The White Jade Fox

by Andre Norton

  "I know something," she agreed. "But it's not my secret; it's Grandfather's. And I promised—"

  "You keep promises, Damaris—" That was not a question but a statement.

  Her chin came up a little proudly. "I always have."

  "Sometimes, Damaris, things happen which cannot be kept secret, no matter how many promises have been given. If that time comes and you need help"—now his gaze swept from the child to Saranna and back again, as if he included them both in what he would say— "let me know. Will you promise that?"

  Damaris did not answer at once. She peered intently up into his face.

  " 'A good neighbor,' " he added, " 'is a found treasure.'"

  Damaris' face expressed a flash of surprise. Apparently she was not the only one able to quote the wisdom of another people. Then, quick as a stinging bee she retorted:

  " 'It is your own lantern. Do not poke holes in the paper which covers it.' "

  "And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "You must certainly know. Saranna, we'd better get back." She was no longer a teasing, amused child.

  It was as if Mr. Fowke's quotation had slammed shut a door between them. Now she took Saranna's hand, plainly dismising Gerrad Fowke with rude abruptness. But he only regarded her very thoughtfully and stepped aside, nodding to Saranna's flurry of thanks before Damaris' impatient and demanding jerks pulled her on.

  "Why were you so rude?" Saranna wanted to know when she judged they were far enough down the walk to be out of hearing. "You owe Mr. Fowke an apology—"

  "He had no right!" Damaris interrupted fiercely. "He had no right to say that. He's no good friend really, using Grandfather's words when he's going to marry her! was—I was going to ask him about the collection book—if he knew she took it. But now I won't! She will tell him anything and he's going to believe it. Grandfather was the only one who knew her, knew all her tricks.

  "What were you doing with him anyway?" she added a moment later. "What was he doing out in the garden? She isn't here!"

  The child was getting so wrought up Saranna thought the best way to handle her was to explain. When she mentioned that Rufus had seen the pendant, then tried to take it from her, and the coming of the white foxes, Damaris stopped on the path.

  She did not look at Saranna, rather stared at the ground as if searching for something which she must find there. So shut off did she look in that moment that Saranna's voice trailed into silence, a silence which seemed to grow like a shadowy cloud around them. Then Damaris spoke:

  "I've got to believe now—believe that you are a part of it. But I promised Grandfather—I've got to think a while, Saranna, truly I have to."

  It was as if she were begging some favor from the older girl. But then she added in a tone which held a trace of her old fierceness: "Where did you meet Mr. Fowke? Was he in the garden—hunting—?"

  "Hunting what?" Saranna was bewildered by these abrupt changes of manner. "You mean foxes?"

  "No! Of course not!" Damaris made a brushing gesture of one hand as if sweeping aside such a suggestion as absurd. "Looking for the hidden part. Maybe she put him up to that. She might think that because he knew Grandfather, he knows a lot more about everything. But he doesn't! Not ever!" She shook her head vehemently.

  "He wasn't in the garden," Saranna hastened to assure her, fearing a return of Damaris' agitation. "I ran away from Rufus, down to the fence along the road. He was riding there and saw me." Quickly she added how Gerrad Fowke had faced down Rufus and added Rufus' accusation as a warning. Then she asked on her own account:

  "Damaris, you have said this," she raised her hand to the pendant, "was not a part of your grandfather's collection. But can you prove that? It is plainly a piece of fine Eastern work and might well be taken by others, just as Rufus believed, to be a gift from you of something you had no right to give. If it is entered in the book and you are right that Honora has that—then we must give it back at once."

  "I told you, no!" denied the younger girl. "That never belonged to Grandfather. It came from Kuei-Fu Yiieh. And I'm not going to tell you what that means either. But you'd better take good care of it—'cause that's why the foxes came, you know," she ended composedly. "It will protect you if you let it. Come on—I'm not going to talk about it any more. But you needn't thmk that I gave it to you. I wouldn't have the power!" With that parting word she darted away from Saranna, running lightly down the alley of the hedges so that Saranna had to gather up her full skirts in order to hurry and keep her in sight. Though first she tucked the jade fox back into hiding.

  She heard voices raised before she was quite through the door and there was no mistaking the disputants. Honora, in traveling dress, only the veil of her bonnet tossed back to reveal her angry face, had confronted the child who stood defiantly on the lowest step of the stairway. Behind Honora was Mrs. Parton, her hands folded at waist, over her apron, a very conscious air of virtue about her as she watched with her usual impassive countenance the struggle of wills in progress.

  "Give me those keys instantly!" Honora advanced on Damaris. "I know that you have them hidden on you. Mrs. Parton has already searched your room. That is another thing; you are not to have those heathenish things about you constantly. They are a bad influence upon you, which can no longer be allowed. You will move into the west chamber. Rose has already transferred all you will need—"

  "You can't!" Damaris' heightened color, the feverish look about her eyes, were danger signs to Saranna. Honora was provoking the child now into the kind of tantrum which would be to her own advantage when she declared Damaris unmanageable.

  Swiftly she crossed the hall to reach Damaris, and so came into Honora's range of vision

  "You—you hussy!" The would-be mistress of Tiensin appeared to find in Saranna's sudden appearance another reason for anger. "Tripping out like a light young madam to make eyes at the nearest man. Yes, I have heard it, how you used this child for bait to get to Gerrad! Little good that will do you. It is plain that your country manners, or lack of those, are not conducive to any good conduct on Damaris' part. You will keep away from her, do you understand, until we have you safely married and out of here. I marvel that Rufus still wants a light miss such as you—"

  Honora had worked herself up to such a rage that she, not Damaris, might well be the one thought to be of unstable mind. Saranna, unaccustomed to such an assault, was at first so unbelieving that she had no word of defense. But as Honora paused, perhaps to gather breath for a second berating, Saranna found her voice:

  "I have not the least idea," she tried to make her tone even and cool, in contrast to the other's outburst, "of what you are talking about. Neither do I intend to marry anyone, least of all Rufus Parton!"

  "You'll do as you're bid!" Honora flashed back. "I stand in place of my father as your guardian. If I want to set you outside these walls, leave you as a beggar—I can. Do you understand that, Miss? I can! And I will deal with you as I see fit. You are a common thief—oh," she laughed with rage, "I have my informants. You are wearing right now jewelry which is a part of the Whaley inheritance. If this silly child gave it to you, such a gift would never stand in the law. I can say, and will be believed, that you influenced her —not only to give you gifts, but to be defiant to her natural guardians—that you are an unwholesome influence upon her in every way. Then I shall have you out of this house!"

  Now she swung back to Damaris. "As for you. Miss— Parton—take those keys. She has them under her apron I am sure."

  As the housekeeper advanced, Damaris whirled and darted up the stairs. She paused for an instant just before she ran into the shadowy upper hall.

  "You'll never, never find it!" she screamed down. "You'd better not even try."

  "Parton, she has clearly lost whatever wits she ever had," said Honora. "Lock her in her room. I shall send for the help we need to deal with her. As for you," she rounded on Saranna. "You I shall also deal with—"

  John came into the hall, i
n his hand was a hoop ring on which there were several keys. Honora snatched the hoop from his hand, went to fit them one after another into the lock of the parlor. But Damaris was now Saranna's first concern, and she hurriedly climbed the stairs after the housekeeper who had gone to obey Honora's orders.

  Perhaps Honora had anticipated flight on the part of her stepdaughter. For Damaris had halted before the door of her own room, and was tugging frantically at the knob.

  "It is locked!"

  "Naturally, Miss Damaris. As Mrs. Whaley said, that is no longer your room. Come along now and none of your tricksl"

  Saranna was still too far away to interfere. Nor could she have withstood the housekeeper armed as she was with the orders of the one Mrs. Parton at least considered to be her mistress. Though the knowledge of her helplessness did nothing to calm her conscience as she watched Damaris pushed within a room on the opposite side of the hall, the door slamming behind the child at once. By the time Saranna reached her side, Mrs. Parton was turning the key in that lock.

  "You can't—" Saranna began.

  "I take Mrs. Whaley's orders, Miss," the woman returned with that cruel spark showing in her small eyes. "Miss Damaris will stay safe until Dr. Meade comes. She is plainly too much of a handful to be allowed to run wild any longer. Just as Mrs. Whaley has so often said. And, Miss, if you will take any advice, you'll look to your own future a little. Mrs. Whaley has a strong will and in this house nobody questions her decisions."

  Before Saranna could reply, the housekeeper brushed past, reached the head of the back stairs, and was on her way down. Saranna looked helplessly at the locked door behind which Damaris had been imprisoned. What would happen when Honora found the collection gone? It was plain in this house she was fully mistress.

  Mr. Fowke—his offer of help. But even were he willing to try to curb Honora, how could Saranna let him know what was happening.

  This Dr. Meade Mrs. Parton had mentioned, who was he? Someone well primed by Honora who would declare that Damaris was a danger to herself and must be carefully guarded? And where had the collection really gone? If Saranna wanted to ransom the child by telling Honora that, she was powerless to help because she had only suspicions, no truths. She believed it was behind the wall of the hidden garden. But would Honora accept that suggestion? And could she betray Damaris—

  Torn by so many thoughts which had no answers, she dragged back to her own room. Honora knew about the pendant. Therefore, Rufus must have told her. And her strange hints, Saranna's face grew hot; she raised her hands to her cheeks—

  Their visit to Queen's Pleasure, Mrs. Parton must have reported as a fancy of Saranna's own; that she had deliberately arranged it so that she might be with Mr. Fowke! If Honora was jealous, then that jealousy (however causeless it was) might be fed anew by any well-colored story Rufus could give her of the scene in the orchard when Mr. Fowke had sent him about his business.

  There was her letter—if Mr. Sanders did come (even if he believed her story against Honora's more plausible tale), was there anything he could—

  Saranna stood staring. There had been a fire in the fireplace—and on the hearth lay a scrap of paper. Her own unmistakable handwriting was on that. She stooped and picked up the scorched fragment.

  "Honored Sir—'* she read. Her letter had been burned here, in this very room, and this scrap deliberately left to warn her.

  Cold seeped through her though the room was warm. The iron threat of what she had found fostered that chill.

  "Honored Sir," she whispered again. At that moment a click echoed behind her. Though she flung herself at the door, she was too late. As Damaris, she was now a prisoner in her bedchamber.

  14

  KUAI-RESOLUTION

  Saranna fought a battle for self-control. If she beat upon the door, screamed for her freedom, as every nerve within her urged, she suspected all such efforts would be useless. Also, her pride and dignity would suffer, and Honora would have good cause to believe she had reduced Saranna to a state in which she would be biddable and her own puppet. Therefore—

  The girl made herself consider the door carefully. Since she had come to Tiensin she had never had reason to use the key, to lock herself in. Such bolting and barring to achieve privacy was foreign to all her training. But with old keys sometimes there was a similarity of locks. As when little Jimmy Bains back in Sussex had locked his small sister in the parlor and then thrown the key down the well. Then the key to their back door had proved most efficacious in releasing the prisoner.

  Keys— Damaris appeared to have her own private store of those. But Saranna had certainly never expected such a situation as this to arise. There was— Memory suddenly freshened. She went to the tall wardrobe, pushed back the few dresses hung within. Yes, she had remembered correctly! Hanging from a hook at the very back, secured by a bit of tape, was a key. Probably for the wardrobe itself, but it looked large enough to fill the keyhole of the chamber door.

  She took it quickly to the door. The shaft slid in easily enough, but would it now turn? Slowly, for fear that it might somehow break, or jam the lock, Saranna worked the key around. There followed another soft click.

  Feeling weak with relief (for only at this moment did she realize the full strength of the dismay which had gripped her at being a prisoner), she turned the knob. The door responded.

  But she would not go out yet. No, let them believe her safely confined. Their assumption would give her a chance to think, to plan. Her self-confidence grew. She had won the battle of the lock, but that might be only the smallest of trials now facing her.

  That Honora would have her own answer for the vanished collection Saranna had no doubt at all. Sooner or later, Mrs. Whaley would descend upon Saranna—or Damaris—for an accounting. And, if Damaris was entirely defiant, the child would only bring more trouble upon herself.

  Saranna returned to sit down in the chair by the small table where her workbox rested. She had been doing the last stitching on the poplin dress; its folds were now draped carefully across the bed. Now her eyes caught that unfinished task.

  Busy her hands while she thought. Mother had always said that one's mind was clearer when one was at work. The girl pulled the waist to her, began to set small even stitches, making herself concentrate with one part of her mind on exactly what she was doing.

  There was no chance of her reaching Mr. Sanders. Unless she could devise some surer method of smuggling out another letter. To entrust such to Millie, as friendly as the young maid seemed to be, was folly. None of the servants would venture to disobey any order from either the housekeeper or Honora. There remained now only Mr. Fowke.

  Yet the few miles between Tiensin and Queen's Pleasure might now be equal to the distance between the river wharf and Baltimore, as far as Saranna was concerned. Unless— She carefully withdrew her needle, having made tight the last hook— Unless Gerrad Fowke came visiting.

  Her old distrust of Honora's chosen husband-to-be stirred. Yet there was his promise given to Damaris, and to her, that he would be their friend in any emergency. Somehow that stayed in her mind, as if he again swore solemnly and irrevocably.

  Saranna tensed at a knock at the door. But why would anyone knock when they knew, or thought that they knew, she was locked in? Could this be a trap?

  Quietly she arose and moved forward, to stand at the door itself, her hand on the knob, her lips close to the crack.

  "Who is it?" she asked softly.

  "Millie, Miss Saranna."

  "You are alone?"

  "Yes'm."

  Saranna opened the door. The young maid held a tray on which was a covered dish, a small pot, and a cup and saucer.

  "I bringed you somethin’ to eat.” She sidled around the door. "Miss Saranna, Miss Honora, she's mighty mad. She is a-yellin' out that she’s been robbed. She sent Albert ridin' over to Mr. Fowke's with a letter—"

  Millie put the tray down on the table from which Saranna hurriedly cleared her sewing. Then she stood, big-e
yed, watching Saranna as if she expected to see some alarming change in her person.

  "Did she ask Mr. Fowke to come here?" Saranna asked eagerly.

  "Don't know." Millie shook her head to emphasize her lack of knowledge. "Just see Albert ridin' off in a big hurry. And Mrs. Parton, she's fit to be tied. She's afraid of somethin'." At that, Millie looked almost cheerful. "Somethin' about Mr. Fowke. When she heard about Albert goin', she sent Zorbus, down to the fields to call Mr. Collis to come— There's a big somethin' what bothers her—"

  Were the Partons afraid of Mr. Fowke? Had they already heard that Saranna had told him of the treatment the foxes had received from Rufus? But how could anyone have overheard that exchange down by the orchard fence? However—

  "Stay here, Millie," Saranna made her decision. "I have something for you to do."

  "Yes'm."

  "You can eat that if you wish." Saranna pointed to the tray where Millie had revealed sandwiches lay under the dish cover.

  "But—what you goin' to eat then. Miss Saranna?"

  "My usual lunch," Saranna returned firmly. It took a great deal of inner stiffening of her will to carry out her plan. But if she allowed Honora to control her life in any way, then she feared she was lost.

  "Miss Honora, she say you eat in your room— "

  "I do not think it is going to matter," Saranna returned, hoping that she was speaking the truth, "what Mrs. Whaley has said. She is very much upset, Millie. When she has had time to consider the matter, she will be of a different mind."

  As she spoke, she unhooked the bodice of the ugly calico, unfastened the skirt below, and let the clothing slide to the floor in a discarded heap. The new skirt she had so carefully put together went on over her head, and then the chemisette of fine black mull; over that, the bodice was contrived from the worn poplin one, its deficiencies either eliminated by careful cutting and turning, or hidden by the ruffling Saranna had devised from the satin skirt.