ON SUCH A NIGHT AS THIS--
It had been on of those dull, weepy days when a sullen drizzle clouded
sky and earth. In consequence, the walls and floors of Pirate's Haven
seemed to exude chill. Rupert built a fire in the hall fireplace, but
none of the family could say that it was a successful one. It made a
nice show of leaping flame accompanied by fancy lighting effects but
gave forth absolutely no heat.
"Val?"
The boy started guiltily and thrust his note-book under the couch
cushion as Charity came in. Tiny drops of rain were strung along the
hairs which had blown free of her rain-cape hood like steel beads along
a golden wire.
"Yes? Don't come here expecting to get warm," he warned her bitterly.
"We are very willing but the fire is weak. Looks pretty, doesn't it?" He
kicked at a charred end on the hearth. "Well, that's all it's good for!"
"Val, what sort of a mess have you and Jeems jumped into?" she asked as
she handed him her dripping cape.
"Oh, just a general sort of mess," he answered lightly. "Jeems had
callers who forgot their manners. So Ricky and I breezed in and brought
the party to a sudden end--"
"As I can see by your black eye," she commented. "But what has Jeems
been up to?"
Val was suddenly very busy holding her cape before that mockery of a
blaze.
"Why don't you ask him that?"
"Because I'm asking you. Rupert came over last night and sat on my
gallery making very roundabout inquiries concerning Jeems. I pried out
of him the details of your swamp battle. But I want to know now just
what Jeems has been doing. Your brother is so vague--"
"Rupert has the gift of being exasperatingly uncommunicative," his
brother told her. "The story, so far as I know, is short and simple.
Jeems knows a secret way into this house. In addition, his grandfather
told him that the fortune of the house of Jeems is concealed
here--having been very hazy in his description of the nature of said
fortune. Consequently, grandson has been playing haunt up and down our
halls trying to find it.
"His story is as full of holes as a sieve but somehow one can't help
believing it. He has explained that he has the secret of the outside
entrance only, and not the one opening from the inside. In the meantime
he is in bed--guarded from intrusion by Ricky and Lucy with the same
care as if he were the crown jewels. So matters rest at present."
"Neatly put." She dropped down on the couch. "By the way, do you realize
that you have ruined your face for my uses?"
Val fingered the crisscrossing tape on his cheek. "This is only
temporary."
"I certainly hope so. That must have been some battle."
"One of our better efforts." He coughed in mock modesty. "Ricky saved
the day with alarms and excursions without. Rupert probably told you
that."
"Yes, he can be persuaded to talk at times. Is he always so silent?"
"Nowadays, yes," he answered slowly. "But when we were younger--You
know," Val turned toward her suddenly, his brown face serious to a
degree, "it isn't fair to separate the members of a family. To put one
here and one there and the third somewhere else. I was twelve when
Father died, and Ricky was eleven. They sent her off to Great-aunt
Rogers because Uncle Fleming, who took me, didn't care for a girl--"
"And Rupert?"
"Rupert--well, he was grown, he could arrange his own life; so he just
went away. We got a letter now and then, or a post-card. There was money
enough to send us to expensive schools and dress us well. It was two
years before I really saw Ricky again. You can't call short visits on
Sunday afternoons seeing anyone.
"Then Uncle Fleming died and I was simply parked at Great-aunt
Rogers'. She"--Val was remembering things, a bitter look about
his mouth--"didn't care for boys. In September I was sent to a military
academy. I needed discipline, it seemed. And Ricky was sent to Miss
Somebody's-on-the-Hudson. Rupert was in China then. I got a letter from
him that fall. He was about to join some expedition heading into the
Gobi.
"Ricky came down to the Christmas hop at the academy, then Aunt Rogers
took her abroad. She went to school in Switzerland a year. I passed from
school to summer camp and then back to school. Ricky sent me some
carvings for Christmas--they arrived three days late."
He stared up at the stone mantel. "Kids feel things a lot more than
they're given credit for. Ricky sent me a letter with some tear stains
between the lines when Aunt Rogers decided to stay another year. And
that was the year I earned the reputation of being a 'hard case.'
"Then Ricky cabled me that she was coming home. I walked out of school
the same morning. I didn't even tell anyone where I was going. Because I
had money enough, I thought I would fly. And that, dear lady, is the end
of this very sad tale." He grinned one-sidedly down at her.
"It was then that--that--"
"I was smashed up? Yes. And Rupert came home without warning to find
things very messy. I was in the hospital when I should have been in some
corrective institution, as Aunt Rogers so often told me during those
days. Ricky was also in disgrace for speaking her mind, as she does now
and then. To make it even more interesting, our guardian had been
amusing himself by buying oil stock with our capital. Unfortunately, oil
did not exist in the wells we owned. Yes, Rupert had every right to be
anything but pleased with the affairs of the Ralestones.
"He swept us off here where we are still under observation, I believe."
"Then you don't like it here?"
"Like it? Madam, 'like' is a very pallid word. What if you were offered
everything you ever wished for, all tied up in pink ribbons and laid on
your door-step? What would your reaction be?"
"So," she was staring into the fire, "that's the way of it?"
"Yes. Or it would be if--" He stooped to reach for another piece of
wood. The fire was threatening to die again.
"What is the flaw in the masterpiece?" she asked quietly.
"Rupert. He's changed. In the old days he was one of us; now he's a
stranger. We're amusing to have around, someone to look after, but I
have a feeling that to him we don't really exist. We aren't real--" Val
floundered trying to express that strange, walled-off emotion which so
often held him in this grown-up brother's presence. "Things like this
'Bluebeard's Chamber' of his--that isn't like the Rupert we knew."
"Did you ever think that he might be shy, too?" she asked. "He left two
children and came home to find two distrustful adults. Give him his
chance--"
"Charity!" Ricky ran lightly downstairs. "Why didn't Val tell me you had
come?"
"I just dropped in to inquire concerning your patient."
"He's better-tempered than Val," declared Ricky shamelessly. "You'll
stay to dinner of course. We're having some sort of crab dish that Lucy
seems to think her best effort. Rupert will be back by then, I'm sure;
he's out somewhere with Sam. There's been some trouble about trespassers
on the swamp lands. Goodness, won't this rain ever stop?"
As if in answer to her question, there came a great gust of wind and
rain against the door, a blast which shook the oak, thick and solid as
it was. And then came the thunder of the knocker which Letty-Lou had
polished into shining life only the day before.
Val opened the door to find Mr. Creighton and Mr. Holmes huddled on the
mat. They came in with an eagerness which was only surpassed by Satan,
wet and displaying cold anger towards his mistress, whom he passed with
a disdainful flirt of his tail as he headed for that deceptive fire.
"You, again," observed Charity resignedly as Sam Two was summoned and
sent away again draped with wet coats and drenched hats.
"Man"--Holmes argued with Satan for the possession of the
hearth-stone--"when it rains in this country, it rains. A branch of your
creek down there is almost over the road--"
"Bayou, not creek," corrected Charity acidly. Lately she had shown a
marked preference for Holmes' absence rather than his company.
"I stand corrected," he laughed; "a branch of your bayou."
"If you found it so unpleasant, why did you--" began Charity, and then
she flushed as if she had suddenly realized that that speech was too
rude even for her recent attitude.
"Why did we come?" Holmes' crooked eyebrow slid upward as his face
registered mock reproof. "My, my, what a warm welcome, my dear." He
shook his head and Charity laughed in spite of herself.
"Don't mind my bearishness," she made half apology. "You know what
pleasant moods I fall into while working. And this rain is depressing."
"But Miss Biglow is right." Creighton smiled his rare, shy smile.
Brusque and impatient as he was when on business bent, he was awkwardly
uncomfortable in ordinary company. The man, Val sometimes thought
privately, lived, ate, slept books. Save when they were the subject of
conversation, he was as out of his element as a coal-miner at the
ballet. "We should explain the reason for this--this rather abrupt
call." He fingered his brief-case, which he still clutched, nervously.
"Down to business already." Holmes seated himself on the arm of Ricky's
chair. "Very well, out with it."
Creighton smiled again, laid the case across his knees, and looked
straight at Ricky. For some reason he talked to her, as if she above all
others must be firmly convinced of the importance of his mission.
"It is a very queer story, Miss Ralestone, a very queer--"
"Said the mariner to the wedding guest." Holmes snapped his fingers at
Satan, who contemptuously ignored him. "Or am I thinking of the Whiting
who talked to the Snail?"
"Perhaps I had better begin at the beginning," continued Creighton,
frowning at Holmes who refused to be so suppressed.
"Why be so dramatic about it, old man? It's very simple, Miss Ricky.
Creighton has lost an author and he wants you to help find him."
When Ricky's eyes involuntarily swept about the room, Val joined in the
laughter. "No, it isn't as easy as all that, I'm afraid." Creighton had
lost his nervous shyness. "But what Holmes says is true. I have lost an
author and do hope that you can help me locate the missing gentleman--or
lady. Two months ago an agent sent a manuscript to our office for
reading. It wasn't complete, but he thought it was well worth our
attention. It was.
"Although there were only five chapters finished, the rest being but
synopsis and elaborated scenes, we knew that we had something--something
big. We delayed reporting upon it until Mr. Brewster--our senior
partner--returned from Europe. Mr. Brewster has the final decision on
all manuscripts; he was as well pleased with this offering as we were.
Frankly, we saw possibilities of another great success such as those two
long historical novels which have been so popular during the past few
years.
"Queerly enough, the author's name was not upon the papers sent us by
the agent--that is, his proper name; there was a pen-name. And when we
applied to Mr. Lever, the agent, we received a most unpleasant shock.
The author's real name, which had been given in the covering letter
mailed with the manuscript to Mr. Lever, had most strangely disappeared,
due to some carelessness in his office.
"Now we have an extremely promising book and no author--"
"What I can't understand," cut in Holmes, "is the modesty of the author.
Why hasn't he written to Lever?"
"That is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair." Mr. Creighton
shook his head. "Lever recalled that the chap had said in the letter
that if Lever found the manuscript unsalable he should destroy it, as
the writer was moving about and had no permanent address. The fellow
added that if he didn't hear from Lever he would assume that it was not
acceptable. Lever wrote to the address given in the letter to
acknowledge receipt, but that was all."
"Mysterious," Val commented, interested in spite of himself.
"Just so. Lever deduced from the tone of the letter that the writer was
very uncertain of his own powers and hesitated to submit his manuscript.
And yet, what we have is a very fine piece of work, far beyond the
ability of the average beginner. The author must have written other
things.
"The novel is historical, with a New Orleans setting. Its treatment is
so detailed that only one who had lived here or had close connections
with this country could have produced it. Mr. Brewster, knowing that I
was about to travel south, asked me to see if I could discover our
missing author through his material. So far I have failed; our man is
unknown to any of the writers of the city or to any of those interested
in literary matters.
"Yet he knows New Orleans and its history as few do today except those
of old family who have been born and bred here. Dr. Hanly Richardson of
Tulane University has assured me that much of the material used is
authentic--historically correct to the last detail. And it was Dr.
Richardson who suggested that several of the scenes must have actually
occurred, becoming with the passing of time part of the tradition of
some aristocratic family.
"The period of the story is that time of transition when Louisiana
passed from Spain to France and then under the control of the United
States. It covers the years immediately preceding the Battle of New
Orleans. Unfortunately, those were years of disturbance and change.
Events which might have been the talk of the town, and so have found
description in gossipy memoirs, were swallowed by happenings of national
importance. It is, I believe, in intimate family records only that I can
find the clue I seek."
"Which scenes"--Ricky's eyes shone in the firelight--"are those Dr.
Richardson believes real?"
"Well, he was very certain that the duel of the twin brothers must have
occurred--Why, Mr. Ralestone," he interrupted himself as the stick Val
was about to place on the fire fell from his hands and rolled across the
floor. "Mr. Ralestone, what is the matter?"
Across his shoulder Ricky signaled her brother. And above her head Val
saw Holmes' eyes narrow shrewdly.
"Nothing. I'm sorry I was so clumsy." Val stooped hurriedly to hide his
confusion.
"A duel between twin brothers." Ricky twisted one of the buttons which
marched down the front of her sport dress. "That sounds exciting."
"They fought at midnight"--Creighton was enthralled by the story he was
telling--"and one was left for dead. The scene is handled with restraint
and yet you'd think that the writer had been an eye-witness. Now if such
a thing ever did happen, there would have been a certain amount of talk
afterwards--"
Charity nodded. "The slaves would have spread the news," she agreed,
"and the person who found the wounded twin."
Val kept his eyes upon the hearth-stone. There was no stain there, but
his vivid imagination painted the gray as red as it had been that cold
night when the slave woman had come to find her master lying there, his
brother's sword across his body. Someone had used the story of the
missing Ralestone. But who today knew that story except themselves,
Charity, LeFleur, and some of the negroes?
"And you think that some mention of such an event might be found in the
papers of the family concerned?" asked Ricky. She was leaning forward in
her chair, her lips parted eagerly.
"Or in those of some other family covering the same period," Creighton
added. "I realize that this is an impertinence on my part, but I wonder
if such mention might not be found among the records of your own house.
From what I have seen and heard, your family was very prominent in the
city affairs of that time--"
Ricky stood up. "There is no need to ask, Mr. Creighton. My brother and
I will be most willing to help you. Unfortunately, Rupert is very much
immersed in a business matter just now, but Val and I will go through
the papers we have."
Val choked down the protest that was on his lips just in time to nod
agreement. For some reason Ricky wanted to keep the secret. Very well,
he would play her game. At least he would until he knew what lay behind
her desire for silence.
"That is most kind." Creighton was beaming upon both of them. "I cannot
tell you how much I appreciate your coöperation in this matter--"
"Not at all," answered Ricky with that deceptive softness in her voice
which masked her rising temper. "We are only too grateful to be allowed
to share a secret."
And then her brother guessed that she did not mean Creighton's secret
but some other. She crossed the room and rang the bell for Letty-Lou to
bring coffee. Something triumphant in her step added to Val's suspicion.
Like the Englishman of Kipling's poem, Ricky was most to be feared when
she grew polite. He turned in time to see her wink at Charity.
Rupert came in just then, wet and thoroughly out of sorts, full of the
evidences he had discovered on Ralestone lands bordering the swamp that
strangers had been camping there. Their guests all stayed to supper,
lingering long about the table to discuss Rupert's find, so that Val did
not get a chance to be alone with Ricky to demand an explanation. And
for some reason she seemed to be adroitly avoiding him. He did have her
almost cornered in the upper hall when Letty-Lou came up behind him and
plucked at his sleeve.
"Mistuh Val," she said, "dat Jeems boy done wan' to see yo'all."
"Bother Jeems!" Val exploded, his eyes on Ricky's back. But he stepped
into the bedroom where the swamper was still imprisoned by Lucy's
orders.
The boy was propped up on his pillows, looking out of the window. His
body was tense. At the sound of Val's step he turned his bandaged head.
"Can't yo' git me outa heah?" he demanded.
"Why?"
"The watah's up!" His eyes were upon the water-filled darkness of the
garden.
"But that's all right," the other assured him. "Sam says that it won't
reach the top of the levee. At the worst, only the lower part of the
garden will be flooded."
Jeems glanced at Val over his shoulder and then without a word he edged
toward the side of the bed and tried to stand. But with a muffled gasp
he sank back again, pale and weak. Awkwardly Val forced him back against
his pillows.
"It's all right," he assured him again.
But in answer the swamper shook his head violently, "It ain't all right
in the swamp."
In a flash Val caught his meaning. Swampers lived on house-boats for the
most part, and the boats will outride all but unusual floods. But Jeems'
cabin was built on land, land none too stable even in dry weather. The
swamp boy touched Val's hand.
"It ain't safe. Two of them piles is rotted. If the watah gits that far,
they'll go."
"You mean the piles holding up your cabin platform?" Val asked.
He nodded. For a second Val caught a glimpse of forlorn loneliness
beneath the sullen mask Jeems habitually wore.
"But there's nothing you can do now--"
"It ain't the cabin. Ah gotta git the chest--"
"The one in the cabin?"
His black eyes were fixed upon Val's, and then they swerved and rested
upon the wall behind the young Ralestone.
"Ah gotta git the chest," he repeated simply.
And Val knew that he would. He would get out of bed and go into the
swamp after that treasure of his. Which left only one thing for Val to
do.
"I'll get the chest, Jeems. Let me have your key to the cabin. I'll take
the outboard motor and be back before I'm missed."
"Yo' don't know the swamp--"
"I know how to find the cabin. Where's the key?"
"In theah," he pointed to the highboy.
Val's fingers closed about the bit of metal.
"Mistuh," Jeems straightened, "Ah won't forgit this."
Val glanced toward the downpour without.
"Neither will I, in all probability," he said dryly as he went out.
It had been on just such a night as this that the missing Ralestone had
gone out into the gloom. But he was coming back again, Val reminded
himself hurriedly. Of course he was. With a shake he pulled on his
trench-coat and slipped out the front door unseen.