“Oh, see here now, wasn’t I the one who got you this commission? And Creighton here is that strange animal known as a publisher’s scout. And publishers sometimes desire the services of illustrators, so you had better impress Creighton as soon as possible. Well,” he looked at the picture, “you have done it!”
Even Creighton, who had been inclined to stare back over his shoulder at the point where Jeems disappeared, now gave it more than half his attention.
“Is that for Drums of Doom?” he asked becoming suddenly crisp and professional.
“Yes.”
“Might do for the jacket of the book. Have Mr. Richards see this. Marvelous types, where did you get them?” he continued, looking from the canvas to Ricky and Val.
“Oh, I am sorry. Miss Ralestone, may I present Mr. Creighton, and Mr. Holmes, both of New York. And this,” she smiled at Val, “is Mr. Valerius Ralestone, the brother of the owner of this plantation. The family, I believe, has lived here for about two hundred and fifty years.”
Creighton’s manner became a shade less brusque as he took the hand Ricky held out to him. “I might have known that no professional could get that look,” he said.
“Then this isn’t your place?” Mr. Holmes said to Charity after he had greeted the Ralestones.
“Mine? Goodness no! I rent the old overseer’s house. Pirate’s Haven is Ralestone property.”
“Pirate’s Haven.” Judson Holmes’ infectious grin reappeared. “A rather suggestive name.”
“The builder intended to name it ‘King’s Acres’ because it was a royal grant,” Val informed him. “But he was a pirate, so the other name was given it by the country folk and he adopted it. And he was right in doing so because there were other freebooters in the family after his time.”
“Yes, we are even equipped with a pirate ghost,” contributed Ricky with a mischievous glance in her brother’s direction.
Holmes fanned himself with his hat. “So romance isn’t dead after all. Well, Charity, shall we stay—in town I mean?”
“Why?” a thin line appeared between her eyes as if she had little liking for such a plan.
“Well, Creighton is here on the track of a mysterious new writer who is threatening to produce a second Gone with the Wind. And I—well, I like the climate.”
“We’ll see,” muttered Charity.
Into the Swamp
In spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encouragement from Charity, both Holmes and Creighton lingered on in New Orleans. Mr. Creighton made several attempts to get in touch with Jeems, whom he seemed to suspect of concealing vast literary treasures. And he spent one hot morning going through the trunk of papers which the Ralestones had found in the storage-room. Ricky commented upon the fact that being a publisher’s scout was almost like being an antique buyer.
Holmes was a perfect foil for his laboring friend. He lounged away his days draped across the settee on Charity’s gallery or sitting down on the bayou levee—after she had chased him away—pitching pebbles into the water. He told all of them that it was his vacation, the first one he had had in five years, and that he was going to make the most of it. Companioned by Creighton, he usually enlarged the family circle in the evenings. And the tales he could tell about the far corners of the earth were as wildly romantic as Rupert’s—though he did assure his listeners that even Tibet was very tame and well behaved nowadays.
Charity had finished the first illustration and had started another. This time Ricky and Val appeared polished and combed as if they had just stepped out of a ball-room of a governor’s palace—which they had, according to the story. It was during her second morning’s work upon this that she threw down her brush with a snort of disgust.
“It’s no use,” she told her models, “I simply can’t work on this now. All I can see is that scene where the hero’s mulatto half-brother watches the ball from the underbrush. I’ve got to do that one first.”
“Why don’t you then?” Ricky stretched to relieve cramped muscles.
“I would if I could get Jeems. He’s my model for the brother. He’s enough like you, Val, for the resemblance, and his darker tan is just right for color. But he won’t come back while Creighton’s here. I could wring that man’s neck!”
“But Creighton left for Milneburg this morning,” Val reminded her. “Rupert told him about the old voodoo rites which used to be celebrated there on June 24th, St. John’s Eve, and he wanted to see if there were any records—”
“Yes. But Jeems doesn’t know he’s gone. If we could only get in touch with him—Jeems, I mean.”
“Miss ‘Chanda!”
Sam Two, as they had come to call Sam’s eldest son and heir, was standing on the lowest step of the terrace, holding a small covered basket in his hands.
“Yes?”
“Letty-Lou done say dis am fo’ yo’all, Miss ‘Chanda.”
“For me?” Ricky looked at the offering in surprise. “But what in the world—Bring it here, Sam.”
“Yas’m.”
He laid the basket in Ricky’s outstretched hands.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She turned it around. “It seems to be woven of some awfully fine grass—”
“That’s swamp work.” Charity was peering over Ricky’s shoulder. “Open it.”
Inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of polished wood carved with an odd design of curling lines which reminded Val of Spanish moss. And with the circlet was a small purse of scaled hide.
“Swamp oak and baby alligator,” burst out Charity. “Aren’t they beauties?”
“But who—” began Ricky.
Val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to the floor. It was cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines, but the writing was bold and clear: “Miss Richanda Ralestone.”
“It’s yours all right.” He handed her the paper.
“I know.” She tucked the note away with the gifts. “It was Jeems.”
“Jeems? But why?” her brother protested.
“Well, yesterday when I was down by the levee he was coming in and I knew that Mr. Creighton was here and I told him. So,” she colored faintly, “then he took me across the bayou and I got some of those big swamp lilies that I’ve always wanted. And we had a long talk. Val, Jeems knows the most wonderful things about the swamps. Do you know that they still have voodoo meetings sometimes—way back in there,” she swept her hand southward. “And the fur trappers live on house-boats, renting their hunting rights. But Jeems owns his own land. Now some northerners are prospecting for oil. They have a queer sort of car which can travel either on land or water. And Père Armand has church records that date back to the middle of the eighteenth century. And—”
“So that’s where you were from four until almost six,” Val laughed. “I don’t know that I approve of this riotous living. Will Jeems take me to pick the lilies too?”
“Maybe. He wanted to know why you always moved so carefully. And I told him about the accident. Then he said the oddest thing—” She was staring past Val at the oaks. “He said that to fly was worth being smashed up for and that he envied you.”
“Then he’s a fool!” her brother said promptly. “Nothing is worth—” Val stopped abruptly. Five months before