Читать книгу Bitsy Finds the Clue: A Mystery of Williamsburg Old and New - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 7

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The day she entered old Romney House to remain there, marked the beginning of a new life for Bitsy Bates. Not that it solved all her problems by any means. She was still unpopular with her freshman contemporaries—more so than ever, perhaps, since she had deserted them to go and live in a house in town. They felt it a slight to the dormitory that she had not been contented there. Those who were indifferent to her never noticed her at all, and those who disliked her teased and plagued her unmercifully, and she launched back at them with all the quick temper of which her blazing red hair was an indication. Two or three of them, however she presently found friendly and more congenial, and with these she could be moderately happy when Celeste was not available.

But it was to Celeste that she gave her whole-hearted allegiance and devotion, and was never so happy as when they could be together at the Romney House, away from the interruptions and demands of the campus. But even here there was a “fly in the ointment”. Bitsy speedily discovered that Celeste had a steady “boy friend”—a senior at the college. In fact it was apparent that they were practically engaged. Campbell McDurford—popularly and for no explainable reason known as “Duff”—was a fine, athletic, blond giant of twenty-one, whose home was in Richmond. He had been devoted to Celeste ever since their second year in college, where he was studying electrical engineering. While nothing was definitely settled, it was rather guessed that he would marry her soon after their graduation, provided he could secure a good position.

All this Bitsy learned from Miss Eva, one evening when the two happened to be alone together, the other elderly people having retired and Celeste and Duff being off at the movies.

“That is, if Drew and Abby don’t interfere,” went on Miss Eva, after this revelation. “You see, they don’t like Duff. Not that there’s anything wrong with him, but his people came originally from the mountain people of the Shenandoah Valley, and Abby, particularly, doesn’t think it a suitable match for Celeste. She never forgave Celeste’s mother for marrying a Northerner, and she says this is the last straw. Drew rather agrees with her. It’s all very absurd, of course, and they’re very old-fashioned in their ideas. Celeste will probably do what she likes, in the end, but it all makes her rather unhappy.”

At first, after this discovery, Bitsy was violently jealous. She wanted Celeste to herself, and she had thought she was going to have her so, after moving to Romney House. She didn’t want to share her with even this nice young man—for she had to admit that he was undeniably delightful, even to her insignificant self—and she spent several miserable nights thereafter sobbing secretly into her pillow. But finally she resigned herself to Duff’s presence in Celeste’s life—and indirectly her own—and after that was happier.

And so the days marched on, and Bitsy Bates inevitably settled herself into the round of college life. In her classes she was excellent, for she was a born student. But in the social life, she herself admitted that she was “a complete flop”. She secretly longed to be admitted to one of the fraternities, particularly the one to which Celeste belonged. But, though the “rushing season” soon began in dead earnest, no one “rushed” her, or made the slightest advance toward bidding her in to any of the charmed circles. Though she did not know it, Celeste had been making overtures for her to her own fraternity, but no one so far had agreed to these overtures, and Celeste could not be the only one to sponsor her admission. Her “fraternity sisters” frankly confessed to an active dislike for red-headed, cantankerous little Bitsy Bates!

But Bitsy was gradually finding other compensations. When she was lonely and Celeste was not available, she began to turn to gentle, charming Miss Eva Romney, who seemed to understand and sympathize with the difficulties of this shy and somewhat misunderstood young girl. They spent many hours happily chatting together, and Bitsy learned from her much of the history and atmosphere of old Williamsburg in the quiet years before the “Restoration”, and even, to a limited extent, of the Romney family itself. But here Miss Eva was a little guarded.

“We’re a queer lot!” she had once confessed. “I’m the most modern-minded one of this family, I expect. I’d like to do a great many things the others wouldn’t approve of. But Abby and Drew are distinctly of the ‘old school’. There are some like them still left in this town. They want to stick strictly to the old ways—even when some of them are rather silly now. And then—there are other reasons——”

She stopped abruptly, as if she had said too much, and went on to talk about something else. And Bitsy, breathless with curiosity, did not dare revert to the subject. That the old Romney house harbored some inscrutable mystery, she was now firmly convinced. Curious things had happened, even in the short time she had been living in it. There had been one night in particular. Celeste had not been at home, as she was spending the night in her fraternity house after some “spread” or festive entertainment that had been going on there. Bitsy had been studying alone in the living-room. Miss Eva was in bed with a rather severe cold, and the other two elderly people had sat about formally for a time, conversing between themselves, while Bitsy bent over her books. Then they had both withdrawn to their own rooms and she had been left alone. Presently, in sheer loneliness and boredom, she had herself gone to her room and to bed.

She had wakened, far in the night, aroused by some sound she could neither place nor explain. At first she could not believe she had really heard anything. But lying motionless and listening, she heard it again, and that time with great distinctness. A steady “tap-tap-tap,” coming from the direction of the stair not far from her door. It sounded like someone with a cane, either going up or down the stairs. She thought at once of Colonel Drew Romney, the only one in the house who used such an article, but she had always noticed that he used it very silently, never bringing it down with the slightest thump. Still, he might be ill or in trouble now, and not caring or thinking of its usual noiselessness. It couldn’t be Miss Abby, as she had a bedroom on the ground floor and never went up or down the stairs. Never moved about at all, in fact, without considerable assistance. And old colored Eliza slept in a little house out beyond the garden.

She lay for a moment wondering if she ought to do anything about it—and what. With Celeste away, and Miss Eva ill in bed, and someone else possibly needing assistance, it appeared to be “up to her” to see what was the matter. For it was very late. The moonlight streaming into her room enabled her to see the face of her wristwatch quite clearly—and it was after two. The “tap-tap-tap” was still audible. Suddenly she sprang out of bed, threw a bathrobe over her pajamas, opened her door and went boldly into the hall. A gable window at the end of the hall threw a broad patch of moonlight directly on the stairs and Bitsy went straight to the top of them and looked down. Then she received the surprise of her young life. The stairway was absolutely empty of anyone, likewise the hall below—and the “tap-tap-tap” was still audible! A cold shudder of fear shook her. Thinking no longer of being of help to anyone, she scurried back to her room, leaped into bed and literally buried her head under the clothes!

Later, when she had regained her poise, she wondered if she ought to go and wake Miss Eva and tell her about it. She decided that she would if she heard the sound again, and lay listening long for its repetition. But the sound did not come again, and presently she fell asleep, to wake no more till morning. Next afternoon she told Celeste of the queer occurrence.

“You heard the ‘ghost’ all right!” said Celeste soberly. “I wish I’d been here. I’ve heard it once or twice myself in the past, but more vaguely. There’s some explanation, I’m sure. I don’t believe in ‘hants’. But when I mentioned it to the others they’ve always laughed at me and said I was dreaming. Don’t let it worry you, though. I told you in the beginning that this house had the reputation of being ‘haunted’ and you said you didn’t care.”

“I don’t!” declared Bitsy stoutly. “Only I was afraid I ought to do something—and I didn’t know what.”

“Just forget it,” advised Celeste, and there the matter dropped. But other curious things were to be added shortly.

It happened one afternoon, not very long after her adventure of the night, that Bitsy was sitting alone in the box-garden on an old stone bench beside a long-ago dry and unused fountain. It was a warm Saturday, and a clump of tall crêpe-myrtle bushes behind her cast a welcome shade. Celeste was off on a horseback riding expedition with some of her own classmates, and the older people were dozing on the veranda. Bitsy herself was absorbed in a knotty mathematical problem when old Eliza came out to gather some parsley and other herbs for her cooking. Idly glancing up from her work, Bitsy watched the old colored woman with the white turban knotted tightly about her kinky gray hair and the huge steel-rimmed spectacles adorning her broad flat nose. Presently, as the woman passed close to her on her way back to the kitchen, Bitsy remarked:

“You must have something mighty nice cooking in the kitchen, Eliza. It smells grand, even way out here!” And Eliza, who had always shown a decided partiality for the little newcomer, and who was also, moreover, weakly susceptible to any praise of her cooking, retorted:

“Yo’ sho’ am right, honey. Dey’s some gran’ cupcakes in de oven an’ dey’s mos’ done. Yo’ come in ’bout five minutes or so, after dey’s iced, an’ Eliza’ll let yo’ sample ’em!” And with a gleaming grin that displayed all her still strong white teeth, she went on her way. Bitsy lost no time in accepting her invitation. And it was in the big, cool kitchen, while she was eating delicious fresh-baked and chocolate-iced cupcakes, that she was to receive another curious item concerning the mysteries of old Romney House.

“How yo’ like dis place, honey?” asked the old colored woman as she set about mincing parsley in a chopping bowl. “Spec’s yo’ mighty lonesome an’ homesick lots of de time.”

“Well, I’ve sort of got over that,” admitted Bitsy, munching a cupcake as she leaned against the kitchen table. “I like it pretty well now, specially this house. And I love Celeste and—and Miss Eva.”

“Sho yo’ do!” chuckled Eliza. “Ah done cahried dat Celeste child when she was a tiny baby—an’ her mamma befo’ her—an’ Miss Eva too. But yo’ doan like de Cunnel an’ Miss Abby?”

“I—well, I don’t know them very well,” Bitsy hesitated. “They—they’re sort of harder to get acquainted with.”

“Dey is dat!” sighed Eliza, chopping briskly. “But dey is de salt ob de earth—when yo’ know ’em better. Dey has had it hard—dey sho’ is. An’ dey is borne de burden. Dis ol’ house is full ob secrets an Ah doan know whether dey knows de answer or dey doan. Ol’ as Ah am, Ah doan know dat!”

“This sure is a queer old place, isn’t it!” commented Bitsy. And suddenly deciding to confide in this friendly old colored woman, she blurted:

“I heard the queerest thing the other night!” And she told Eliza of the incident of the strange tap-tapping on the stair. Somewhat to her consternation, Eliza dropped her chopping-knife and stared intently at her through the steel-rimmed spectacles during her recital. And when she had finished, the old colored woman began wringing her hands and moaning softly.

“Honey, honey, dis am a bad sign—hit sho’ am!” she groaned. “Yo’ is heard de hant! Hit only come once in a long, long time, an’ den it do sho’lly always mean trubble! Ah nebber knowed it to fail.”

“Oh, but maybe you’re mistaken! Maybe it wasn’t—that. I might have only imagined it,” Bitsy tried to reassure her. But Eliza was positive. Bitsy had certainly heard the weird sound that always preceded a bout with “trubble” in the Romney House.

“But why should it?” Bitsy persisted. “What’s it all about, anyway?”

“Ah’ll tell yo’ de story ob dat hant,” declared Eliza. “De odders dey nebber would. Dey ain’t too proud ob it.” And she went on to tell Bitsy about old General Sumter Romney who had been master of the house in the years preceding the Civil War. He had been a very fiery, hot-tempered old gentleman, it appeared, and was always quarreling, or in some sort of trouble, with his family, his slaves and his neighbors. He was quite lame, having had one leg permanently injured during the Mexican War, and always went about with a crutch. One horrible morning he was found dead, lying in the hallway, his crutch by his side. He had been murdered by some unknown hand, and the crutch used as the weapon—as its appearance plainly showed. No one knew or could guess who had done the dreadful deed. The family had all been away at the time, visiting in South Carolina. It was finally pinned on a runaway slave whom the General had had to punish earlier that year for some serious misdemeanor. The slave could never afterward be found. It was thought he had died in trying to escape, somewhere down in the region of the Dismal Swamp.

The General was buried in Bruton Parish churchyard and his inseparable crutch with him. But at intervals all through the years since, his “ghost” was occasionally heard in the house, known by the “tap-tap” of his crutch as he made his way about. And the sound of that ghostly crutch invariably preceded trouble in Romney House.

Such was the tale Eliza unfolded. Bitsy listened wide-eyed, half-disbelieving, half-impressed. It was a gruesome story, and a most regrettable incident, she had to acknowledge. But what it could possibly have to do with the present queerness of the Romney House inhabitants, or why the old General’s supposed ghost should be bothered coming back and annoying his descendants, she couldn’t fathom and said so to a quite scandalized Eliza.

“But, honey chile, yo’ doan unnerstan’!” she had begun to remonstrate, when Miss Eva suddenly put an end to the discussion by appearing in the kitchen for her garden shears and basket, as she was planning to gather some roses for the dinner-table. Eliza fell into silence, shaking her head, and Bitsy went back to the garden to get her books. In spite of her incredulity, however, the story persisted in her mind, and she went to bed that night deeply thoughtful.