He clutched at a dim tapestry which hung across the wall and tumbled through a slit in the fabric—which swelled of dust and moth balls—into a tiny alcove flanking a broad, well-cushioned window-seat under tall windows. Below him in a riot of bushes and hedges run wild, lay the garden. Somewhere beyond must lie Bayou Mercier leading directly to Lake Borgne and so to the sea, the thoroughfare used by their pirate ancestors when they brought home their spoil.
The green of the rank growth below, thought Val, seemed intensified by the strange yellowish light. A moss-grown path led straight into the heart of a jungle where sweet olive, banana trees, and palms grew in a matted mass.
Harrison might have done wonders for the house but he had allowed the garden to lapse into a wilderness.
“Val!”
“Coming!” he shouted and pushed back through the curtain. He could hear Rupert moving about the lower hall.
“Just made it in time,” he said as the younger Ralestone limped down to join him. “Hear that?”
A steady pattering outside was growing into a wild dash of wind-driven rain. It was dark and Rupert himself was but a blur moving across the hall.
“Do you still have the flash? Might as well descend into the lower regions and put on the lights.”
They crossed the Long Hall, passing through another large chamber where furniture huddled under dust covers, and then into a small cupboard-lined passage. This gave upon a dark cavern where Val’s hand scraped a table top only too painfully as he went. Then Rupert found the door leading to the cellar, and they went down and down into inky blackness upon which their thread of torchlight made little impression.
The damp, unpleasant scent of mold and wet grew stronger as they descended, and their fingers brushed slime-touched walls.
“Phew! Not very comfy down here,” Val protested as Rupert threw the torch beam along the nearest wall. With a grunt of relief he stepped forward to pull open the door of a small black box. “That does it,” he said as he threw the switch. “Now for the topside again and some supper.”
They negotiated the steps and found the button which controlled the kitchen lights. The glare showed them a room on the mammoth scale suggested by the Long Hall.
A giant fireplace still equipped with three-legged pots, toasting irons, and spits was at one side, its brick oven beside it. But a very modem range and sink faced it.
In the center of the room was a large table, while along the far wall were closed cupboards. Save for its size and the novelty of the fireplace, it was an ordinary kitchen, complete to red-checked curtains at the windows. Pleasant and homey, Val thought rather wistfully. But that was before the coming of that night when Ricky walked in the garden and he heard something stir in the Long Hall— which should have been empty—
“Val! Rupert!” A cry which started valiantly became a wail as it echoed through empty rooms. “Where are yo-o-ou!”
“Here, in the kitchen,” Val shouted back.
A moment later Ricky stood in the doorway, her face flushed and her usually correct curls all on end.
“Mean, selfish, utterly selfish pigs!” she burst out. “Leaving me all alone in the dark! And it’s so dark!”
“We just went down to turn on the lights!” Val began.
“So I see.” With a sniff she looked about her. “It took two of you to do that. But it only required one of me to make three beds. Well, this is a warning to me. Next time—“ she did not finish her threat. “I suppose you want some supper?”
Rupert was already at the cupboards. “That,” he agreed, “is the general idea.”
“Beans or—“ Ricky’s hand closed upon Val’s arm with a nipper-like grip. “What,” her voice was a thin thread of sound, “was that?”
Above the steady beat of the rain they heard a noise which was half scratch, half thud. Under Rupert’s hand the latch of the cupboard clicked.
“Back door,” he said laconically.
“Well, why don’t you open it?” Ricky’s fingers bit tighter so that Val longed to twist out of her grip.
The key grated in the lock and then Rupert shot back the accompanying bolt.
“Something’s there,” breathed Ricky.
“Probably nothing but a branch blown against the door by the wind,” Val assured her, remembering the tangled state of the garden.
The door came back, letting in a douche of cold rain and a black shadow which leaped for the security of the center of the room.
“Look!” Ricky laughed unsteadily and released Val’s arm.
In the center of the neat kitchen, spitting angrily at the wet, stood a ruffled and oversized black tom-cat.
THE LUCK OF THE LORDS OF LORNE
“Nice of you to drop in, old man,” commented Rupert dryly as he shut the door. “But didn’t anyone ever mention to you that gentlemen wipe their feet before entering strange houses?” He surveyed a line of wet paw prints across the brick floor.
“Did he get all wet, the poor little—“ Ricky was on her knees, stretching out her hand and positively cooing. The cat put down the paw he had been licking and regarded her calmly out of round, yellow eyes. Then he returned to his washing. Val laughed.
“Evidently he is used to the strong, silent type of human, Ricky. I wonder where he belongs.”
“He belongs to us now. Yes him does, doesn’t him?”
She attempted to touch the visitor’s head. His ears went back and he showed sharp teeth in no uncertain manner.
“Better let him alone,” advised Rupert. “He doesn’t seem to be the kind you can cuddle.”
“So I see.” Ricky arose to her feet with an offended air. “One would think that I resembled the more repulsive members of my race.”
“In the meantime,” Rupert again sought the cupboard, “let’s eat.”
Half an hour later, fed and well content (even Satan, as the Ralestones had named their visitor because of his temperament, having condescended to accept some of the better-done bits of bacon), they sat about the table staring at the dishes. Now it is a very well-known fact that dishes do not obligingly leap from a table into a pan of well-soaped water, slosh themselves around a few times, and jump out to do a spot of brisk rubbing down. But how nice it would be if they did, thought Val.
“The dishes—“ began Ricky in a faint sort of way.
“Must be done. We gather that. How utterly nasty bacon grease looks when it’s congealed.” Her younger brother surveyed the platter before him with mournful interest.
“And the question before the house is, I presume, who’s going to wash them?” Rupert grinned. “This seems to be as good a time as any to put some sort of a working plan in force. There is a certain amount of so-called housework which has to be done. And there are three of us to do it. It’s up to us to apportion it fairly. Shall we say, let everyone care for his or her own room—”
“There are also the little matters of washing, and ironing, and cleaning,” Ricky broke in to remind him.
“And we’re down to fifty a month in hard cash. But the tenant fanner on me other side of the bayou is to supply us with fresh fruit and vegetables. And our wardrobes are fairly intact. So I think mat we can afford to hire the washing done. We’ll take turns cooking—”
“Who’s elected to do the poisoning first?” Val inquired with interest. “I trust we possess a good cook-book?”
“Well, I’ll take breakfast tomorrow morning,” Rupert volunteered. “Anyone can boil coffee and toast bread. As for dishes, we’ll all pitch in together. And suppose we start right now.”
When the dishes were back again in their neat piles on the cupboard shelves, Ricky vanished upstairs, to come trailing down again in a house-coat which she fondly imagined made her look like one of the better-known screen sirens. The family gathered in an aimless way before the empty fireplace of the Long Hall. Rupert was filling a black pipe which allowed him to resemble—in very slight degree, decided Val—an explorer in an English tobacco advertisement. Val himself was stretched full length on the couch with about ten pounds of cat attempting to rest on his center section in spite of his firm refusal to allow the same.
“Br-r-r!” Ricky shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
“Probably just Uncle Rick passing through—not the weather. No, cat, you may not sit on that stomach. It’s just as full of bacon as yours is and it wants a nice long rest.”
Val swept Satan off to the floor and he resignedly went to roost by the boy’s feet in spite of the beguiling noises Ricky made to attract his attention.
“These stone houses are cold.” Rupert scratched a match on the sole of his shoe. “We ought to have flooring put down over this stone paving. I saw some wood stacked up in an outhouse when 1 put me car away. We’ll have it in tomorrow and see what we can do about a fire in the evening.”