THE COTTAGE IN THE PALM GROVE
Greatly to their relief, the Wayfarers were not called upon to do
battle with their stout snake sticks. For a quarter of a mile they
followed the narrow path. It wound in and out of the tall, coarse grass
and around wide-spreading trees and ragged clumps of bushes. At length
they reached the point for which they had been aiming.
“It’s simply splendiferous!” exclaimed Eleanor, as the quartette halted
well inside the first grove to breathe in the fragrance of orange
blossoms and feast their eyes on the beauty of the tropical scene
spread out before them.
“Why, it isn’t just an orange grove!” Beatrice cried out. “Look, girls!
There are _lemons_ on that tree over yonder!”
“Yes, and see the tangerines!” Patsy pointed out. “Those stiff, funny
bushes there have kumquats on them. And I do believe--yes, sir--that
ragged old tree there is a banana tree. This is what I call a mixed-up
old grove. I supposed oranges grew in one grove and lemons in another,
etc., etc.”
“I guess we don’t know very much about it,” laughed Eleanor. “We’ll
have to get busy and learn what’s what and why. Let’s walk on through
this grove and see what’s in the next one. There seems to be a pretty
good path down through it.”
Amid many admiring exclamations, the Wayfarers strolled on, seeing
new wonders with every step they took. The brown, woody litter which
covered the ground under the trees was plentifully starred with the
white of fallen blossoms. To quote Mabel, “Why, we’re actually walking
on flowers!”
Late in the season as it was they found considerable fruit growing
within easy reach of their hands. Eager to avail themselves of the
pleasure of “actually picking oranges from the trees,” the girls
gathered a modest quantity of oranges and tangerines.
Warned by Mr. Carroll always to be on the watch for spiders, scorpions
and wood-ticks before sitting down on the ground, Beatrice and Patsy
energetically swept a place clear with a huge fallen palmetto leaf, and
the four seated themselves on the dry, clean-swept space to enjoy their
spoils.
All of them had yet to become adepts in the art of out-door orange
eating as it is done in Florida. In consequence, they had a very
delightful but exceedingly messy feast. Picking oranges at random also
resulted in their finding some of the fruit sour enough to set their
teeth on edge. These they promptly flung from them and went on to
others more palatable.
“No more oranges for me this morning,” finally declared Eleanor,
pitching the half-eaten one in her hand across the grove. “I’m soaked
in juice from head to foot. Look at my skirt.”
“I’ve had enough.” Bee sprang to her feet, drying her hands on her
handkerchief. “We ought to pick a few oranges to take to Miss Martha.”
“Let’s get them when we come back,” proposed Patsy. “What’s the use in
lugging them around with us. I want to walk all the way through these
groves to the end of the estate. Dad says it’s not more than a mile
from the house to the west end of Las Golondrinas.”
“All right. Lead on, my dear Miss Carroll,” agreed Bee with a low bow.
“Be sure you know where you’re going, though.”
“I know just as much about where I’m going as you do,” merrily flung
back Patsy over her shoulder.
Headed by their intrepid leader, the little procession once more took
the trail, wandering happily along under the scented sweetness of the
orange trees. Overhead, bright-plumaged birds flew about among the
gently stirring foliage. Huge golden and black butterflies fluttered
past them. Among the white and gold of blossom, bees hummed a deep,
steady song as they pursued their endless task of honey-gathering.
On and on they went, passing through one grove after another until they
glimpsed ahead the high, wrought-iron fence which shut in the estate on
all four sides. Reaching it, they could look through to a small grassy
open space beyond. Behind it rose a natural grove of tall palms. Set
down fairly in the middle of the grove was a squat, weather-stained
cottage of grayish stone.
“Oh, see that funny little house!” was Mabel’s interested exclamation.
“I wonder whom it belongs to!”
“Let’s go over and pay it a visit,” instantly proposed Patsy. “Perhaps
someone lives there who can tell us about old Manuel Fereda and
Eulalie, his granddaughter. It doesn’t look as though darkies lived
there. Their houses are mostly tumble-down wooden shacks. Still it may
be deserted. Anyway, we might as well go over and take a look at it.”
“How are we going to get out of here?” asked Eleanor. “I don’t see a
gate.”
“There must be one somewhere along the west end,” declared Bee. “Let’s
start here and follow the fence. Maybe we’ll come to one.”
“We’d better walk north through the grove then. There’s no path close
to the fence and that grass is too high and jungly looking to suit me,”
demurred Eleanor.
Traveling northward through the grove, their eyes fixed on the fence in
the hope of spying a gate, the explorers walked some distance, but saw
no sign of one. Finally retracing their steps to their starting point,
they headed south and eventually discovered, not a gate, but a gap in
the fence where the lower part of several iron palings had been broken
away, leaving an aperture large enough for a man to crawl through.
“This means us,” called Patsy and ran toward it.
Energetically beating down the grass under it with the stick she
carried, she stooped and scrambled through to the other side, emitting
a little whoop of triumph as she stood erect.
One by one her three companions followed suit until the four girls were
standing on the grassy clearing, which, a few rods farther on, merged
levelly into the grove of palms surrounding the low stone cottage.
From the point at which they now halted they could obtain only a side
view of it among the trees.
“Judging from the big cobweb on one of those windows, I should say no
one lives there,” commented Eleanor.
“It _does_ look deserted. Let’s go around to the front of it. Then we
can tell more about it,” suggested Patsy.
Crossing the grassy space, the quartette entered the shady grove. A few
steps brought them abreast of the front of the cottage.
“The door’s wide open! I wonder----”
Patsy broke off abruptly, her gray eyes focussing themselves upon
the open doorway. In it had suddenly appeared a woman, so tall that
her head missed but a little of touching the top of the rather low
aperture. For an instant she stood there, motionless, staring or rather
glaring at her uninvited visitors out of a pair of wild black eyes.
The Wayfarers were staring equally hard at her, fascinated by this
strange apparition.
What they saw was a fierce, swarthy countenance, broad and deeply
lined. The woman’s massive head was crowned by a mop of snow-white hair
that stood out in a brush above her terrifying features. A beak-like
nose, a mouth that was merely a hard line set above a long, pointed
chin, gave her the exact look of the proverbial old witch. Over the
shoulders of a shapeless, grayish dress, which fell in straight
ugly folds to her feet, she wore a bright scarlet shawl. It merely
accentuated the witch-like effect.
In sinister silence she took the one stone step to the ground and began
to move slowly forward toward the group of girls, a deep scowl drawing
her bushy white brows together until they met.
“She’s crazy!” came from Mabel, in a terrified whisper. “Let’s run.”
“I will _not_,” muttered Patsy. “I’m going to speak to her.”
Stepping boldly forward to meet the advancing figure, Patsy smiled
winningly, and said: “Good-morning.”
“What you want?” demanded a harsh voice.
Ignoring Patsy’s polite salutation, the fearsome old woman continued
to advance, halting within four or five feet of the group of girls.
“Oh, we were just taking a walk,” Patsy brightly assured. “We saw this
cottage and thought we’d like to see who lived here. We----”
“Where you live?” sharply cut in the woman.
“We are staying at Las Golondrinas. My father owns the property now.
I am Patricia Carroll and these three girls are my chums,” amiably
explained Patsy. “We are anxious to find someone who can tell us
something about the Feredas. We are looking for----”
“You will never find!” was the shrieking interruption. “It is not for
you, white-faced thieves! _Madre de Dios!_ Old Camillo has hidden it
too well. Away with you! Go, and return no more!”
This tempestuous invitation to begone was accompanied by a wild waving
of the woman’s long arms. The gold hoop rings in her ears shook and
swayed as she wagged a menacing head at the intruders.
“Just a minute and we will go.”
Undismayed by the unexpected burst of fury on the part of the
disagreeable old woman, Patsy stood her ground unflinchingly. There was
an angry sparkle in her gray eyes, however, and her voice quivered
with resentment as she continued hotly:
“I want you distinctly to understand that we are _not_ thieves, even
though we happen to be trespassers. When we saw this cottage we thought
it might belong to some one who had lived here a long time and had been
well acquainted with Manuel Fereda and his granddaughter, Eulalie----”
“Eulalie! Ah-h! _Ingrata!_ May she never rest! May the spirit of old
Camillo give her no peace!”
Here the strange, fierce old creature broke into a torrent of Spanish,
her voice gathering shrillness with every word. She appeared to have
forgotten the presence of the Wayfarers and directed her tirade at the
absent Eulalie, who was evidently very much in her bad graces.
“Come on. Let her rave. She surely is crazy. She may try to hurt us,”
murmured Eleanor in Patsy’s ear.
“All right. Come on, girls.”
Tucking her arm in Eleanor’s, Patsy turned abruptly away from the
ancient belligerent who was still waving her arms and sputtering
unintelligibly.
Without a word the quartette hurried out of the palm grove, across the
grassy space and made safe port on their own territory, through the gap
in the fence. This accomplished, curiosity impelled each girl to peer
through the palings for a last glimpse at the tempestuous cottager.
She had not been too busy anathematizing the unlucky Eulalie to be
unaware of the hasty retreat of her unwelcome visitors. She had now
stopped flapping her arms and was bending far forward, her fierce old
eyes directed to where the Wayfarers had taken prudent refuge. Noting
that they were watching her, she shook a fist savagely at them, threw
up both arms menacingly as though imploring some unseen force to visit
vengeance upon them, and bolted for the cottage.