Treasure and Trouble Therewith by Geraldine Bonner

G >> Geraldine Bonner >> Treasure and Trouble Therewith

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

It was at this time that she received her father's letter from Farleys.
Weeks had passed since she had heard from him, and when she saw his
writing on the envelope she realized that she had almost forgotten him.
The thought left her cold, but when she read the homely phrases she was
moved. In a moment of extended vision she saw the parents' tragedy--the
love that lives for the child's happiness and is powerless to create
it. He would have died for her and she would have thrust him aside,
pushed him pleading from her path, to follow a man a few months before
a stranger.

After that she endured a week without a word from Mayer, and then,
unable to sleep or work, telephoned to his hotel. In answer to her
question the switchboard girl said Mr. Mayer had not been out of town at
all for the last two weeks. She asked to speak with him and heard his
voice, sharp and cold. He couldn't talk freely over the wire; he would
rather she didn't call him up; his out-of-town business had been
postponed, that was all.

"Why are you mad with me?" she breathed, trying to make her voice steady.

"I am not," came the answer. "Please don't be fanciful. And _don't_ call
me up here, I don't like it. I'll be around as soon as I can, but I've a
lot to do, as I've already told you several times. Good-by."

She had sent the call from a telephone booth, and carefully, with a slow
precision, she hung up the receiver. A feeling of despair, a stifling
anguish, seized her and she began to cry. Shut into the hot, small place,
she broke into rending sobs, her head bent, her hands gripped, rocking
back and forth. Small, choked sounds, whines and cries came from her, and
fearful of being heard, she pressed her hands against her mouth, looking
up, looking down, an animal distracted in its unfamiliar pain.

The following day he wrote to her, excused himself, said he had been
worried on business matters and sent her flowers. She buoyed herself up
and once more tried to believe, but her will had been weakened. From
lower layers of consciousness the truth was forcing its way to
recognition, yet she still ignored it. Realization of her state if she
admitted it made her afraid and her fight had the fierceness of a
struggle for life. It was only in the night--awake in the dumb dark--that
she could not escape it. Then, staring at the pale square of the window,
she heard her voice whispering:

"What will I do? What will become of me?"

In all her miserable imaginings and self-queries the thought that she had
been supplanted had no place. Mayer had often spoken to her of his social
diversions and no woman had ever figured in them. The paragraphs which
still appeared about him touched on no feminine influences. It was her
fault; she had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Had she not
always wondered that he should have cared for her? On close acquaintance
he had found her to be what she was--common, uneducated, impossible. At
first she had tried to hide it and then it had come out and he had been
repelled. It was not till the afternoon, aimlessly walking to ease her
pain, when she saw him again with the blonde-haired girl, that the
thought of another woman entered her mind.

That night Crowder, after watching the last act from the back of the
house, resolved to see her and find out what was wrong. He had been
talking to the manager in the foyer and the man's sulky discontent
alarmed him. If Pancha didn't buck up she'd lose her job.

She was at the dressing table in her red kimono when he came in. The
grease was nearly all off and with her front hair drawn back from
her forehead, her face had a curiously bare, haggard look. As he
entered she glanced up, not smiling, and saw the knowledge of her
failure in his eyes.

For a moment she looked at him, grave and sad, confessing it. The
expression caught at his heart, and he had nothing to say, turning away
from her to look for a chair.

She picked up the rag and went on wiping her face.

"Well," she said in a brisk voice, "I wasn't on the job tonight, was I?"

Reassured by her tone, he sat down and faced her.

"No, you weren't. It wasn't a good performance, Panchita. I've always
told you the truth and I've got to go on doing it."

"Go ahead, you're not telling me anything I don't know. I've got my
finger on the pulse of this house. I know every rise and fall of its
temperature. But I can't always be up in G, can I?"

"No, but you can't stay down at zero too long."

"It was as bad as that, was it?"

"Yes, it was bad."

She dropped her hand to the edge of the dressing table and looked at it.
Her face, with the hair strained back, the rouge gone, looked withered
and yellow. Crowder eyed it anxiously.

"Say, Panchita, you're sick."

"Sick? Forget it! I never was better in my life."

"Then why are you off your work--why do you act as if you didn't care?"

"Can't I have a part I hate? Can't I get weary of this old joint with its
smoke and its beer? God!" She began to pull the pins out of her hair and
fling them on the dresser. "I'm human--I've got my ups and downs--and you
keep forgetting it."

"That's just what I'm not forgetting."

"Stop talking about me--I'm sick of it," she cried, and snatching up the
comb began tearing it through her hair.

"It's nerves," said Crowder. "Everything shows it. The way you're combing
your hair does."

"If you don't let me alone I'll put you out--all of you nagging and
picking at me; a saint couldn't stand it!" Crowder rose, but she whirled
round on him, the comb held out in an arresting hand. "No, don't go yet.
I'll give you another chance. I want to ask you something. I saw a woman
the other day and I want to know who she is--at least I don't really want
to know, but she'll do as well as anything else to change the subject.
Tall with yellow sort of dolly hair and a dolly face. Dark purple dress
with black velvet edges, lynx furs and a curly brimmed hat with a green
paradise plume falling over one side."

Crowder's face wrinkled with a grin.

"Well, that's funny! You might have asked me forty others and I'd not
have known. But thanks to your vivid description I _can_ tell you--I
saw her yesterday afternoon in those very togs. It's the youngest
Alston girl."

"Who's she?"

"One of the two daughters of George Alston. They're orphans, live in a
big house on Pine Street. The one you saw was Chrystie. What do you want
to know about her?"

Pancha, gathering her hair in one hand, began to whisk it round into a
knot. Her head was down bent.

"I don't know--just curiosity. She's sort of stunning looking. Did you
ever meet her?"

Crowder smiled.

"I know them well--have for over a year. Awfully nice girls--the
best kind."

Pancha lifted her head, her face sharp with interest.

"What's she like?"

He considered, the smile softened to an amused indulgence.

"Oh, just a great big baby, good-natured and jolly. Everybody likes
her--you couldn't help it if you tried. She's so simple and sweet,
accepts the whole world as if it was her friend. Her money hasn't spoiled
her a bit."

"Money--she has money?"

"To burn, my dear. She's rich."

Pancha took up a hand glass and turning her back to him studied her
profile in the mirror. It did not occur to Crowder that he never before
had seen her do such a thing.

"Rich, is she?" she murmured. "How rich?"

"Something like four hundred thousand dollars; her father was one of the
Virginia City crowd. Chrystie's just come into her part of the roll.
Eighteen years old and an heiress--that's a good beginning."

"Um--must be a queer feeling. I guess the men are around the honey thick
as flies."

Crowder screwed up his eyes considering.

"No, they're not--not yet anyhow. Until this winter the girls lived so
retired--didn't know many people, kept to themselves. Now they've broken
out and I suppose it's only a matter of time before the flies gather, and
if you asked me I'd say they'd gather thickest round Chrystie. She hasn't
as much character or brains as Lorry, but she's prettier and jollier, and
after all that's what most men like."

"It certainly is, especially with four hundred thousand thrown in for
good measure."

The hand holding the glass dropped to her lap. She sat still for a
moment, then without turning told him to go; she was tired and wanted to
get home. It did not even strike him as odd that she never looked at him,
just flapped a hand over her shoulder and dismissed him with a short
"Good-night."

When he had gone she sat as he had left her, the mirror still in her lap.
The gas jet flamed in its wire cage, and so silent was the room that a
mouse crept out from behind the baseboard, spied about, then made a
scurrying dart across the floor. Her eye caught it, slid after it, and
she moved, putting the glass carefully on the dresser. The palms of her
hands were wet with perspiration and she rubbed them on the skirt of her
kimono and rose stiffly, resting for a moment against the back of her
chair. She had a sick feeling, a sensation as if her heart were
dissolving, as if the room looked unfamiliar and much larger than usual.
When she put on her clothes she did it slowly, her fingers fumbling
stupidly at buttons and hooks, her mouth a little open as if breathing
was difficult.

CHAPTER XX

MARK PAYS A CALL

Mark Burrage saw the winter pass and only went once to the Alstons and
then they were not at home. He had refused three invitations to the house
and after the ignominous event at the Albion received no more. When he
allowed himself to think of that humiliating evening he did not wonder.

But, outside of his work, he allowed himself very little thinking. All
winter he had concentrated on his job with ferocious energy. The older
men in the office had a noticing eye on him. "That fellow Burrage has got
the right stuff in him, he'll make good," they said among themselves. The
younger ones, sons of rich fathers who had squeezed them into places in
the big firm, regarded his efforts with indulgent surprise. They liked
him, called him "Old Mark," and were a little patronizing in their
friendliness: "He was just the sort who'd be a grind. Those ranch chaps
who had to get up at four in the morning and feed the 'horgs' were the
devil to work when they came down to the city. Even law was a cinch after
the 'horgs.'"

Sometimes at night--his endeavor relaxed for a pondering moment--he
studied the future. The outlook might have daunted a less resolute
spirit. A great gap yawned between the present and the time when he could
go to Lorry Alston and say, "Let me take care of you; I can do it now."
But he figured it out, bridged the gap, knew what one man had done
another man could do. He reckoned on leaving the office next year and
setting up for himself, and grim-visaged, mouth set to a straight line,
he calculated on the chances of the fight. Its difficulties braced him to
new zeal and in the strain and stress of the struggle his youthful
awkwardness wore away, giving place to a youthful sternness.

No one guessed his hopes and high aspiration, not even his friend
Crowder. When Crowder rallied him about this treatment of the Alstons he
had been short and offhand--didn't care for society, hadn't time to waste
going round being polite. He left upon Crowder the impression that the
Alston girls did not interest him any more than any other girls. "Old
Mark isn't a lady's man," was the way Crowder excused him to Chrystie. Of
course Chrystie laughed and said she had no illusions about that, but
whatever kind of a man he was he ought to take some notice of them, no
matter how dull and deadly they were. Crowder, realizing his own
responsibility--it was he who had taken Mark to the Alston house--was
kind but firm.

"It's up to you to go and see those girls. It's not the decent thing to
drop out without a reason. They've gone out of their way to be civil to
you, and you know, old chap, they're _ladies_"

Mark grunted, and frowning as at a disagreeable duty said he'd go.

It took him some weeks to get there. Twice he started, circled the house,
and tramped off over the hills. The third time he got as far as the front
gate, weakened and turned away. After long abstinence the thought of
meeting Lorry's eyes, touching her hand, created a condition of turmoil
that made him a coward; that, while he longed to enter, drew him back
like a sinner from the scene of his temptation. Then an evening came
when, his jaw set, his heart thumping like a steam piston, he put on his
best blue serge suit, his new gray overcoat, even a pair of mocha gloves,
and went forth with a face as hard as a stone.

Fong opened the door, saw who it was and broke into a joyful grin.

"Mist Bullage! Come in, Mist Bullage. No see you for heap long time,
Mist Bullage."

"I've been busy," said the visitor. "Hadn't much time to come around."

Fong helped him off with the gray overcoat.

"You work awful hard, Mist Bullage. Too hard, not good. You come here and
have good time. Lots of fun here now. You come."

He moved to hang the coat on the hatrack, and, as he adjusted it, turned
and shot a sharp look over his shoulder at the young man.

"All men who come now not like you, Mist Bullage."

There was something of mystery, an odd suggestion of withheld meaning, in
the old servant's manner that made Mark smile.

"How are they different--better or worse?"

Fong passed him, going to the drawing-room door. His hand on the knob, he
turned, his voice low, his slit eyes craftily knowing.

"Ally samey not so good. I take care Miss Lolly and Miss Clist--_I_ look
out. _You_ all 'ight, _you_ come." He threw open the door with a flourish
and called in loud, glad tones, "Miss Lolly, Miss Clist, one velly good
fliend come--Mist Bullage."

At the end of the long room Mark was aware of a small group whence issued
a murmur of talk. At his name the sound ceased, there was a rising of
graceful feminine forms which floated toward him, leaving a masculine
figure in silhouette against the lighted background of the dining room.
He was confused as he made his greetings, touched and dropped Lorry's
hand, tried to find an answer for Chrystie's challenging welcome. Then he
switched off to Aunt Ellen in her rocker, groping at knitting that was
sliding off her lap, and finally was introduced to the man who stood
waiting, his hands on the back of his chair.

At the first glance, while Lorry's voice murmured their names, Mark
disliked him. He would have done so even if he had not been a guest at
the Alstons, complacently at home there, even if he had not been in
evening dress, correct in every detail, even if the hands resting on the
chair back had not shown manicured nails that made his own look coarse
and stubby. The face and each feature, the high-bridged, haughty nose,
the eyes cold and indolent under their long lids, the thin, close line of
the mouth--separately and in combination--struck him as objectionable
and repellent. He bowed stiffly, not extending his hand, substituting for
the Westerner's "Pleased to meet you," a gruff "How d'ye do, Mr. Mayer."

Before the introduction, Mayer, watching Mark greeting the girls, knew he
had seen him before but could not remember where. The young man in his
neat, well fitting clothes, his country tan given place to the pallor of
study and late hours, was a very different person from the boy in shirt
sleeves and overalls of the ranch yard. But his voice increased Mayer's
vague sense of former encounter and with it came a faint feeling of
disquiet. Memory connected this fellow with something unpleasant. As Mark
turned to him it grew into uneasiness. Where before had he met those
eyes, dark blue, looking with an inquiring directness straight into his?

They sank into chairs, everyone except Aunt Ellen, seized by an inner
discomfort which showed itself in a chilled constraint. Mayer, combing
over his recollections, the teasing disquiet increasing with every
moment, was too disturbed for speech. The sight of Lorry had paralyzed
what little capacity for small talk Mark had. She looked changed, more
unapproachable than ever in a new exquisiteness. It was only a more
fashionable way of doing her hair and a becoming dress, but the young man
saw it as a growing splendor, removing her to still remoter distances.
She herself was so nervous that she kept looking helplessly at Chrystie,
hoping that that irrepressible being would burst into her old-time
sprightliness. But Chrystie had her own reasons for being oppressed. The
presence of Mayer, paying no more attention to her than he did to Aunt
Ellen, and the memory of him making love to her on park benches, gave her
a feeling of dishonesty that weighed like lead.

It looked as if it was going to be a repetition of one of those evenings
in the past before they had "known how to do things," when Fong caused a
diversion by appearing from the dining room bearing a tray.

To regale evening visitors with refreshments had been the fashion in
Fong's youth, so in his old age the habit still persisted. He entered
with his friendly grin and set the tray on a table beside Lorry. On it
stood decanters of red and white wine, glasses, a pyramid of fruit and a
cake covered with varicolored frosting.

Nobody wanted anything to eat, but they turned to the tray with the
eagerness of shipwrecked mariners to an oyster bed. Even Aunt Ellen
became animated, and looking at Mark over her glasses said:

"Have you been away, Mr. Burrage?"

No, Mr. Burrage had been in town, very busy, and, the hungriest of all
the mariners, he turned to the tray and helped Lorry pour out the wine.
The ladies would take none, so the filled glass was held out to Mayer.

"Claret!" he said, leaning forward to offer the glass.

As he did so he was aware of a slight, curious expression in the face
he had disliked. The eyelids twitched, the upper lip drew down tight
over the teeth, the nostrils widened. It was a sudden contraction and
then flexing of the muscles, an involuntary grimace, gone almost as
soon as it had come. With murmured thanks, Mayer stretched his hand and
took the wine.

It had all come back with the offered glass. A glance shot round the
little group showed him that no one had noticed; they were cutting and
handing about the cake. He refused a piece and found his stiffened lips
could smile, but he was afraid of his voice, and sipped slowly, forcing
the wine down the contracted passage of his throat. Then he stole a look
at Mark, clumsily steering a way between the chairs to Aunt Ellen who
wanted some grapes. The fellow hadn't guessed--hadn't the faintest
suspicion--it was incredible that he should have. It was all right
but--he raised his hand to his cravat, felt of it, then slipped a finger
inside his collar and drew it away from his neck.

Through a blurred whirl of thought he could hear Aunt Ellen's voice.

"I've wanted to see you for a long time, Mr. Burrage. You come from that
part of the country and I thought you'd know."

Then Mark's voice:

"Know what, Mrs. Tisdale?"

"About that Knapp man's story. Didn't you tell us your ranch was up near
the tules where those bandits buried the gold?"

Lorry explained.

"Aunt Ellen's been so excited about that story, she couldn't talk of
anything else."

"And why not?" said Aunt Ellen. "It's a very unusual performance. Two
sets of thieves, one stealing the money and burying it and another coming
along and finding it."

Chrystie, diverted from her private worries by this exciting subject,
bounced round toward Mark with something of her old explosiveness.

"Why, you were up there at the time--the first time I mean. Don't you
remember you told us that evening when you were here. And you said people
thought the bandits had a cache in the chaparral. Why didn't any of you
think of the tules?"

"Stupid, I guess," said Mark. "Not a soul thought of them. And it was an
A1 hiding-place. Besides the duck shooters, nobody ever goes there."

"But somebody _did_ go there," came from Aunt Ellen with a knowing nod.

They laughed at that, even Mr. Mayer, who appeared only languidly
interested, his eyes on the film of wine in the bottom of his glass.

"Who do you suppose it could have been?" asked Chrystie.

"A duck shooter, probably." This was Mr. Mayer's first contribution to
the subject.

Mark was exceedingly pleased to be able to correct this silent and
supercilious person.

"No, it couldn't have been. The duck season doesn't open till September
fifteen, and Knapp said when they went back in six days the cache was
empty." He turned to Chrystie. "I've often wondered if it could have been
a man I saw that afternoon."

As on that earlier visit his knowledge of the holdup had made him an
attractive center, so once again he saw the girls turn expectant eyes on
him, Aunt Ellen forget her grapes, and even the strange man's glance
shift from the wineglass and rest, attentive, on his face.

"It was a tramp. He stopped late that afternoon at my father's ranch
which gives on the road and asked for a drink of water. I gave it to
him and watched him go off in the direction of the trail that leads to
the tules. Of course it would have been an unusual thing for him to
have tried to get across them, but he might have done it and stumbled
on the cache."

"Could he have--isn't it all water?" Lorry asked.

"There's a good deal of solid land and here and there planks laid across
the deeper streams. There _is_ a sort of trail if you happen to know it
and a tramp might. It's part of his business to be familiar with the
short cuts and easiest ways round."

"What was he like?" said Chrystie.

"A miserable looking fellow--most of them are--all brown and dusty with a
straggly beard. There was one thing about him that I noticed, his voice.
It was like an educated man's--a sort of echo of better days."

Aunt Ellen found this very absorbing and she and Chrystie had questions
to ask. Fong's entrance for the tray prevented Lorry from joining in. As
the Chinaman leaned down to take it, she whispered to him to open a
window, the room was hot. Her eye, touching Mr. Mayer, had noticed that
he had drawn out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead which shone with
a thin beading of perspiration. No one heard the order, and Fong, after
opening the window, carried the tray into the dining room and left it on
the table. When Lorry turned to the others, Mark had proved to Aunt Ellen
that the gentleman tramp was a recognized variety of the species, and
Chrystie had taken up the thread.

"Did your people up there know anything about him? Did they think he
was the man?"

"None of them saw him. After Knapp's story came out I wrote up and asked
them but no one round there remembered him."

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

"If I saw him in the same clothes I would, but"--he smiled into
Chrystie's eager face--"I'm not likely to do that. If it's he, he's got
twelve thousand dollars and I guess he's spent some of it on a shave and
a new suit."

Here Mr. Mayer, moving softly, turned to where the tray had stood. It was
gone, and, gracefully apologetic, he rose--he wanted to put down his
glass and get a drink of water. His exit from the group put a temporary
stop to the conversation, chairs were in the way, and Aunt Ellen let her
grapes fall on the floor. Mark, scrabbling for them, saw Lorry rise and
press an electric bell on the wall; she had remembered there was no water
on the tray. Mayer, moving to the dining room, did not see her, and
called back over his shoulder:

"Your American rooms are a little too warm for a person used to the cold
storage atmosphere of houses abroad."

He said it well, better than he thought he could, for he was stifled by a
sudden loud pounding of his heart. To hide his face and steady himself
with a draught of wine was what he wanted. A moment alone, a moment to
get a grip on his nerves, would be enough. With his back toward them he
leaned against the table and lifted a decanter in his shaking hand. As he
did so, Fong entered through a door just opposite.

"Water for Mr. Mayer, Fong," came Lorry's voice from the room beyond.

The voice and Fong's appearance, coming simultaneously, abrupt and
unexpected, made Mayer give a violent start. His hand jerked upward,
sending the wine in a scattering spray over the cloth. Fong made no
move for the water, but stood looking from the crimson stain to the
man's face.

"You sick, Mist Mayer?" he said.

The strained tension snapped. With an eye if steel-cold fury on the
servant the man broke into a low, almost whispered, cursing. The words
ran out of his mouth, fluent, rapid, in an unpremeditated rush. They were
as picturesque and malignantly savage as those with which he had cursed
the tules; and suddenly they stopped, checked by the Chinaman's
expression. It was neither angry or alarmed, but intently observant, the
eyes unblinking--an imperturbable, sphinx-like face against which the
flood of rage broke, leaving no mark.

Mayer took up the half-filled glass and drained it, the servant watching
him with the same quiet scrutiny. He longed to plant his fist in the
middle of that unrevealing mask, but instead tried to laugh, muttered an
explanation about feeling ill, and slid a five-dollar gold piece across
the table.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25