Kitabı oku: «Patsy Carroll Under Southern Skies», sayfa 5
CHAPTER X
GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH OLD OCEAN
“Isn’t there a road to this beach wide enough for the automobile to run on?” Miss Martha inquired of her brother at breakfast the next morning, in a tone of long-suffering patience.
“None that I know of,” was the discouraging reply. “That stretch of jungle above the beach extends for miles along the coast. The only road to the sea in this vicinity is the one cut through the woods by old Fereda. It’s hardly more than a path. Too bad you don’t ride, Martha. You could make it easily on horseback.”
“Never,” was the firm assertion. “I wouldn’t trust myself to the best behaved horse that ever lived. I suppose I shall have to resign myself to walking.”
“You needn’t go with us, if you’d rather not, Auntie,” broke in Patsy. “Dad says it’s perfectly safe for us to go alone. We’re on our own property all the way to the beach, you know.”
“That is not the point,” calmly disagreed Miss Carroll. “I feel it my duty to accompany you whenever your father is unable to do so. I dare say the sea breeze will benefit me. I merely dislike the idea of this tramp through the brush and weeds.”
“Oh, the road’s as smooth as can be,” hastily assured Beatrice. “It’s only narrow, that’s all. It’s really a beautiful walk, Miss Martha. I am sure you will like it.”
“I doubt it,” was the pessimistic response. “Nevertheless I shall go.”
Half an hour after breakfast a luggage-laden procession set off beachwards. Miss Martha brought up the rear with Mabel, eye-glasses firmly astride her nose, a book in one hand, her white parasol held over her head at a dignified angle. Beatrice and Eleanor walked just ahead, while Patsy buoyantly led the van, calling continually back over her shoulder to her companions with every fresh feature of interest her bright eyes picked up along the way.
“I must say the walking is better than I had expected to find it,” was Miss Carroll’s grudging opinion as the party at length emerged from the woods onto the sands. “Walking, as an exercise, has never appealed to me, however.”
“If you walk down to the beach and back with us every day, Auntie, you’ll soon become a champion walker,” Patsy said lightly.
“I have no such ambition,” was her aunt’s dry answer. “Further, I don’t intend to come down here every day. On occasions when Robert is busy, and I do not feel inclined to take this walk, you will have to forego sea-bathing.”
“Come on over and see the bath house, Auntie.”
Patsy slipped an arm through that of her apparently disobliging relative. She was well aware of the fact that her aunt’s bark was worse than her bite.
Escorted by Patsy to the little bath house, Miss Martha critically inspected its interior and set upon it her seal of placid approval. For a half hour the four girls busied themselves with unpacking and arranging the various articles they had brought with them as final furnishing touches. This done to their mutual satisfaction, they gleefully began preparations for their swim. In an incredibly short time they had donned their bathing suits and were ready for their morning dip.
“My first appearance as a deep sea swimmer,” proudly announced Bee, making a low bow to Patsy.
“You look sweet, Bee. That dark red suit is awfully becoming,” praised Eleanor. “Pull your cap down well over your head. Salt water makes one’s hair so horrid and sticky.”
“Come on! The water’s fine! Hurrah for old Ocean!”
Patsy held out an inviting hand to Beatrice. Attired in a sleeveless suit of white flannel, with pale blue trimmings, one auburn curl escaping from under her white rubber cap, her gray eyes dancing, cheeks pink with excitement, Patsy was the embodiment of girlish prettiness and radiant health.
The Wayfarers made a charming picture as they caught hands and ran down the beach and into the water four abreast. There was a pleasant light in Miss Martha’s blue eyes as she stood watching them and heard the concerted shout of glee that arose as they struck the water and Patsy immediately proceeded to administer the ducking she had promised Beatrice.
Being a very sturdy young person, Bee had a will of her own. In consequence a battle royal ensued in the water, punctuated by shouts of laughter. It ended by both combatants losing their footing and sitting down violently in the water, to the great joy of Mabel and Eleanor, who seized the opportunity to fall upon Patsy and Bee and duck them thoroughly on their own account. Whereupon a good-natured, free-for-all combat waged.
Their first exuberance subsiding the bathers settled themselves to enjoy their swim in the buoyant salt water. Accustomed from childhood to sea-bathing, Patsy was an expert swimmer. Bee, who had learned to swim in fresh water, did fairly well, however. Mabel and Eleanor were indifferent swimmers. To quote Mabel: “We can swim and that’s about all.”
Having watched her flock make a noisy acquaintance with old Ocean, Miss Martha retired to a spot on the sands shaded by the overhanging palms where beach and jungle met. Seating herself on the clean, warm sand, she opened the novel she had brought with her and devoted herself to its pages.
Oblivious for the time being to the merry voices of her charges, she was finally startled by a piercing shriek of pain. As a result of going bathing bare-footed, one Wayfarer, at least, had met with disaster. Eleanor had had the misfortune to run afoul of a most ungracious crab, which had promptly shown displeasure of the intrusion by taking hold and pinching.
By the time Miss Martha had dropped parasol and book to rush to the water’s edge, Eleanor had won free of her tormentor and was limping for land.
“What’s the matter, Eleanor?” Miss Carroll cried out concernedly.
“A horrid crab pinched my foot,” was the doleful response. “I thought it would never let go. I was wading near the shore and stepped on it. My, but my foot hurts!”
Emerging from the shallows, Eleanor dropped down on the sand and began tenderly nursing her injured foot.
“You should have worn bathing slippers and stockings,” was the doubtful consolation. “They not only look well but are also a protection.”
“But this is a private beach and it’s ever so much more fun not to wear them, Miss Martha. I’m not really hurt much. My foot feels all right now,” Eleanor hastily assured. “It hardly pains me at all.”
“Oh, I sha’n’t insist on your wearing them,” Miss Martha smiled grimly at Eleanor’s miraculous recovery. “I merely expressed my opinion.”
By this time, Mabel, who had been some distance away from her sister when the latter cried out, now appeared beside her.
“What happened to you, Nellie?” she asked. “I heard you yell and came as fast as I could.”
“Oh, a hateful old crab pinched my foot. It wasn’t anything. I was silly to make a fuss about it. I frightened Miss Martha and I’ve spoiled Bee’s and Patsy’s sport. They’d started to race as far as that upper curve of the beach. Now they’re coming back.”
“It’s just as well.” Miss Martha consulted her wrist watch. “You girls have been in the water over an hour. That is long enough for your first day’s bathing.”
Patsy and Bee presently arriving on the scene with solicitous inquiries, they were promptly informed of Eleanor’s mishap by the sufferer herself.
“Poor ’ittle Nellie! Did a nasty, naughty old crab nip her tootsey-ootsey?” deplored Patsy. “Show Patsy that wicked crabby an’ her’ll kill him wight down dead.”
“Oh, stop, you goose,” giggled Eleanor. “You make me feel as though I were about three years old.”
“That’s the way she appreciates my sympathy,” grinned Patsy. “Never mind, Nellie. I forgive you, even if you did interrupt the grand race. Bee was gaining on me, anyway. She might possibly have beaten me. Want to try it over again, Bee?”
“Not to-day, Patsy,” objected her aunt. “You’ve been in the water long enough. By the time you girls are ready to go back to the house it will be nearly noon. I ordered luncheon at one o’clock, as usual. It will be one before we reach the house.”
“All right, Auntie. We’ll postpone the great race until to-morrow.”
As she spoke, Patsy began energetically to wring the salt water from the skirt of her bathing suit, preparatory to retiring into the bath house.
Her companions following Patsy’s example, Miss Carroll strolled back to the spot where she had left book and parasol. The white parasol lay precisely where she had cast it aside in her hurried dash to Eleanor’s rescue. The book – Miss Martha stared down at the sand in sheer amazement. The red, cloth-bound volume she had been reading had disappeared as utterly as though the earth had suddenly opened and swallowed it.
CHAPTER XI
A TIMID CALLER
“My book! Where is it?”
Miss Martha continued to stare severely at the spot where her book had so lately lain.
“I saw you sitting there reading it,” affirmed Eleanor positively. “I remember looking up toward you just before that cranky old crab nipped my foot.”
“Certainly I was reading it. I laid it down beside my parasol. It never walked away by itself. Someone stole it. This is very unpleasant. I don’t like it at all. It simply goes to show that I was right in not allowing you girls to come down here alone. Some unknown person has evidently been hidden back there in those woods watching us.”
Miss Martha shook a dramatic finger toward the jungle.
“Oh!” Bee gave a quick, startled gasp. “I wonder – ”
“What is it, Beatrice? Tell me instantly,” commanded Miss Carroll.
“Why – nothing – only – ” Bee hesitated. “Yesterday when we were down here,” she continued, “I saw a – a young girl standing back in a thicket watching us. She might be the one – ”
“She might indeed,” grimly concurred Miss Martha. “I haven’t the least doubt but that she appropriated it. I have been told that the negroes down here are a thieving lot. Strange she didn’t take my parasol.”
“But this girl I saw was as white as Patsy or I,” protested Bee. “She was so pretty. I don’t believe – ”
“I would far rather lay the loss of my book to her than to some prowling tramp,” retorted Miss Martha.
“A person who would take an ordinary cloth-bound book and not an expensive white silk parasol can’t be a very desperate character,” surmised Patsy gaily. “I guess there’s really nothing to worry about. Perhaps this wood nymph of Bee’s is fond of reading.”
“I am not inclined to pass over the incident so lightly,” disagreed her aunt. “I shall insist on Robert’s finding out who this girl is and all about her.”
Some further discussion of the affair ensued during which Miss Carroll again repeated her stern injunction: “You must never come down here to bathe unless either my brother or I are with you. It strikes me that this community is entirely too full of thieves and lunatics for comfort.”
“I’m pretty sure that it was our wood nymph who made off with Aunt Martha’s book,” confided Patsy to Bee as they finally started for the bath house. “I have a scheme of my own that I’m going to carry out. If it works – well, just watch me to-morrow and see. I’m not going to tell you about it now, so don’t ask me.”
“All right, keep it to yourself. I’d rather not hear it, anyway,” amiably responded Bee. “It will be more fun just to watch your mysterious movements and – ”
“Bee,” interrupted Patsy, “things are really a little mysterious, aren’t they? First we run across that queer, terrible old woman who talks in riddles about Eulalie and Camillo and our being thieves, etc. Then you see a wood nymph, and next day Auntie’s book vanishes into thin air. We simply must find someone who can tell us something about who’s who at Las Golondrinas. The minute I get back to the house I’m going to hunt up Dad’s new man, Carlos, and quiz him. He must certainly know a little about things around here.”
It being after one o’clock when the party returned to the house, luncheon immediately claimed Patsy’s attention. Inquiry of her father as to where she might find Carlos resulted in the disappointing information that he had ridden out to the stock farm early that morning and would not return until late in the evening.
Mr. Carroll appeared somewhat concerned over his sister’s account of the sudden disappearance of her book. Informed of the young girl Beatrice had spied watching the Wayfarers from the bushes on the previous day, a light of sudden recollection leaped into his eyes.
“Was the girl you saw a black-eyed, elfish-looking youngster with long black hair hanging about her face?” he asked Beatrice.
“Yes,” nodded Beatrice. “You must have seen her, too,” she added with quick interest.
“Where did you see her, Dad?” demanded Patsy excitedly.
“Uncle Jemmy and I surprised her the other day in the orange grove nearest to the lower end of the estate. She was sitting under a palmetto tree, singing to herself. She had a wreath of white flowers on her head and looked for all the world like a mischievous wood sprite.” Mr. Carroll smiled reminiscently. “The moment she caught sight of us she jumped up from the ground and was off like the wind through the grove. I haven’t the least idea where she went. I asked old Jemmy about her, but he’d never seen her before. He’s not familiar with this part of the country, you know.”
“As I remarked this morning to the girls, there seem to be altogether too many queer persons in this vicinity for comfort,” Miss Martha commented in a displeased tone. “Have you made inquiry yet, Robert, of your new man regarding that demented old woman?”
“No; I forgot all about her,” Mr. Carroll admitted rather sheepishly. “I’ll make it a point to do so to-morrow.”
“You might inquire about this girl at the same time,” pursued his sister. “It is very necessary that we should know exactly who these persons are and what we may expect from them.”
“This little girl may be the daughter of one of the fishermen. There are a few families of fisher-folk living in shacks farther up the beach. I noticed half a dozen bare-footed youngsters playing on the sands when I called on old Nathan, the fisherman, yesterday.”
“It is unfortunate that this property of yours happens to be so isolated,” deplored Miss Carroll. “Our only neighbors are, apparently, fisher-folk, one lunatic and a few negroes.”
“Never mind, Auntie. The Wayfarers are sufficient unto themselves,” consoled Patsy. “We can get along beautifully without neighbors.”
“If you feel uneasy about staying here, Martha, then I’ll make arrangements for you and the girls at one of the Beach hotels,” offered Mr. Carroll solicitously.
“I’m not in the least uneasy,” calmly assured Miss Martha. “I rather enjoy the novelty of this old place. Certainly I would not care to leave it now, since you have gone to so much trouble to get it ready for us. I merely wish to be sure that we shall not be annoyed by irresponsible or dangerous characters. The very fact that we have no near neighbors of our own class makes it necessary for us to protect ourselves against unpleasant intruders.”
The Wayfarers had awaited Miss Carroll’s reply to her brother’s offer with bated breath. When it came, each girlish face expressed unmistakable relief. The charm of Las Golondrinas had taken hold of them. Patsy, in particular, felt that to be torn away from it now and returned to the artificiality of hotel life would be a cross indeed. She was anxious to discover if the old house really held a mystery.
“I hardly believe you will be,” responded Mr. Carroll. “A few days and I shall have my affairs arranged so as to be with you on most of your jaunts. Then we shall be able to find out a good deal more about Las Golondrinas and its environments than I’ve had time, thus far, to look into.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” Miss Martha replied in a tone which implied anything but hope.
“How would you like to drive to Palm Beach this afternoon, stop at the Cocoanut Grove for tea and later take dinner at one of the hotels?” proposed Mr. Carroll, with diplomatic intent to change the subject.
This proposal met with instant enthusiastic response from the girls. Even Miss Carroll graciously admitted that it would be pleasant.
Luncheon over, the Wayfarers promptly scurried upstairs to decide the momentous questions of gowns. To go to Palm Beach merely for an afternoon and evening’s outing was an entirely different matter from going there for the remainder of their vacation. Tea in the Cocoanut Grove promised to be interesting.
When, at three o’clock that afternoon, the automobile sped down the oleander drive laden with its freight of daintily gowned girls, Miss Martha’s equanimity had quite returned. Seated in the tonneau between Mabel and Eleanor, she looked very stately and imposing in a smart frock of heavy wistaria silk, a plumed hat to match setting off to perfection her thick snowy hair and patrician features.
Bee was wearing her best gown, a becoming affair of pale pink taffeta which had been fashioned by her mother’s clever fingers. Mabel had chosen a dainty little dress of pale green jersey silk, embroidered with white daisies. Eleanor wore a fluffy blue chiffon creation, while Patsy was radiantly pretty in white net over white taffeta.
That the Wayfarers presented a charming appearance in their delicately-hued finery at least one spectator to their departure could testify. As the car swept through the gateway and onto the white public road, from behind a flower-laden bush situated just inside the gates, a black-haired, bare-footed girl emerged and peered wistfully through the iron palings after the fast vanishing automobile.
When it had entirely disappeared from view, the elfish little watcher turned and threw herself face downward in the tangled grass and began a low disconsolate wailing, her thin shoulders shaking with convulsive sobs. There she continued to lie, beating the long grass with two small brown clenched hands.
Her emotion having finally spent itself she slowly dragged herself to her feet, tossed her long heavy black hair out of her eyes, and sped like a fawn across the lawn. Coming at last to a clump of low growing bushes, she dived in under them and reappeared, holding something in her hand. Then she was off again, this time toward the house. Slipping through the oleander hedge with the ease of a wood sprite, she made final port at the entrance to the patio.
The doors stood open. Like a shadow she flitted through the doorway and into the patio beyond. On a rustic seat near the fountain, she laid the object which she carried in one thin brown hand. Then she turned and ran in the direction from which she had come like a timid, hunted young animal.
CHAPTER XII
INTERVIEWING CARLOS
Strolling into the patio with Eleanor next morning, Miss Martha Carroll was treated to a surprise. Passing one of the rustic seats set at intervals about the patio, her eyes chanced to come to rest on an astonishingly familiar object. It was nothing more nor less than a fat, red-covered volume lying on the seat before which she had paused in sheer amazement.
“Why – where – ” she stammered, adjusting her eye-glasses and staring hard at the gilt-lettered title, “The Interrupted Quest,” which conspicuously adorned the book’s front cover.
“This is really amazing!” she exclaimed, addressing Eleanor, who had halted beside her.
“What is it, Miss Martha?”
Eleanor looked wonderingly curious. She had not the remotest idea of the cause of Miss Martha’s agitation.
“This is the book that disappeared from the beach yesterday morning,” emphasized Miss Carroll. “How, I should like to know, does it happen to be here?”
“Why!” Eleanor’s blue eyes grew round with surprise. “That’s queer, isn’t it?”
“Too queer by far,” was the displeased answer.
“Oh, look!”
Eleanor had picked up the book from the seat. As she raised it, a slip of paper fluttered to the stone floor of the patio. Stooping, she gathered it in. Written on it in pencil was the single word: “Gracias.”
“It’s meant for ‘gracious,’ I guess,” puzzled Eleanor, “only it isn’t spelled correctly. I really believe it must have been that queer girl Bee saw who took the book. She’s honest, at least. She returned it. But why in the world did she write ‘gracious’ on that slip of paper? Here come the girls. May I tell them, Miss Martha?”
“Of course.”
Miss Carroll had seated herself on the bench, a decided frown between her brows. She did not in the least relish this latest performance on the part of the elflike stranger. The unexpected return of the book indicated that the odd little prowler was evidently, as Eleanor said, honest. Yet the fact remained that she was a prowler, which annoyed Miss Martha considerably.
“The lost is found!” Eleanor called triumphantly across the patio to the approaching trio of girls. “What do you think of this?”
She held up the book for them to see.
“Why, it is Auntie’s lost book, isn’t it? Where did it come from, Nellie?”
Patsy’s face registered a mystified surprise which was also reflected on the features of her companions.
“We found it lying on that seat,” explained Eleanor. “This slip of paper was tucked into it.”
Patsy took the bit of paper which Eleanor proffered. Mabel and Bee eagerly peered at it over her shoulder as she held it up and inspected the one word written on it. Her brows contracted in a puzzled frown.
“Humph!” she ejaculated. “I don’t see – ”
“I do,” interrupted Mabel with a little laugh. “That word ‘gracias’ is Spanish for ‘thank you.’”
“Then my wood nymph is Spanish!” Bee cried out. “It was she who took the book. The whole thing is as plain as daylight. She only borrowed it over night to read. Miss Martha’s pretty white parasol didn’t interest her at all. It was the book that took her eye. And why? Because she wanted to read it, of course.”
“Go ahead, Sherlock,” teased Patsy. “What next?”
“Well – ” Bee laughed and looked slightly confused. “We know, too, that she is honest, or – ”
“That’s just what I said,” interposed Eleanor.
“Really, Beatrice, I can hardly imagine a wild-looking girl such as you have described as having literary tastes,” broke in Miss Martha drily. “It is far more reasonable to assume that the bright color of my book caught her eye. She may have thought it a picture book. Finding out that it was not, some strange impulse of her own caused her to return it. Her methods seem to me decidedly primitive. Why doesn’t she come out and show herself openly, instead of dodging about under cover like a young savage?”
“She is probably just awfully shy,” staunchly defended Patsy. “She can’t really be quite a savage. She wrote ‘thank you’ on that bit of paper. That proves two things. She knows how to write and is not too ignorant to be polite.”
“I don’t consider prowling about in the bushes and spying upon strangers marked indications of politeness,” was Miss Carroll’s satirical return. “I can’t say I relish the prospect of having this young imp bob up at us unexpectedly at every turn we make.”
The Wayfarers giggled in unison at this remark. Miss Martha did not resent their mirth. She even smiled a little herself, a fact which Patsy shrewdly noted. It informed her that her aunt was not seriously prejudiced against the will-o’-the-wisp little stranger. Like everything else at Las Golondrinas, this new feature of mystery made strong appeal to Patsy. She was inwardly resolved eventually to hunt down the elusive, black-eyed sprite and make her acquaintance.
With this idea in mind she now made energetic announcement:
“I’m going to interview Carlos this minute and learn a few things about the natives. Anybody who wants to come along has my gracious permission. If nobody wants to, then I’m going just the same. He’s down at the stable this morning. Dad said so.”
“I’ll go,” accepted Bee. “I have almost as much curiosity as you.”
“I don’t feel like going out in the hot sun,” Eleanor said. “It’s so nice and cool here in the patio. I have no curiosity.”
“You mean energy,” corrected Bee.
“I have neither,” beamed Eleanor, “so just run along without me. You can tell me all about what Carlos said when you come back. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”
“You may wait a long while,” jeered Mabel. “I’m not so lazy as you. I’m going with the girls and practice my Spanish on Carlos.”
“I hope he’ll survive it,” retaliated Eleanor.
“You should worry. Adios.”
Mabel waved a derisive farewell to her sister as she turned to follow Patsy and Bee, who had already started for the main exit to the patio, which opened onto the driveway.
Arm in arm, the trio followed the drive, coming at last to the stable, a rambling stone structure situated at some distance below the house.
“There’s Carlos now! He looks like a cowboy, doesn’t he?”
Patsy had spied her father’s new man standing in front of the stable engaged in lighting a cigarette. Attired in an open-necked flannel shirt, brown corduroy trousers and a weather-stained sombrero, the Mexican presented a rather picturesque appearance, or so the Wayfarers thought.
Immediately he caught sight of the three girls, the man’s dark features grew lowering. He made a move as though to enter the stable door, then stood still, regarding his advancing visitors with sullen indifference.
“You speak to him, Mab,” urged Patsy in an undertone. “Say something to him in Spanish.”
“Oh, I can’t,” demurred Mabel. “What shall I say?”
“Say ‘good-day’ in Spanish,” prompted Patsy. “Go ahead.”
Raising her voice, Mabel called out politely: “Buenos dias, señor.”
The man made no effort to doff his sombrero in response to this hail. Neither did he leave off smoking his cigarette.
“I spik English,” he announced in a sulky tone that suggested affront rather than appreciation of being thus addressed in his native tongue.
“So much the better for us then.”
Patsy now became spokesman. There was a gleam of lively resentment in her gray eyes, born of the man’s ungracious behavior.
For an instant the two regarded each other steadily. Something in the girl’s resolute, unflinching gaze caused the man’s small black eyes to waver. He glimpsed in that direct glance the same determined will he had already discovered the “Señor Carroll” possessed.
As if unwillingly impelled to break the silence he mumbled sulkily: “What do you desire?”
“To ask you a few questions,” tersely returned Patsy. “My father tells me that you used to work for Mr. Fereda, the old Spanish gentleman who once owned this estate. So you must know something of the Feredas, and also of the few persons who live in this vicinity.”
Patsy’s former intent to be affable had completely vanished. Decidedly miffed by the man’s too evident surliness, she spoke almost imperiously.
“Las Golondrinas covers much ground. I know a little; not much,” was the evasive answer.
“I am sure you must know something of the queer old woman who lives in a little cottage outside the estate, and just beyond the orange groves,” Patsy coolly challenged. “Who is she and how long has she lived there?”
“Ah, yes, I know.”
Carlos blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air and indifferently watched it drift away.
“She is Rosita,” he shrugged. “Always she has lived there. As children she and old Manuel played together. Her father was the servant of his father, Enrico Fereda. Rosita is the widow for many years.”
Three pairs of alert ears avidly picked up the name “Enrico.” Here it seemed was still another member of the Fereda family.
“Is she crazy?”
It was Mabel who now tactlessly interposed with this blunt question.
It had an electrical effect upon Carlos. His attitude of bored indifference left him. His lax shoulders straightened with an angry jerk. His black eyes narrowed in sinister fashion.
“You spik of my grandmother, señorita!” he rebuked, drawing himself up with an air of offended dignity.
“I beg your pardon,” Mabel said hastily, her color rising.
In spite of her embarrassment she was seized with an irresistible desire to laugh. Realizing that laughter was imminent, she turned to Patsy with: “I’m going back to the house. I’ll see you later,” and ingloriously retired from the scene, leaving Patsy and Bee to conduct the remainder of the interview.
“Why the señorita so spik of my grandmother? You have seen her?”
Carlos threw away his cigarette and appeared for the first time to take an interest in things. Bee thought she detected a faint note of concern in his voice. She had been watching him closely and had already decided that he knew a great deal more about Las Golondrinas and its environments than he pretended to know.
“We saw your grandmother’s cottage the other day from the orange groves. We walked over to it. Your grandmother came out of the cottage and asked us who we were. When we told her and tried to ask her some questions about the Fereda family, she screamed and raved at us and ordered us to go away and not come back. She behaved and talked very much like a crazy person.”
It was Bee who purposely made this somewhat full explanation. She had a curious conviction that her recital of old Rosita’s wild outburst was a piece of news to Carlos, and that it did not please him.
“Rosita is not loco,” Carlos shook his head in sullen contradiction. “What you want know ’bout the family de Fereda? Why you want know?”
As Patsy’s original intention had been to quiz Carlos about the Feredas, she now hailed the opportunity. The identity of Rosita having been established and her sanity vouched for by her grandson, at least, Patsy was eager to go on to the Feredas themselves. Carlos appeared, too, to be thawing out a trifle. She had, at least, aroused his curiosity.
“We would like to know the history of the Feredas because we think it would be interesting. We know by the portraits in the picture gallery that they were a very old family,” she began eagerly. “Do you know anything about those portraits? Have you ever been in the gallery?”
“I have been; remember nothing,” was the discouraging response. “Of the history this family know nothing.”
Carlos’ face had resumed its mask of indifference. Only his black eyes held a curiously alert expression which watchful Bee did not fail to note.
Patsy looked her disappointment. She had hoped to extract from Carlos some information not only about the Feredas but also concerning the portrait which so greatly interested her. Failing, she next bethought herself of the mysterious wood nymph.
