The Mysterious Visitor: Trixie Belden

Chapter 1

An Unhappy Friend

Trixie and Honey linked arms as they left their home room. “Oh, woe,” Trixie moaned. “Homework on a Friday. It’s not fair. It’ll ruin the whole weekend.” She was a sturdy girl of thirteen with short sandy curls and round blue eyes. “Every Oc-tober since I learned to write, the English teacher has given us the same old as-signment.” Trixie frowned, looked down her nose, and said in a high-pitched voice: “‘Now, children, I want you to tell me in not less than two hundred words what you did this summer.’ Phooey! If I hand in a hundred words, I’ll be doing well. And they’re all sure to be spelled wrong and not punctuated properly.”

Honey Wheeler, who was Trixie’s best friend, laughed. She had earned her nick-name because of her golden-brown hair, and she had wide hazel eyes. Although they were the same age, Honey was taller than Trixie. “Trixie, you couldn’t possi-bly tell about everything we did this summer in a million words,” she said. “I thought we’d divide up our exciting experiences. Since he’s my adopted brother now, I’ll tell how we found Jim up at the old mansion and lost him, and then found him again when we solved the red trailer mystery. You could tell about the dia-mond we found in the gatehouse, and the thieves who stole it from us, and how you helped the police capture them.”

Trixie sniffed. “Telling about something is one thing; writing about it is another. I never could write about things and make them sound interesting--not even when I was very interested in them myself. My fingers ache at the very thought of holding a pencil long enough to explain all about the gatehouse and the diamond and the thieves and everything. And how the gatehouse is our secret clubhouse now. Of course, I’d never tell that part of the story, anyway.”

“I should hope not.” Although it was the last week of October, it was a very warm day. Honey pushed her bangs back from her forehead with her free hand. “You shouldn’t even talk about our club in the corridor when so many kids are milling around.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Suppose someone guessed that the initials B.W.G. stand for Bob-Whites of the Glen? Oh, Trixie, wasn’t it fun the first day of school when we wore our special red jackets and just about baffled every-one?”

Trixie nodded. “I don’t know how you ever made those jackets so quickly, Honey. And as for cross-stitching B.W.G. on the backs in white, well that baffled me. As far as I’m concerned, all sewing is cross-stitching because every time I look a needle in the eye I feel cross.”

Honey hugged Trixie’s arm. “As long as we’re neighbors, you don’t even have to think about sewing. I’ll always do your mending for you, Trix. I just love to sew, and mending is no trouble at all.”

The girls lived on Glen Road which was about two miles from the junior-senior high school in the village of Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson. They and Jim Frayne and Trixie’s older brothers, Brian and Mart, traveled to and from school by bus. The Manor House, which was the name of the Wheelers’ huge estate, included acres of rolling lawn and woodlands, a big lake, and a stable of horses. It formed the west-ern boundary of the Beldens’ Crabapple Farm, which nestled down in a hollow. Honey’s home was luxurious and very beautiful, but Trixie preferred the little white frame house where she lived with her three brothers and their parents.

“I hope we’ll always be neighbors,” she said to Honey. “I would have died of lone-liness last summer if your father hadn’t bought the Manor House. There was just no one around to talk to. Brian and Mart were away at camp and there was no-body left but Bobby. And you can’t do things with him. Just keep him out of trouble--if possible--and wash his face and comb his hair and bandage his scraped knees. That’s not a very exciting way to spend a summer, let me tell you.”

“I know someone who’s dying of loneliness right now,” Honey said. “And I feel aw-fully sorry for her.”

“Who?” Trixie asked curiously. With the exception of Honey, she had gone to grade school with all of the boys and girls who had entered junior high that Sep-tember. She couldn’t think of one of them who had any reason for being lonely. Most of them lived in the pretty residential section of the town which sprawled along the east bank of the Hudson River. Because they lived so near one another, they had grand times after school and during the holidays, whereas almost all of the bus children were separated from their friends by miles or at least acres. “Who?” Trixie asked again.

“Diana Lynch,” Honey said, whispering.

“Di--lonely?” Trixie was so surprised she almost shouted.

“Shh,” Honey cautioned. “She might be right behind us.”

“Why, she’s got everything,” Trixie continued in a slightly lower voice. “Next to you, Honey, she’s the prettiest girl in our class. She doesn’t get very good marks, but neither do I. She’s got two sets of twins for brothers and sisters, and her father made a million dollars a couple of years ago. They have a huge place that’s as gorgeous as yours, high up on a hill that’s even higher than your hill, with a mar-velous view of the river. I’ve only been out there once, but--”

“That’s the point,” Honey interrupted. “Why haven’t you been out there more than once? Why doesn’t she ever sit near you on the bus? I thought you and Di had known each other since kindergarten.”

“We have,” Trixie said. “And come to think of it, when the Lynches were poor and lived in a nice but rather crowded apartment on Main Street, she used to invite me home for lunch an awful lot. Her mother is a wonderful cook. I can still remember how yummy her pancakes and fried chicken tasted. Such a treat instead of sand-wiches and milk!”

“Her mother doesn’t cook at all anymore,” Honey said.

“Why should she?” Trixie demanded. “When Di asked me to lunch last spring--that’s when I saw their red trailer--the whole place was simply swarming with servants. Two nurses for the twins, if you can believe it. I wish Bobby had two nurses. He could use them.”

Bobby was Trixie’s mischievous six-year-old brother, and more often than she liked, Trixie had to take her turn keeping an eye on him.

Honey smiled. “You think you’d like a lot of servants, Trixie, but you wouldn’t. I was brought up by nurses, and I can tell you it’s no fun.”

“But the nurses don’t bother Di,” Trixie objected. “And the lucky duck never has to wash dishes or dust or make beds the way I do on weekends.”

“Poor overworked you!” Honey’s hazel eyes twinkled with laughter. “I happen to know that Brian and Mart do most of the dishwashing at your house, and everyone but Bobby makes his own bed, and as for all that dusting--well, I’ve seen you do it, Trixie. A lick and a promise is the only way to describe that chore of yours. If you find a spot you can’t blow off a table top, you put something on top of it.”

Trixie chuckled. “You’re right, Honey. I’d hate to have a lot of servants cluttering up our place. And nobody could possibly cook as well as Moms does. The funny part of it is that she never makes a big fuss about it either. When she dons an apron she looks younger and prettier than ever, and she sort of wanders into the kitchen and wanders out again with an enormous meal.”

“How do you know Di doesn’t feel the same way about her mother?” Honey asked. “I mean, my mother can’t boil water without burning it, and so she never wanders into our kitchen. The other day Miss Trask told her we needed a new spider, and Mother screamed because she thinks all spiders are black widows the way I used to.” Honey giggled. “It took hours for Miss Trask to explain that the spider was a frying pan.”

Trixie giggled, too. Honey’s parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had been born rich, so it didn’t surprise Trixie to learn that Mrs. Wheeler was probably almost as much afraid of a frying pan as she was of a spider. Honey was most like-ly the first girl in the family for a long time who had cared to learn how to cook.

“What did Di say to you?” Trixie asked curiously after a moment. “I didn’t realize that you two were good friends. How can you be sure that she is unhappy?”

“She never told me she was lonely,” Honey said as they started down the wide front steps of the school. “But I was a new girl when we started school, and would have been miserably lonely if it hadn’t been for you, Trixie. That’s how I happened to notice that Di was miserable--and yet, she isn’t a new girl. Haven’t you noticed? She hardly ever joins in any fun and seldom speaks to the other boys and girls in our class.”

Trixie said nothing. Kindhearted Honey always seemed to know when people were unhappy. Conscience-stricken, Trixie realized now that Di had changed a lot, alt-hough gradually, during the last year. She had shiny, blue-black hair that flowed around her shoulders, and violet eyes fringed with thick curly lashes. She was so pretty that she was always the heroine in the grade school plays although she usu-ally got her lines and words mixed up. But nobody minded, not even the teachers, because Di always laughed when she made a mistake, and somehow managed to turn even the most serious play into a comedy.

“It’s true,” Trixie said suddenly. “She never laughs now, and she sort of hunches herself in a corner of the bus as though--as though she were ashamed of some-thing. But why?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Honey said. “I’ve tried to make friends with her over and over again, but every time I speak to her, she looks more embarrassed than ever. See? There she is now, standing all alone at the bus stop. Can’t we do something about her, Trixie?”

Trixie didn’t have a chance to reply because they were joined then by her brothers and Jim. Brian was sixteen, a year older than Jim, but they were both juniors be-cause Jim had skipped a grade. Brian had inherited his father’s dark eyes and hair. Mart looked enough like Trixie to be her twin except that he was two inches taller, and they both had their mother’s blue eyes and blond hair. Jim, although not relat-ed to the Wheelers, had the same red hair and green eyes that Honey’s father had.

Mart was eleven months older than Trixie and often treated her as though she were Bobby’s age. He was very fond of big words, too, and, because he knew it an-noyed Trixie, used them frequently. He greeted his sister now with:

“Do my old eyes deceive me? Is that a notebook which you have crammed so unat-tractively into your skirt pocket? Am I to deduce from this evidence that you plan to spend a small portion of the forthcoming weekend in the pursuit of knowledge?”

Trixie gave him a sour look. “The answer to your simple question is yes. We have to write a theme for our English class!”

Mart made a tent of his hands and rocked back and forth on his heels as though he were a lecturer on a platform. “And what, pray tell, is to be the theme of your theme?”

“None of your business,” Trixie said.

“Is that so?” Mart elevated his sandy eyebrows. “I was about to offer my services, for a small fee, a dollar to be exact. With my superior knowledge of all the sub-jects, my extensive vocabulary and--”

“We know, we know,” Trixie interrupted. “We also know why you wear your hair in that funny-looking crewcut. Your little brain would collapse under the weight of a normal amount of hair.”

“Children, children,” Brian said, grinning. “Must you quarrel from morning to night? It does get a bit dull after a while.”

Suddenly Honey reached out her hand and, tucking it in the crook of Di’s arm, drew her into the group. “I was just thinking, Di, that it would be wonderful if you could spend the weekend with me and Jim,” she said impulsively. “Here comes the bus now, but there’s plenty of time for you to go back into the school and tele-phone your mother. You won’t need any clothes. We’re just about the same size, and I have loads of jeans and all kinds of T-shirts and sweaters.”

Di stared at her for a moment without speaking. Then she blurted: “I don’t believe it, Honey Wheeler. I don’t believe you ever wear sloppy clothes. I’ll bet you don’t even own a pair of jeans.”

“But I do,” Honey said, smiling. “We all live in sloppy clothes after school and on weekends. I didn’t used to own any, but last summer when I met Trixie, Miss Trask got me some so we could dress alike and have fun all the time. Miss Trask is my governess, you know.”

“Your governess?” Di shook her head. “That’s one thing I’ve been lucky enough to escape so far. How do you stand it?”

“Miss Trask isn’t really a governess,” Trixie put in hastily. “She runs the Wheeler place the way your butler does your place, Di. And she’s a grand person. We all love her.”

Di sniffed. “I can’t imagine loving our butler. The annoying old man! I can’t even ask a few friends home for cookies and milk after school without Harrison hover-ing around with silver trays and fancy lace doilies. I hate him.”

“Well, never mind,” Honey said soothingly. “I know how you feel. We used to have butlers, too, and they were an awful bore. But now they’re gone and we have Miss Trask and Regan--”

“Who’s Regan?” Di asked, and then she flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, I know I’m being nosy, and I haven’t meant to eavesdrop, but I can’t help hearing you all talk on the bus. You’re always shouting back and forth to each other across the aisle and I’ve heard you mention Regan so many times.”

“He’s our stable hand,” Honey said. “We have five horses, you see, but Regan does a lot more than just take care of them. He and Miss Trask run the whole place to-gether. I mean, the other servants take orders from them. We couldn’t get along without Regan. Could we, Jim?”

Jim shook his head. The boys had been listening quietly, but now Jim said, “Make it snappy, Di. The bus will be leaving in a few minutes. Honey and I sure would like to have you spend the weekend with us. You’ve got just about time to telephone your mother.”