Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (20 page)

 
          
 
Long life, riches, good
health and peace of mind, love of virtue, an end fulfilling the will of Heaven.
Over only two of those perhaps did mankind have control—the third and fourth;
maybe only the fourth. The rest were certainly a matter of chance, fortune, or
perhaps divine will. But one could choose to love virtue.

 
          
 
Her attention shifted from those deeply graven
characters, looking so odd to the Western eyes, so difficult to see as true
writing, to the fancifully pictured panels set below them. First, tall
mountains in queer full humps, and dwarfed beneath them, three horsemen on a
lonely road. For all its strangeness of line one sensed the barrenness, the
threat of that country through which the horsemen pushed. Next came a garden, a
man sitting under a flowering tree before a table on which were set out a
scholar's tools, inkstone, inkstick, brush, paper, brush rest, seal—and a
little behind him another man cross-legged on the ground, his back against a
rock, a flute in his hands.

 
          
 
The third— Saranna's gaze became fixed. She
sat upright as if jerked. How could she not have seen that before? Or maybe she
had seen it without really remembering, until it came to life in her dream.

 
          
 
Because this was, in some ways, the very core
of her dream!

 
          
 
There were three musicians to one side, a drum
player, a man with a flute to his lips; the third, a woman cradling a
long-necked stringed instrument against her knee as she plucked upon it. In the
center of the tile postured a dancer, her long sleeve ends aflutter, the swirl
of skirts about her as if she had only this second come to the end of her
dance.
Her hair was dressed in the same looped and puffed
fashion as the Fox Lady's had been.

 
          
 
There were only two things missing—the circle
of foxes watching, and the fox's mask. For this dancer in blue and white had
entirely human features. That was it! Saranna must have seen this
tile,
some unremarked portion of her memory had stored it
away as an impression. Then the stories she had heard about the foxes of
Tiensin had released that memory in the form of a dream!

 
          
 
Only—
Her
hand went
to where she still wore in hiding the jade pendant. Where had that come from
then? If it had been the gift of the Fox Lady, why was it given? But, of
course, there was no Fox Lady! She was a dream taken from a screen tile and—

 
          
 
"Saranna!"

 
          
 
Damaris whipped around the screen. Saranna had
seen the younger girl defiant, she had seen her rebellious, and even in the
grip of some fear she would not explain. But she had never seen her
so
distraught as she was at this moment.

 
          
 
"Saranna—it is gone! Out of the desk—it
is gone!" Her words were scrambled together so it almost seemed she was
stuttering in her distress.

 
          
 
Saranna held out her hands and Damaris caught
them in a hold so tight that her nails made painful impressions in the older
girl's flesh.

 
          
 
The child gave a great gulp. Then tears
spilled from her eyes. She was shaking, clearly in a near-hysterical state.
One which awoke fear in Saranna, remembering all Honora's hints of
Damaris' heritage.

 
          
 
"Now, then," she tried to speak
calmly, in a way which would reach through whatever emotion had been so aroused
in the younger girl, give her a sense of security so that she herself might
discover what had brought on this perilous attack.

 
          
 
"What is gone?" She drew Damaris
closer until the child half-perched on the sofa behind her. Damaris could not
loosen that fierce grip she had on Saranna's hands. "What is gone?"
the older girl repeated in as even a tone as she could,
fighting
the inner foreboding which made her want to shiver in turn.

 
          
 
"The book—Grandfather's
book!"
Damaris spoke with impatience, as if she expected Saranna to
know at once and share with her that frantic sense of loss which plainly filled
her.

 
          
 
"What kind of book—?" Saranna
continued. That this was plainly some volume Damaris valued highly there could
be no mistake.

 
          
 
Damaris shivered. Her voice was as unsteady as
her body when she answered:

 
          
 
"The book—the book Grandfather had made!
The one about his treasures."
Perhaps Saranna had had
some calming effect upon her for now she lifted her eyes and stared imploringly
into the older girl's face.

 
          
 
"He—he made it about his treasures. It
had drawings in it—of all the best things.
The names of those
written in Chinese.
And then he wrote descriptions of the pieces in
English. All about who might have made them, how old they were—everything the
scholars and artists could tell him. He had the book specially bound with
tribute silk—a piece which was supposed to come from an Emperor's own
storehouse. It was so important.
Grandfather never, never allowed
it to be taken out of the library.
He had a special drawer in his desk
and he kept that locked. I was the only one —the only, only one with a key to
open it!

 
          
 
"But, Saranna, when I went to look for it
just now—the drawer was empty. It was gone! Who could have taken it?'*

 
          
 
"I don't know, but we shall find
out!" Maybe she was promising more with those words than she could
deliver. But at least Damaris needed all her support at this moment. "Show
me where it was; perhaps there is some sign there—"

 
          
 
"Of who took it?"
Damaris' despair had changed now to eagerness in a mercurial fashion which
Saranna did not like. But that she had accomplished this much in reducing
Damaris' reaction to the loss was perhaps good.

 
          
 
The younger girl held on to one of Saranna's
hands, hurrying her out into the hall, across that to the library. There the
curtains pulled completely across the windows, the drooping drapes gave the
room an austere gloom, which even the rows of richly bound books did nothing to
lighten.

 
          
 
The desk stood in a commanding spot not far
from the fireplace and indeed, one drawer stood open. Saranna saw, as she
approached, that the drawer itself had been lined in velvet. As if it
were
meant to act as a jewel case to enshrine and guard some
irreplaceable gem or gems. It would appear from the safe Captain Whaley had had
fashioned to protect his book that he considered it also one of his treasures,
equal to those others whose descriptions it contained.

 
          
 
Saranna knelt down by the desk as Damaris
freed her hand. She pushed the drawer closed. It ran very easily and smoothly
until the lock edge touched. Then she could see the marks there. Though she was
no expert, she was sure that this had not been opened by any key such as the
one Damaris had said was in her possession; no, plainly it had been forced.

 
          
 
Rising she went to the bell cord, gave a
resolute pull. This was one matter concerning which she certainly could ask
questions. And she intended to do just that right now.

 
          
 
When the houseman John came in answer to that
summons, Saranna, rather than Damaris, was in command of the situation.

 
          
 
"John, please ask Mrs. Parton to come
here. It is of the greatest importance."

 
          
 
His eyes dropped from meetmg her gaze.
"She— Miss Saranna, she don't like never to be called on Sunday afternoon.
She never likes—"

 
          
 
"I said it was important, John. I will
take the responsibility. This is a grave matter. Please tell her that we must
see her at once!"

 
          
 
He went reluctantly. Damaris gave a sudden
laugh which was almost as sharp as a fox's bark.

 
          
 
"She's going to be very angry, you know.
She takes a nap. What do you want with her, Saranna? Do you think she took the
book?"

 
          
 
"Since Mrs. Parton is in charge of the
staff, she must be informed before we question anyone," Saranna explained.
"Who is responsible for cleaning the library, Damaris?" Though she
was sure the theft was not the work of any of the servants. There was plainly a
purpose in taking such a book, which in itself could have but little value, no
matter what the Captain had thought about it.

 
          
 
"John, he does some, and Emily. But what
would they want with the book, Saranna? They can't even read. And they know
that they aren't ever to touch that drawer. Why would anyone want it—?"
Damaris had calmed down from the agitation that had gripped her when she found
the drawer empty.

 
          
 
"I don't believe any servant took
it," Saranna returned frankly. "Not unless they were ordered to do
so. As you say, such a book would have no meaning for them."

 
          
 
Once more she knelt to examine the drawer lock
carefully. She believed from the gouges in the wood that some slender but
strong instrument had been used to pry until the lock gave.

 
          
 
"Was it open when you found it?" She
glanced up at Damaris.

 
          
 
"Just a little.
I had the key and I put it in the lock before I really saw that it was pulled
open just a little." Damaris plumped down beside her. "Then—when I
pulled it all the way out—I saw that the drawer was empty."

 
          
 
"When was the last time you looked at
it?" Saranna asked.

 
          
 
"Three days ago—I wanted to find out
about something—" Damaris had leaned forward to stare down once again into
the velvet-lined space. Her tone was evasive, but there was no need to demand
from her why she had wanted the treasure list. Not now at least. "It was
there. And I locked the drawer when I put it back—"

 
          
 
"What has happened?" Mrs. Parton had
come into the library so quietly that Saranna was startled to find her standing
beside the desk, observing them both with her usual unexpressive countenance.

 
          
 
"We have just discovered," Saranna
arose to confront her, "that a book belonging to Captain Whaley, one which
was always kept locked in this drawer, is missing. It was here three days ago,
but when Miss Damaris came to get it this afternoon she found the lock broken
and the book gone—"

 
          
 
There was no change in Mrs. Parton's
expression. "I'm sure that there must be some mistake. A book is of no
value. And there has been no stranger in this room. None of our people would
touch that which did not belong to them."

 
          
 
"Nevertheless, the lock is clearly
forced, as you can see for yourself." Saranna refused to be quelled by the
housekeeper's manner. "Miss Damaris has the only key to the drawer, and
the book was of concern only to her. She would not force this to steal from
herself; there would be no need. Will you question the servants concerning who
has been in this room, or shall I m your presence? This is not a matter of
no
import. And the book does have a value of its own. It is
a complete listing of all the pieces of Captain Whaley's collection."

 
          
 
The lips of Mrs. Parton's too small mouth
twitched.

 
          
 
"You have no authority in this house,
Miss," she returned with a boldness which approached insolence. "I
shall inform Mrs. Whaley when she returns. Then, if she thinks it right and
proper, questions can be asked."

 
          
 
''She has no authority here!" Damaris
pushed from behind the desk to stand before the housekeeper. "This isn't
her house! It is mine. And if Saranna wants to ask questions, then I say she
can."

 
          
 
That twitch of the lips had become a malicious
smile. "You do not give orders here either, Miss Damaris, not until you
come of age. Mrs. Whaley, she's in charge until her father returns. And you had
better not forget that if you know what's good for you. Also, you had better
not go accusing people of taking things. How do we know that you have not hid
this book yourself and made up a tale—like all those other wild ones—just to
get someone into trouble? The Captain, maybe he would stand for your stories,
but Mrs. Whaley won't. I warn both of you to keep quiet if you don't want
trouble—"

 
          
 
With that she moved out of the room, leaving
Damaris flushed of face, and Saranna, shaken at this display of the woman's
assurance, speechless for the moment. Mrs. Parton would never have dared answer
so, the older girl thought, unless she
were
certain
that her own position was entirely secure. And her warning meant that indeed
Honora had taken the reins at Tiensin and intended to hold them.

 
          
 
"I know—" Damaris burst out. "I
know now who took it!"

 
          
 
"Mrs. Parton?
But
why?"

 
          
 
"No—not Poker.
She did! She must have! But I don't know why—unless," Damaris' thin
shoulders hunched as if fearing a whiplash across them in a punishing blow,
"unless, she wants someone to know—to know all about the collection! I
won't let her! I will never let her take any of it!
Never,
never, never!"

 
          
 
"But you have no proof of this,"
Saranna felt bound to say, though Damaris' suggestion made logical sense.

 
          
 
"Who else would want it?" demanded
Damaris bitterly. "It would be of no use to anyone except a person who wanted
to know all about Grandfather's treasure. I think she took it to
Baltimore
with her to show to someone there. If she
has—" her hands doubled into fists and she beat on the top of the desk,
her agitation increasing again, "I'll—I'll—"

 
          
 
"Damaris," Saranna moved quickly to
the child's side, put an arm around her shoulders. "Listen to me very
carefully. This is so important—did your grandfather have any friend, any man
of business beside those two of whom you spoke to me—someone he trusted very much?"

 
          
 
For a moment it seemed she was not getting
through the cloud of Damaris' impotent anger. Then the child's scowl became
thoughtful.

 
          
 
"Grandfather didn't visit anyone. The
Judge—Squire, they used to come here to see him. There's his daybook, unless
she has that, too."

 
          
 
"Daybook?"
Saranna repeated.

 
          
 
"He kept account of his letters in it—who
he wrote to and when." Damaris freed herself from the other girl's hold
and went around the desk, this time openmg another drawer. "Here it
is!"

 
          
 
She took out a book not unlike a merchant's
ledger, though not quite so large. "Why do you want to know about
Grandfather's friends?" she asked, as she laid it flat on the desk top.

 
          
 
"I want to know if my brother is your
only guardian, or if there is someone else in Baltimore who knows about you and
Tiensin."

 
          
 
Damaris shrugged. "It wouldn't matter
much, would it really? They'd only talk to her, and then they would believe
what she told them. No—there's only one way—" She stopped abruptly as if
her thoughts now outran her words in speed, or else they were such that she had
no intention of sharing. Then, suddenly, she smiled.

 
          
 
"I think I know—" she said.
"If you will help me, Saranna.
Then let her plan all
she wants to! She won't find what she's after!"

 
          
 
"What do you mean?”

 
          
 
"We'll hide the treasure!" Damaris'
eyes were alight. "If she comes back—and has some plan to take it—well, it
just won't be here!"

 
          
 
"But how can we—" Saranna was again
disturbed. She could understand Damaris' distress, her desire to put the
collection beyond the reach of anyone who might sell all or part of it. But she
had no intention of supporting the child in the belief that this could be done.

 
          
 
"We'll have to do it at night—"
Damaris' voice quickened. "There are all those hampers stored in the
cellar—the ones that most of the treasures came in. Grandfather never got rid
of those. Perhaps he thought someday the collection might have to be moved. We
can get those and pack, and then hide it
Yes
, in the
one place she would never dare to look! Oh, Saranna, it will work—it
will!"

 
          
 
"But we can't—" Saranna's protest
was silenced as Damaris leaned forward across the desk and caught her arm. The
fingers of the younger girl's other hand were raised to her lips; her attention
was centered beyond Saranna at the hall door.

 
          
 
Saranna took the hint. She picked up the
ledger, being sure she would keep a hand on that. Damaris might be correct in
believing that Honora's word would be taken over any complaints from them, yet
there was a chance that someone would listen to them. Her own idea—to hide the
treasure, Saranna took as a wild fancy.

 
          
 
Damaris spoke again, more calmly, and a little
loudly, as if she wished her words to be overheard.

 
          
 
"That is what Grandfather always said,
you know—" She might have been ending some speech, and the words had no
connection, or little, with what they had been discussing.

 
          
 
Saranna was quick-witted enough to play her
game.
"Very wise, Damaris."

 
          
 
"Yes, 'Fishes see the worm, but not the
hook.' He knew a lot of those. Like, '
To
talk goodness
is not good—only to do it is.'"

 
          
 
Her attitude was still one of listening. Then
she nodded, and added m the faintest of whispers—pushing close to Saranna as
she did so:

 
          
 
"If you stand straight, do not fear a
crooked shadow. We can do what I want—you will see! Tonight! Promise you will
help, Saranna!"

 
          
 
"But—it is impossible, Damaris—"
Saranna, too, dropped to the lowest of voices.