Andre Norton Super Pack. Andre Norton
heat of this sort. But my model didn’t show up this morning so I’m at a loose end.”
She led them around the corner where Satan had disappeared and pointed to a table with a sketching board at one end, several canvases leaning face against the house, and an easel covered with a clean strip of linen. “My workshop. A trifle untidy, but then I am an untidy person. I’m expecting an order so I’m just whiling away my time working on an idea of my own until it comes.”
Ricky touched the strip of covering across the canvas on the easel. “May I?” she asked.
“Yes. It might be a help, getting some other person’s reaction to the thing. I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do when I started but I don’t think it’s turning out to be what I planned.”
Ricky lifted off the cover. Val stared at the canvas.
“But that is he!” he exclaimed.
Charity Biglow turned to the boy. “And what do you mean—”
“That’s the boy I found in the garden, Ricky!”
“Is it?” She stared, fascinated, at the lean brown face, the untidy black hair, the bitter mouth, which their hostess had so skilfully caught in her unfinished drawing.
“So you’ve met Jeems.” Miss Biglow looked at Val thoughtfully. “And what did you think of him?”
“It’s rather—what did he think of me. He seemed to hate me. I don’t know why. All I ever said to him was ‘Hello.’”
“Jeems is a queer person—”
“Sam says that he is none too honest,” observed Ricky, her attention still held by the picture.
Miss Biglow shook her head. “There is a sort of feud between the swamp people and the farmers around here. And neither side is wholly to be believed in their estimation of the other. Jeems isn’t dishonest, and neither are a great many of the muskrat hunters. In the early days all kinds of outlaws and wanted men fled into the swamps and lived there with the hunters. One or two desperate men gave the whole of the swamp people a bad name and it has stuck. They are a strange folk back there in the fur country.
“Some are Cajuns, descendants of exiles from Evangeline’s country; some are Creoles who took to that way of life after the Civil War ruined them. There’s many a barefooted boy or girl of the swamps who bears a name that was once honored at the Court of France or Spain. And there are Americans of the old frontier stock who came down river with Andrew Jackson’s army from the wilds of Tennessee and the Indian country. It’s a strange mixture, and once in a while you find a person like Jeems. He speaks the uneducated jargon of his people but he reads and writes French and English perfectly. He has studied under Père Armand until he has a classical education such as was popular for Creole boys of good family some fifty years ago. Père Armand is an old man now, but he is as good an instructor as he is a priest.
“Jeems wants to make something of himself. He argues logically that the swamp has undeveloped resources which might save its inhabitants from the grinding poverty which is slowly destroying them. And it is Jeems’ hope that he can discover some of the swamp secrets when he is fitted by training to do so.”
“Who is he?” Val asked. “Is Jeems his first or last name?”
“His last. I have never heard his given name. He is very reticent about his past, though I do know that he is an orphan. But he is of Creole descent and he does have breeding as well as ambition. Unfortunately he had quite an unpleasant experience with a boy who was visiting the Harrisons last summer. The visitor accused Jeems of taking a fine rifle which was later discovered right where the boy had left it in his own canoe. Jeems has a certain pride and he was turned against all the plantation people. His attitude is unfortunate because he longs so for a different sort of life and yet has no contact with young people except those of the swamp. I think he is beginning to trust me, for he will come in the mornings to pose for my picture of the swamp hunter. Do you know,” she hesitated, “I think that you would find a real friend in Jeems if you could overcome his hatred of plantation people. You would gain as much as he from such an association. He can tell you things about the swamp—stories which go back to the old pirate days. Perhaps—”
Ricky looked up from the uncompleted picture. “I think he’d be nice to know. But why does he look so—so sort of starved?”
“Probably because the bill of fare in a swamp cabin is not as varied as it might be,” answered Charity Biglow. “But you can’t offer him anything, of course. I don’t even know where he lives. And now, tell me about yourselves. Are you planning to live here?”
Her frank interest seemed perfectly natural. One simply couldn’t resent Charity Biglow.
“Well,” Ricky laughed ruefully, “we can’t very well live anywhere else. I think Rupert still has ten dollars—”
“After his expedition this morning, I would have my doubts of that,” Val cut in. “You see, Miss Biglow, we are back to the soil now.”
“Charity is the name,” she corrected him. “So you’re down—”
“But not out!” Ricky hastened to assure her. “But we might be that.” And then and there she told their tenant of the rival claimant.
Charity listened closely, absent-mindedly sucking the wooden shaft of one of her brushes. When Ricky had done, she nodded.
“Nice mess you’ve dropped into. But I think that your lawyer has the right idea. This is a neat piece of blackmail and your claimant will disappear into thin air if you have a few concrete facts to face him down with. Are you sure you’ve looked through all the family papers? No hiding-places or safes—”
“One,” said Ricky calmly, “but we don’t know where that is. In the Civil War days, after General Butler took over New Orleans, some family possessions were hidden somewhere in the Long Hall, but we don’t know where. The secret was lost when Richard Ralestone was shot by Yankee raiders.”
“Is he the ghost?” asked Charity.
“No. You ask that as if you know something,” Val observed.
“Nothing but talk. There have been lights seen, white ones. And a while back my maid Rose left because she saw something in the garden one night.”
“Jeems, probably,” the boy commented. “He seems to like the place.”
“No, not Jeems. He was sitting right on that railing when we both heard Rose scream.”
“Val, the handkerchief!” Ricky’s hand arose to her buttoned pocket. “Then there was someone inside the house that night. But why—unless they were after the treasure!”
“The quickest way to find out,” her brother got up from the edge of the table where he had perched, “is to go and do a little probing of our own. We have a good two hours until lunch. Will you join us?” he asked Charity.
“You tempt me, but I’ve got to get in as much work on this as I can,” she indicated her canvas. “And Jeems may show up even if it is late. So my conscience says ‘No.’ Unfortunately I do possess a regular rock-ribbed New England conscience.”
“Rupert will be back by four,” said Ricky. “Will your conscience let you come over for coffee with us then? You see how quickly we have adopted the native customs—coffee at four.”
“Ricky,” her brother explained, “desires to become that figure of Romance—the southern belle.”
“Then we must do what we can to help her create the proper atmosphere,” urged Charity solemnly.
“Even to the victoria and the coach-hound?” Val demanded in dismay.
“Well, perhaps not that far,” she laughed. “Anyway, I accept your kind invitation with pleasure. I shall be there at four—if I can find a presentable dress. Now clear out, you two, and see what secrets of the past you can uncover