The Ghost of Patience
“Move over, Terry, give me a look!” demanded Sim, elbowing her way nearer
to the long mirror before which Terry was admiring herself.
“There’s plenty of room and at least two more mirrors within easy walking
distance,” Terry replied. “Why we all have to congregate in here, I don’t
know.”
“It’s more fun, that’s why,” Arden crisply replied. “And we can talk
better. Moselle can hear every word we say if we call to each other from
room to room. Don’t forget _she’s_ under suspicion too.”
“As far as I can see, the only person who isn’t is Dorothy Keene,
daughter of Rita Keene the distinguished comédienne,” Terry remarked,
successfully maneuvering Sim away from the glass again. “We saw her get
off the train ourselves. You’re the only innocent one among us, Dot, but
you don’t look it in that swanky dress.”
“Do you think we’re dressing up too much? We wouldn’t want to embarrass
Granny Howe,” Dorothy considered.
The girls were all in Sim’s big blue-and-white bedroom, laughing and
talking as they dressed. It was the afternoon following the “trial by
jury.” Sim had lately gone “modern,” and the room showed it. The walls
were a cream-white edged in dark blue; light fixtures were star shaped,
and the twin beds were covered with a dark-blue satin spread with Sim’s
monogram in white-satin letters on the fold. It was all glorious.
Fooling around until the last possible minute, they were now making up
for lost time by all hurriedly dressing in Sim’s room; getting ready for
the visit to Granny Howe.
After talking it over they had decided that the old lady, though she was
spry and active, might better enjoy the little party if they did put on a
little style and dressed up. So they were wearing soft dresses and
high-heeled shoes and had put on other dainty accessories.
The day was rather dark, a slate-colored sky promising snow before night,
but the balmy air contradicted the warning, and Sim, with the top of the
roadster down, urged the girls to hurry. A glance at her watch showed
three-thirty, and their first call should not keep Granny waiting.
They were ready at last and piled in the car, Sim letting the clutch in
so fast that the sudden start snapped their heads back and jerked the car
forward as though Sim was just learning to drive. They went off in a gale
of laughter but not in a cloud of dust, for the frozen ground of the
driveway refused to part with any of its surface.
Sim drove as near as she could to the little white house where Hannah
Howe lived. The cottage-like place was behind the more stately Sycamore
Hall and to the left of the lane. The lane was a mere path just tunneled
with trees.
Four small pillars, more like posts, supported the shingled roof of the
low porch, and behind it were two square windows with a door in between.
The girls stood in dignified silence waiting for Granny to answer Arden’s
knock, but she didn’t keep them long.
“Come in, my dears!” exclaimed the elderly lady like a grandmother in a
fairy tale. “I’m glad to see you all looking so well and happy.”
Granny herself looked well and at least temporarily happy. She wore a
long-sleeved, high-necked dress, dark-blue color with little pink flowers
dotted over it. At her throat, precisely in the middle, glowed with
sullen brightness the soft purple of an antique amethyst brooch. Her
thick white hair accentuated the smooth tan of her skin, as she smiled a
welcome.
The party trooped inside the little old house, and they were at once
struck by the charm and quaintness of the little place.
With admiring “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” the visitors looked eagerly about, and
Granny, pleased with their young enthusiasm, explained and pointed out
the interesting features.
The fireplace, with a pot in place and hooks for holding others, was
especially fascinating.
“Imagine cooking over an open fire!” exclaimed Sim, “and Moselle
complains about the oven in our new gas range.”
“Years ago the fireplace served a double purpose,” Granny explained:
“that of heat and a stove. And as someone has said, they were truly the
heart of the home. Many a lone winter night Patience Howe sat by this
one, keeping the fire alive, wondering would she ever see her father and
brothers again.”
On a low maple table in front of the old Colonial davenport, Granny was
putting out the “best china”: thin cups and saucers with a pink wild-rose
pattern. With unfeigned interest, Arden watched her dainty movements. She
seemed as much a part of the place as did the pewter plates on the
mantel. The little company had settled down to chat with the abruptness
of old friends. After the first greetings were over, they all felt they
had known this little lady all their lives. But it was Sim who first
broached the subject uppermost in the minds of all.
“It was Patience who hid the wounded soldier, wasn’t it?” she asked,
nibbling at a tiny bread-and-butter sandwich.
“Her picture still hangs in the Hall, doesn’t it?” Terry inquired,
following Sim’s lead.
“What a brave girl she must have been,” remarked Arden, hoping Granny
would take the cue and tell them about her.
Handing Dorothy a cup of tea and settling herself in a quaint high-backed
rocker, the old lady nodded her head and smiled.
“I can see you are all burning with curiosity,” she laughed. “Of course,
I’ll tell you about her, I’m very proud of her, and as you say, my dear,
she was indeed very brave.” Granny glanced at the girls sitting around
her, sipping their tea and patiently waiting for her story. Then she
began:
“In the year when Washington’s troops were retreating from New York,
Patience refused to leave her home to seek shelter with relatives at
Philadelphia. This was her home: the big house, I mean, of course,” she
explained. “This tiny place was for the servants. But Patience decided to
stay and help with the work of the farm; so many of the working men had
joined the troops. There was plenty of work, and it was bitter cold, too.
One day, as the poor, tired army was forced to go still farther back
beyond the advancing British troops, a wounded soldier was carried into
the house. Nathaniel Greene, his name was, and his comrades begged
Patience to take him in and keep him, for he would surely die if made to
march in the bitter cold. Patience hid him in her own room, disguised
herself as an old servant, and moved out here to live.”
“What a—girl!” breathed Arden, as Granny paused a moment.
“Imagine waiting on a wounded soldier,” followed up Terry.
“And imagine the danger she was in,” concluded Sim.
Granny, gratified that the story of her famous relative should gain so
much honor through her own simple telling, finally continued.
“When the British took possession of the house Patience declared the
wounded man was a raving lunatic, and so she kept him out of harm’s way.
Until spring she hid him successfully, and by that time the soldier and
the maid had fallen in love.”
The girls waited while Granny shook her head sorrowfully.
“But he contracted pneumonia and died,” she murmured. “Patience never
married but gave herself up to her country’s cause and became a nurse for
wounded soldiers. That was her candle holder; she used it to light her
way along a secret passage from the big house to this one.”
Granny indicated a pewter candlestick on the mantel between two plates.
Their eyes lingered on it lovingly. A moment later Granny went on with
her story.
“I have an old letter telling about it, but when the place was remodeled
the passage must have been walled up. Dick and Betty have never been able
to find any trace of it. Although, I dare say, it will come to light when
the house is torn down.” Granny finished her recital and sat looking
straight before her, her bright eyes dimmed with tears. She sighed and
attempted a little smile.
Arden’s heart skipped a beat, and a lump rose in her throat.
“Oh, it’s monstrous to think that dear old place should come down!” she
exclaimed bitterly. “Can’t something be done to save it? Is there no way
of buying it in?”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t keep it, even if we could save it,” Granny
replied. “We need the money it would bring. But as it is now, we are
unable to prove title to it, and it will go and be forgotten,” she sighed
pathetically. “I can stay here while I live, they have allowed me that,
but Dick and Betty will be left homeless when——”
She did not finish that prophecy, but they all knew what she meant, and
instantly they secretly determined to help her some way; how, they did
not know.
But in a flash Sim imagined herself handing the long lost deeds to Granny
Howe and then becoming a heroine. The plot had magic influence on them
all.
It was Dorothy who brought them back to the present. “Was it Nathaniel
Greene the workmen thought they saw the other day? But it couldn’t have
been Patience on the bed,” she demurred. “Of course, the workmen didn’t
know anything about these war stories.”
“There is an old tradition,” Granny resumed, “that Nathaniel appears in
his tattered uniform and with his head bandaged whenever the old house,
or anyone in it, is in danger.
“Sometimes, so the story goes, and you may believe it or not, as you
choose,” Granny smiled whimsically, “the ghost of Patience Howe is seen
wandering about the old house. Certainly she would have good reason to
come back here now. Not that _I_ believe in such things,” she hurried to
declare, rather unreasonably.
The girls politely agreed, but did not want to interrupt the stirring
narrative. Patience Howe’s story was simply fascinating.
“As for the figure on the bed, Patience died there when she was an old
woman. Her horse fell, breaking his leg, and she was mortally injured.
She died in her red cloak there on the old four-poster.” A reverent pause
followed that statement. “But we are becoming too sad. All those things
are over and done with. Won’t you have some more tea, my dear?” Granny
quickly asked, addressing Sim.
“The story holds such strange historic interest,” Sim replied, accepting
her second cup of tea. “May we go through the Hall sometime?”
“Whenever you like,” Granny consented. “But I advise you to do it soon.
That Callahan will have a new batch of workmen here by the end of the
week, and you won’t have the house to yourselves after that. I must say
he is very determined. Don’t let those ghost stories frighten you—the
house is really very interesting, and the door is always open ... to
you,” and the hostess included them all with a bright smile and a
graceful wave of her gentle hand.
It was almost dark now, and the girls, realizing this, drew themselves up
with a start.
“We want to thank you for a most pleasant afternoon,” said Sim smilingly.
“We must be going now; Moselle will be worried to death, and look—it’s
beginning to snow!”
The first feather-like flakes were floating down to be lost in the brush
below. Arden sprang up and impulsively kissed the old lady they had all
come to love. She gave Arden a little hug in return, and asked them all
to stop and see her whenever they could, declaring she had had a
wonderful afternoon, herself. Then, gathering their things quickly, they
left the little white house behind them. As they drove away the merry
snowflakes were making little jabs at their happy, willing faces.
“Oh, wasn’t it great!” sighed Arden.
“I feel like a live history of the American Revolution,” declared Sim.
“And I feel like the latest authority on military ghosts. But I hated to
have the soldier die before he married Patience,” sighed romantic Terry.
“We might even be able to fix that up if we get friendly enough with the
ghosts,” teased Arden, which seemed like a very good idea to all of them.