THE RETURN OF RICK RALESTONE
Val ventured to break the sudden silence which resulted from Creighton's
astonishing statement.
"But how--why--"
"Yeah," the rival had collected a measure of his scattered wits, "whatta
yuh mean, wise guy?"
"Just this--" LeFleur drew himself up and faced the invaders sternly--"I
have only this very morning deposited with the probate court certain
documents making very plain the identity of this young man. Without the
shadow of a doubt he is the only living descendant of Roderick Ralestone
and his wife, Valerie St. Jean de Roche. I have also sworn out a
complaint--"
Then the Boss took a hand in the game. "The boy's a minor," he observed.
"Through me," LeFleur returned, "Mr. Rupert Ralestone as nearest of kin
has applied for guardianship and there will be no difficulty in the
settlement of that matter."
"Yeah!" The rival threw his gloves on the terrace and glared not at
LeFleur but at his own backing. Having stared at the lawyer of his party
until that unfortunate man lost all assurance, he attacked the Boss.
"So, wise guy, what now? We ain't got such a snap as yuh said we were
gonna have. We were gonna move right in and take over the joint, were
we? We didn't have anything to worry about. For once we was playin' with
the law. Yeah, we were. We are nothin' but a gang of mugs. Whatta we
gonna do now, huh? You oughta know. Ain't yuh been doin' our thinkin'
for us all along? We can't grab the land and run. We gotta camp right
here if we're gonna git anything. And how are we gonna--"
"Simpson!" the Boss's voice was sharp. "Be quiet! You are becoming
wearisome. Gentlemen," he bowed slightly toward LeFleur and Creighton,
"one cannot fight bad luck, and this time Fate smiles upon you. It was a
good idea if it had worked," he added musingly. "Young Ralestone seems
to have gathered all the aces into his hand. Even," the drawl became a
sneer, "even the guardianship of the missing heir, which will mean a
nice sum in the bank for the happy guardian, if all reports are true."
"What _did_ you want here?" Val asked for the last time.
The Boss smiled. "I shall leave that mystery for you to unravel, my
wounded hero. It should occupy an idle moment or two. Doubtless all will
be made clear in the fullness of time. As for you," he turned upon
LeFleur, "there is no use in your entertaining any foolish idea of
calling the police. For our invasion today we have a court order;
unhappily it is no longer of use. But we did come here in good faith, as
we are prepared to prove. And all other evidence of any lawbreaking upon
our part rests, I believe, upon the word of two boys, evidence which
might be twisted by a clever lawyer. You may prosecute Simpson for
perjury, of course. But I think that Simpson will not be in this part of
the country long. Yes," he looked about him once more at garden and
house, "it was a very good idea. A pity it did not work. Well, I must be
going before I begin to curse my luck. When a man does that, he
sometimes loses it. You must have found yours, I think."
"We did," Val answered, but the Boss did not hear him, for he had turned
on his heel and was striding down the terrace. For a moment his
followers hesitated uncertainly and then they were after him. Back into
their sinister beetle-car went the invaders and then they were gone down
the drive, leaving the Ralestones in possession of the victorious field.
"Now," Val said plaintively, "will somebody please tell me just what
this is all about? Who is Jeems, really?"
"Just who I said," answered Creighton promptly. "Roderick St. Jean
Ralestone, the only descendant of your pirate ancestor."
"Bettah tell us the story," suggested the swamper quietly. "Yo' ain't
foolin', are yo', Mistuh Creighton?"
The New Yorker shook his head. "No, I'm not fooling. But you are not the
first one to question my story." He smiled reminiscently. "Judge Henry
Lane had to see every line of written proof this morning before he would
admit that the tale might be true."
"But where did you find this 'proof'?" Val demanded as Jeems pulled up
chairs for the lawyer and Creighton.
"In that chest of Jeems' which you brought out of the swamp on the night
of the storm," he replied promptly. "And, young man," he said to Jeems
indignantly, "if you had let me see those papers of yours a month ago,
instead of waiting until last week, we would have had this matter
cleared up then--"
"But then we might never have found the Luck!" Val protested.
"Humph, that piece of steel is historically interesting, no doubt,"
conceded Creighton, "but hardly worth risking your life for."
"No? Well, you heard what that man said just now--that we had found our
luck. It's so; we have had good luck since. But I'm sorry; do get on
with the story of Jeems' box."
"Ah gave it to him Monday," said the swamper slowly. "But, Mistuh
Creighton, there weren't nothin' in that chest but some books full of
handwritin'--most in some funny foreign stuff--an' a French
prayer-book."
"Plenty to establish your right to the name and a quarter interest in
the estate," snapped LeFleur. Val thought the lawyer rather resented the
fact that it was Creighton and not he who had found the way out of their
difficulties.
"Two of those books were ships' logs, kept in the fashion of diaries,
partly in Latin," explained the New Yorker. "The log of the ship
_Annette Marie_ for the years 1814 and 1815 gave us what we wanted. The
master was Captain Roderick Ralestone, although he concealed his name in
a sort of an anagram. After his quarrel with his brother he apparently
went to Lafitte and purchased the ship which he had once commanded for
the smuggler. Then he sailed off into the Gulf to become a free-trader,
with his headquarters first in Georgetown, British Guiana, then in Dutch
Curaçao, and finally at Port-au-Prince, Haiti. It was there that he met
and fell in love with Valerie St. Jean de Roche, the only living child
and heir of the Comte de Roche, who had survived the Terror of the
French Revolution only to fall victim to the rebel slaves on his Haitian
estates.
"Horribly injured, the Comte de Roche had been saved from death by the
devotion of his daughter and her nurse, a free woman of color. These two
women not only saved his life, but managed to keep him and themselves
alive through the dark years which followed the horrors of the black
uprising and the overthrow of the French rule. The courage of that lady
of France must have been very great. But she was near to the end of her
strength when she met Roderick Ralestone.
"Against the direct orders of the black despots in the land, young
Ralestone got de Roche and his daughter away on his ship. Her maid chose
to remain among her people. Ralestone hints that she was a sort of
priestess of Voodoo and that it had been her dark powers which had
protected the lives of those she loved.
"Ralestone took the refugees to Curaçao, but de Roche did not survive.
He lived only long enough to see his daughter married to her rescuer and
to persuade his son-in-law to legally adopt the name of St. Jean de
Roche, that an old and honored family might not be forgotten. The
Comte's only son had been killed by the blacks.
"So it was as Roderick St. Jean--he dropped the 'de Roche' in time--that
he returned here in 1830. His wife was dead, worn out while yet in her
youth by the horrors of her girlhood. But Roderick brought with him a
ten-year-old boy who had the right to both the name of Ralestone and
that of de Roche.
"Roderick himself was greatly changed. Years of free-trading, both in
the Gulf and in the South Seas, had made him wholly sailor. A cutlass
cut disfigured his face and altered the line of his mouth. Anyone who
had known Roderick Ralestone would have little interest in Captain St.
Jean, the merchant adventurer. He discusses this point at some length in
his log, always concealing his real name.
"For the space of a year or two he was content to live quietly. He even
opened a small shop and dealt in luxuries from the south. Then the
desire to wander, which must have been the key-note of his life, drove
him out into the world again. He placed his son in the care of a certain
priest, whom he trusted, and went south to become one of the visionary
revolutionists who were fighting their way back and across South and
Central America. In one bloody engagement he fell, as his son notes in
the old logs which he was now using to record his own daily
experiences."
"Ricky said," Val mused, "that Roderick Ralestone never died in his bed.
What became of the son?"
"Father Justinian wanted him to enter the Church, but in spite of his
strict training he had no vocation. The money his father had left with
the priest was enough to establish him in a small coastwise trading
venture, and later he developed a flatboat freight service running
upriver to Nashville."
"But didn't he ever try to get in touch with the Ralestones?" Val asked.
"No. When Roderick Ralestone sailed from New Orleans he seems to have
determined to cut himself off from the past entirely. As I said, he used
an anagram to hide his name all the way through the log, and doubtless
his son never knew that there was anything strange about his father's
past. Laurent St. Jean, the son, prospered. Just before the outbreak of
the Civil War he was reckoned one of the ten wealthiest men of his
native city.
"But that wealth vanished in the war when shipping no longer went forth
from the port. I did come across one interesting fact in Laurent's notes
covering those years. In 1861 Laurent St. Jean built a blockade-runner
called the _Red Bird_. His backer in the venture was a Mr. Ralestone of
Pirate's Haven. So once Ralestone did meet Ralestone without being aware
of the fact.
"Laurent St. Jean was imprisoned by 'Beast' Butler, along with other
prominent men of the city, when the Yankees captured New Orleans. And he
died in 1867 from a lingering illness contracted during his
imprisonment. His son, René St. Jean, came home from war to find himself
ruined. His father's shipping business existed on paper only. Having the
grit and determination of his grandfather, he struggled along for almost
ten years trying to get back on his feet. But those were dark years for
the whole country.
"In 1876 St. Jean gave up the struggle. With his Creole wife and their
two sons he moved into the swamps. Working first as a guide and trapper
and then as a hunter of birds, he managed to make a sparse living. His
eldest son followed in his footsteps, but the younger took to the sea.
Roderick St. Jean, the eldest son, died of yellow fever in 1890. He left
one son to the guardianship of his brother who had come home from the
sea. That son came to look upon his uncle as his father and the real
relationship between them was half forgotten.
"But René St. Jean the second was curious. He knew something of the
world and he was interested in the past. It was his custom to do a great
amount of reading, especially reading which concerned the history of his
own state and city. And once he was inclined to get out the old sea
chest which had been moved with the family for so many years. Then he
must have discovered his relationship to the Ralestones; perhaps he
solved the anagram or found the pasted pages in the prayer-book--
"He was not ambitious for himself, but he wanted a better chance for his
foster-son and nephew than the one he had had. So he endeavored to prove
his claim to this property. Unfortunately, the lawyer he trusted was a
shyster of the worst sort. He himself had no belief in his client's
story and merely bled him for small sums each month without ever really
looking into the matter."
"Gran'pappy said he was tryin' to git his rights," broke in Jeems. "He
nevah tol' mah pappy what he knowed. An' he wouldn't let anyone see into
that chest--he kep' it undah his bed. Then aftah Pappy died of the
fever--'long with mah mothah--Gran'pappy cotched it too. An' the doctah
said that was what made him so fo'getful aftahwards. He stopped goin' in
town; but he came heah--'huntin' his rights,' he said. An' he tol' me
that our fortune was hidden heah. 'Course," Jeems looked at them
apologetically, "it soun's sorta silly, but when Gran'pappy tol' yo'
things yo' kinda believed 'em. So aftah he died Ah usta come huntin'
heah too. An' then when Ah opened the chest and foun' these--" From his
breast pocket he drew a wash-leather bag and opened it.
He held out to Val a chain of gold mesh ending in a carnelian carved
into a seal. "This is youah crest," he pointed to the seal. "Ah took it
in town an' a man at the museum tol' me about it. An' this heah is
Ralestone, too," he indicated a small miniature painted on a slip of
yellowed ivory. Val was looking at the face of the Ralestone rebel, as
near like the water-color copy Charity had made of the museum portrait
as one pea is to its pod-mate. Creighton took up the small painting.
"Hm-m," he looked from the ivory to Jeems and then to Val, "this is the
final proof. Either one of you might have sat for this. You have the
same coloring and features. If it were not for a slight difference of
expression you might pass for twins. At any rate, there is no denying
that you are both Ralestones."
"I don't think that we'll ever attempt to deny it," Val laughed. "But
you were right, Jeems--I mean Roderick," he said to his newly discovered
cousin, "you do have as much right here as we do."
Jeems colored. "Ah'm sorry for sayin' that," he confessed. "Ah thought
yo' were right smart and too good for us. An' Ah'm sorry Ah played
ha'nt. But Ah didn't expec' yo' would evah see me, only the niggahs, an'
I didn't care 'bout them. Ah always came when yo' were 'way or in bed."
"Well, you've explained your interest in the place," Val assented, "but
what about the rival? Why did he appear?"
"It started in a blackmail plot. Your family have been wealthy, you
know," explained LeFleur. "But then the scheme became more serious when
the oil prospectors aroused interest in the swamp. Already several men
whose property bounds yours have been approached by the Central American
Oil Company with an offer for their land. It would not at all surprise
me if you were asked to dispose of your swamp wasteland for a good
price. And the rumor of oil is what made the rival, as you call him, try
to press his false claim instead of merely holding it over you as a
threat."
"The Luck is certainly doing its stuff," Val observed. "Here's the lost
heir found, oil-wells bubbling at our back door--"
"I would hardly say that, Mr. Valerius," remonstrated LeFleur.
"They may bubble yet," the boy assured him airily. "I wouldn't put it
beyond the power of that length of Damascus steel to make wells bubble.
Oil-wells bubbling," Val continued from the point where the lawyer had
interrupted him, "Rupert turning out to be the missing author--"
"What was that?" demanded Creighton sharply. He was on the point of
handing a small book to Jeems.
"We just discovered that Rupert is your missing author," Val explained.
"Didn't you guess when you heard the story of the missing Ralestone? The
family went into town to tell you all about it; that's why we were alone
when the invaders arrived."
"Mr. Ralestone my missing author! No, I didn't guess. I was too
interested in the story--but I should have! How stupid!" He looked down
at the book he still held and then put it into the swamper's hand.
"Between the pages of the prayer-book, covering the offices for St.
Louis' Day, you'll find the birth certificate for Laurent St. Jean with
his right name," he said. "That's a very important paper to keep, young
man. Mr. Ralestone my author." He wiped his forehead with the
handkerchief from his breast-pocket. "How stupid of me not to have seen
at once. But why--"
"He had some idea that his stuff was no good when he didn't hear from
that agent," Val explained, "so he just tried to forget the whole
matter."
"But I have to see him, I have to see him at once." The New Yorker
looked about him as if by will-power alone he could summon Rupert to
stand before him on the terrace.
"Stay to supper and you will," Val invited. "Ricky and I discovered him
for you just as we promised we would. But then you've given us Rod in
return. I am not," Val told his cousin, "going to call you Rick even
though there is a tradition for it. There are too many 'Ricks'
complicating the family history now. I think you had better be 'Rod'."
"Anythin' yo' say," he grinned.
For the third time that afternoon Val heard a car coming up the drive.
"If this should turn out to be the Grand Chan of Tartary or the Lama of
Peru I shall not be one iota surprised," he announced. "After what I've
been through this afternoon, nothing, absolutely nothing, would surprise
me. Oh, it's only the family."
With the impatience of one who has a good earth-shaking shock ready to
administer, he watched his wandering relatives disembark. Charity and
Holmes were still with them and a sort of aura of disappointment hung
over the group. Then Ricky looked up and with a cry of joy came up the
terrace steps in what seemed like a single leap.
"Oh, Mr. Creighton," she began when Val lifted his hand. "Let me tell
it," he begged, "I've been waiting for a chance like this for years."
Ricky was obediently silent, thinking that he wished to break the
mystery of the author. But Jeems and LeFleur understood that it was to
them Val appealed.
"Val, what are you doing out of bed?" was Rupert's first question.
"Saving the old homestead while you went joy-riding. We had visitors
this afternoon."
"Visitors? Who?" he began when his brother silenced him with a frown.
"Oh, let's not go into that now," Val said hurriedly. "There is
something more important to be discussed. Since you left this afternoon
we have had an addition to the family."
"An addition to the family," puzzled Ricky. "What do you mean?"
"Rick Ralestone has come back," Val announced.
"Val, hadn't you better go back to bed?" suggested his sister.
"Not now," he grinned at her. "I haven't lost my mind yet, nor am I
raving. Ladies and gentlemen," Val prepared to echo Creighton's speech
of an hour before, "permit me to introduce Roderick St. Jean de Roche
Ralestone, the missing heir!"
With an impish grin Val had never seen on his face before, Jeems clicked
his heels in a creditable imitation of a court bow.