Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (7 page)

 
          
 
"I guess so—" Millie concluded,
reluctantly.

 
          
 
Should she question Millie about the situation
here? Ask her about Damaris?
Maybe in the future, but not
now.
Saranna's one thought as to how to handle the situation for the present
was to ignore that scene by the door as thoroughly as Mrs. Parton had done. To
discuss the young mistress of Tiensin with Millie was not a good way of
beginning. Honora's comment concerning Damaris' excitable temperament and the
sad family heritage behind the girl was a warning.

 
          
 
A maid almost as young as Millie brought in a
can of hot water and a little later, a tray with a pot of tea, some biscuits,
and a small china dish of jam. Millie went with Sarah willingly enough, after
Saranna's urging, to get some food for
herself
.

 
          
 
When they both had left, Saranna went to the
window to look out, wondering if she could see any of those foxes that had
watched her coming. That the animals' behavior was unnatural, she could admit.
Why had Captain Whaley seemingly made pets of such woods creatures? Had his
sheltering really tamed them so? There was surely some reason—

 
          
 
Though the night was still cloudy, she could
see, now that her eyes were turned away from the lamplight and adjusted to the
gloom outside the pane, something of the land beyond the house. But there was
only a short clear stretch here.

 
          
 
Then there arose a tall hedge thick and
overgrown enough to form a stout wall. The lost garden!

 
          
 
Its untended brush showed inky black in this
less than half light. In the gloom, that growth had a threatening look, as if
it were a portion of some awe-inspiring fortress. Saranna could now understand
those who believed what it guarded
was
evil. Now there
was no sparkle of eyes along its edging. If foxes still paced there, the loom
of the hedge kept their ways well secret.

 
          
 
Saranna let fall the curtain and began to
inspect the chamber. The room was well sized, but not as luxuriously furnished
as that which had so briefly been her quarters in the
Baltimore
house. However, there was, on the mantel
above the fireplace, something which drew her attention the minute she sighted
it.

 
          
 
Picking up the lamp, she carried the light
closer to see it better.

 
          
 
A carving of some smooth
brownish substance.
Saranna drew a breath of wonder and delight. A
patient craftsman half the world away (for she had no doubt that this was
indeed one of the treasures from China which Mr. Fowke had mentioned) had
wrought in delicate and detailed miniature a tiny landscape with towering
mountains and lower lands. That artist, who had brought some dream of his own
so to life, had most
cleverly
utilized the natural
mottling of the stone to enhance the effect he desired.

 
          
 
Saranna knew very
little of
art nor of the timelessness of such creations. But she recognized utter beauty,
and she wanted to hold the piece in her hands. Returning the lamp to the table
she went to pick up that wonder, run fingertips over the minute indications of
tempest twisted trees, the gnarled faces of rocks less in size than the span of
her own fingernail. One could never tire looking at this because there was
always something new to see, some later discovered wonder to astonish.

 
          
 
"Give me that! You're just like her
—grab, grab!"

 
          
 
Saranna had heard no door opening. She was
totally unprepared for the coming of the hand which fiercely snatched the
carving, wrested it from her own grip in an instant.

 
          
 
Damaris, her face ugly with a black scowl,
clasped the carving tight against her flat chest.

 
          
 
"It's mine! Every one of them
are
! Grandfather said so. She wants to get them, she always
has. I heard her lots of times, always talking to Father about how they were no
good buried out here. But she never liked them. She only wants them because
they're worth lots and lots of money. Grandfather told me so. He said I must
never sell them— just keep them to look at—to learn how to know beauty. And
you're not going to get a one of them!"

 
          
 
The child backed toward the door, one arm
holding the carving very tight to her, her other hand outstretched with the
fingers crooked a little as a cat might show unsheathed claws in warning.

 
          
 
"You just try to get this—anything
else—" she hissed. "You just try—"

 
          
 
This action must not be allowed to finish so,
Saranna knew. If Damaris left now she might never be able to establish any
proper contact with the child. She moved more swiftly than Damaris now, dodging
around the child so that she stood with her back to the door.

 
          
 
"I did not want your treasure to keep—
“ She
tried to make her words as emphatic as she could.
"I only wanted to look at it closely because it is the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen."

 
          
 
Damaris still scowled, but she slowly lowered
that threatening hand.

 
          
 
"She sent you—and she wants it—“

 
          
 
Saranna decided this was the time for the
truth, what she believed to be the truth.

 
          
 
"Honora sent me here," she said,
"because she wanted to get rid of me."

 
          
 
Damaris eyed the older girl searchingly, as if
by the very intensity of that survey, she could gauge the truth of what Saranna
had said.

 
          
 
"Old Poker—I heard her talking. She was
to send you to keep me in
order, that
was what Poker
said!" She spat. "After Prune Face left, because she was too nosy for
her own good, then she said that they would find somebody to keep me in order!
So she sent you."

 
          
 
Saranna shook her head. "I was sent
because Honora did not want me in
Baltimore
." And because she was certain that
that was indeed the truth, perhaps her words made some impression on the child.

 
          
 
"Why?" was Damaris' bold
demand.

 
          
 
"Why? Well, because I am in
mourning." Saranna indicated the limp spread of her black skirt.
"Because I do not fit in—“

 
          
 
"Then who are you?
If
you're not one to keep me in order?"
Damaris demanded. "They
never tell me things, you know." She pointed with her chin toward the door
behind Saranna as if to indicate the rest of the household. "I have to
listen to learn anything at all. Old Poker—when Grandfather was here—she'd
never dare act this way. He would have sent her packing. That's what he used to
tell me. *Never allow insolence, girl. Send 'em packing if they don't give the
Captain his due.' I'm like the Captain—but they won't admit it—they listen to
her and—“

 
          
 
Saranna saw the quiver of the child's mouth.
"I do wish Grandfather was here," she ended. Then the scowl came
back.

 
          
 
"I got rid of Prune Face all right. And
I'll get rid of you —if you try to spy on me." Once more her tone was
fierce. "If she sent you, then you don't belong here."

 
          
 
"No, I don't," returned Saranna as
bluntly. "But just now I have no place else to go. So you will have to
bear with me until I can find one. I am not a governess hired by Honora. I am
Jethro Stowell's half sister from
Massachusetts
."

 
          
 
"But—" Damaris said slowly,
"Mr. Stowell's old, real old. How can you be his sister when you're so
young?" She was plainly wary, not in the least convinced.

 
          
 
"Because his father—my father—was married
twice. I was born long after Jethro was a man."

 
          
 
"You look a little—just a little—like
Jethro," Damaris conceded. "You look—foxy!" For the first time
she smiled. "That's what I'm going to call you—Kuei-Fu-Lu-Li—" The
strange syllables came easily from her lips. "You didn't know I can speak
Chinese—real Chinese, did you?" Her head tilted a little to one side.
"I can, you know. I learned, Kuei-Fu-Lu-Li—that means Fox Lady. What do
you think of
that!
"

 
          
 
Her scowl had faded, and there was a change in
her attitude. The defiance she had earlier shown was ebbing.

 
          
 
"I think you are a very clever girl,
Damaris," Saranna returned. "From what I have heard, Chinese is a
very difficult language."

 
          
 
"It is. Grandfather said most of the
traders talked just ‘pidgin.’
“ Now
there was the
sharpness of scorn in her voice. "But he said 'pidgin' was an insult to
his intelligence. He hired a scholar to teach him the real Chinese talk and
then he taught me—a little anyway," she corrected herself with honesty.

 
          
 
She hesitated a moment and then held out the
carving. "I guess you weren't grabbing after all. If you want to look at
this, go ahead. You know what it really is?"

 
          
 
Saranna shook her head as she accepted the
peace offering.

 
          
 
"It's a rest for a writing brush. The
Chinese, they don't write with pens the way we do, they use brushes. When
Grandfather left
Canton
, the scholar who had taught him Chinese gave him that. It's brown jade,
and there's even a name for it—the Mountains of Peaceful Contemplation.

 
          
 
That means that you can look at it and feel
peaceful, but you have to think about what it means."

 
          
 
"The Mountains of Peaceful
Contemplation," Saranna repeated, running her fingertip down the flank of
the tallest of those carved mountains. "Thank you, Damans, for telling me
that. It is like looking down into a small world, isn't it?"

 
          
 
The girl nodded. "Grandfather, he used to
take one of the treasures 'most everyday—put it on the table and just look at
it. He told me that was the way to learn. So I do it —sometimes—unless I'm made
to do something else—
“ That
scowl flitted across her
face again.

 
          
 
"Old Prune Face, she wanted to lock
everything up, saying I might break things. Break them! Grandfather taught me
to be very careful. She said no child ought to be allowed to handle things—and
that they were heathen things anyway and bad for the young mind." It was
apparent Damaris was quoting. "She used to slip around spying—until—"

 
          
 
Damaris stopped almost in midword, her face
suddenly blank.

 
          
 
Saranna was greatly tempted to ask, "Until
what?" but at that moment, intuition strongly advised her to let it go.
Damaris might reveal more of this extraordinary household if she were not
questioned.

 
          
 
"But Old Poker said you were going to
come to keep me in order—"

 
          
 
The inflection of that was not that of a
statement, but a question.

 
          
 
"And who is Old Poker?" Saranna
asked then, thinking that this much might not be resented.

 
          
 
Damaris laughed, "Mrs. Parton—don't you
see? Grandfather always said she walked as if she had an iron poker for a backbone."
Her face clouded a little. "She never talked too much when he was here.
Grandfather gave the orders at Tiensin! Her husband—he's the overseer—Collis
Parton. He can give orders out in the fields. But here, inside, Old Poker, she
tells him what to do. Then there's Rufe—"

 
          
 
For a moment all Damaris' assurance was
quenched. "Rufe, he's Old Poker's son. He's been away—to school. Old Poker
thinks he's God on earth—"

 
          
 
"What!" Saranna was startled out of
her well-maintained calm by that expression.

 
          
 
Damaris nodded. "That's what Grandfather
said when Rufe was just little. Now he's grown up, she'll probably be worse.
And he's coming back here. I don't want him—he's a wu lail
She
likes him 'cause he pretends to want to do just what she wants. So I hate him!"

 
          
 
"Miss Damaris!" There was a rap on
the door startling Saranna. But Damaris' eyes only narrowed, her jaw set
stubbornly as she looked over the older girl's shoulder at the shut panel.

 
          
 
"Miss Damaris, I know you are there. It
is long past your bedtime—"

 
          
 
Saranna turned and grasped the knob, opened
the door to find Mrs. Parton standing there. In spite of the odd plumpness of
the housekeeper's face, her very stiff carriage did suggest the thin, unbending
rod of a poker.

 
          
 
"Miss Stowell, this hour is long past
Miss Damaris' bedtime." The small mouth opened and shut on the words. But
the housekeeper's eyes roved beyond Saranna's shoulder, manifestly seeking
Damaris.

 
          
 
"Of course, Mrs.
Parton.
We will come—
“ At
that moment, Saranna
had no intention of turning Damaris over to this woman. The outpourings of the
child might have been highly colored by her suggested nervous temperament. On
the other hand, Saranna believed that Damaris had now at least half-accepted
her, and she had no intention of allowing the fragile bridge of implied
understanding between them to be broken.

 
          
 
"You will let me come with you,
Damaris?" she asked.

 
          
 
For a moment, it looked as if the child were
going to object, then she caught at Saranna's hand, her grip hard and tight as
if she wanted to be sure Saranna kept her word. If Mrs. Parton had thought to
object, perhaps their united front kept her silent.

 
          
 
Instead, she turned back along the hallway, a
small lamp in her hand, leading the way to a door which was nearer to those back
stairs up which Saranna had come earlier. There she stood like a sentry on
duty, pushing open the door to let Damaris, tugging a little at Saranna's hand,
past her.

 
          
 
"You must go to bed, Miss Damaris,"
she stated in her monotonous voice, "at once."

 
          
 
"I will see to it, Mrs. Parton,"
Saranna returned. It was better, she believed, that she establish as soon as
possible that Damaris was supposed to be her charge. What influence that fact
might have on this woman, on the rest of the household, she did not know. But
it might be better for Damaris herself.

 
          
 
She closed the door on the housekeeper. There
was a single candle glimmering in a holder on the washstand. And, though she
peered through the shadows of the room, Saranna could see no other light, no lamp.

 
          
 
"Why did you come?" Damaris was
unbuttoning her dress, but her attention was more for Saranna than her task.

 
          
 
"Because I was asked to watch over
you—"

 
          
 
"By her!
And you
promised to spy—to—" Again indignation flared.

 
          
 
"Not at all!"
Saranna raised her voice and put into her words all the firmness she could
summon. "I was not asked to come. I was told. Do you understand?"

 
          
 
Damaris considered that. "You aren't
going to tell her all about me—"

 
          
 
"Why should I?" asked Saranna.

 
          
 
Damaris again studied her closely. "I
don't know, but I'll wait and see. At least you don't look like Prune
Face—"

 
          
 
Saranna supposed she ought to suggest that
using of such names was not proper for a young lady. But she had no desire to
take on the role of a governess, not in that direction. Damaris, she now
believed, could be more reasoned with than bluntly ordered about. And she was
still close enough to the child's age to remember how it had seemed with her
when she was bemg molded to the pattern of young ladyhood. Though luckily, it
had beend Keturah Stowell, with her wise and tolerant knowledge, who had done
that molding.

 
          
 
"I am glad that I am Kuei-Fu-Lu-Li,"
she tried hard to remember the phrase Damaris had used, "and neither a
Poker nor a Prune Face—"

 
          
 
Damaris laughed. "You don't say that
right, you know. But—I can teach you if you like."