The Heart Remembers Page 6

  Shelley stared at her, halfway between laughter and surprise.

  “A kunjur-woman? Oh, come now, Aunt Hettie, don’t tell me there’s a ‘conjure-woman’ here or that anybody pays any attention to her,” she protested, amused. “Spells, love potions and voodoo!”

  Aunt Hettie hesitated.

  “Well, I dunno’s I’d care to go so far as to say I believe in ’em myself,” she admitted wryly. “But there’s a sight of folks, white and black, around here that does. Especially the swamp black folks and them that work at the still. ’Course most of ’em have been here all their lives and their mammies and daddies before ’em and it’s kinda hard to get ’em to give up their old beliefs.”

  “But surely there are schools and their children are being educated away from such superstitions.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. Reckon they’re gettin’ a kinda thin overlay of white folks’ learnin’ on top of the knowledge of their forefathers, if it comes to that,” Aunt Hettie admitted. “Still, it’s not only in little back-woodsy places like Harbour Pines that they still have ‘kunjur-women’—and men, too, o’course. I was readin’ in an Atlanta paper few days ago about a ‘kunjur-man’ his own folks beat up and had arrested on account of his charms and potions didn’t work. Police had to arrest him for his own protection.”

  “Oh, but that’s fantastic.”

  “I reckon maybe it seems so to a Yankee like you, child. But to us folks that’s lived in these parts all our lives and likes and understands and respects colored folks and their ways, it seems natural enough that some of the old superstitions they took in with their mother’s milk, and that was brought over in the first shipload of slaves from Africa, would kinda hold onto ’em. Anyway, Minie-Ola is quite a character. And she was all bug-eyed with excitement this morning. ’Course I’ll admit it don’t take much to get Minnie-Ola excited, her bein’ not too right in her mind. Only folks crazier than Minnie-Ola, to my way of thinkin’, is the folks that buys her stuff.”

  Shelley laughed. “What was exciting her this morning?”

  “Minnie-Ola’s nephew, Jason, works for the Hargroves. Takes care o’ the stock and such. Well, when he come to work this mornin’ he claims he found Blue Belle, Miss Selena’s fine saddle-horse that nobody don’t ever ride but Miss Selena, in bad shape. Claims somebody sneaked her out o’ the stable last night and rode her near ’bout to death.”

  Shelley gasped, wide-eyed and incredulous.

  “Minnie-Ola claims the horse is so wild and scared this mornin’ it’s plain couldn’t have been nothin’ less than the devil hisself that was ridin’ the poor thing last night,” Aunt Hettie finished.

  Shelley laughed.

  “The chances are it was Jason himself, maybe visiting a girl friend and making up a fancy tale to explain the horse being winded.”

  “No, I don’t reckon it was that. Jason knows Jim Hargroves would just about skin him alive if he ever caught him taking Blue Belle out; and anyway, the horse won’t let anybody ride him, so the story goes, but Miss Selena. If Jason had wanted to go visitin’ last night, he’da took one of the mules. They ain’t workin’ in the fields yet and nobody would have minded his usin’ one of the mules and they’re gentle enough to be rode. No, I reckon it wasn’t Jason.”

  Shelley saw the futility of arguing with Aunt Hettie, and hid her amusement, affectionate and gentle as it was, at the knowledge that Aunt Hettie was not too sure that some visitor from another world had not been abroad on Blue Belle the night before.

  “Well, for a quiet place like Harbour Pines, apparently there was rather a lot going on last night,” she said lightly. “I had a—well, I scarcely know how to describe it. But under the influence of the devil riding Blue Belle, maybe I can just say ‘a ghostly visitant.’ ”

  “Land of Goshen, child, what are you talking about?”

  Aunt Hettie was startled, and there was a wary look in her kind, twinkling eyes as she listened to Shelley’s spirited account of her experience of the previous night. And Shelley was startled to see that some of Aunt Hettie’s fresh, vigorous color had faded by the time she had finished.

  “My saints above!” whispered Aunt Hettie. “Then the yarns folks have been tellin’ about this place bein’ ha’nted are so!”

  “Oh, now, Aunt Hettie, that’s nonsense and you know it!” Shelley scolded her lightly. “Either my imagination tricked me, or somebody, perhaps a youngster, is playing a practical joke on me. You and I don’t believe in ghosts!”

  “Well, I dunno. I’ve seen a sight of funny things in my time. O’ course I couldn’t just rightly say they was ghosts. But I couldn’t rightly say they wasn’t, neither! All I could rightly say is—I dunno what they was!”

  She was silent for a moment while Shelley stared at her. And then she nodded wisely.

  “Well, I reckon if there was any place in the world that has a right to be ha’nted, this could be it. I reckon maybe Callie Newton was happier here than anywhere in the world and I reckon she was more miserable here than ’most any place, later on. Likely she walks o’ nights.”

  Before she could check the words Shelley cried out hotly, “It wasn’t Callie Newton. Don’t you think I’d have known?”

  There was a tiny tense silence, while the color left Shelley’s face and she could not quite meet Aunt Hettie’s kind eyes.

  “You knew ’em, didn’t you, Shelley? The Newtons?” she asked at last very quietly.

  Shelley sat very still for a moment and then she lifted her chin defiantly, her eyes cold and wary.

  “Yes,” she admitted curtly.

  Aunt Hettie nodded, satisfied.

  “Well, I reckon that explains a lot I ain’t had no business to think about but that’s been worryin’ me,” she said mildly. “Why you come here and bought the paper. Or more likely you ‘hired’ it from the Newtons?”

  Shelley turned her face away and made an effort to steady her voice.

  “No. Mrs. Newton mortgaged the plant and the house and everything to hire lawyers. I bought the plant and the house from the bank that held the mortgage,” she explained briefly.

  Aunt Hettie sat very still, studying the pale, averted face, the shining soft hair, and then she nodded to herself with a satisfaction that was gentle and inoffensive.

  “I reckon I’m so plumb stupid that I never seen the ‘favor’ before,” she observed. “You take a lot after your paw, more than you do after your maw. She was a mighty pretty woman and your paw was a fine-looking man. You wasn’t much more’n a baby last time I saw you, after it all happened. But I can see now you got a heap o’ the Newtons about you.”

  Shelley had sat rigid as Aunt Hettie’s gentle old voice went on, and when at last Aunt Hettie was still, she made a gesture of resignation.

  “I was a fool to think I could get away with it, even after fifteen years. To come here and keep my identity a secret—” she admitted wearily.

  “Why can’t you?” demanded Aunt Hettie.

  Shelley caught her breath.

  “You mean you won’t tell?” she whispered, incredulous.

  Aunt Hettie snorted and her color rose.

  “I been accused of a sight of things in my time, but gossipin and tale-bearin’ ain’t among ’em. Far’s I’m concerned you’re Shelley Kimbrough right on, and the only way I ever heard you tell ’bout the Newtons is when you bought up the mortgage on this place.”

  Shelley’s pallor had faded into a soft pink and her mouth was tremulous as she smiled, her shining eyes mirroring her gratitude.

  “Thank you, Aunt Hettie,” she said unsteadily.

  “For what? For mindin’ my own busness?” Aunt Hettie snorted again. “Shucks, I’ve been doin’ that for more’n sixty years. I aim to keep right on doin’ it, too. I was always taught it was a right sensible thing to do. Longer I live, the more sure I am it’s the truth, too.”

  Shelley blinked and put out her hand and squeezed Aunt Hettie’s work-roughened one where it lay in her lap. Aunt Hettie patted Shelley�
��s hand and smiled warmly at the girl.

  “You’re a right nice girl, Shelley, and a mighty sweet one. I reckon you’ve got your own reasons for wantin’ to come back here.”

  “That’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?” Shelley flashed. “I’m going to find out what really happened, fifteen years ago, and clear my father’s name. He didn’t steal that money, Aunt Hettie. Mother knew it—and I’m going to prove it.”

  Aunt Hettie was silent for a moment and then she sighed.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, Shelley, I don’t think many people ever really believed that he did, even with the case them lawyers was able to build up against him,” she admitted at last. “Folks always thought the whole thing was mighty peculiar. Nobody believed Hastings Newton was a thief. But after all, he was seen lurking ’round the bank mighty late at night and the money was found here in the shop.”

  Shelley sat very still, her hands locked tightly together. Aunt Hettie watched her and sighed.

  “Some folks said it was like in the movies, that he was being ‘framed.’ That somebody else took the money and throwed the blame on him. Though why anybody’d go to the trouble o’ stealin’ the money and then not even get the spendin’ of it seemed right queer.”

  Still Shelley did not speak, just waited.

  “There was some talk,” Aunt Hettie went on hesitantly, “that there was a woman mixed up in it somewhere.”

  “That’s not true! My mother and father were devoted to each other. My father adored her. He couldn’t have been interested in another woman. That’s ridiculous. It’s indecent. I won’t believe it.”

  “Well, now, I don’t reckon it was true. I’ve seen ’em together, Hastings and Callie. If ever there was two people that was plumb crazy about each other, seems to me it was them two. It just done your heart good to be with ’em.”

  Shelley smiled through her tears. Aunt Hettie leaned forward and laid her hand on Shelley’s and spoke softly and earnestly.

  “Be careful, Shelley, be mighty careful. I dunno why I say that, but it’s just that after all these years, for you to come back here and start stirring up old troubles, old hates, living under a false name—”

  “But it’s not a false name, Aunt Hettie. After my mother died, I was legally adopted by a close friend of hers, a Mrs. Kimbrough who was a widow, with no children of her own. I really am legally Shelley Kimbrough.”

  “Well, now, I’m plumb glad you’ve a right to the name you are using.”

  “It’s the way Mother wanted it.”

  “O’ course—I can see that. Poor Callie. And poor Hastings! I liked ’em both a whole lot.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Hettie.”

  “Shelley honey, ‘course I know how you feel about wantin’ to clear your paw’s name and all that, but it looks to me like you’re makin’ yourself miserable and maybe runnin’ a dangerous risk stirring up things that had better be let lay,” said Aunt Hettie gravely. “Most folks ’cept right around here in Harbour Pines has most likely forgot the whole story. And most o’ them that remembers feels like Hastings got a mighty raw deal. After all, what good can it do now, after fifteen years, to open it all up again?”

  “I promised Mother,” said Shelley stubbornly.

  Aunt Hettie sighed and yielded.

  “Well, I reckon it’s no use me sayin’ any more, Shelley. Except, o’ course, I’ll do anything I can to help you any way I can.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Hettie—you’re sweet.”

  “Aw, shucks,” said Aunt Hettie, greatly embarrassed.

  Chapter Seven

  The first issue of the Harbour Pines Journal was received with polite interest by the people in the little town and those on farms in the surrounding section.

  People dropped in to bring “an item” of local gossip; to place a classified ad; to pay for a year’s subscription, often with a couple of dozen fresh eggs, a piece of home-cured meat, a sack of potatoes, or even with home-canned fruits and vegetables. Very rarely the subscriptions were paid for in cash, carefully counted out from painfully flat purses. But Shelley accepted the subscriptions gravely and courteously, whether they were paid for in cash or in produce.

  “Maybe we should go in the wholesale grocery business,” said Philip mildly one day, thoughtfully observing the shelves back of Shelley’s battered desk, that held cans and neatly labeled glass jars.

  “Oh, well, we can’t expect to put the paper on a cash paying basis right away,” Shelley answered lightly. “And after all, we do have to eat.”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” Philip agreed, and looked at her with an odd intentness. “See here, Boss Lady, I don’t really need as much salary as you are paying me. After all. I sleep and eat here at the shop, and the Tavern’s prices aren’t unreasonable. Suppose, until business picks up—in cash—we shave the salary a little.”

  “Thanks, Phil, that’s sweet of you. But don’t worry. I have enough cash to tide us over for at least a year,” Shelley told him impulsively.

  Philip’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, then the Harbour Pines Journal is just a rich gal’s plaything.”

  “It’s nothing of the sort. It’s just that I have a little money in reserve, because even I wasn’t stupid enough to expect to make a living off the paper right away.”

  “Sure, sure,” Phil agreed, but there was obviously something else on his mind. Shelley waited expectantly, a little tense.

  But after a moment he made a little gesture as though he had changed his mind about saying any more and turned back to the printing job he was doing. “Throw-aways” for the New York Department Store that had, in a rash moment of reckless extravagance, appropriated twenty-five dollars in cash to advertise its Spring Clearance Sale.

  Shelley watched Philip’s bent head for a long moment, wondering about him. He was always good-humored, agreeable, but completely uncommunicative. Who he was; where he came from; what lay in his past were very obviously things he had no intention of revealing to anybody.

  She sighed and admitted honestly that Philip had quite as much right to his secrets as she had to hers. Though since she had so impulsively revealed hers to Aunt Hettie she was a bit apprehensive. Not that she could not trust Aunt Hettie to keep her secret; but she knew that once a secret has been told, no matter how carefully it may be guarded, it doesn’t remain a secret long.

  She was alone in the shop one afternoon a few days later.

  It was Saturday afternoon and Harbour Pines had awakened to its one weekly afternoon of fun and frivolity. The streets were filled with laughing girls in bright-colored summer dresses; boys pretending to be completely oblivious to the girls, yet indulging in boisterous horse-play when the girls came near; busy farm-wives in for the afternoon, exchanging news, gossiping, using the Harbour Pines Mercantile as a sort of neighborhood club, stretching out their frugal shopping as much as possible because this contact with neighbors must cover a whole week of hard work and loneliness. Farmers and tenant-farmers stood around on corners in the shade, talking, laughing, horse-trading, planning the next week’s work.

  And of course above and over all was the bright-hued flood of Negro girls in their crisply starched rustling cotton dresses, usually of deep, strong colors that seemed to glow in the thick early summer sunlight. The dark faces of the men were lit with the flash of white teeth. The older women were more dignified, yet just as hearty and cheerful, their heads bound up in snowy turbans, or an occasional bright-colored bandana, sometimes topped by an ancient rusty “go-to-meetin”’ hat.

  It was a colorful spectacle, warm with hearty humor and simple content, and Shelley, seated at her desk where a window gave her a grandstand view of the spectacle, watched it with pleasure.

  A car slid to a stop in front of the shop and a girl got out. A girl who wore expensively tailored beige slacks, a white shirt and a cashmere sweater slung over her shoulders. She came briskly up the bricked walk, swung open the screen door and blinked a little in the dimness of the big room before she saw S
helley at her desk.

  The girl was dazzlingly pretty. Her hair was an almost silver-blonde and hung loosely about her proudly held head, and a blue ribbon which matched her cashmere sweater was threaded through it, emphasizing the deep blue of her eyes.

  “Hello, you’re Shelley,” she said lightly. “I’m Sue-Ellen Hargroves. Jamesy said for me to wait here for him. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Shelley was friendly. Do sit down. Jamesy, I suppose, being Jim Hargroves?”

  “The same,” said Sue-Ellen, dropping into a chair and draping her pretty legs over the arm, fishing a package of cigarettes from her shirt pocket. “Of course he simply loathes being called Jamesy. But I always insist it’s good for him. Keeps him from getting above himself, if you see what I mean. Being the Lord High Panjandrum of this vast and teeming metropolis isn’t good for a youngster of Jamesy’s age. Liable to give him delusions of grandeur, and that is simply something I will not permit.”

  She struck a match neatly on the sole of one brown leather loafer, and inhaled deeply.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about him. He seems to have both feet rather solidly on the ground,” laughed Shelley.

  Sue-Ellen narrowed her hyacinth-blue eyes a trifle.

  “Jamesy wouldn’t by any chance be the reason you can stick living in this vile little hole, would he?” she demanded with a forthrightness that all but took Shelley’s breath away.

  “I haven’t the remotest idea what you mean.”

  “Oh, stuff!” Sue-Ellen waved her cigarette carelessly. “I’m a cat. I didn’t mean to be nasty—at least, not deliberately. It’s just that I’m inherently suspicious of pretty girls where Jamesy is concerned. And you’re a darned pretty girl. In fact, you’re beautiful, and Jamesy would be a double-barreled, brass-bound sap if he didn’t fall for you with a dull thud. Only I intend to marry him myself.”

  Her frankness had an almost childlike quality that robbed it of offensiveness, and Shelley could only stare at her and murmur inadequately, “Well, for Heaven’s sake!”