THE RALESTONES ENTERTAIN AN UNOBTRUSIVE VISITOR
Val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the floor. An
unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate body. He could feel its hot
breath on his cheek. With a mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw
out his arms in an attempt to fight off his tormentor.
The morning sun was warm across his pillow, making him blink. On his
chest stood Satan, kneading the bedclothes with his front paws and
purring gently. From the open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze.
Having aroused the sleeper, Satan deserted his post to hang half-way out
the window, intent upon the housekeeping arrangements of several birds
who had built in the hedges below. A moment later Val elbowed him aside
to look out upon the morning.
It was a fine one. Wisps of mist from the bayou still hung about the
lower garden, but the sun had already dried the brick-paved paths. A bee
blundered past Val's nose, and he realized that it might be well to
close the screen hanging shutter-like outside.
From the direction of the hidden water came the faint _putt-putt_ of a
motor-boat, but inside Pirate's Haven there was utter silence. As yet
the rest of the family were not abroad. Val dropped his pajamas in a
huddle by the bed and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with
this new world. Perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so for
many days to come. He stole cautiously out of his room and tiptoed down
halls and dark stairs, wanting to be alone while he discovered Pirate's
Haven for himself.
The Long Hall looked chilly and bleak, even though patches of sunlight
were fighting the usual gloom. On the hearth-stone lay a scrap of white,
doubtless Ricky's handkerchief. Val flung open the front door and
stepped out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning air.
The blossoms on the morning-glory vines which wreathed the edge of the
terrace were open to the sun, and the birds sang in the bushes below.
Satan streaked by and disappeared into the tangle. It was suddenly very
good to be alive. The boy stretched luxuriously and started to explore,
choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering paths which began at the
circle of the old carriage drive.
Here was evidence of last night's storm. Wisps of Spanish moss, torn
from the great live-oaks of the avenue and looking like tufts of coarse
gray horsehair, lay in water-logged mats here and there. And in the open
places, the grass, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again.
A rabbit scuttled across the path as it went down four steps of broken
stone into a sort of glen. Here some early owner of the plantation had
made an irregular pool of stone to be fed by the trickle of a tiny
spring. Frogs the size of postage-stamps leaped panic-stricken for the
water when Val's shadow fell across its rim. A leaden statue of the boy
Pan danced joyously on a pedestal above. Ricky would love this, thought
her brother as he dabbled his fingers in the chill water trying to catch
the stem of the single lily bud.
Out of nowhere came a turtle to slide into the depths of the pool. The
sun was very warm across Val's bowed shoulders. He liked the garden,
liked the plantation, even liked the circumstances which had brought
them there. Lazily he arose and turned.
By the steps down which he had come stood a slight figure in a faded
flannel shirt and mud-streaked overalls. His bare brown feet gripped the
stones as if to get purchase for instant flight.
"Hello," Val said questioningly.
The new-comer eyed young Ralestone warily and then his gaze shifted to
the bushes beyond.
"I'm Val Ralestone." Val held out his hand. To his astonishment the
stranger's mobile lips twisted in a snarl and he edged crabwise toward
the bushes bordering the glen.
"Who are you?" Val demanded sharply.
"Ah has got as much right heah as yo' all," the boy answered angrily.
And with that he turned and slipped into a path at the far end of the
glen.
Aroused, Val hurried after him to reach the bayou levee. The quarry was
already in midstream, wielding an efficient canoe paddle. On impulse Val
shouted after him, but he never turned. A rifle lay across his knees and
there were some rusty traps in the bottom of the flimsy canoe. Then Val
remembered that Pirate's Haven lay upon the fringe of the muskrat swamps
where Cajun and American squatters still carried on the fur trade of
their ancestors.
But as Val stood speeding the departure of the uninvited guest, another
canoe put off from the opposite shore of the bayou and came swinging
across toward the rough wooden landing which served the plantation. A
round brown face grinned up at Val as a powerful negro clambered ashore.
"Is dey up at de big house now?" he asked cheerily as he came up.
"If you mean the Ralestones, why, we got here last night," Val answered.
"Yo'all is Mistuh Ralestone, suh?" He took off his wide-brimmed straw
hat and twisted it in his oversized hands.
"I'm Valerius Ralestone. My brother Rupert is the owner."
"Well, Mistuh Ralestone, suh, I'se yo'all's fahmah from 'cross wata.
Mistuh LeFleah, he says dat yo'all is come to live heah agin. So mah
woman, she says dat Ah should see if yo'all is heah yet and does yo'all
want anythin'. Lucy, she's bin a-livin' heah, dat is, her mammy and
pappy and her pappy's mammy and pappy has bin heah since befo' old Massa
Ralestone done gone 'way. So Lucy, she jest nachely am oneasy 'bout
yo'all not gettin' things comfo'ble."
"That is kind of her," Val answered heartily. "My brother said something
last night about wanting to see you today, so if you'll come up to the
house--"
"I'se Sam, Mistuh Ralestone, suh. Ah done work heah quite a spell now."
"By the way," Val asked as they went up toward the house, "did you see
that boy in the canoe going downstream as you crossed? I found him in
the garden and the only answer he would give to my questions was that he
had as much right there as I had. Who is he?"
The wide smile faded from Sam's face. "Mistuh Ralestone, suh, effen dat
no-'count trash comes 'round heah agin, yo'all bettah jest call de
policemans. Dey's nothin' but poah white trash livin' down in de swamp
places an' dey steals whatevah dey kin lay han' on. Was dis boy big like
yo'all, wi' black hair an' a thin face?"
"Yes."
"Dat's de Jeems boy. He ain't got no mammy nor pappy. He lives jest like
de wil' man wi' a li'l huntin' an' a big lot stealin'. He talk big. Say
he belongs in de big house, not wi' swamp folks. But jest yo'all pay no
'tenshun to him nohow."
"Val! Val Ralestone! Where are you?" Ricky's voice sounded clear through
the morning air.
"Coming!" he shouted back.
"Well, make it snappy!" she shrilled. "The toast has been burnt twice
and--" But what further catastrophe had occurred her brother could not
hear.
"Yo'all wants to git to de back do', Mistuh Ralestone, suh? Dere's a
sho't-cut 'cross dis-a-way." Sam turned into a side path and Val
followed.
Ricky was at the stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as her brother
stepped into the kitchen. "Well," she snapped as he entered, "it's about
time you were showing up. I've simply cracked my voice trying to call
you, and Rupert's been talking about having the bayou dragged or
something of the kind. Where have you been, anyway?"
"Getting acquainted with our neighbors. Ricky," he called her attention
to the smiling face just outside the door, "this is Sam. He runs the
home farm for us. And his wife is a descendant of the Ralestone house
folks."
"Yassuh, dat's right. We's Ralestone folks, Miss 'Chanda. Mah Lucy done
sen' me ovah to fin' out what yo'all is a-needin' done 'bout de place.
She was in yisteday afo' yo'all come an' seed to de dustin' an' sich--"
"So that's why everything was so clean! That was nice of her--"
"Yo'all is Ralestones, Miss 'Chanda. An' Lucy say dat de Ralestones am
a-goin' to fin' dis place jest ready for dem when dey come." He beamed
upon them proudly. "Lucy, she am a-goin' be heah jest as soon as she
gits de chillens set for de day. I'se come fust so's Ah kin see wat
Mistuh Ralestone done wan' done wi dem rivah fiel's--"
"Where is Rupert?" Val broke in.
"Went out to see about the car. The storm last night wrecked the door of
the carriage house--"
"Zat so?" Sam's eyes went round. "Den Ah bettah be a-gittin' out an' see
'bout it. 'Scuse me, suh. 'Scuse me, Miss 'Chanda." With a jerk of his
head he left them. Val turned to Ricky.
"We seem to have fallen into good hands."
"It's my guess that his Lucy is a manager. He just does what she tells
him to. I wonder how he knew my name?"
"LeFleur probably told them all about us."
"Isn't it odd--" she turned off the gas, "'Ralestone folks.'"
"Loyalty to the Big House," her brother answered slowly. "I never
thought that it really existed out of books."
"It makes me feel positively feudal. Val, I was born about a hundred
years too late. I'd like to have been the mistress here when I could
have ridden out in a victoria behind two matched bays, with a coachman
and a footman up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me."
"And with a Dalmatian coach-hound running behind and at least
three-fourths of the young bloods of the neighborhood as a mounted
escort. I know. But those days are gone forever. Which leads me to
another subject. What are we going to do today?"
"The dishes, for one thing," Ricky began ticking the items off on her
fingers, "and then the beds. This afternoon Rupert wants us--that is,
you and me--to drive to town and do some errands."
"Oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. Well, now that that's
all settled, suppose we have some breakfast. Has Rupert been fed or is
he thinking of going on a diet?"
"He'll be in--"
"Said she with perfect faith. All of which does not satisfy the pangs of
hunger."
"Where's Lovey?"
"If you are using that sickening name to refer to Satan--he's
out--hunting, probably. The last I saw of him he was shooting head first
for a sort of bird apartment house over to the left of the front door.
Here's Rupert. Now maybe we may eat."
"I've got something to tell you," hissed Ricky as the missing member of
the clan banged the screen door behind him. Having so aroused Val's
curiosity, she demurely went around the table to pour the coffee.
"How's the carriage house?" Val asked.
"Sam thinks he can fix it with some of that lumber piled out back of the
old smoke-house." Rupert reached for a piece of toast. "What do you
think of our family retainer?"
"Seems a good chap."
"LeFleur says one of the best. Possesses a spark of ambition and is
really trying to make a go of the farm, which is more than most of them
do around here. His wife, by all accounts, is a wonder. Used to be the
cook-housekeeper here when the Rafaels had the place. LeFleur still
talks about the two meals he ate here then. Sam tells me that she is
planning to take us in hand."
"But we can't afford--" began Ricky.
"I gathered that money does not come into the question. The lady is
rather strong-willed. So, Ricky," he laughed, "we'll leave you two to
fight it out. But Lucy may be able to find us a laundress."
"Which reminds me," Ricky took a crumpled piece of white cloth from her
pocket, "if this is yours, Rupert, you deserve to do your own washing. I
don't know what you've got on it; looks like oil."
He took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief.
"Not guilty this time. Ask little brother here." He passed over the
dirty linen square. It was plain white--or it had been white before
three large black splotches had colored it--without an initial or
colored edge.
"I think he's prevaricating, Ricky," Val protested. "This isn't mine.
I'm down to one thin dozen and those are the ones you gave me last
Christmas. They have my initials on."
Ricky took back the disputed square. "That's funny. It certainly isn't
mine. I'm sure one of you must be mistaken."
"Why?" asked Rupert.
"Because I found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this morning. It
wasn't there last night or one of us would have seen it and picked it
up, 'cause it was right there in plain sight."
"Sure it isn't yours, Val?"
He shook his head. "Positive."
"Queer," murmured Rupert and reached for it again. "It's a good quality
of linen and it's almost new." He held it to his nose. "That's oil on
it. But how--?"
"I wonder--" Val mused.
"What do you know?" asked Ricky.
"Well--Oh, it isn't possible. He wouldn't carry a handkerchief," her
brother said half to himself.
"Who wouldn't?" asked Rupert. Then Val told them of his meeting with the
boy Jeems and what Sam had had to say of him.
"Don't know whether I exactly like this." Rupert folded the mysterious
square of stained linen. "As you say, Val, a boy like that would hardly
carry a handkerchief. Also, you met him in the garden, while--"
"The person who left that was in this house last night!" finished Ricky.
"And I don't like that!"
"The door was locked and bolted when I came down this morning," Val
observed.
Rupert nodded. "Yes, I distinctly remember doing that before I went up
to bed last night. But when I was going around the house this morning I
discovered that there are French doors opening from the old ball-room to
the terrace, and I didn't inspect their fastening last night."
"But who would want to come in here? There are no valuables left except
furniture. And it would take three or four men and a truck to collect
that. I don't see what he was after," puzzled Ricky.
Rupert arose from the table. "We have, it seems, a mystery on our hands.
If you want to amuse yourselves, my children, here's the first clue.
I've got to get back to the carriage house and my labors there."
He dropped the handkerchief on the table and left. Ricky reached for the
"clue." "Awfully casual about it, isn't he?" she said. "Just the same, I
believe that this is a clue and I know what our visitor was after, too,"
she finished triumphantly.
"What?"
"The treasure Richard Ralestone hid when the Yankee raiders came."
"Well, if our unknown visitor has as little in the way of clues as we
have, he'll be a long time finding it."
"And we're going to beat him to it! It's somewhere in the Hall, and the
secret--"
"See here," Val interrupted her, "what were you about to tell me when
Rupert came in?"
She put the handkerchief in the breast pocket of her sport dress,
buttoning the flap over it.
"Rupert's got a secret."
"What kind?"
"It has to do with those two brief-cases of his. You know, the ones he
was so particular about all the way down here?"
Val nodded. Those bulging brief-cases had apparently contained the
dearest of his roving brother's possessions, judging from the way Rupert
had fussed if they were a second out of his sight.
"This morning when I came downstairs," Ricky continued, "he was sneaking
them into that little side room off the dining-room corridor, the one
which used to be the old plantation office. And when he came out and saw
me standing there, he deliberately turned around and locked the door!"
"Whew!" Val commented.
"Yes, I felt that way too. So I simply asked him what he was doing and
he made some silly remark about Bluebeard's chamber. He means to keep
his old secret, too, 'cause he put the key on his key-ring when he
didn't know I was watching him."
"This is not the place for a rest cure," her brother observed as he
started to scrape and stack the dishes. "First someone unknown leaves
his handkerchief for a calling card and then Rupert goes Fu Manchu on
us. To say nothing of the rugged and unfriendly son of the soil whom I
found bumping around the garden where he had no business to be."
"What was he like anyway?" asked his sister as she dipped soap flakes
into the dish-water with a liberal hand.
"Oh, thin, and awfully brown. But not bad looking if it weren't for his
mouth and that scowl of his. And he very distinctly doesn't like us.
About my build, but quicker on his feet, tough looking. I wouldn't care
to try to stop him doing anything he wanted to do."
"My dear, are you describing Clark Gable or someone you met in our
garden this morning?" she demanded sweetly.
"Very well," Val retorted huffily into the depths of the oatmeal pan he
was wiping, "you catch him next time."
"I will," was her serene answer as she wrung out the dish-cloth.
They went on to the upstairs work and Val received his first lesson in
the art of bed-making under his sister's extremely critical tuition. It
seemed that corners must be square and that dreadful things were likely
to happen when wrinkles were not smoothed out. This exercise led them
naturally to unpacking the remainder of the hand baggage and putting
things away. It was after ten before Val came downstairs crab-fashion,
wiping off each step behind him as he came with one of Ricky's three
dust-cloths.
He paused on the landing to pull back the tapestry curtain and open the
windows above the alcove seat, letting in the freshness of the morning
to rout some of the dank chill of the hall. Kneeling there, he watched
Rupert come around the house. Rupert had shed his coat and his sleeves
were rolled up almost to his shoulders. There was a streak of black
across his cheek and a large rip almost separated the collar from his
shirt. Although he looked hot, cross, and tired, more like a day-laborer
than a gentleman plantation owner whose ancestors had always "planted
from the saddle," his stride had a certain buoyancy which it had lacked
the day before.
With an idea of escaping Ricky by joining his brother, Val hurried
downstairs and headed kitchenward. But his sister was there before him
looking over a collection of knives of various lengths.
"Preparing for a little murder or two?" Val asked casually.
She jumped and dropped a paring knife.
"Val, don't do that! I wish you'd whistle or something while you're
walking around in those tennis shoes. I can't hear you move. I'm looking
for something to cut flowers with. There don't seem to be any scissors
except mine and I'm not going to use those."
"Take dat, Miss 'Chanda." A fat black hand motioned toward the paring
knife.
Just within the kitchen door stood a wide, a very wide, Negro woman. Her
neat print dress was stiff with starch from a recent washing, and round
gold hoops swung proudly from her ears. Her black hair, straightened by
main force of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of
extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind and serene.
"I'se Lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "An' dis," she reached
an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl at least ten shades lighter and
thirty-five shades thinner, "is mah sistah's onliest gal-chil',
Letty-Lou. Mak' yo' mannahs, Letty. Does yo' wan' Miss 'Chanda to think
yo' is a know-nothin' outa de swamp?"
[Illustration: "_I'se Lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "An'
dis is Letty-Lou._"]
Thus sternly admonished, Letty-Lou ducked her head shyly and murmured
something in a die-away voice.
"Letty-Lou," announced her aunt, "is com' to do fo' yo'all, Miss
'Chanda. I'se larn'd her good how to do fo' ladies. She is good at
scrubbin' an' cleanin' an sich. Ah done train'd her mahse'f."
Letty-Lou looked at the floor and twisted her thin hands behind her
back.
"But," protested Ricky, "we're not planning to have anyone do for us,
Lucy."
"Dat's all right, Miss 'Chanda. Yo'all's not gittin' a know-nothin'.
Letty-Lou, she knows her work. She kin cook right good."
"We can't take her," Val backed up Ricky. "You must understand, Lucy,
that we don't have much money and we can't pay for--"
"Pay fo'!" Lucy's indignant sniff reduced him to his extremely
unimportant place. "We's not talkin' 'bout pay workin', Mistuh
Ralestone. Letty-Lou don' git no pay but her eatments. 'Co'se, effen
Miss 'Chanda wanna give her some ole clo's now an' den, she kin tak'
dem. Letty-Lou, she don' hav' to git her a pay-work job, her pappy mak's
him a good livin'. But Miss 'Chanda ain' a-goin' to tak' keer dis big
hous' all by herself wit' her lil' han's dere. We's Ralestone folks.
Letty-Lou, yo' gits on youah ap'on an' gits to work."
"But we can't let her," Ricky raised her last protest.
"Miss 'Chanda, we's Ralestone folks. Mah gran' pappy Bob was own man to
Massa Miles Ralestone. He fit in de wah longside o' Massa Miles. An' wen
de wah was done finish'd, dem two com' home to-gethah. Den Massa Miles,
he call mah gran'pappy in an' say, 'Bob, yo'all is free an' I'se a
ruinated man. Heah is fiv' dollahs gol' money an' yo' kin hav' youah
hoss.' An' Bob, he say, 'Cap'n Miles, dese heah Yankees done said I'se
free but dey ain't done said dat I ain't a Ralestone man. W'at time does
yo'all wan' breakfas' in de mornin'?' An' wen Massa Miles wen' no'th to
mak' his fo'tune, he told Bob, 'Bob, I'se leavin' dis heah hous' in
youah keer.' An', Miss 'Chanda, we done look aftah Pirate's Haven evah
since, mah gran'pappy, mah pappy, Sam an' me."
Ricky held out her hand. "I'm sorry, Lucy. You see, we don't understand
very well, we've been away so long."
Lucy touched Ricky's hand and then, for all her weight, bobbed a curtsy.
"Dat's all right, Miss 'Chanda, yo' is ouah folks."
Letty-Lou stayed.