The Automobile Girls Along the Hudson: or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow

It is said that a great many things pass through one’s mind at such brief, tense moments as these, when death is almost certain.

The thought that came to Bab’s mind, however, was her mother’s prayer, “Heaven make me calm in the face of danger.”

There was, of course, a shudder of horror, a wild, ineffectual effort to save herself – a shock.

When she opened her eyes, three pairs of arms encircled her, and three sobbing faces hovered over her. She had landed upon the roof of the balcony where the girls were waiting. Except for a bruised arm, she had met with no harm.

“Why, girlies,” she said, smiling a little weakly, “were you so frightened?” and then closed her eyes again.

Zerlina and John came tumbling down the ladder. The Gypsy girl was as white as a sheet and old John was openly sobbing.

“I’m all right,” Bab assured them, standing up and shaking herself to bring her senses back. She bathed her throbbing wrists and temples, and all climbed down into the lower regions of the house. It was decided to water the side of the house, and after that nothing more could be done. The whole place was lit up with the burning stable, and sparks were flying in every direction. The wind had risen to a gale and the skies were overhung with a black canopy of clouds kindled by occasional flashes of lightning. There was a low grumbling sound of thunder. Down the avenue came the clatter of horses’ hoofs. At the same time there was a terrific clap, and the rain poured down in torrents.

“Here they are!” cried the girls as Major Ten Eyck and the boys leaped from their horses and dashed up the piazza steps. José was not with them.

CHAPTER XXII – EXPLANATIONS

The major and his nephews were shocked at the appearance of their guests, who were hardly recognizable. Jimmie Butler retired behind a curtain and give vent to one little chuckle. He would not, for anything, have let them know how funny they looked.

“I shall never forgive myself for leaving you,” groaned Major Ten Eyck. “Why did you not take the car and leave the old place to burn? How can the boys and I ever thank you?” he continued, with emotion.

Before Stephen would give an account of the search for José he made Ruth repeat the history of the afternoon from beginning to end. The major and the boys were filled with admiration and wonder for these four brave “Automobile Girls” and Miss Stuart.

“There is nothing we can do,” exclaimed Jimmie, “to show what we feel, except to lie down and let you walk over us.”

“And now for José,” prompted Ruth, when she had finished her story.

“Well,” replied Stephen, “we got news of José almost as soon as we had passed the Gypsy camp. A man on the road told us he had seen a boy who answered the description exactly, walking on the edge of the forest. We traced him back into the country to a farm house, where according to the farmer, he had stopped for a drink of water and turned back again toward the forest. It was necessary to come back by a roundabout way because of the cliffs on the outer edge, and not until we reached the hermit’s house did we realize there was a fire that must have been started by those tramps, for it was at its worst about where they were yesterday. We were frantic when we saw that it was blowing in the direction of the hall, but we couldn’t get through and had to go the whole way around. Our only comfort, when we saw the glow of the burning stable, was that you had taken the automobile and gone back to Tarrytown.”

The faithful old butler appeared with lights, and informed the major that the other servants had returned very repentant, and if agreeable, dinner would be served in half an hour.

“But I think the ladies will be much too tired to come down again,” protested the major.

“Oh, no, we won’t,” answered Ruth. “If there’s enough water left to wash in I would rather dress and come downstairs for food.”

“So would we all,” chorused the others, except Miss Sallie, who took to her bed immediately, and dropped off to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

“Stephen,” asked Ruth at dinner, “do you believe poor José was caught in the fire?”

“It’s rather a horrible idea,” said Stephen, “yet I don’t know what else to think. He must have caught wind, somehow, that we had found him out and concluded to hide in the woods.”

“Old Jennie wishes to speak to you, sir,” announced John.

“Bring her in here,” ordered the major, and Jennie was ushered into the dining-room. “How are you, Jennie? I am glad to see you,” said the major, leading her to a chair. “I hope you were not injured by the fire?”

“Be there anyone here but friends?” whispered Jennie.

“No one, Jennie. What is it?”

“When the storm came up I went straight to the forest,” said the old woman. “Adam went with me and we took his horse and wagon. The fire had not touched the road and the ground was wet where we walked. As we passed by the place – ” here she put her finger to her lips and gazed wildly about, “you remember, young ladies? I went over to see if all was well. The door was open and on the floor lay the young man. He is not dead, but he is very ill here,” old Jennie pressed her hand to her chest. “He has swallowed the smoke. We put him in the wagon and he is outside.”

“José here? Outside?” they all cried at once, rushing to the front door.

In the pouring rain, Zerlina and her grandmother were leaning over a young man stretched out prone in Adam’s wagon. He wore the green velveteen suit now so familiar to “The Automobile Girls,” and through his belt gleamed the dagger he had used to slash the tires with. When he was lifted out, they caught a glimpse of his face. José it was, but José grown thin and haggard in a day and a night. The boys carried him tenderly upstairs and laid him on his own bed. Zerlina and her grandmother followed close at their heels.

“Do you know him, then?” asked Stephen of the Gypsy girl.

“Yes,” she replied defiantly. “He is my brother. Antonio is his name.”

“Whew-w-w,” whistled Stephen under his breath. “So José was an impostor after all. I must say I hoped till the last.”

“Well, well,” answered the major, “we won’t hit a man when he is down, my son, and this boy is pretty sick. The girl is his sister, you say? She and her grandmother had better nurse him, then. Send the old woman to me. I want to speak with her in the library.”

After being closeted with Granny Ann for half an hour the major flung wide the library door and called to the others to come in. His good-natured, handsome face was wrinkled into an expression of utter bewilderment, but relief gleamed through his troubled eyes.

“Children,” he cried, “come here, every one of you. José is vindicated. Thank heavens for that. The boy upstairs is not our José at all, but his half-brother, Antonio. Now, where do you suppose José has hidden himself? I trust, I earnestly hope, not in the woods.”

“It seems,” continued the major, “José’s father was married twice. A nice chap, José. I trust he is safe to-night, for his poor father’s sake as well as for his own.”

“And his second wife, uncle?” interrupted Stephen.

“Yes, yes, my boy,” continued the major, patting his nephew affectionately on the shoulder, “and the second wife was a beautiful Gypsy singer, who had two children, Zerlina and Antonio, the unfortunate young man now occupying José’s room. A Gypsy rarely marries outside her own people and this one longed to return to her tribe. One day she ran away taking her children with her, and Martinez never saw his wife again, for she died soon after. He has tried, in every way, to recover the children, but until now the Gypsies have always managed to hide them effectually. Since they were children Antonio has hated his half brother José and from time to time has threatened his life. Once, in Gibraltar, the brother almost succeeded in killing him.” (The girls remembered how much José had disliked the mention of Gibraltar.) “Antonio was a bad boy, utterly undisciplined. He ran about Europe and this country, seeing what harm he could do, but neither his father nor his brother could ever locate him. José finally heard that the children were in America and came over to try to reason with the Gypsies to let Zerlina, at least, go to school. I do not suppose he reckoned on finding them so near, and, when Antonio tried to rob and murder, José was divided in his mind as to whether to give his brother up or let him go. He must have suffered a good deal, poor fellow. I wish José had confided his troubles to me. Now, maybe, it’s too late to help him.”

“And the knife?” asked Bab.

“There were two knives which belonged to the Martinez family. The Gypsy took one away with her when she left her husband.”

“Will Antonio stay here to-night, Major?” said Mollie, timidly, remembering the masked robber and his murderous weapon.

“He is too ill, now, to do any harm, little one,” replied the major, taking her hand. “Besides, his grandmother and sister will watch over him I feel certain, and who knows but the boy may have some good in him after all?” he added, always trying to see the best in everybody.

“Nevertheless, we’ll lock our doors,” exclaimed Ruth. “It’s not so easy to forget that our highwayman is sleeping across the hall.”

CHAPTER XXIII – AN OLD ROMANCE

Bab had hardly reached her room before she was summoned to the door by Stephen, looking so serious and unhappy that she felt at once something had happened.

“Bab,” he said, “I am afraid you are not done with your day’s work yet for the Ten Eyck family. I am about to ask you a favor, and I must confide something to you that has been a secret with us now for three generations. First, are you afraid to go with me over to the right wing? John and Mary will go, too, and you need really have nothing to fear, but the dread – ” he paused and bit his lip.

“Why, no, Stephen, I am not afraid,” replied Bab, “and I promise to guard faithfully any secret you want to tell me,” she added, giving him her hand in token of her pledge. She suspected they were going to visit the old man she had seen wandering about the house and forest.

“I will tell you the secret as we go along,” Stephen said, leading the way to the end of the hall, where they found Mary and John waiting. The four started down a long passage opening into the right wing of the building. “We are going, now,” continued Stephen, “to visit a very old man who lives in the right wing. He is my great-uncle, Stephen Ten Eyck. When he was quite a young man he met with a sorrow that unhinged his mind and he – well, he committed a crime. It was never proved that he had done it, but the Ten Eyck family knew he had. However, his most intimate friend took the blame upon his shoulders.”

“Why did he do that?” asked Bab.

“Because, Bab,” replied Stephen, “they both loved a girl, and the girl’s name was Barbara Thurston. She must have been your great-great-aunt. Did you ever hear of her?”

“If I ever did, I have forgotten,” answered Bab. “You see, after father’s death, we had no way to learn much about his family and mother knew very little, I suppose.”

“Well, Barbara Thurston was engaged to marry my great-uncle. They were all staying at the same hotel, somewhere in the Italian lake country – Barbara and her mother and my great-uncle Stephen and his friend. One day the friend persuaded Barbara to go out rowing with him. There was a storm and the boat upset, and Barbara was drowned. It was said that the friend and the boatman swam ashore and left her, but that is hard to believe. Anyway, when my uncle got the news, something snapped in his brain and he killed the boatman with an oar. The friend made his escape and the flight proved to the authorities that he had committed the crime. The Ten Eycks all knew that Uncle Stephen had done it, but it seemed of little use, I suppose, to tell the truth, because the slayer, Uncle Stephen, had gone clean crazy, and his friend could not be found. They have never seen each other since, until – ”

Stephen paused.

“Until when, Stephen?”

“Until to-night, Barbara. Can you guess who the friend is?”

“The hermit?” asked Barbara, with growing excitement.

“Yes,” replied Stephen; “the poor old hermit who has lived near his friend all these years without ever letting anybody know.”

“And your uncle has been living in the right wing ever since?” asked Bab.

“Yes. It was his father’s wish that the right wing be absolutely his for life and that the secret be kept in the family. The old fellow has never hurt a fly since the night he killed the Italian boatman. His attendant is as old as he, almost, and sometimes Uncle Stephen gets away from him. Have you ever seen him?” Stephen looked at her curiously.

“Yes,” replied Bab, “several times.”

“And never mentioned it? Really Bab, you are great.”

“Oh, I finally did tell the girls, only last night. I was just a little frightened. Your Uncle Stephen called me by name. But, by the way, none of you knew about the name before. How was that?”

“To tell the truth, I had never heard the girl’s name in my life, and it was so long ago that Uncle Stephen had forgotten it. It was the hermit who revealed the whole thing. He took refuge here from the fire, and after you girls had gone upstairs he sent for Uncle John. It seems the hermit has been with Uncle Stephen most of the afternoon, keeping him quiet and away from the fire. The poor old fellow was scared, he said, but he is himself again and they both want to see you. But that is not the chief reason you are sent for. Uncle Stephen insists that he has something he will tell only to you. All day long he has been calling for you, and Uncle John Ten Eyck thinks it may quiet him if you will consent to see him for a few minutes.”

The two had paused outside of a door at the end of the passage, to finish the conversation, while Mary and John had gone quietly inside. Presently John opened the door.

“It’s all right, sir,” he whispered. “You and the young lady may come in.”

They entered a large room, furnished with heavy old-fashioned chairs and tables. There were bowls of flowers about and Bab heard afterwards that the poor, crazed old man loved flowers and arranged them himself. Standing near the window was the hermit. When he saw Bab his face was radiated by such a beautiful smile that tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. Lying on a couch, somewhat back in the shadow, was Stephen’s uncle of the same name. His attendant, also an old man, who had been with him from the beginning, was sitting beside him.

Stephen Ten Eyck the elder opened his eyes when the door closed. He also smiled, as the hermit had done, and Bab felt that she could have wept aloud for the two pathetic old men.

“My little Barbara has come back at last,” Uncle Stephen said, taking her hand. “I am very happy. And my old friend Richard, too,” he went on, stretching the other hand toward the hermit. “Dick,” he went on, “I always loved you so. I don’t know which I loved the most, you or sweet Barbara here. Heaven is good to bring me all these blessings at once. Don’t cry, little girl,” he added, tenderly, for the tears were rolling down Barbara’s cheeks and dropping on his hand. “But I must not forget,” he exclaimed suddenly. “I have something to tell you, Barbara, before it clouds over here,” he tapped his brow. “Go away all of you. This is for her ears alone. It is a secret.”

The others moved off to a corner of the room and the old man went on whispering mysteriously. “We were the last who saw him, you and I. He followed me that night. Do you remember? He fell. He is lying at the foot of the stairs now. There is a gash in his head and – blood!” “Press the panel in the attic – ” The old man’s voice died away in a gasp.

“Which panel?” asked Bab, in an agony for fear he would not finish.

“The one with the knot hole in the right hand corner,” he added and fell back on the couch.

Bab tried to make him tell more, but his mind was clouded over and he had already forgotten she was there.

“Has he finished?” asked Stephen.

“Yes,” replied Bab, “but come quickly. We have no time to lose. José is lying somewhere, dead or half dead, in the secret passage.”

Too much excited and amazed to say good-night to the hermit, the callers rushed down the passage, followed by the two servants. At the foot of the attic stairs they waited while John brought lights, and for the second time that day Bab climbed into the vast old attic.

“Thank fortune the partition is down,” exclaimed Stephen. “I suppose Uncle Stephen forgot to slide it back, he was in such a hurry to get away from José.” Bab had explained the situation, to Stephen while they waited for the candles. “Which panel did he say, Bab?”

“This must be it,” she answered; “the panel in the right-hand corner that has a knot hole in it. Here is the knot hole all right. We are to press it, he said.”

They pressed, but nothing happened.

“Press the knot hole, why don’t you?” suggested Bab.

One touch was enough. The panel opened and disclosed a long passage cut apparently through the wall. There were several branch passages leading off from the main one, marked with faded handwriting on slips of paper, one “To the Cellar,” another “To the Library” and finally the last one “To the Right Wing.”

“This must be the one,” said Stephen, as they groped their way along single file. “Be careful,” he called; “there should be a flight of steps along here somewhere.”

Presently they came to the steps. Up through the dense blackness they could faintly hear a sound of moaning.

“All right, José, old fellow, we are coming to you,” cried Stephen, while Bab’s heart beat so loud she could not trust herself to speak.

Groping their way down the narrow stairway, they came to a landing almost on a level with the ceilings of the first floor rooms. At the far end of the passage they could hear a voice calling faintly.

“He probably fell the length of the steps, and dragged himself across,” exclaimed Stephen, holding his lantern high above his head.

They found José stretched out by a narrow door opening directly into the right wing. There was a gash just above his temple which he himself had bound with his handkerchief and his leg appeared to be broken at the ankle.

“José, my poor boy,” cried Stephen, “we have found you at last!”

José smiled weakly and fainted dead away.

The two men carried him back up the flight of steps, not daring to try the experiment of the passage leading to the library.

“I suppose Uncle Stephen has known these passages since he was a child,” said Stephen in a low voice to Bab as they passed through the attic, “and when his attendant is asleep, no doubt he steals off and wanders about the house. I believe he has always had a mania that he was being pursued by the Italian boatman; and when José followed him, right on top of his meeting with you, it was too much for the old fellow.”

“He’s a dear old man,” returned Bab, “and how he must have suffered all these years; that is, whenever his memory returned.”

“And think of the hermit, too, who sacrificed his entire career for you, Miss, just because you never learned to swim.”

Bab smiled. “If my Aunt Barbara had lived by the sea as I have, she would never have had to wait for boatmen and lovers to pull her out of the deep water. Swimming is as easy as walking to me.”

“I am glad you’ve learned wisdom in your old age,” replied Stephen as they paused at the door of the bedroom given to José.

“There is one thing I cannot believe,” declared Bab, “and that is that the hermit swam off and left Aunt Barbara to drown.”

“Who knows?” answered Stephen. “People lose their heads strangely sometimes.”

It was Alfred, destined to be a great doctor, who set José’s leg that night.

CHAPTER XXIV – GOOD-BYE TO TEN EYCK HALL

Four days had passed since the exciting happenings of that eventful day that had begun with the disappearance of José, and had ended with his discovery.

“I have much to be thankful for,” said the major to Miss Sallie, who was reclining in a steamer chair on the piazza. She had not left her bed until the afternoon of the third day, and was still a little shaky and nervous.

“I can’t think what they are, John,” she replied severely. “You have had nothing but misfortunes since we came to stay under your roof. I hope they may end when we leave.”

“The first one,” said the major, smiling good-humoredly, “is that I have had the privilege of knowing how splendid American women can be in time of danger. I always admired the women of my country, but never so much as now,” he added, looking fondly at his old friend.

“Yes,” assented Miss Sallie proudly, “my girls are about as fine as any to be found in the world, I think. They are wholesome, sensible, and never cowardly. Undoubtedly they saved Ten Eyck Hall for you, Major, by their combined efforts, and by Bab’s bravery in watering the roof when the sparks began to fly.”

“You were just as wonderful as the girls, Sallie, my dear. They tell me you superintended the digging of the trench and managed your men with the coolness of a general; and that when the fire leaped over the trench you were there with the bucket brigade to put it out. The girls were no whit less courageous in your day than they are now, Sallie.”

“And what is the second blessing you have to be thankful for, John?” interrupted Miss Sallie.

“That José is the boy I took him to be – a good, honest, noble fellow.”

“I must say I liked him from the first moment I set eyes upon him,” said Miss Stuart.

“Yes,” continued the major; “his father might well be proud of him. He deserves the highest commendation for his forbearance and unselfishness in regard to that brother of his.”

“How is the brother, by the way?” asked Miss Sallie.

“You know he was taken to the hospital the day after he was brought here; well, the boys went over in the car yesterday. Antonio is much better. His sister is tending him. He is very repentant, she says, and has consented to go to school and turn over a new leaf. In fact, I myself have had a long talk with him. I can see that there is great good in the boy. It has simply been perverted by evil associations.”

“Ah, Major,” exclaimed his old friend, smiling indulgently as she tapped his arm with her fan, “you are truly the most optimistic soul in the world. I hope all your golden dreams about this wretched boy’s future will come true. But what about his sister!”

“José is anxious for her to go to a school in America. He believes she could not endure the restraint of a European school after her free, open-air life. She is only too anxious. She wants to cultivate her voice, and the old grandmother appears really relieved at the turn affairs have taken. She was willing to concede anything to keep the grandson out of jail.”

“Then my Ruth will not be able to gratify her whim to educate the Gypsy girl,” pursued Miss Sallie.

“Not exactly,” replied the major. “José’s father is very well-to-do, as the world goes, but Ruth is to take charge of Zerlina’s education and look after her generally. She has asked José to allow her that privilege, as she put it.”

Just then the girls came around the corner of the piazza, after a stroll in the garden.

“How fresh and delicious the air is since the rain!” exclaimed Barbara. “There is still a faint smell of burning. Do you think all the trees in the forest will die, Major?”

“Old Adam says they will not,” answered the major. “A three months’ unbroken drought will dry up almost anything but trees. Now, while the underbrush and dried fern burned like tinder, the fire hardly touched the trees. It was those dead bramble hedges dividing the fields and the dried meadow grass that did the most damage, because the sparks from them ignited the garage and the roof of the stable.”

“I am glad papa and Mrs. Thurston were not uneasy about us,” observed Ruth. “If they had read the papers before you telegraphed, Major, they would have been frantic, I suppose.”

“Make way for the Duke of Granada,” called Jimmie’s cheerful voice from the hall, and presently he appeared, pushing José, done up in bandages and lying flat on his back, on a rolling cot used by some invalid of the Ten Eyck family long since dead and gone.

“José, my boy,” exclaimed the major, going to the foot of the cot to ease it as it passed over the door sill, “do you think this is safe?”

“The doctor says it will not hurt him,” replied Jimmie. “He needs company, but we won’t let him stay long.”