by Andre Norton
She turned briskly to the left down the lane on which were located the slave cabins and guided the Ralestones along a brick-paved path into a clearing where stood a small house of typical plantation style. The lower story was of stone with steep steps leading to a balcony which ran completely around the second floor of the house.
As they reached the balcony she pulled off her hat and threw it in the general direction of a cane settee. Without that wreck of a hat, with the curls of her long bob flowing free, she looked years younger.
“Make yourselves thoroughly at home. After all, this is your house, you know.”
“But we didn’t,” protested Ricky. “Mr. LeFleur didn’t tell us a thing about you.”
“Perhaps he didn’t know.” Charity Biglow was pinning back her curls. “I rented from Harrison.”
“Like the bathroom,” Val murmured and looked up to find them staring at him. “Oh, I just meant that you were another improvement that he had installed,” he stammered. Miss Biglow nodded in a satisfied sort of way. “Spoken like a true southern gentleman, though I don’t think in the old days that bathrooms would have crept into a compliment paid to a lady. Now I did have some lemonade—if you will excuse me,” and she was gone into the house.
Ricky smiled. “I like our tenant,” she said softly.
“You don’t expect me to disagree with that, do you?” her brother had just time enough to ask before their hostess appeared again complete with tray, glasses, and a filled pitcher which gave forth the refreshing sound of clinking ice. And after her paraded an old friend of theirs, tail proudly erect. “There’s our cat!” cried Ricky.
Val snapped his fingers. “Here, Satan.”
After staring round-eyed at both of them, the cat crossed casually to the settee and proceeded to sharpen his claws.
“Well, I like that! After I shared my bed with the brute, even though I didn’t know it until the next morning,” Val exploded.
“Why, where did you meet Cinders?” asked Miss Biglow as she put down the tray.
“He came to us the first night we were at Pirate’s Haven,” explained Ricky. “I thought he was a ghost or something when he scratched at the back door.”
“So that’s where he was. He used to go over to the Harrisons’ for meals a lot. When I’m working I don’t keep very regular hours and he doesn’t like to be neglected. Come here, Cinders, and make your manners.”
Replying to her invitation with an insolent flirt of his tail, Cinders, whom Val continued obstinately to regard as “Satan,” disappeared around the corner of the balcony. Charity Biglow looked at them solemnly. “So obedient,” she observed; “just like a child.”
“Are you an artist, too?” Ricky asked as she put down her glass.
Miss Biglow’s face wrinkled into a grimace. “My critics say not. I manage to provide daily bread and sometimes a slice of cake by doing illustrations for action stories. And then once in a while I labor for the good of my soul and try to produce something my more charitable friends advise me to send to a show.”
“May—may we see some of them—the pictures, I mean?” inquired Ricky timidly.
“If you can bear it. I use the side balcony for a workshop in this kind of weather. I’m working on a picture now, something more ambitious than I usually attempt in heat of this sort. But my model didn’t show up this morning so I’m at a loose end.”
She led them around the corner where Satan had disappeared and pointed to a table with a sketching board at one end, several canvases leaning face against the house, and an easel covered with a clean strip of linen. “My workshop. A trifle untidy, but then I am an untidy person. I’m expecting an order so I’m just whiling away my time working on an idea of my own until it comes.”
Ricky touched the strip of covering across the canvas on the easel. “May I?” she asked.
“Yes. It might be a help, getting some other person’s reaction to the thing. I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do when I started but I don’t think it’s turning out to be what I planned.”
Ricky lifted off the cover. Val stared at the canvas.
“But that is he!” he exclaimed.
Charity Biglow turned to the boy. “And what do you mean—”
“That’s the boy I found in the garden, Ricky!”
“Is it?” She stared, fascinated, at the lean brown face, the untidy black hair, the bitter mouth, which their hostess had so skilfully caught in her unfinished drawing.
“So you’ve met Jeems.” Miss Biglow looked at Val thoughtfully. “And what did you think of him?”
“It’s rather—what did he think of me. He seemed to hate me. I don’t know why. All I ever said to him was ‘Hello.’”
“Jeems is a queer person—”
“Sam says that he is none too honest,” observed Ricky, her attention still held by the picture.
Miss Biglow shook her head. “There is a sort of feud between the swamp people and the farmers around here. And neither side is wholly to be believed in their estimation of the other. Jeems isn’t dishonest, and neither are a great many of the muskrat hunters. In the early days all kinds of outlaws and wanted men fled into the swamps and lived there with the hunters. One or two desperate men gave the whole of the swamp people a bad name and it has stuck. They are a strange folk back there in the fur country.
“Some are Cajuns, descendants of exiles from Evangeline’s country; some are Creoles who took to that way of life after the Civil War ruined them. There’s many a barefooted boy or girl of the swamps who bears a name that was once honored at the Court of France or Spain. And there are Americans of the old frontier stock who came down river with Andrew Jackson’s army from the wilds of Tennessee and the Indian country. It’s a strange mixture, and once in a while you find a person like Jeems. He speaks the uneducated jargon of his people but he reads and writes French and English perfectly. He has studied under Père Armand until he has a classical education such as was popular for Creole boys of good family some fifty years ago. Père Armand is an old man now, but he is as good an instructor as he is a priest.
“Jeems wants to make something of himself. He argues logically that the swamp has undeveloped resources which might save its inhabitants from the grinding poverty which is slowly destroying them. And it is Jeems’ hope that he can discover some of the swamp secrets when he is fitted by training to do so.”
“Who is he?” Val asked. “Is Jeems his first or last name?”
“His last. I have never heard his given name. He is very reticent about his past, though I do know that he is an orphan. But he is of Creole descent and he does have breeding as well as ambition. Unfortunately he had quite an unpleasant experience with a boy who was visiting the Harrisons last summer. The visitor accused Jeems of taking a fine rifle which was later discovered right where the boy had left it in his own canoe. Jeems has a certain pride and he was turned against all the plantation people. His attitude is unfortunate because he longs so for a different sort of life and yet has no contact with young people except those of the swamp. I think he is beginning to trust me, for he will come in the mornings to pose for my picture of the swamp hunter. Do you know,” she hesitated, “I think that you would find a real friend in Jeems if you could overcome his hatred of plantation people. You would gain as much as he from such an association. He can tell you things about the swamp—stories which go back to the old pirate days. Perhaps—”
Ricky looked up from the uncompleted picture. “I think he’d be nice to know. But why does he look so—so sort of starved?”
“Probably because the bill of fare in a swamp cabin is not as varied as it might be,” answered Charity Biglow. “But you can’t offer him anything, of course. I don’t even know where he lives. And now, tell me about yourselves. Are you planning to live here?”
Her frank interest seemed perfectly natural. One simply couldn’t resent Ch
arity Biglow.
“Well,” Ricky laughed ruefully, “we can’t very well live anywhere else. I think Rupert still has ten dollars—”
“After his expedition this morning, I would have my doubts of that,” Val cut in. “You see, Miss Biglow, we are back to the soil now.”
“Charity is the name,” she corrected him. “So you’re down—”
“But not out!” Ricky hastened to assure her. “But we might be that.” And then and there she told their tenant of the rival claimant.
Charity listened closely, absent-mindedly sucking the wooden shaft of one of her brushes. When Ricky had done, she nodded.
“Nice mess you’ve dropped into. But I think that your lawyer has the right idea. This is a neat piece of blackmail and your claimant will disappear into thin air if you have a few concrete facts to face him down with. Are you sure you’ve looked through all the family papers? No hiding-places or safes—”
“One,” said Ricky calmly, “but we don’t know where that is. In the Civil War days, after General Butler took over New Orleans, some family possessions were hidden somewhere in the Long Hall, but we don’t know where. The secret was lost when Richard Ralestone was shot by Yankee raiders.”
“Is he the ghost?” asked Charity.
“No. You ask that as if you know something,” Val observed.
“Nothing but talk. There have been lights seen, white ones. And a while back my maid Rose left because she saw something in the garden one night.”
“Jeems, probably,” the boy commented. “He seems to like the place.”
“No, not Jeems. He was sitting right on that railing when we both heard Rose scream.”
“Val, the handkerchief!” Ricky’s hand arose to her buttoned pocket. “Then there was someone inside the house that night. But why—unless they were after the treasure!”
“The quickest way to find out,” her brother got up from the edge of the table where he had perched, “is to go and do a little probing of our own. We have a good two hours until lunch. Will you join us?” he asked Charity.
“You tempt me, but I’ve got to get in as much work on this as I can,” she indicated her canvas. “And Jeems may show up even if it is late. So my conscience says ‘No.’ Unfortunately I do possess a regular rock-ribbed New England conscience.”
“Rupert will be back by four,” said Ricky. “Will your conscience let you come over for coffee with us then? You see how quickly we have adopted the native customs—coffee at four.”
“Ricky,” her brother explained, “desires to become that figure of Romance—the southern belle.”
“Then we must do what we can to help her create the proper atmosphere,” urged Charity solemnly.
“Even to the victoria and the coach-hound?” Val demanded in dismay.
“Well, perhaps not that far,” she laughed. “Anyway, I accept your kind invitation with pleasure. I shall be there at four—if I can find a presentable dress. Now clear out, you two, and see what secrets of the past you can uncover before lunch time.”
But their explorations resulted in nothing except slightly frayed tempers. Val had sounded what paneling there was, but as he had no idea what a hollow panel should sound like if rapped, he inwardly decided that he was not exactly fitted for such investigations.
Ricky broke two fingernails pressing the carving about the fireplace and sat down on the couch to state in no uncertain terms what she thought of the house, and of their ancestor who had been so misguided as to get himself shot after hiding the stuff. She ended with a brilliant but short description of Val’s present habits and vices—which she added because he happened to have said meekly enough that if she would only trim her nails to a reasonable length, such accidents could be avoided.
When she had done, her brother sat back on the lowest step of the stairs and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.
“Seeing that I have been crawling about on my hands and knees inspecting cracks in the floor, I think I have as much right to lose my temper as you have. Short of tearing the house down, I don’t see how we are going to find anything without directions. And I am not in favor of taking such a drastic step as yet.”
“It’s around here somewhere, I know it!” She kicked petulantly at the hearth-stone.
“That statement is certainly a big help,” Val commented. “Several yards across and I don’t know how many up and down—and you just know it’s there somewhere. Well, you can keep on pressing until you wear your fingers out, but I’m calling it a day right now.”
She did not answer, and he got stiffly to his feet. He was hot and more tired than he had been since he had left the hospital. Because he was just as sure as Ricky that the key to their riddle must be directly before them at that moment, he was thoroughly disgusted.
A strange sound from his sister brought him around. Ricky was not pretty when she cried. No pearly drops slipped down white cheeks. Her nose shone red and she sniffed. But Ricky did not cry often. Only when she was discouraged, or when she was really hurt.
“Why, Ricky—” Val began uncertainly.
“Go ’way,” she hiccupped. “You don’t care—you don’t care ’bout anything. If we have to lose this—”
“We won’t! We’ll find a way!” he assured her hurriedly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just tired and hot, and so are you. Let’s go upstairs and freshen up. Lunch will be ready—”
“I kno-o-ow—” her sob deepened into a wail. “Then Rupert will laugh at us and—”
“Ricky! For goodness sake, pull yourself together!”
She looked up at him, round-mouthed in surprise at his sharpness. And then to his amazement she began to giggle, her giggles mixed with her sobs. “You do look so funny,” she gasped, “like the stern father of a family. Why don’t you fight back always when I get mean, Val?”
He grinned back at her. “I don’t know. Shall I, next time?”
She rubbed her face with a businesslike air and tucked her handkerchief away. “There isn’t going to be any next time,” she announced briskly. “If there is—well—”
“Yes?” Val prompted.
“Then you can just spank me or something drastic. Come on, I must look a sight. And goodness knows, you’re no beauty with that black mark across your chin and your slacks all grimy at the knees. We’ve got to clean up before lunch or Letty-Lou will think we’re some sort of heathen.”
With that she turned and led the way upstairs, totally recovered and herself again in spite of a red nose and suspiciously moist eyelashes.
CHAPTER VI
SATAN GOES A-HUNTING AND FINDS WORK FOR IDLE HANDS
“Val, did that cat go upstairs?” Ricky stood at the foot of the hall staircase frowning crossly. “If he did, you’ll just have to go up and get him. I will not have him walking on the beds with muddy feet. There’s enough to do here without cleaning up after a lazy cat. Where’s Rupert?”
Her brother put aside his note-book and got up from the couch with a lazy stretch. Ricky’s early-morning energy was apt to be a little irksome and Val had not had a good night. When one lies and stares up at a ceiling, one sometimes hears strange noises which cannot be accounted for by wind or creaking boards.
“He retired into Bluebeard’s den right after breakfast and he hasn’t appeared since.”
“I should think that after what he heard yesterday he’d be doing something,” she protested.
“And what is there for him to do? You know just how far we got with our investigations yesterday. Go rap on his door if you like and stir him up. But I don’t think his welcome will be a cordial one.”
Ricky sat down on the bottom step and pushed the hair back from her forehead. Suddenly she looked very small and faintly forlorn with all that expanse of age-blackened wood behind her.
“I can’t understand you two at all. One would think you would be just a
s well pleased if that Beezel the rival walked off with this place. You aren’t even trying to fight!”
“Listen, Ricky, how can we fight when we have nothing solid to fight with? LeFleur is doing all he can, we have explored every possibility here—”
“Val, don’t you want to stay here?” she interrupted him.
He looked around at stone and wood. Did he really want to? His instant hot anger at the thought of another owner there was his answer. Why, this house was a part of them, as much as if they had laid its foundation stones with their own hands. They had been brought up on its blood-stained legends, and on the one or two happier tales which had been lived within its walls. If they had to leave, they would regret it all their lives. And yet—Rupert seemed to take no interest in the claims of the rival, and only Ricky wanted to fight.
Ricky got up from the stairs.
“We might as well go up and catch that cat,” she said.
At the top of the stairs Satan sat, his eyes upon the landing windows. Val reached out his hands for him, but in that single instant Satan was gone. A black tail disappeared around the door of the Jackson room.
“Oh, dear, I hope he isn’t going to get on that bed.” Ricky opened the door wider. “No, there he goes under instead of on it. Can you see him, Val?”
Her brother crouched and lifted the edge of the brocaded cover which swept to the floor. To Val’s surprise a thin line of light showed along the wall at the head of the bed.
“Ricky, look behind the head of the bed! Is it fast against the wall?”
She started to the tall canopied head and pulled the faded fabrics away from the paneling. “No, there’s about two feet here at the bottom. It doesn’t show because the canopy covers it. And, Val, there’s an opening here! Satan’s trying to get through!”
“We need a flashlight.”
“I’ll get Rupert’s. Val, promise not to go in—if it is a door—until I come back!”
“Of course; but hurry.”
The flashlight revealed a wide panel which slid upward. Time and damp had warped the wood so that it no longer fitted snugly to the floor as the builder had intended. But the same warping made the door defy their efforts to raise it any higher. At last, by prying and pounding, they got it up perhaps a yard from the floor. Satan slipped through and they followed on hands and knees.