook' in the audience? She was fairly eating up little Mary with those big optics of hers." "Miss Brooks? I did not see her," answered Dorothy. "Did she like Mary's effort?" "Like her? I should, say she fairly loved her, but then, you see, a sister of hers had a baby girl once," and Tavia laughed to cover up the mistake she had made in mentioning the affairs of Miss Brooks. "There, Doro, dear, I'm going now. To-morrow is another day, as your aunt says," finished Tavia, kissing Dorothy fondly and leaving her chum to think over all the matters that now confused her tired, weary brain. It was Roger who first tapped at his sister's door the next morning. "Doro," he called, "when are we going out to see that ghost?" "Ghost?" repeated the girl, rubbing her eyes and trying to collect her scattered thoughts. "Yes; you know you promised," and by this time Roger was in the room and had his arms around her neck. "Oh," she laughed, "we'll take a ride out to the castle just as soon as—as Ned is able to go." "He's going out riding to-day—I heard him say so," persisted the boy. "Well, we'll see," replied Dorothy. "But you must run out now. My! it's almost nine o'clock. I didn't think it was so late." The entertainment had been so engrossing that all the thoughts of Tanglewood Park and the mystery concerning it had entirely escaped Dorothy's memory for the time being. But Roger had determined to know all about that "scream," and only yesterday he had had a long talk with old Abe down at the station; a long, serious talk. Abe told the little fellow that there "sure was a ghost up at the castle," and when Joe, who was with Roger, asked about the lady the old liveryman had driven up there, Abe rolled up his eyes in an unpleasant fashion, and declared that the lady was a "near-ghost" herself. Roger told all this, and more, to Dorothy, so she was obliged to make a tentative promise, at least, that she would go with him to the castle the very first moment she could spare. The boy renewed his request after breakfast, and was quite insistent. "I can't go to-day," said his sister. "You know I have many little things to attend to, Roger. It is almost Christmas, you remember, and——" "Oh, here are your letters; I almost forgot!" cried the little fellow suddenly, drawing from his pocket several envelopes. "Nat went to the post-office while you were at breakfast." The boy tossed the missives down and ran off. Dorothy glanced over her mail. There were several letters from her school friends, as she could tell by the writing, and some from acquaintances in Dalton. Then this one—who could it be from?—postmarked in a city from which she had never received any mail, and the address written in a strange hand. She opened this one first, and this is what she read: <div class="blockquot">"My Dear Miss Dale—This letter will undoubtedly surprise you. It is a strange Christmas letter for me to have to write. You may have forgotten my name, but I am the woman detective whom you met in Boardman's. I hardly know how to pen the words, but—I put that ring into your bag! "I am a very wretched woman, but to make this confession to you may, in a measure, at least, tend to soften the bitterness that rankles in my heart. "It would be useless for me to try to explain why I did you such a wrong—perhaps if I could talk with you it would be different. "Try to forgive me—try to know how wretched I am—sick, without work and without means. "But even pity seems bitter to me now—life has all gone wrong, and only the thought of your innocent face, and the black guilt I tried to fasten on you, has given me the strength to write this letter. "Ah, what a mockery Christmas is to the unfortunate! </div> "Yours, in sorrow, "Louise Dearing." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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