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Treasure and Trouble Therewith by Geraldine Bonner

G >> Geraldine Bonner >> Treasure and Trouble Therewith




"I'm on. How is he a thief?"

Crowder told her. The story was clear in his head by this time, and he
told it well, with the journalist's sense of its drama. As he spoke she
drew up her knees and clasping her hands round them sat rigid, now and
then as she met his eyes, raised to hers to see if she had caught a
point, nodding and breathing a low, "I see--Go on."

When he had finished he looked at her with challenging triumph.

"Well--isn't it all I said it was?"

Already she showed the effect of it. There was color in her face, a dusky
red on the high cheek bones.

"Yes--more. I didn't think--" She stopped and swallowed, her
throat dry.

"Did you have the least idea, did he ever say a word to suggest he had
anything as juicy as that in the background?"

"No. I can't remember all in a minute. But he never said much about
himself; he was always asking about me." She paused, fixedly
staring; then her glance, razor-sharp, swerved to the young man.
"Will he go to jail?"

"You bet he will. I'm not sure on just what count, but they'll find one
that'll fit his case. He's as much a thief as either Knapp or Garland. He
knew it wasn't Captain Kidd's treasure; he saw the papers. He can't play
the baby act about being ignorant. The way he hid his loot proves that."

"Yes," she murmured. "He's a thief all right. He's bad every way."

"That's what I wanted you to see. That's why I told you. You can't go on
caring now."

"No." Her voice was very low. "It puts the lid on that."

"You can thank God on your bended knees he threw you down."

"Oh, yes," she rocked her head slightly from side to side with an air of
morose defiance, "I _can_."

"_Do_ you?" said the young man, leaning closer and looking into her face.

He was satisfied by what he saw. For a moment the old pride flamed up, a
spark in the black glance, a haughty straightening of the neck.

"A common thief like him for my lover? Say, you know me, Charlie. I'd
have killed myself, or maybe I'd have killed him."

Crowder had what he would have called "a hunch" that this might be true.
From his heart he exclaimed:

"Gee, I'm glad it's turned out the way it has!"

"So am I. Only I'm sorry for one thing. It's _you_ that have caught him,
not _me_."

Crowder laughed.

"You Indian!" he said. "You red, revengeful devil!"

"Oh, I'm _that_!" she answered, with biting emphasis. "When I get a blow
I want to give one. I don't turn the other cheek; I strike back--with a
knife if I have one handy."

"Well, don't you bother about knives now. The hitting's going to be done
for you. All you have to do is to sit still, like a perfect lady, and
say nothing."

"Um." She paused, mused an instant, and then said: "You're sure you can't
be mistaken?"

"Positive. Funny, isn't it? It was the paper that gave me the lead. Sort
of poetic justice his being landed by that--the paper that had the
article about you in it."

She looked at him, struck with a sudden idea:

"Perhaps it was that article that made him come to see me in the
beginning."

Crowder smiled.

"I guess he wasn't bothering about articles just then. He'd used it to
wrap the money in. It was all muddy and ragged, the lower half of the
letter gone--the piece about you--got torn out by accident I guess. As I
see it he happened to have the paper and when he got the sacks out of the
ground, put some of 'em in it. Then when he was in the Whatcheer House he
stuffed it in the hole under the floor. It was the handiest way to get
rid of it."

Soon after that Crowder left, feeling that he had done a good work. The
news had had the effect he had hoped it would. She was a different girl.
The last glimpse of her, sitting in that same attitude with her hands
clasped round her knees, showed her revitalized, alive once more, with
something of the old brown and red vividness in her face.

When he had gone she remembered her letter. It was of no use now. She
would have liked to recall it, but it was too late; the clock on the
table marked eleven. Through the fitful sleep of her uneasy night it came
back, invested by the magnifying power of dreams with a fantastic
malignity; in waking moments showing as a bit of spite, dwindled to
nothing before the forces gathering for Mayer's destruction.




CHAPTER XXVII

BAD NEWS


Old Man Haley's shack stood back from a branch road that wound down from
Antelope across the foothills to Pine Flat. Commercial travelers,
staging it from camp to camp, could see his roof over the trees, and
sometimes the driver would point to it with his whip and tell how the
old man--a survival of the early days--lived there alone cultivating his
vegetable patch. In the last four or five years people said he had gone
"nutty," had taken to wandering down the stream beds with his pickax and
pan, but he was a harmless old body and seemed able to get along. He
said he had a son somewhere who sent him money now and again, and he
always had enough to keep himself in groceries and tobacco, which he
bought at the general store in Pine Flat. Maybe you'd see him straying
along, sort o' kind and simple, with his pick over his shoulder, smilin'
up at the folks in the stage.

On that Sunday when Mayer had made his last trip to Sacramento Old Man
Haley had risen with the sun. While the rest of the world was slumbering
on its pillow he was out among his vegetables, hoe in hand.

It was one of those mornings that deck with a splendor of blue and gold
the foothill spring. The air was balmy, the sky a fleckless vault, where
bird shapes floated on aerial currents or sped in jubilant flight. From
the chaparral came the scents of sun-warmed foliage, the pungent odor of
bay, the aromatic breath of pine, and the sweet, frail perfume of the
chaparral flower. This flecked the hillside with its powdery blossom, a
white blur among the glittering enamel of madrona leaves.

Old Man Haley, an ancient figure in his rusty overalls, paused in his
labor to survey the sea of green from which he had wrested his garden.
His eye traveled slowly, for he loved it, and had grown to regard it as
his own. Leaning on his hoe he looked upward over its tufted density and
suddenly his glance lost its complacent vagueness and became sharp and
fixed. Through the close-packed vegetation a zigzag movement descended as
if a fissure of earth disturbance was stirring along the roots. After a
moment's scrutiny he turned and sent a look, singularly alert, over the
shack and the road beyond. Then, pursing his lips, he emitted a whistled
bar of bird notes.

The commotion in the chaparral stopped, and from it rose a wild figure.
It looked more ape than man, hairy, bearded to the cheekbones,
sunken-eyed and staggering. It started forward at a run, branches
crashing under its blundering feet, and as it came it sent up a hoarse
cry for food.

Some years before Old Man Haley had built a woodshed behind the cabin.
When he bought the planks he had told "the boys" in Pine Flat that he was
getting too old to forage for his wood in winter, and was going to cut it
in summer, and have it handy when the rains came. He had built the shed
well and lined it with tar paper. Adventurous youngsters, going past one
day, had peeped in and seen a blanket spread over the stacked logs as if
the old man might have been sleeping there; which, being reported, was
set down to his craziness.

Here Garland now hid, ate like a famished wolf, and slept. Then when
night came, and all wayfarers were safe indoors, stole to the shack,
and with only the red eye of the stove to light their conference,
exchanged the news with his confederate. Hunger had driven him back to
the settlements; four days before his last cartridge had been spent, and
he had lived since then on berries and roots. Old Man Haley, squatting
in the rocking-chair made from a barrel, whispered cheering
intelligence: they'd about given up the hunt, thought he had died in the
chaparral. Someone had seen birds circling round a spot off toward the
hills behind Angels.

The next day when Garland told his intention of moving on to San
Francisco, the old man was uneasy. He was the only associate of the
bandit who knew of the daughter there, and he urged patience and caution.
He was even averse to taking a letter to her when he went into Pine Flat
for supplies. The post office was the resort of loungers. If they saw Old
Man Haley coming in to mail a letter, they'd get curious; you couldn't
tell but what they might wrastle with him and grab the letter. In a day
or two maybe he could get into Mormons Landing, where he wasn't so well
known, and mail it there. To placate Garland he promised him a paper; the
man at the store would give him one.

When he came back in the rosy end of the evening he was exultant. A
woman, hearing him ask the storekeeper for a paper, had told him to stop
at her house and she would give him a roll of them. There they were, a
big bundle, and not local ones, but the _San Francisco Despatch _almost
to date. He left Garland in the woodshed, reading by the light that fell
in through the open door, and went to the shack to cook supper.

Presently a reek of blue smoke was issuing from the crook of pipe above
the roof, and wood was crackling in the stove. Old Man Haley, mindful of
his guest's dignities and claims upon himself, set about the
preparation of a goodly meal, part drawn from his own garden, part from
the packages he had carried back from Pine Flat. He was engrossed in it,
when, through the sizzling of frying grease, he heard the sound of
footsteps and the doorway was darkened by Garland's bulk. In his hand he
held a paper, and even the age-dimmed eyes of the old man could see the
pallid agitation of his face.

"My daughter!" he cried, shaking the paper at Haley. "She's sick in
Francisco--I seen it here! I got to go!"

There was no arguing with him, and Old Man Haley knew it. He helped to
the full extent of his capacity, set food before the man, and urged him
to eat, dissuaded him from a move till after nightfall, and provided him
with money taken from a hiding-place behind the stove.

Then together they worked out his route to the coast. The first stage
would be from there to the Dormer Ranch where he had friends. They'd
victual him and give him clothes, for even Garland, reckless with
anxiety, did not dare show himself in the open as he now was, a figure to
catch the attention of the most unsuspicious. He would have to keep to
the woods and the trails till he got to Dormer's, and it would be a long
hike--all that night and part of the next day. They would give him a
mount and he could strike across country and tap the railroad at some
point below Sacramento, making San Francisco that night.

The dark had settled, clearly deep, when he left. There were stars in the
sky, only a few, very large and far apart, and by their light he could
see the road between the black embankment of shrubs. It was extremely
still as he stole down from the shack, Old Man Haley watching from the
doorway. It continued very still as he struck into his stride, no sound
coming from the detailless darkness. Its quiet suggested that same tense
expectancy, that breathless waiting, he had noticed under the big trees.




CHAPTER XXVIII

CHRYSTIE SEES THE DAWN


No shadow of impending disaster fell across Mayer's path. On the Monday
morning he rose feeling more confident, lighter in heart, than he had
done since he met Burrage. It had been a relief to put an end to the
Sacramento business; Chrystie had been amenable to his suggestion; the
weather was fine; his affairs were moving smoothly to their climax. As he
dressed he expanded his chest with calisthenic exercises and even warbled
a little French song.

He was out by ten--an early hour for him--and he fared along the street
pleasantly aware of the exhilarating sunshine, the blueness of the bay,
the tang of salty freshness in the air. The hours till lunch were to be
spent in completing the arrangements for the flight. At the railway
office he bought the two passage tickets to Reno, his own section and
Chrystie's stateroom, and even the amount of money he had to disburse did
not diminish his sense of a prospering good fortune.

From there he went to the office of the man who owed him the gambling
debt and encountered a check. The gentleman had gone to the country on
Friday and would not be back till Wednesday morning at ten. A politely
positive clerk assured him no letter or message had been left for Mr.
Mayer, and a telegram received that morning had shown his employer to be
far afield on the Macleod River.

Mayer left the office with a set, yellowish face. The disappointment
would have irritated him at any time; now coming unexpected on his eased
assurance it enraged him. For an hour he paced the streets trying to
decide what to do. Of course he could go and leave the money, write a
letter to have it sent after him. But he doubted whether his creditor
would do it, and he needed every cent he could get. His plan of conquest
of Chrystie included a luxurious background, a wealth of costly detail.
He did not see himself winning her to complete subjugation without a
plentiful spending fund. He had told her they would go North from Reno
and travel eastward by the Canadian Pacific, stopping at points of
interest along the road. He imagined his courtship progressing in
grandiose suites of rooms wherein were served delicate meals, his
generous largesse to obsequious hirelings adding to her dazzled approval.
He had to have that money; he couldn't go without it; he had set it aside
to deck with fitting ceremonial the conquering bridal tour.

He stopped at a telegraph office and wrote her a note telling her to meet
him that afternoon at three in the old place opposite the Greek Church.
This he sent by messenger and then he pondered a rearrangement of his
plans. He would only have to shift their departure on a few hours--say
till Wednesday noon. He had heard at the railway office there was a slow
local for Reno at midday. They could take this, and though it was a day
train there would be little chance of their being noticed, as the
denizens of Chrystie's world and his own always traveled by the faster
Overland Flyer.

As he saw her approaching across the plaza his uneasy eye discerned from
afar the fact that she was perturbed. Her face was anxious, her long
swinging step even more rapid than usual. And, "Oh, Boye!" she grasped
as they met and their hands clasped. "Has anything happened?"

It was not a propitious frame of mind, and he drew one of her hands
through his arm, pressing the fingers against his side as they walked
toward the familiar bench. There gently, very gently, he acquainted her
with the version of the situation he had rehearsed: a business
matter--she wouldn't understand--but something of a good deal of
importance had unfortunately been postponed from that afternoon till
Wednesday morning. It was extremely annoying--in fact, maddening, but he
didn't see how it was to be avoided. She looked horrified.

"Then what are we to do--put it off?"

"Yes, until Wednesday at noon. There's a slow train we can get. There's
no use waiting till evening."

She turned on him aghast.

"But the Barlows? What am I to do about them? I've told Lorry I was going
there on Tuesday."

"Darling girl, that's very simple. You've had a letter to say they don't
want you till Wednesday."

"But, Boye," she sat erect, staring distressfully at him, "I've told
Lorry the party was on Tuesday night. That's what they've asked me for.
Now how can I say they don't want me?"

He bit his lip to keep down his anger. Why had he allowed her to do
_anything_--why hadn't he written it all down in words of one syllable?

"We'll have to think of some reason for a change in their plans. Why
couldn't they have postponed the party?"

"Even if they did they wouldn't postpone _me_. I go there often, they're
old friends, it doesn't matter when I come."

Her voice had a quavering note, new to him, and extremely alarming.

"Dearest, don't get worked up over it," he said tenderly.

"Worked up!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't any girl be worked up? It's _awful_
for a person in my position to elope. It's all very well for you who just
go and come as you please, but for me--I believe if I was in prison I
could get out easier."

He caught her hand and pressed it between his own.

"Of course, it's hard for you. No one knows that better than I, and that
you should do it makes me love you more--if that's possible." He raised
the hand to his lips, kissed it softly and dropped it. "I know how you
can manage--it's as easy as possible. Say you have a headache, a
splitting headache, and can't take the railway trip, but rather than
disappoint them you'll go down the next day."

She drew her hand out of his, and said in a stubborn voice:

"No. I don't want to."

"Why? Now why, darling? What's wrong about that?"

"I won't tell any more lies to Lorry."

He looked at her, and saw her flushed, mutinous, tears standing in her
eyes.

"But, dearest--"

She cut him off, her voice suddenly breaking:

"I can't do it. I didn't know it was going to be so dreadful. But I can't
look at Lorry and tell her any more lies. I _wont_. It makes me sick.
It's asking too much, Boye. There's something hateful about it."

Her underlip quivered, drew in like a child's. With a shaking hand she
began fumbling about her belt for her handkerchief.

"Sometimes I feel as if I was doing wrong," she faltered. "I love you,
I've told you so--but--but--Lorry's not like anybody else--anyway to me.
And to keep on telling her what isn't true makes me feel--like--like--a
_yellow dog!"_

The last words came on a breaking sob, and the handkerchief went up to
her face. Mayer was frightened. A quick glance round the plaza showed him
no one was in sight, and he threw him arm about her and drew the weeping
head down to his shoulder. Though the green paradise plume was in the way
and his fear of passersby acute, he was still sufficiently master of
himself to soothe with words of beguiling sweetness.

While he did it, his free hand holding the paradise plume out of his
face, his eye nervously ranging the prospect, his mind ran over ways to
meet the difficulty. By the time Chrystie had conquered her tears, and,
with a creaking of tight-drawn silks, was sitting upright again, he had
hit on a solution and was ready to broach it.

"Well, then, we'll rule out any more lies as you call them. You won't
have to say another word to Lorry. We can go on just as we'd planned."

"How?" she asked, in a stopped-up voice, dabbing at her eyes with the
handkerchief.

"You can leave on Tuesday afternoon at the same time and go to a hotel."

"A hotel!" She stopped dabbing, extremely surprised, as if he had
suggested going to something she had never heard of before.

"Yes, not one of the big ones; a quiet place where you're not liable to
run into anyone who may recognize you. I know of the very thing, not
long opened, in the Mission. You leave for the train as you intended, but
instead of going to the ferry, you go there. I'll take the rooms for you.
All you'll have to do will be to write your name in the book--say, Miss
Brown--and go up to your apartment. Order your dinner up there and your
breakfast the next morning. I'll have a cab sent round for you at
half-past eleven that'll take you straight to the ferry, and I'll send
your tickets and trunk check to your rooms before that. There'll be
nothing for you to do but cross on the boat and go into your stateroom on
the train."

This was all very smooth and clear. It was proof of Chrystie's
unpractical trend of thought that her comment was an uneasy,

"A hotel in the Mission?"

"Yes, a new place, very quiet and decent. I heard of it from some people
who are living there. I'll not come to see you, but I'll phone over in
the evening and find out how you're getting on. And the next morning I'll
be on the platform at Oakland, watching out for you."

"But you won't speak to me?"

"Not then. In the train we might meet--just accidentally run into one
another. And you'll say, 'Why, there's Mr. Mayer! How odd. How d'ye do,
Mr. Mayer.'" He bowed with a mincing imitation of Chrystie's best society
manner. "'I didn't expect to see _you_ here.'"

She laughed delightedly, nestling against his shoulder.

"Will that be all? Can I say any more?"

"Not much. It will be only a greeting as we pass each other: 'So glad to
see you, Miss Alston. Going up to Reno for a short stay. See you in town
soon again, I hope.' And then you to your stateroom and me in my section,
both of us looking out of the window as if we were bored."

They both laughed, lovers again. He was as relieved as she was. After all
it might turn out the better plan. He could keep his eye on her, watch
for signs of distress or mutiny and be ready with the comforting word. He
had to take some risk, and it was better to take that of being seen than
that of leaving her a prey to her own disintegrating musings. Chrystie
thought it was a great deal better than the other way. She saw herself in
the train, conscious of him, knowing he was there, and pretending not to
care. She felt uplifted on the wings of romance, heard the air around her
stirred by the beating of those rainbow pinions.

The thrill of it lasted until dinner, then began to die away. Her home
and the familiar surroundings pressed upon her attention like live things
insisting on recognition. The trivial talk round the table took on the
poignancy of matters already in the past. The night before Fong, on his
way back from Chinatown, had found a deserted kitten and brought it home
announcing his intention to adopt it and call it George Washington. Lorry
and Aunt Ellen made merry over it, but Chrystie couldn't. The kitten
would grow from youth to maturity, and she not be there to see. It took
its place in her mind as something belonging to a vanished phase, having
the cherished value of a memory.

Finally, Lorry noticed her silence, and wanted to know if anything was
the matter. She was pale and had hardly eaten a bite. Aunt Ellen
arraigned the Spring as a malign influence, and suggested quinine.
Chrystie snapped at her, and said she wouldn't take quinine if she was
dying. Thus warned away, Lorry and Aunt Ellen left her alone and made
Summer plans together. Lake Tahoe for July and August was taking shape in
Lorry's mind. July and August! Where would _she_ be? Boye had said
something about Europe, and at the time it had seemed to her the _ultima
Thule_ of her dreams. Now it looked as far away as the moon and as
inhospitable.

The inner excitement of the next day carried her over qualms and
yearnings--the beating of the rainbow pinions was again in her ears.

In the morning she went to the bank and drew five hundred dollars. She
must have some money of her own, and when she reached New York she would
want clothes. It was unfortunate that while she was making holes in her
trunk to pack it, Lorry should have come in and seen more than half of it
stacked on the bureau. That necessitated more lies, and Chrystie told
them with desperation. It was to pay people, of course, milliners and
dressmakers--she owed a lot, and as she was passing the bank she'd drawn
it in a lump.

Lorry was disapproving--her sister's carelessness about money always
shocked her--and offered to take charge of it till Chrystie came back.
There had to be another crop of lies, and Chrystie's face was beaded with
perspiration, her voice shaking, as she bent over her trunk. She'd lock
it in her desk, it would be all right--and please go away and don't
bother--the expressman might be here any minute now.

She had a hope that Lorry would go out in the afternoon, and she could
get away unobserved, but the faithful sister persisted in staying to see
her off. That was dreadful. Bag in hand, a lace veil--to be lowered
later--pushed back across her hat, she had tried to get the good-by over
in the hall, but Lorry had followed her out to the steps. There in the
revealing daylight the elder sister's smiles had died away, and
scrutinizing the face under the jaunty hat, she had said sharply:

"Is anything the matter, Chrystie? You know, you look quite ill. Are you
sure you feel well?"

It brought up a crowding line of memories--Lorry concerned, vigilant,
always watching over her with that anxious tenderness. A surge of emotion
rose in the girl and she snatched her sister to her, kissed her with a
sudden passion, then ran.

"Good-by, good-by," she called out as she flew down the steps to the
waiting carriage.

Her eyes were blinded, and she was afraid to look back for fear Lorry
might see the tears. She waved a hand, then crouched in the corner of
the seat and spied out of the little rear window. She could see Lorry on
the top step watching the carriage, her face grave, her brows low-drawn
in a frown.

The thrill came back when she dismissed the cab at the door of the hotel.
As she walked up the entrance hall it was as if she was walking into the
first chapter of a novel--a novel of which she was the heroine. And as
Boye had said, it was all very easy--she was expected, everything was
ready. A bellboy snatched her bag, and the elevator whisked her up to her
rooms, suite 38, third floor rear.

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial, but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors, it should never be swept under the carpet."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

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Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

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