Gradually the tragedy ceased to be talked about, except when revived by stories that the house was haunted. It was rented at first, then sold by Robbie, who, after attaining his majority, came once to Ridgefield and was described as a fine looking young man, much like his father. There had been a stone placed at his father’s grave, but none at his mother’s, nor did he order one. He was there to sell his property, and he sold it and went away, while family after family occupied the house. If they did not believe in the supernatural they heard nothing. If they did believe in it they heard a great deal; a struggle by the well at midnight when the rain was falling heavily and the sky was inky black; a sound of wheels upon the grass; a choking call for ’Tina; stealthy footsteps across the floor, as if in response to that call ’Tina had gone to the window and looked out; and a child’s cry for papa and mamma, which came at any time, day or night. The mamma lay in her unmarked sunken grave and the papa under the shadow of the south wall in Ridgefield cemetery. Robert became a husband, a father and a grandfather, and he, too, died. Years passed and every actor in that tragic scene was dead, but its memory was kept alive by the house fast going to decay. For a long time it was unoccupied, and “For Sale” nailed upon the door, while the storms and the boys played havoc with it, inside and out. Then Mark Hilton, the clerk at the Prospect House, and great-grandson of Mr. Dalton, bought it for a song. He called it his ancestral hall, and said when he married he should bring his bride there and quiet ’Tina’s ghost, which still haunted it, clad in a soiled white dress, with her long curls down her back. He straightened up her grave and put a plain headstone to it with just her name, Christina Dalton, upon it. Some people censured him for this, and twice he found the stone lying upon the ground face down, where it had been thrown by some malicious or mischievous person. Without a word of comment he put it in its place, and whatever pain or humiliation he felt for his ancestor he made no sign, and held his head as high as if, through the vista of nearly a hundred years, no dark crime was looming which could in any possible way touch his good name. He had come to Ridgefield as a teacher from Amherst College, where he had been for two years, and had taken his place among the best people of the town. Once or twice, after correcting an unruly boy, he found a chalk picture of a gallows on the blackboard in the morning, and, instead of rubbing it out, he drew a fair likeness of the boy artist dangling by the rope and left it there all day. There were no more insulting pictures upon the board, and his pupils treated him with great respect. But school teaching was not to his taste, and he finally gave it up and hired to Mr. Taylor, who was never tired of eulogizing him, and who finished his story of the Dalton house by saying: “There’s no more hereditary in Mark than there is in me. No, sir! His folks lived in New Bedford. Father was a sea captain and drowned; mother died a natural death, and left him a little money; not much, and he’s willin’ to do anything for an honest livin’. If there’s anything in envirymen’ he’s got it strong. Mari brought up his grandfather Robert and had him go to college. He was here once. The Daltons was high bloods and never took much notice of him on account of his mother. But, bless your soul, he wasn’t to blame for her any more than Mark is. Mari, who married in Canada, was a good woman, and great-great-grandmother to Jeff, who acts at times as if possessed with the devil; has some habits I don’t like, but he’ll git over ’em, for he’s a good boy on the whole,—well meanin’ and friendly. His name is Jefferson Wilkes. His folks is all dead and he was jest a wafer on the streets in Boston, turnin’ somersets for a penny a turn and sleepin’ in a big hogshead on the wharf at night when Mark found him. He’d kep’ track of Mari’s pedigree, tracin’ ’em down to the boy and was huntin’ for him. He asked Dot to take him, and said if he didn’t earn his board he’d pay the rest. He’ll get plenty of envirymen’ here, for Dot makes him toe the mark, especially Sundays, learnin’ the catechism and verses in the Bible, and boxes his ears when he don’t behave. Mark laughs and gives him a stick of candy for every box. Pays for it, though. He’s honesty itself. I’d trust him with all I own.
“Yes, Dotty. I’ll be there,” he added, as there came ’round the corner a call to which he always paid attention. “I’ll be back in a few minutes and tell you the rest,” he said, as he hurried away in the direction of the call.
CHAPTER VI.
EXPECTED GUESTS.
It was fifteen minutes or more before he returned, and taking his seat, began: “Dot is so flurried and upset about them Tracys that she actually consulted me. You know they are comin’ to-night?”
“Who is coming?” Craig asked, rather relieved with a change from the Daltons to the Tracys.
“Why, Miss Freeman Tracy, from New York,” Uncle Zach replied. “Her grandfather was Gen. Allen, one of our big bugs,—lived in the house with the biggest brass knocker, and has that tall monument in the cemetery. She’s comin,’ and that’s why the west wing is bottom side up, and Dot don’t know whether she’s on her head or her feet. It’s somethin’ to brag about havin’ Miss Tracy here. She wrote for a saloon to eat in. We’ve gin her the west parlor and four bedrooms for herself and daughter and niece and maid. None of ’em can sleep together. Nobody can nowadays. They are comin’ to-night, on the eight train.”
Craig had been greatly interested in the Dalton story, though a little confused at the last, with so much heredity and environment and so many great-great-grandfathers. Still he managed to get a pretty good idea of it and was deciding in his mind to visit the old house again and go through the rooms where ’Tina’s ghost was said to walk on stormy nights. At the mention of Mrs. Tracy, who was coming with two young ladies, his thoughts were directed into a different channel.
“I think I have heard of Mrs. Tracy. Is she very wealthy?” he asked.
“Yes, piles of money, with diamond ear-rings as big as robins’ aigs. I’ve never seen ’em, but some woman from here was at Saratoga last summer, and said they was the talk of the town, and she never let ’em out of her sight. I hope she’ll bring ’em. I never seen such stuns. I wonder what they cost, and what do you s’pose she wants of a maid here, when we cook her victuals and serve it?”
Craig did not reply. He was thinking of Mrs. Tracy and her daughter, who was a great belle and notorious flirt. He had heard of them at Saratoga as occupying the finest suite of rooms at the United States, where the daughter kept around her a crowd of gentlemen, whom she attracted or repelled as the fancy took her. He had only seen her at a distance, when it was impossible to tell just how she looked, nor did he care for a closer acquaintance, and when asked to call upon her had declined to do so. He detested flirts, and was not particularly interested in girls of any kind. Certainly not in Miss Tracy. Still he was glad she was coming. It would be a change, and he was getting tired with no company but Browning. There was no possible danger of his falling a victim to her wiles. He was not a ladies’ man, and if he were, a coquette of Miss Tracy’s style would be the last woman he should select for a wife. Of the niece he scarcely thought at all, except to ask Uncle Zach her name. Zacheus didn’t know. Mrs. Tracy telegraphed that morning that she was coming, and there must be a room for her.