Val could feel Ricky’s hand quiver against his. Charity had made them both see and feel what she wanted them to. They weren’t in the peaceful sunlight on the terrace of Pirate’s Haven; they were miles farther south in the dark land of Haiti, the Haiti of more than a hundred years ago. Before them was a semitropical forest from which at any moment might crawl—death. Val’s hand tightened on the sword hilt; the pistol butt was clammy in his grip.
Rupert had put up the easel and laid out the paints. And now, taking up her charcoal, Charity began to sketch with clear, clean strokes.
Her models’ unaccustomed muscles cramped so that when they shifted during their rest periods they grimaced with pain. Ricky whispered that she did not wonder models were hard to get. After a while Rupert went away without Charity noticing his leaving. The sun burned Val’s cheek where the paint had dried and he felt a trickle of moisture edge down his spine. But Charity worked on, thoroughly intent upon what was growing under her brushes.
It must have been close to noon when she was at last interrupted.
“Hello there, Miss Biglow!”
Two men stood below the terrace on a garden path. One of them waved his hat as Charity looked around. And behind them stood Jeems.
“Go away,” said the worker, “go away, Judson Holmes. I haven’t any time for you today.”
“Not after I’ve come all the way from New York to see you?” he asked reproachfully. “Why, Charity!” He had the reddest hair Val had ever seen—and the homeliest face—but his small-boy grin was friendliness itself.
“Go away,” she repeated stubbornly.
“Nope!” He shook his head firmly. “I’m staying right here until you forget that for at least a minute.” He motioned toward the picture.
With a sigh she put down her brush. “I suppose I’ll have to humor you.”
“Miss Charity,” Jeems had not taken his eyes from the two models since he had arrived and he did not move them now, “what’re they all fixed up like that fur?”
“It’s a picture for a story,” she explained. “A story about Haiti in the old days—”
“Ah reckon Ah know,” he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight. “That’s wheah th’ blacks kilt th’ French back in history times. Ah got me a book ’bout it. A book in handwritin’, not printin’. Père Armand larned me to read it.”
Judson Holmes’ companion moved forward. “A book in handwriting,” he said slowly. “Could that possibly mean a diary?”
Charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. “It might. New Orleans was a port of refuge for a great many of the French who fled the island during the slave uprising. It is not impossible.”
“I’ve got to see it! Here, boy, what’s your name?” He pounced upon Jeems. “Can you get that book here this afternoon?”
Jeems drew back. “Ah ain’t gonna bring no book heah. That’s mine an’ you ain’t gonna set eye on it!” With that parting shot he was gone.
“But—but—” protested the other, “I’ve got to see it. Why, such a find might be priceless.”
Mr. Holmes laughed. “Curb your hunting instincts for once, Creighton. You can’t handle a swamper that way. Let’s go and see Charity’s masterpiece instead.”
“I don’t remember having asked you to,” she observed.
“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.
X
Into the Swamp
In spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encouragement from Charity,
