The Outdoor Girls of Deepdale; Or, camping and tramping for fun and health

by Laura Lee Hope

  CHAPTER V

  AMY'S MYSTERY

  Betty was quick to comprehend the cruel words, and in an instant she hadcrumpled the anonymous scrawl in her hand. But she was the fraction of asecond too late. Amy had read it.

  Betty heard the sound of Amy's sigh, and then the catch in her breath.She turned quickly.

  "Amy!" cried Betty. "Did you see it? Oh, my dear! The meanness of it! Theawful meanness! Oh, Amy, my dear!" and she put her arms around hertrembling companion. "Oh, if I only knew who sent it!"

  "I--I can guess!" faltered Amy.

  "Who?"

  "Alice Jallow."

  "The--the cat!"

  Betty simply could not help saying it.

  "Let--let me see it again," whispered Amy. "I didn't mean to read yournote, Betty, but I saw it before I realized it."

  "My note? It isn't mine! I wouldn't own to receiving such a scrawl! Oh,Amy, I'm so sorry!"

  "Never mind, Betty. I--I've been expecting it."

  "You have?"

  "Yes. That--that is what has been bothering me of late. You may havenoticed--"

  "I've noticed that you haven't quite been yourself, Amy, my dear, but Inever suspected--and you think Alice sent this?"

  "I'm almost sure of it. It has to be known sooner or later. But don't sayanything to Alice."

  "Why not? The idea! She ought to be exposed--and punished. I'll go to--"

  "No, please don't, Betty. It--it is true, and--and there is no usegiving her the satisfaction of knowing that she has--has hurt me,"faltered Amy.

  "Oh, the meanness of it!" murmured Betty. "But, Amy dear, I don'tunderstand. This doesn't at all look like the writing of Alice Jallow."

  "I know; she has disguised her scribbling, that's all. But it doesn'tmatter. I'll never charge her with it."

  "Why not?"

  "I haven't the heart. Oh, Betty, I'm afraid it's only too true! I reallydon't know who my father and mother are!"

  "Amy!"

  "No, I don't. I've suspected a mystery a long while, and now I am sure Iam mixed up in one."

  "Amy Stonington!" cried Betty. "Do you mean to tell me--look here, let'sget to some quiet place. Some one will be coming in here. We can go toMiss Greene's room. She has gone for the day. But perhaps you don't wantto tell me, Amy."

  "Oh, yes I do. I want to tell all you girls. And then maybe--"

  "Amy Stonington!" exclaimed Betty. "If you're going to hint--and I seethat you are--that we'd pay any attention to this note, or let it makeany difference between us--even if it's true--which I don'tbelieve--let's see--what do I want to say--I'm all confused. Oh, I know.I mean that it shan't make a particle of difference to us--if you neverhad a father or mother--"

  "Oh, of course I had--some time," and Amy smiled through a mist of tears."Only there's a mystery about them--what became of them."

  "Why I thought--all of us thought--that Mr. and Mrs. Stonington were yourparents," said the wondering Betty.

  "So did I, until lately. Then I began to notice that papa and mamma--as Ithought them--were frequently consulting together. They always stoppedtalking when I came near, but I supposed it might be about some plansthey had for sending me away to be educated in music. So I pretended notto notice. Though I did not want to go away from dear Deepdale.

  "Their queer consultations increased, and they looked at me so strangelythat finally I went to mamma--no, my aunt, as I must call her, and--"

  "Your aunt!" exclaimed Betty.

  "Yes, that is what Mrs. Stonington is to me; or, rather she was poor dearmamma's aunt. I am going to call her aunt, however, and Mr. Stoningtonuncle. They wish it."

  "Oh, then they have told you?"

  "Yes. It was the night before the day that I fainted in school. It wasthinking of that, I guess, that unnerved me."

  "Why, Amy! A mystery about you?"

  "Yes, and one I fear will never be found out. I'll tell you about it."

  "Not unless you'd rather, dear," and Betty put her arms about her chum asthey sat on the worn sofa in Miss Greene's retiring room.

  "I had much rather. I want you and Grace and Mollie to know. Maybe--maybeyou can help me," she finished with a bright smile.

  "You see it was this way. Of course I don't remember anything about it.All my recollections are centered in Deepdale, and about Mr. and Mrs.Stonington. It is the only home I have ever really known, though I have adim recollection of having, as a child, been in some other place. Butthat is like a dream.

  "But it seems that when I was a very little girl both my parents livedin a distant city. Then one day there was a terrible storm, the riverrose, and there was a flood. This I was told by my uncle and aunt, as Iam going to call them. Who my father and mother were I never knew,except from what I have heard, but it seems that Mrs. Stonington wasmamma's aunt.

  "In the flood our house was washed away, but I, then a small baby, wasfound floating on a sort of raft tied to a mattress on a bed. I was takento a farm house, and found pinned to my dress was an envelope."

  "Just an envelope?"

  "Yes. There might have been a letter in it, but if there was it had beenwashed out in the flood and rain. But the envelope was addressed to Mrs.Stonington here, and she was telegraphed to. Her husband hurried on, forhe knew of the flood and feared for his wife's relatives who lived inthat town. He took me back with him, and I have lived with Uncle Johnand Aunt Sarah ever since."

  "But your father and mother, Amy?"

  "No one ever knew what became of them. They--they were never found,though a careful search was made. I was the only one left."

  "And was there nothing to tell of your past life?"

  "There wasn't much to tell, you see--I was so small. There was a sortof diary in the bed with me, but it only gave details of my babydays--probably it was written by my mother--for the handwriting isthat of a woman. Aunt Sarah gave it to me the other day. I shallalways treasure it."

  "And is that all?"

  "Well, there was a mention of something--in a vague sort of way--that Iwas to inherit when I grew up. Whether it was land or money no one cantell. The reference is so veiled. Even Uncle John, and he is a stock andbond broker, you know, says he is puzzled. He has had a search made inRockford--that's where the flood was--but it came to nothing. And sothat is all I know of my past."

  "But your aunt must know something of your mother if they wererelatives."

  "Very little. They saw each other hardly at all, and not for some yearsbefore my mother's marriage, Aunt Sarah says. How my parents came to pinthe Stoningtons' address on my baby dress they can only guess. And I'llnever know. Probably they did it before they were--were drowned."

  "Then your name isn't Stonington after all, Amy?"

  "Oh, yet it is. The queer part of it is that my mother is said to havemarried a man of the same name as Uncle John, but no relative, as far aswe can learn. So I'm Amy Stonington just the same. My uncle and auntformally adopted me after they found that there was no hope of locatingmy parents. And so I've lived in ignorance of the mystery about me untiljust the other day."

  "And then they told you?"

  "Yes. It was discussing the advisability of this that caused Uncle Johnand Aunt Sarah to confer so often. Then they decided that I was gettingold enough to be told. They said they would rather it would come to mefrom themselves than from strangers."

  "Oh, then others know of it?"

  "Yes, a few persons in town, but they were good enough to keep it quietfor my sake. Among them, so Uncle John told me, were Alice Jallow'speople. That is why I think she wrote the note. She must have found outabout my secret in some way, and thought to taunt me with it."

  "The mean creature!"

  "Oh, I don't mind. I was only afraid you girls--"

  "Amy Stonington! If you even hint at such a thing again we'll neverforgive you! As if we cared! Why, I think it's perfectly wonderful tohave such a romance about you. I know the other girls will be crazy aboutit. Of course, it's sad, too, dear. But maybe some day, you'll find outt
hat your father and mother aren't--aren't gone--at all, and you'll havethem again."

  "That's what I've been hoping since I knew. But there is very littlechance, after all these years. Uncle John told me not to hope. You see,they must have been drowned. The worst is that I can't recall them. Theynever corresponded with aunt and uncle in years. I don't know what sortof a home I had--or--or whether I had brothers or sisters."

  "No, I suppose there isn't much chance of your parents having escaped theflood. And yet I've read--in books--"

  "Oh, yes--in books. But this is real life, Betty. And now, dear, I'vetold you all I know. As I said, it shocked me when I first heard it, butI'm pretty well over it now. Only it did startle me when I read that noteover your shoulder."

  "I should think it would. When I see Alice--"

  "Please don't say anything to her!" pleaded Amy. "Please don't! Let hersee that--that it hasn't made a bit of difference."

  "I will. A difference? Why, we'll love you all the more Amy,--if that'spossible."

  "That's good of you. Now shall we--"

  "Hark, some one is coming!" exclaimed Betty, tiptoeing to the door, whileAmy shrank back on the sofa.