Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (21 page)

 
          
 
The younger girl shook her head firmly. Her
hand was tight now on Saranna's arm, drawing her to the far end of the room.
Even there she continued to whisper. "No, I have been thinking. We can do
it! You don't know, you see. It will not be easy, but we can do it. If you
won't help, then I'll have to try by myself. There is a very safe place
waiting.

 
          
 
We have only to pack the pieces and put the
hampers in a certam place—then there're others—“

 
          
 
"The servants?
But they won't disobey Mrs. Parton—" Saranna protested.

 
          
 
"No—not John, or Rose, or Millie, or any
like them.
The other ones—from the garden.
I—I should
not tell you this, Saranna—'cause I promised. But Grandfather would say to now,
if he knew. There are those in the garden—they'll help us." She gestured
through the window in the direction of the hedge-walled, forbidden territory.

 
          
 
If this was only a fancy, Damaris was so
deeply immured in it that it seemed real to her. And her voice carried
conviction. There was only one small shred of proof that Saranna had—that jade
pendant. Somehow the thought of that was bolstering her dawning belief that
Damaris indeed knew much more than she told and that there might well be some
source of aid in Tiensin itself. Though that did not quiet Saranna's uneasiness
nor her decision to try to find some friend of Captain Whaley's who might be
interested enough to stand as Damaris' advocate against any overt move of
Honora's.

 
          
 
"I will do what I can," she
promised.

 
          
 
Again in her own room, Saranna put the ledger
down on the table and began to turn its pages. Apparently it had not been
opened for some time, because some of those pages stuck together. And most of
the entries were concerned with items of business which had no use or meaning
for her. She found frequent references to the Judge, to Squire Barkley, and
then to Mr. Sanders. Mr. Sanders! Why had she not thought of him before?

 
          
 
As a man of law, an attorney for her brother,
one trusted enough to be asked to escort her to
Baltimore
,
surely he knew something of the situation
here at Tiensin. Had Saranna made impression enough on him of her own good
sense that he might believe what she said if she spoke to him? She could not
get to
Baltimore
, of course. But suppose she wrote him a
letter, asked him to come to Tiensin? Would he heed such a request from her? Or
would he speak of it to Honora and so immediately defeat any chance she had?

 
          
 
There were so many "ifs," yet if she
found no other reference in this book, then Mr. Sanders must be her resource.
Saranna sat with her chin propped on her hand, her elbow planted on the ledger
to keep it open. She could write guardedly to Mr. Sanders. After all, she had a
small excuse.

 
          
 
The funds which Pastor Willis had promised to
forward to her after the sale of the contents of their cottage in
Sussex
—Mr. Sanders was to collect those for her.
She had every right now to enquire if he had received any such, or heard from
Sussex
. She would write such a letter tomorrow and
it could be taken down to
Baltimore
with the weekly supply boat which was to sail the next day.

 
          
 
Cheered by the thought of this definite
action, Saranna descended the stairs in a better frame of mind than she had had
since Damaris had come to her with the report of the loss of the book. It would
seem that the younger girl in turn had also decided to set that behind her. She
spoke cheerfully at the table of their visit to Queen's Pleasure.

 
          
 
That Damaris had at all forgotten her own
plans for that night, Saranna was sure was not so. She was even more convinced
when the younger girl went quite willingly to bed at an early hour. So she sat
up herself, uneasily writing, still unsure what she must do if and when Damaris
came to demand her participation in the wild scheme.

 
          
 
Fan: as the day had been, the night brought
clouds and distant flashes of lightning, though as yet no storm hit Tiensin.
Saranna had turned out her lamp, lit the cat lantern, and partially undressed,
laying aside her weight of petticoats for a wrapper which was far less
cumbersome.

 
          
 
She was not disappointed. There was the
faintest of creaks from the door,
then
a small figure
came into the very dim light. Damaris stood there, not wearing the skirts of a
young lady, but trousers and a tight jacket not unlike those Saranna had seen
in her dream on the old woman who served the Fox Lady.

 
          
 
"Come—"

 
          
 
"Damaris—this can't be done!"
Saranna protested.

 
          
 
"It can—you'll see! I've asked for help.
It'll be here. Come—now! We'll have to hurry or we'll never get it all put
away!"

 
          
 
Saranna had no way, short of locking the child
in her room, to prevent her attempting this. It was best that she did go and
prove that this certainly could not be accomplished. Help? What help? What
servant within these walls would dare to brave the Partons and help a mistress
who was without any power?

 
          
 
Girding her wrapper tightly about her, Saranna
crept along behind Damaris. The child seemed to have cat's eyes in the dark. Or
else she had flitted on other similar expeditions enough times so that such
adventures in the dark were familiar.

 
          
 
They descended the stairs and Damans sped
straight for the front door. She slid back the latch and opened it, her small
figure hardly distinguishable in the heavy gloom. There was movement in that
slit which gave on the outer world; two figures slipped through.

 
          
 
Who—?

 
          
 
Maybe if Damans had no allies within the
house, she did have among the field hands. But that was even more surprising—

 
          
 
"Come!" Damaris caught at Saranna's
hand, drew her to the parlor. The other figures padded on down the hall,
apparently on some errand of their own.

 
          
 
Damaris left her just inside the
door,
went to the table. A moment later, there was a flare
of light from the lamp. The child turned quickly from that, hurried to open
display cases. There was no doubt that she meant exactly what she said; she
intended to see that none of the collection remained within Honora's reach.

 
          
 
There was a faint scratching from the door.
Damaris, already lifting pieces of jade from their accustomed settings to stand
them on table tops, pointed with her chin. Her voice was the lowest of
whispers, barely reaching Saranna's ears—

 
          
 
"Open!"

 
          
 
Saranna, completely bewildered, obeyed.

 
          
 
Two men entered noiselessly, carrying between
them two hampers of wickerwork, one placed upon the other. They set those down
without a word and turned to go out again. Saranna caught sight of their faces—

 
          
 
Chinese! They were as alien as the elderly
maid of the moon-doored house had been.

 
          
 
Neither glanced at Saranna, but
were
swiftly gone once more into the hall.

 
          
 
"Come on!” Damaris whispered impatiently.
"You've got to help me pack." She flung back the lid of one of the
wicker hampers and lifted out two inner trays, to clear the bottom portion of
the container. Saranna, completely fascinated, saw that the inner part of the
hamper was heavily padded, as was each tray in turn. And in that padding, were
depressions of various sizes and shapes, each plainly intended to contain
safely a certain one of the precious objects.

 
          
 
She found herself on her knees, carefully
fitting into its proper place the pieces Damaris passed to her. They had not
quite finished the bottom section when the Chinese returned—this time with
three more hampers.

 
          
 
Back and forth trotted
Damaris, pointing out to Saranna just where each piece must go.
They
filled the first hamper and Damaris knotted its cords. Saranna found that she
fell into the rhythm of the work as if her whole life had been concerned with
such packing. They finished with all in the parlor save the tall screen, moved
on to the library, where another pile of hampers appeared as soundlessly, and
with the same efficiency.

 
          
 
There were no more hampers, and Saranna caught
sight of the two men who had never spoken, now carrying the loaded filled ones
one at a time out of the front door, to return in what seemed a very short time
and select another. Saranna's back ached from kneeling to pack, but Damaris had
finished taking all the pieces from their display shelves and now squatted, as
intent on fitting them away as Saranna was.

 
          
 
The older girl was so tense she feared her
very touch might splinter some of the delicate porcelain. She kept listening
for any sound which might herald a descent upon them by some member of the
household. But what she did hear instead was the approach of the storm. The
last two hampers had to be transported out into the rain. Transported where?
And who were the two silent helpers upon whom they had depended this night?

 
          
 
Damaris shut and latched the front door. They
were once more in the deep dark, since the lamps were now out. There was a
crack of thunder which made Saranna cringe at its sudden noise. Then she almost
cried out as Damaris' arm went around her waist.

 
          
 
"We did it, we really did!" The
child's voice was full of triumph.

 
          
 
"But who were those men? And where did
they take everything?" Saranna wanted to know. She felt as if she had been
under some spell from which that clap of thunder had awakened her. Why had she
obeyed Damaris so meekly without any questions? This almost had the same force
as that dream.

 
          
 
"Don't worry." Damaris sounded far
too blithe. Saranna's irritation first with herself and then with the child,
grew. "They are safe—and the treasure is safe now. It is where nobody
dares try to get it. I put it where Grandfather would have wanted it if he had
known about Honora."

 
          
 
"Damaris—you've got to tell me where!”
Saranna flinched from another terrific crackle of thunder.

 
          
 
"It's in the garden—safe in the Princess'
garden. I can't tell you any more. I said that only because you have the fox
head. So she must trust you a little."

 
          
 
That "she" did not refer to Honora,
of course. But— did Damaris mean the Fox Lady? What was a dream and what was
not? If she only knew!

 
          
 
"Come on—we've got to get to bed.
Sometimes when it storms like this the Poker goes around looking for open
windows—"

 
          
 
Damaris pulled her toward the stairs, and
Saranna felt her way up. She must know—she must make some sense of this. But
Damaris had slipped on ahead, and the older girl felt that even if she cornered
the child in her room she might not get any more out of her tonight. But there
was always tomorrow, and Saranna could wait that long in spite of her
impatience and uneasiness.