THE BEGINNING OF ADVENTURE
“The time has come, O Wayfarers, to think of many things,” gaily
declaimed Patsy, bursting into the somber, high-ceilinged, dark-paneled
sitting-room where Miss Martha, Beatrice, Mabel and Eleanor sat around
a massive mahogany table, busily engaged in writing letters.
“Go away, Patsy,” laughingly admonished Mabel, pen suspended in mid-air
over her note paper. “You’re a disturber. You’ve made me forget what I
was going to write next. If you won’t be a letter-writer, don’t be a
nuisance.”
“I can’t be what I never have been and could never possibly become,”
retorted Patsy. “I’ll promise to keep quiet, though, if you’ll all
hustle and finish your letters. I’m dying to go over to the orange
groves and it’s no fun going alone. Any old person will do for
company.”
“Then we _won’t_ do,” emphasized Beatrice. “We are very distinguished
persons who don’t belong in the ‘any old’ class.”
“Glad you told me,” chuckled Patsy. “I’ll give you ten minutes to
wind up your letters. If you’re not done then--well--I’ll give you
ten more. I am always considerate. I’m going to leave you now, but I
shall return. I’ll come buzzing around again, like a pestiferous fly,
in exactly ten minutes by my wrist watch. I’m only going as far as the
gallery to pay my respects to the dead and gone Feredas.”
With this announcement Patsy turned and strolled from the room. The
gallery to which she referred was in the nature of a short corridor,
extending between the second-floor sitting-room and ending at the
corridor on which were situated sleeping rooms which the Wayfarers
occupied. It had evidently served as a picture gallery for several
generations of Feredas. Its walls were lined with a heterogeneous
collection of oil paintings, largely landscape and studies in still
life. At least half of one side of it, however, was devoted strictly to
portraits. It was before this particular section that Patsy halted.
Two days had elapsed since the Wayfarers had made port at Las
Golondrinas. On the evening of their arrival, a storm had come up,
bursting over the old house in all its tropical fury. Following it,
rain had set in and for two days had continued to fall in a steady,
discouraging downpour that made out-door excursions impossible for the
time being.
Now, on the third morning since their arrival, the sun again shone
gloriously, in skies of cerulean blue, and the air was heavy with the
sweetness of rain-washed blossoms. It was an ideal morning to spend out
of doors, and Patsy was impatient to start on an exploring tour of the
estate.
During the two days in which the Wayfarers had been kept indoors by
the rain, they had become thoroughly acquainted with the old house.
They had wandered about it from cellar to roof, marveling at its utter
unlikeness to any other house in which they had ever set foot. Its
somber, spacious rooms with their highly polished floors and queer,
elaborately carved, foreign-looking furniture of a by-gone period,
evoked volleys of wondering comment and speculation. The cool patio
with its silver-spraying fountain, the long windows opening out onto
picturesque balconies and the dim stone corridors, all held for them
the very acme of romance. It was like being set down in a world which
they had known only in fiction.
Each girl had found some one particular object on which to fix
her special admiration. Eleanor went into ecstasies over a huge,
carved-leather chest that stood in the sitting-room. Beatrice was
enthusiastic over a heavy mahogany book-case filled with old Spanish
volumes, bound in boards and parchment. She loudly deplored her
inability to read Spanish and announced her intention of tackling the
fascinating volumes with the aid of a Spanish-English dictionary which
Mabel had brought along. Mabel was vastly impressed by a high, frowning
old desk with many drawers and pigeon-holes. She was perfectly sure,
she declared, that it must contain a secret drawer, and in consequence
spent the great part of an afternoon in an unavailing hunt for it.
Patsy found unending delight in the portrait section of the picture
gallery. The dark-eyed, tight-lipped men and women who stared down at
her from the wall filled her with an intense curiosity regarding who
they were and how long it had been since they had lived and played
their parts in the history of the Feredas.
Undoubtedly they were all Feredas. Of unmistakably Spanish cast of
countenance, they bore a decided family resemblance to one another.
The difference in the style of dress worn by the pictured folk
proclaimed them to be of many generations. How far removed from the
present day, she did not know. She was of the opinion that some of them
must have lived at least two hundred years ago. She was very sure that
one portrait, that of a man, must have been painted even earlier than
that.
It was this portrait in particular which most fascinated her. Hung in
the center of the section and framed in tarnished gilt, it depicted the
full length figure of a Spanish cavalier. Patsy thought he might easily
have been one of the intrepid, Latin adventurers who accompanied Ponce
de Leon on his unsuccessful quest into Florida for the fabled Fountain
of Youth.
As a gallant of long ago, the man in the picture instantly arrested her
attention. The thin, sinister face above the high Spanish ruff repelled
her, however. The bright, bird-like eyes, the long, aquiline nose and
the narrow lips, touched with a mocking smile, combined to make a
countenance of such intense cruelty as filled her with a curious sense
of terror. It was as if the sharp, black eyes followed her, as she
moved along from picture to picture. There was a peculiar, life-like
quality about the painting which gave her the uncomfortable feeling
that the sinister cavalier might step down from the canvas at any
moment.
Nevertheless she could not refrain from stopping to look at him every
time she passed through the corridor. She was convinced that he must
have been the first Fereda who landed in the New World and that he
had a record which might well match his malevolently smiling face. It
piqued her not a little to reflect, that, who he was and what he had
been would in all probability ever remain a mystery to her.
Strolling into the corridor that morning to study again the provoking
object of her curiosity, Patsy wondered how the granddaughter of old
Manuel de Fereda could ever have been content to turn over the contents
of Las Golondrinas to strangers. She wondered what had become of her.
She was undoubtedly the only one who knew the identity of the painted
cavalier. Patsy decided that she would ask her father to write Mr.
Haynes, the agent, from whom he had purchased the property, asking him
for Eulalie Fereda’s address. Once she had obtained it, Patsy fully
intended to write to the Spanish girl for information concerning the
painted cavalier.
Wrapped in meditation, she did not hear Beatrice’s light approaching
footsteps until her friend had traversed half of the corridor.
“Oh, Bee!” she hailed, as the latter paused beside her. “I’m going to
try to get Eulalie Fereda’s address from Mr. Haynes, and then write her
about this picture. It seems queer that she allowed all these portraits
of her family to be sold with the house, now doesn’t it? I certainly
shouldn’t care to see the pictures of my respected ancestors pass into
the hands of strangers.”
“Perhaps she’d lived here so long with her grandfather that she’d grown
tired of him and all the rest of the Fereda tribe,” hazarded Bee.
“Imagine how lonely it would be for a young girl in this gloomy old
house. It _is_ gloomy, you know. We don’t mind it because there are a
crowd of us. It all seems just quaint and romantic to us.”
“All except Auntie,” reminded Patsy, smiling. “She says that the whole
house ought to be done over from top to bottom and that she intends to
come down here next fall and see to it herself. I think she only half
means it, though. She likes it the way it is, just as much as we do,
but she won’t admit it. Aunt Martha has a real love for the romantic,
but she tries hard not to let any one know it.”
“The furniture in this house must be really valuable,” Bee said
seriously. “Most of it is antique. Goodness knows how old that desk in
the sitting-room is; and that carved-leather chest and the book-case.
Why, those books alone must be worth a good deal. A book collector
would rave over them. I wish I knew something about rare volumes and
first editions. If I were your father I’d send for an expert and have
the collection valued.”
“I’ll tell him about it,” nodded Patsy. “Only he won’t bother to do
it while we’re here. He’s more interested in having the grounds put
in order than anything else. He says the orange groves are not worth
much because they’ve been neglected for so long. With care, he thinks
they’ll do better next year. We’ve come down here too late for the real
fruit season, you know. We should have been here in January or February
for that. Anyway, he didn’t buy this place as a money-making venture.
He thought it would be a nice winter home for us.”
“I’m lucky to have the chance to see it,” congratulated Beatrice. “If
ever I become a writer, I shall put Las Golondrinas into a story.
That’s a pretty name; Las Golondrinas.”
“Isn’t it, though. I suppose it was named on account of the tree
swallows,” mused Patsy. “Dad says there are flocks of them here. They
have blue backs and white breasts. I’m sure I saw some this morning.
Oh, dear! I wish the girls would hurry. I want to start out and see the
sights. Come on. Let’s remind them that time is flying.”
Catching Bee by the hand, Patsy pulled her, a willing captive, toward
the sitting-room.
“Time’s up and more than up!” she announced, poking her auburn head
into the big room.
“I’m ready,” responded Eleanor, rising from her chair.
“So am I--in another minute.”
Hastily addressing an envelope to her mother, Mabel tucked her letter
into it, sealed and stamped it.
“There!” she ejaculated as she laid it on the little pile of letters
which represented the fruits of the morning’s labor. “That’s off my
mind.”
“What about you, Auntie?” questioned Patsy, noting that her dignified
relative was still engaged in letter-writing. “Don’t you want to join
the explorers?”
“You girls can get along very well without me,” placidly returned Miss
Carroll. “I am not through with my writing. Besides, I don’t feel
inclined to go exploring this morning. I warn all of you to be careful
where you set foot. This old place may be infested with snakes.”
“Oh, we’ll be careful. We’ll each carry a good stout stick,” assured
Beatrice. “That’s the way tourists do in the tropics, you know. On some
of the South Sea Islands, I’ve read that tourists always carry what
they call ‘snake sticks’ when they go calling. At night the coolies go
ahead of a calling party and beat the long grass aside.”
“Very fine, Bee. I hereby appoint you chief grass-beater of the realm,”
teased Mabel.
“I decline the high office,” retorted Bee. “Every Wayfarer will have
to do her own bit of trail beating. As I am _very_ brave, I don’t mind
walking ahead, though.”
“I will walk with you, Bee,” graciously offered Patsy. “Woe be to the
wriggly, jiggly sarpint that crosses our path.”
In this light strain the four girls left Miss Martha to her writing
and sallied forth from the coolness of the old house into the bright
sunlight.
“Where shall we go first?” queried Patsy, as they paused on the drive
in front of the house. “Shall we get acquainted with our numerous acres
of front yard, or shall we make a bee-line for the orange groves?”
“Let’s do the groves first,” suggested Eleanor. “I’m awfully anxious to
get close to real orange trees with real oranges growing on them.”
“Come on, then.”
Seizing Beatrice by the arm, Patsy piloted her around a corner of the
house, Mabel and Eleanor following.
Crossing a comparatively smooth bit of lawn, at the rear of the house,
the Wayfarers halted by common consent before proceeding further.
Between them and the orange groves lay a wide stretch of ground, fairly
overrun with tangled bush and vine. Magnificent live oak, cedar and
palmetto trees, spread their noble branches over thickets of bright
bloom and living green. It was extremely picturesque, but “very snaky,”
as Mabel declared with a little shudder.
“There’s a darkie over yonder, clipping away that thicket!” Eleanor
pointed to where an ancient, bare-footed, overalled African, wearing
a huge, tattered straw hat, was industriously cutting away at a thick
patch of sprawling green growth.
“Hey, there, Uncle!” called out undignified Patsy. “Come here a minute,
please.”
The old man straightened up at the hail and looked rather blankly about
him. Catching sight of the group of white-clad girls, he ambled slowly
toward them through the long grass.
“Mornin’, young ladies,” he saluted, pulling off his ragged headgear
and disclosing a thick crop of snow-white wool. “Ah reckin mebbe yoh
wants Uncle Jemmy t’ tell yoh suthin’?”
“Yes, we do, Uncle,” beamed Patsy. “We wish you’d show us a path to
the orange groves, if there is one. We’d like to have some good, stout
sticks, too, in case we see any snakes. Aren’t you afraid to walk
around in that jungle in your bare feet?”
“Laws, Missie, I’se used toh it, I is. Th’ ain’t no snaikes round heah
what mounts toh much. I done see a big black snaike this mohnin’, but
that fella ain’t out toh do me no damage. He am a useful snaike, he am.”
“We’ll be just as well satisfied not to meet his snakeship, even if he
is so useful,” muttered Eleanor in Patsy’s ear.
“Ef yoh all young ladies’ll come along now, I’se gwine toh show yoh the
way toh git toh the orange groves,” continued Uncle Jemmy. “There am a
path ovah heah.”
So saying, the old man took the lead and trotted along the clipped
lawn where it skirted the high grass for a distance of perhaps twenty
yards. The girls followed him, single file, every pair of bright eyes
intent on trying to catch a glimpse of the path.
Pausing at last, Uncle Jemmy proceeded to lop off several low-growing
branches from a nearby tree. These he deftly stripped clear of twigs
and foliage and, trimming them smooth with a huge, sharp-bladed pocket
knife, presented one to each of the four explorers.
“Heah am yoh snaike sticks, young ladies,” he declared, showing a vast
expanse of white teeth in a genial grin. “Now I’se gwine to take yoh a
little furder an’ yoh’ll see de path.”
A few steps and they came abreast of a giant oak tree and here the path
began, a narrow trail, but beaten hard by the passing of countless feet.
“Yoh jes’ follow de path whereber he goes and yoh-all gwine come af’er
while toh de groves,” he directed.
“Thank you, Uncle Jemmy.” Patsy nodded radiant thanks. Seized by a
sudden thought she asked: “Do you live around here?”
“No, Missie. I comes from Tampa, I does. Soon’s I git through this job
foh Massa Carroll I gwine toh git right back toh Tampa again. It am de
bes’ place fo’ Uncle Jemmy.”
“Oh!” Patsy’s face fell. Then she tried again. “Do any of these boys
working with you live around here?”
“No, Missie. They done come from Miami. We am all strangahs heah.”
“I see. Thank you ever so much for helping us.”
With a kindly nod to the old man, Patsy turned to her chums who had
stood listening in silence to the questions she had asked.
“Are you ready for the great adventure?” she queried. “Come along,
then. One, two, three and away we go, Indian fashion!”
Bidding a smiling good-bye to Uncle Jemmy, who had now turned to go,
the three girls filed into the trail behind their energetic leader. And
thus the Wayfarers started off on what really was the beginning of a
greater adventure than they dreamed.