Part 5 (1/2)
”Oh, go to bed, Val. When you get poetical I know you need sleep. Just the same,” she hesitated with one foot on the first tread of the stair, ”I wonder.”
CHAPTER III
THE RALESTONES ENTERTAIN AN Un.o.bTRUSIVE VISITOR
Val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the floor. An unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate body. He could feel its hot breath on his cheek. With a mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw out his arms in an attempt to fight off his tormentor.
The morning sun was warm across his pillow, making him blink. On his chest stood Satan, kneading the bedclothes with his front paws and purring gently. From the open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze.
Having aroused the sleeper, Satan deserted his post to hang half-way out the window, intent upon the housekeeping arrangements of several birds who had built in the hedges below. A moment later Val elbowed him aside to look out upon the morning.
It was a fine one. Wisps of mist from the bayou still hung about the lower garden, but the sun had already dried the brick-paved paths. A bee blundered past Val's nose, and he realized that it might be well to close the screen hanging shutter-like outside.
From the direction of the hidden water came the faint _putt-putt_ of a motor-boat, but inside Pirate's Haven there was utter silence. As yet the rest of the family were not abroad. Val dropped his pajamas in a huddle by the bed and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with this new world. Perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so for many days to come. He stole cautiously out of his room and tiptoed down halls and dark stairs, wanting to be alone while he discovered Pirate's Haven for himself.
The Long Hall looked chilly and bleak, even though patches of sunlight were fighting the usual gloom. On the hearth-stone lay a sc.r.a.p of white, doubtless Ricky's handkerchief. Val flung open the front door and stepped out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning air.
The blossoms on the morning-glory vines which wreathed the edge of the terrace were open to the sun, and the birds sang in the bushes below.
Satan streaked by and disappeared into the tangle. It was suddenly very good to be alive. The boy stretched luxuriously and started to explore, choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering paths which began at the circle of the old carriage drive.
Here was evidence of last night's storm. Wisps of Spanish moss, torn from the great live-oaks of the avenue and looking like tufts of coa.r.s.e gray horsehair, lay in water-logged mats here and there. And in the open places, the gra.s.s, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again.
A rabbit scuttled across the path as it went down four steps of broken stone into a sort of glen. Here some early owner of the plantation had made an irregular pool of stone to be fed by the trickle of a tiny spring. Frogs the size of postage-stamps leaped panic-stricken for the water when Val's shadow fell across its rim. A leaden statue of the boy Pan danced joyously on a pedestal above. Ricky would love this, thought her brother as he dabbled his fingers in the chill water trying to catch the stem of the single lily bud.
Out of nowhere came a turtle to slide into the depths of the pool. The sun was very warm across Val's bowed shoulders. He liked the garden, liked the plantation, even liked the circ.u.mstances which had brought them there. Lazily he arose and turned.
By the steps down which he had come stood a slight figure in a faded flannel s.h.i.+rt and mud-streaked overalls. His bare brown feet gripped the stones as if to get purchase for instant flight.
”h.e.l.lo,” Val said questioningly.
The new-comer eyed young Ralestone warily and then his gaze s.h.i.+fted to the bushes beyond.
”I'm Val Ralestone.” Val held out his hand. To his astonishment the stranger's mobile lips twisted in a snarl and he edged crabwise toward the bushes bordering the glen.
”Who are you?” Val demanded sharply.
”Ah has got as much right heah as yo' all,” the boy answered angrily.
And with that he turned and slipped into a path at the far end of the glen.
Aroused, Val hurried after him to reach the bayou levee. The quarry was already in midstream, wielding an efficient canoe paddle. On impulse Val shouted after him, but he never turned. A rifle lay across his knees and there were some rusty traps in the bottom of the flimsy canoe. Then Val remembered that Pirate's Haven lay upon the fringe of the muskrat swamps where Cajun and American squatters still carried on the fur trade of their ancestors.
But as Val stood speeding the departure of the uninvited guest, another canoe put off from the opposite sh.o.r.e of the bayou and came swinging across toward the rough wooden landing which served the plantation. A round brown face grinned up at Val as a powerful negro clambered ash.o.r.e.
”Is dey up at de big house now?” he asked cheerily as he came up.
”If you mean the Ralestones, why, we got here last night,” Val answered.
”Yo'all is Mistuh Ralestone, suh?” He took off his wide-brimmed straw hat and twisted it in his oversized hands.