Ralestone Luck
A >> Andre Norton >> Ralestone Luck"But which of the twin brothers was the elder? You will say at once,
Richard. But your rival will say Roderick. And there is no proof. For in
the spring, two months after the birth of the boys, most of the family
papers were destroyed in the great fire which almost wiped out the city
and burned the Ralestone town house. There is no birth record in
existence. I appealed to your brother to return to me these papers which
Miles Ralestone took north with him after the war. You returned them
today but there was nothing in them of any value to this case.
"However, if you can find such proof, that Richard Ralestone was the
elder and thus the legal heir under the laws of Spain, then we shall
have a solid fact upon which to base our fight."
"There is such a proof," began Ricky slowly.
"What? Where?" demanded Mr. LeFleur.
"Don't you remember, Val," she turned to him, "what Rupert said about
the Luck last night--that the names of the heirs were engraved upon its
blade? We'll have to find the Luck! We'll just have to!"
"But Roderick took the Luck with him. And if it's still in existence,
this rival will have it now," her brother reminded her.
"Yes, of course, I was forgetting--" her voice trailed off into silence
and Val stared at her with a dropped jaw. Such a quick change of manner
was totally unlike Ricky. "Yes," she repeated slowly and distinctly, "I
guess we're the losers--"
"For Pete's sake--" he began hotly and then he saw her hand making
furious motions in his direction from behind the screen of her large
purse. "Well, I suppose we are in a hole." He managed to mend his tone a
fraction. "Rupert will probably be in to see you tomorrow, Mr. LeFleur."
"It would be well for him to become acquainted with the whole matter as
quickly as possible," agreed the unhappy Creole. "You may tell Mr.
Ralestone that I am, of course, having this claimant thoroughly
investigated. We shall have to wait and see. Time is a big factor," he
murmured as if to himself.
Ricky smiled brightly. There was a sort of eagerness about her, as if
she were wild to be off. "Then we'll say good-bye for the present, Mr.
LeFleur. And may I mention again how much we have appreciated your
thoughtfulness?"
Rene LeFleur aroused himself. "But it was a pleasure, a very great
pleasure, Miss Ralestone. You are returning to Pirate's Haven now?"
"Well--" she hesitated. Mystified at what lay behind her unexplainable
actions, Val could only stand and listen. "We did have some errands. Of
course, this news--"
LeFleur gestured widely. "But it will come all right. It must. There are
papers somewhere."
Firmly Ricky broke away from more protracted farewells. As the
Ralestones turned out of the courtyard into which their host had
conducted them, Val matched his step with hers.
"Well? What's the matter?" he demanded.
"We had an eavesdropper."
Val stopped short. "What do you mean?"
"I was facing the door to the balcony. There was the shadow of a head on
the floor. When you spoke about Rick having the sword, it went away--the
shadow, I mean. But someone had been listening and now he knows about
the Luck and what it means to us."
Aiming a kick at the nearest tire of the roadster, Val regarded the
mud-stained rubber moodily. "Fine mess!"
"Yes, isn't it? And there seems to be no loose end to the thing," Ricky
protested. "It's like holding a big tangle of wool and being told to
have it all straightened out before night--the plot of a fairy-tale. We
have so many odd sections but no ends. There's that boy in the garden
this morning who said that he has as much right at Pirate's Haven as we
have, and then there's that handkerchief, and now this man who claims
half the estate--"
"And our mysterious listener," finished her brother. "What shall we do
now? Go home?"
"No. We might as well do the errands." She seated herself in the car.
"Val--"
"Yes?"
"I know one thing." She leaned toward him and her eyes shone green as
they did when she was excited or greatly troubled. "We aren't going to
let go of our tangle until we do find an end. We _are_ the Ralestones of
Pirate's Haven and we are going to continue to be the Ralestones of
Pirate's Haven."
"In spite of the enemy? I agree." Val stepped on the starter. "You know,
a hundred years ago there would have been a very simple remedy for this
rival-claimant business."
"What?"
"Pistols for two--coffee for one. Rupert or I would have met him out at
the dueling oaks and that would have been the end of him."
"Or you. But dueling--here!"
"Very common. The finest fencing masters on the North American continent
plied their trade here. Why, one, Pepe Llula, the most famous duelist of
his time, became the guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored,
he could have some place to bury his opponents.
"Then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we might have had
him voodooed, had we lived back in the good old days. Paid that voodoo
queen--what was her name? Marie something or other--to put a curse on
him so he'd just wither away."
"And serve him right, too." Ricky stared straight before her. "I don't
know how you feel about it, but I'm not going to give up Pirate's Haven
without a fight. It's--it's the first real home we've ever had. Rupert's
older; he's spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not
mean so much to him. But you and I, Val--You know what it's been like!
Schools, and spending the holidays with aunts or in those frightful
camps, never getting a chance to be together. We can't--we just can't
have this only to lose it again. We can't!" her voice broke.
"So we won't."
"Val, when you say things like that, I can almost believe them. If--if
we do lose, let's stick together this time. Promise?" her voice lifted
in an effort toward lightness.
"I promise. After this it will be the two of us together. Do you know,
I've never really had a chance to get acquainted with my very
good-looking sister."
She laughed. "I can't very well curtsy while sitting down in here, but
'thank yuh for them purty words, stranger.' And now for the express
station. Then you are to stop at the Southeastern News Association
headquarters for something of Rupert's and--"
The afternoon went quickly enough. They despatched the rest of their
possessions from the express station to Pirate's Haven, went on a round
of miscellaneous shopping, picked up a weighty box at the News
Association, and ended up at five o'clock by visiting that institution
of New Orleans, a coffee-house. Ricky was earnestly peeking into one of
her ten or so small bags. They had parked the car and Val complained
that he had become a sort of packhorse, and anything but patient one.
"What if your feet do hurt," his sister said wearily as she closed the
bag and reached for another. "So do mine. These sidewalks feel like
red-hot iron. I'll bet I could do one of those fakir tricks where you're
supposed to walk over red-hot plowshares."
"Not only my feet but also my backbone is protesting. Whether you have
reached the end of that _Anthony Adverse_ of a shopping list or not,
we're going home! And what _are_ you looking for? You've opened all
those bags at least twice and dropped no less than three on the floor
each time," he snapped irritably.
"My pralines. I'm sure I gave them to you to carry. I've heard of New
Orleans pralines all my life, so I got some today and now they've
disappeared."
"They were probably included in that last arm-load of parcels I stowed
in the car. Are you through?"
Ricky looked into her coffee-cup. "It's empty, so I guess I am. Where is
the car? I'm so lost I don't know where we are now."
"We left it about three blocks away on the sunny side of the street,"
Val informed her with the relish of one who is thoroughly tired of his
present existence. "If this is your usual behavior on a shopping trip,
Rupert may bring you in the next time. Half an hour to choose a
toothbrush-mug in the ten-cent store!"
"For a person who spends a good fifteen minutes matching a tie and a
handkerchief," sniffed Ricky as she rose, "you're in a hurry to
criticize others."
"Come _on_!" her brother almost howled as he scooped up the packages.
"Anyway, we won't have to get supper or wash the dishes or anything."
She pulled off her hat as she settled herself in the car. "It's so
beastly hot, but it'll be cooler at home. Do you suppose we could go
swimming in the bayou?"
"I don't see why not." Val guided the roadster into a side street.
"Where's that map of the city? We've got to see how to get back on to
North Rampart from here."
"I'll look." Ricky bent her head and so she did not see the two figures
walking close together and so rapt in conversation that the one on the
curb side brushed against a lamp-post.
Now just what, considered Val, was the slim young clerk from Mr.
LeFleur's office telling that red-faced man in the too-snug suit? He
would have liked to have overheard a word or two. Perhaps he had become
unduly suspicious but--he had his doubts.
"We turn left at the next corner," said Ricky.
Val changed gears and drove on.
CHAPTER V
THEIR TENANT DISCOVERS THE RALESTONES
Val stood on the small ornamental bridge pitching twigs down into the
tiny garden brook. A moody frown creased his forehead. Under his feet
lay a pair of pruning-shears he had borrowed from Sam with the intention
of doing something about the jungle which surrounded Pirate's Haven on
three sides. That is, he had intended doing something, but now--
"Penny for your thoughts."
"Lady," he answered dismally without turning around, "you can have a
bushel of them for less than that."
"There is a neat expression which describes you beautifully at this
moment," commented Ricky as she came up beside her brother. "Have you
ever heard of a 'sour puss?"
"Several times. Oh, what's the use!" Val kicked at a long twig. A warm
wind brought in its hold the heavy scent of flowering bushes and trees.
His shirt clung to his shoulders damply. It was hot even in the shade of
the oaks. Rupert had gone to town to see LeFleur and hear the worst, so
that Pirate's Haven, save for themselves and Letty-Lou, was deserted.
"Come on," Ricky's arm slid through his, "let's explore. Think of
it--we've been here two whole days and we don't know yet what our back
yard looks like. Rupert says that our land runs clear down into the
swamp. Let's go see."
"But I was going to--" He made a feeble beginning toward stooping for
the pruning-shears.
"Val Ralestone, nobody can work outdoors in this heat, and you know it.
Now come on. Bring those with you and we'll leave them in the carriage
house as we pass it. You know," she continued as they went along the
path, "the trouble with us is that we haven't enough to do. What we need
is a good old-fashioned job."
"I thought we were going to be treasure hunters," he protested
laughingly.
"That's merely a side-line. I'm talking about the real thing, something
which will pay us cash money on Saturday nights or thereabout."
"Well, we can both use a typewriter fairly satisfactorily," Val offered.
"But as you are the world's worst speller and I am apt to become
entangled in my commas, I can't see us the shining lights of any
efficient office. And while we've had expensive educations, we haven't
had practical ones. So what do we do now?"
"We sit down and think of one thing we're really good at doing and
then--Val, what is that?" She pointed dramatically at a mound of brick
overgrown with vines. To their right and left stretched a row of
tumble-down cabins, some with the roofs totally gone and the doors
fallen from the hinges.
"The old plantation bake oven, I should say. This must be what's left of
the slave quarters. But where's the carriage house?"
"It must be around the other side of the big house. Let's try that
direction anyway. But I think you'd better go first and do some
chopping. This dress may be a poor thing but it's my own and likely to
be for some time to come. And short of doing a sort of snake act, I
don't see how we're going to get through there."
Val applied the shears ruthlessly to vine and bush alike, glad to find
something to attack. The weight of his depression was still upon him. It
was all very well for Ricky to talk so lightly of getting a job, but
talk would never put butter on their bread--if they could afford bread.
"You certainly have done a fine job of ruining that!"
Val surpassed Ricky's jump by a good inch. By the old bake oven stood a
woman. A disreputable straw hat with a raveled brim was pulled down over
her untidy honey-colored hair and she was rolling up the sleeves of a
stained smock to bare round brown arms.
"It's very plain to the eye that you're no gardener," she continued
pleasantly. "And may I ask who you are and what you are doing here? This
place is not open to trespassers, you know."
"We did think we would explore," answered Ricky meekly. "You see, this
all belongs to my brother." She swept her hand about in a wide circle.
"And just who is he?"
"Rupert Ralestone of Pirate's Haven."
"Good--!" Their questioner's hand flew to cover her mouth, and at the
comic look of dismay which appeared on her face, Ricky's laugh sounded.
A moment later the stranger joined in her mirth.
"And here I thought that I was being oh so helpful to an absent
landlord," she chuckled. "And this brother of yours is _my_ landlord!"
"How--? Why, we didn't know that."
"I've rented your old overseer's house and am using it for my studio. By
the way, introductions are in order, I believe. I am Charity Biglow,
from Boston as you might guess. Only beans and the Bunker Hill Monument
are more Boston than the Biglows."
"I'm Richanda Ralestone and this is my brother Valerius."
Miss Biglow grinned cheerfully at Val. "That won't do, you know; too
romantic by far. I once read a sword-and-cloak romance in which the hero
answered to the name of Valerius."
"I haven't a cloak nor a sword and my friends generally call me Val, so
I hope I'm acceptable," he grinned back at her.
"Indeed you are--both of you. And what are you doing now?"
"Trying to find a building known as the carriage house. I'm beginning to
believe that its existence is wholly mythical," Val replied.
"It's over there, simply yards from the direction in which you're
heading. But suppose you come and visit me instead. Really, as part
landlords, you should be looking into the condition of your rentable
property."
She turned briskly to the left down the lane on which were located the
slave cabins and guided the Ralestones along a brick-paved path into a
clearing where stood a small house of typical plantation style. The
lower story was of stone with steep steps leading to a balcony which ran
completely around the second floor of the house.
As they reached the balcony she pulled off her hat and threw it in the
general direction of a cane settee. Without that wreck of a hat, with
the curls of her long bob flowing free, she looked years younger.
"Make yourselves thoroughly at home. After all, this is your house, you
know."
"But we didn't," protested Ricky. "Mr. LeFleur didn't tell us a thing
about you."
"Perhaps he didn't know." Charity Biglow was pinning back her curls. "I
rented from Harrison."
"Like the bathroom," Val murmured and looked up to find them staring at
him. "Oh, I just meant that you were another improvement that he had
installed," he stammered. Miss Biglow nodded in a satisfied sort of way.
"Spoken like a true southern gentleman, though I don't think in the old
days that bathrooms would have crept into a compliment paid to a lady.
Now I did have some lemonade--if you will excuse me," and she was gone
into the house.
Ricky smiled. "I like our tenant," she said softly.
"You don't expect me to disagree with that, do you?" her brother had
just time enough to ask before their hostess appeared again complete
with tray, glasses, and a filled pitcher which gave forth the refreshing
sound of clinking ice. And after her paraded an old friend of theirs,
tail proudly erect. "There's our cat!" cried Ricky.
Val snapped his fingers. "Here, Satan."
After staring round-eyed at both of them, the cat crossed casually to
the settee and proceeded to sharpen his claws.
"Well, I like that! After I shared my bed with the brute, even though I
didn't know it until the next morning," Val exploded.
"Why, where did you meet Cinders?" asked Miss Biglow as she put down the
tray.
"He came to us the first night we were at Pirate's Haven," explained
Ricky. "I thought he was a ghost or something when he scratched at the
back door."
"So that's where he was. He used to go over to the Harrisons' for meals
a lot. When I'm working I don't keep very regular hours and he doesn't
like to be neglected. Come here, Cinders, and make your manners."
Replying to her invitation with an insolent flirt of his tail, Cinders,
whom Val continued obstinately to regard as "Satan," disappeared around
the corner of the balcony. Charity Biglow looked at them solemnly. "So
obedient," she observed; "just like a child."
"Are you an artist, too?" Ricky asked as she put down her glass.
Miss Biglow's face wrinkled into a grimace. "My critics say not. I
manage to provide daily bread and sometimes a slice of cake by doing
illustrations for action stories. And then once in a while I labor for
the good of my soul and try to produce something my more charitable
friends advise me to send to a show."
"May--may we see some of them--the pictures, I mean?" inquired Ricky
timidly.
"If you can bear it. I use the side balcony for a workshop in this kind
of weather. I'm working on a picture now, something more ambitious than
I usually attempt in 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.
[Illustration: _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 Pere Armand until he
has a classical education such as was popular for Creole boys of good
family some fifty years ago. Pere 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.