Books: Her Weight in Gold
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Her Weight in Gold
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Behind him stalked two gigantic negroes. They were the centre of all
observation. People stared at the blacks who carried Harry Green's
bags as if they were looking upon creatures just out of an Arabian
Night's tale. Nearly seven feet tall and of Herculean proportions were
these giants. It is no wonder that the crowd gaped and felt something
like awe mingling with curiosity.
Mr. Green, erstwhile Patagonian surveyor, started at the sound of a
soft voice close at hand, a voice in which grateful surprise was
uppermost.
"Why, Harry Green! How do you do!" He turned and beheld Miss
Carrithers. She was leaning forward in her carriage, her little gloved
hand extended toward him impulsively. She was amazed to see a look of
relief flash in his eyes. His smile was broad and wholesome as he
gripped the little hand in a mighty brown one.
"Betty Carrithers!" he exclaimed. "Now, this is like home! By George,
you haven't changed a bit."
"Don't you think so!" She flushed. "It's been several years, you know.
A woman can change terribly in--"
"Ah, but you've just changed into a woman."
"And what a man you've grown to be," admiringly.
"I hope so. Patagonia would make a man of any one. Are you expecting
some one?"
"I was; but I see every one has come out. Won't you let me take you up
town? Goodness, who are those awful giants that stand over there all
the time like guards?"
"They're from Patagonia. Call them anything you like; they don't
understand English. They are my men of all work. Thanks, I will ride
up with you. Tell him to stop at the St. Charles." Then he turned and
spoke to the giants, who solemnly nodded their heads and climbed into
a cab close by. Green seated himself beside Miss Carrithers. There was
a hunted look in his eyes and a nervous tremor in his voice. "A sort
of bodyguard, as it were, Betty. By the way, you haven't seen Agatha
Holmes, have you? I telegraphed to her."
Miss Carrithers had braced herself for this question and she also had
prepared an answer. She could not look at his face, however, despite
her determination.
"Agatha Holmes! Is it possible you haven't heard? Don't you know that
--that she is married?"
She knew in her heart it was a cruel blow, but it was the best way,
after all. Instinctively she felt that he had ceased breathing, that
his body was stiffening under the shock, that his eyes were staring at
her unbelievingly. Imagine her surprise, even consternation, when,
after a breathless moment, his tremendous sigh of relief was followed
by the most cheerful of remarks.
"Good Lord!" he fairly gasped, "that simplifies matters!"
She turned like a flash and found his face radiant with joy. It was
hard for her to believe her own senses. He actually was rejoicing; she
had expected him to groan with despair. It is no wonder that her plan
of action was demolished on the instant; it is not surprising that
every vestige of resourcefulness was swept away by this amazing
reverse. She stared at him so pathetically, so helplessly, that he
laughed aloud.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, and there was no mistaking the
lightness of his heart. "I don't blame you for being shocked if you
thought I had come back to such a fate as you evidently pictured.
Betty, by Jove, you'll never know how happy you've made me!"
"I--I am surprised. Agatha told me that you--you--"
"And she's really married? Never mind what she told you. It doesn't
matter now. Is she happy?"
"She adores her husband--young Jimmy Cannable. You know him. She will
be crazy with joy, Harry, when she finds out that you, too, are happy.
She was half mad with remorse and all that. It will--"
"Heavens, Betty, I thought I was the remorseful one. By George, I love
you for telling me this!"
A shocking suspicion hurtled through her brain.
"You mean, there is--another woman?" she said with a brave effort. She
even smiled accusingly.
"Some day I'll tell you all about it," he said evasively. "I--I
suppose it would be all right for me to go round and call on Agatha
this evening."
"She is not in town. California," said Betty.
"Great Scott! In California?" The dismay in his face was even greater
than the relief of the moment before.
"Not exactly. She's on her way."
"By George, I wonder if I can catch her by wire? I must--I really must
see her." He was so agitated that she observed beads of perspiration
starting on his brow. She was mystified beyond description. Was he,
after all, she found herself wondering, playing a part? Was it in his
crafty heart to follow and kill Agatha Holmes!"
"Oh, no,--you can't do that," she protested quickly. "Won't you--come
out to dinner tonight?" she added somewhat confusedly. "We can talk
over old times."
"Thanks, Betty, but I can't." At the same time he glanced uneasily at
a cab which drove along close behind them.
"You were going to call upon Agatha," she pouted.
"But not at dinner-time," he said, mopping his brow. "I'll come up
about nine, if I may."
He came at nine, a trifle out of breath and uneasy in his manner. The
great Green ruby hung from the chain that encircled Betty's slim,
pretty neck. Its soft red eye glowed like a coal against the white
skin, but if she thought to surprise him with it, she was to be
disappointed. He did not look at it.
She did not know at the time that a giant Patagonian stood beneath the
gas lamp at the corner above the Carrithers mansion in St. Charles
Avenue. His gaunt, dark face was turned toward her doorway and his
fierce eyes seemed to bore holes through the solid oak.
"I can't stay very late," he said almost as he responded to the
greeting. "Confounded business engagement. Where is Agatha to stay in
California?"
"I don't know. It wasn't decided. Perhaps they'll go to Japan."
"Good Lord!"
"You seem terribly interested, for a man who doesn't care," she said.
"I should say I am interested--but not in the way you think." After a
moment's reflection, as he stood looking down upon her, he went on
excitedly, "I'll tell you something, Betty. You're a good sort, and
you can keep a secret as long as any woman--which isn't long, of
course. But it will be long enough for me to get out of town first. I
must go to California tomorrow. Wait! Don't look like that! I'm not
going to annoy Agatha. She'll understand when she hears what I have to
say. Have you ever noticed the ruby pendant that she wears--or wore,
perhaps?"
"The big one she called her 'coal of fire' because it burned her
conscience so terribly? Yes."
"Well, I gave it to her. I've just got to have it back. That's the
whole story. That's what I'm here for. That's why that awful black
devil is standing out there on the corner. See him? Under the gas
lamp?" He drew the curtains aside and she peeped out. "He's waiting
for me."
"What does it mean?" she cried, with a nameless dread creeping over
her.
"He is there in the interest of my father-in-law," said Mr. Green.
"You---your father-in-law?" she gasped, staring at him wildly.
"Yes--my wife's father," he said somewhat plaintively. He sat down
near her, a nervous unsettled look in his eyes. She felt her heart
turn cold; something seemed to be tightening about her throat. The
light of hope that had been fanning began to flicker its way to
extinction.
"You are married?" came from her stiff lips.
"Yes," he replied doggedly. "A year ago, Betty. I--I did not write to
Agatha about it because I--I hoped that she'd never know how false I
was to my promise. But, she's done the same thing; that takes a
terrible load off my mind. I feared that I might find her waiting, you
know. It would have been hard to break it to her, don't you see?"
To his amazement, she laughed shrilly, almost hysterically. In the
flash of a moment's time, her feeling toward Harry Green began to
undergo a change. It was not due to the realisation that she had lost
all hope of having him for her own; it was, instead, the discovery
that her small girlish love for him had been the most trivial of
infatuations and not real passion. She laughed because she had pitied
Agatha and Green and herself; she laughed, moreover, in memory of her
deliberate eagerness to assume Agatha's burdens for purely selfish
reasons.
"I know it's amusing to you," he agreed with a wry smile. "Everything
amused you, as I remember, Betty. Do you remember that night in
Condit's conservatory when you and I were hiding from--"
"Don't, please!" she objected, catching her breath painfully. "I was a
foolish girl then, Harry. But tell me all about your--your wife. I am
crazy to know."
He looked involuntarily toward the window before replying; she
observed the hunted look in his eyes and wondered.
"There isn't much to tell. She lives in Patagonia," he said, somewhat
sullenly. Then he glanced at his watch.
"What! Is she a--a native?" she cried.
"She was born there, but--Good Lord, you don't think she's black?"
"Or even a giantess," she smiled.
"She's white, of course, and she's no bigger than you, Betty. She
isn't as pretty, I'll have to say that. But let's talk about something
else. How am I to catch Agatha? It's imperative. 'Gad, it's life or
death, Betty."
"What do you mean?" she asked, startled.
He swallowed painfully two or three times as he scraped the edge of
the rug with his foot, looking down all the while.
"Well, you see, it's this way. I've married into a rather queer
family. My--my wife's most damnably jealous."
"That isn't very queer, is it?"
"She has a queer way of being jealous, that's all. Somehow she's got
it into her head that there's another woman up here in North America."
"Oh, I begin to see. And, of course, there isn't?"
"Certainly not. I love my wife."
"Good for you, Harry. I didn't think it of you," she said with a smile
which he did not understand.
"Oh, I say, Betty, you are making fun of me."
"On the contrary, I'm just beginning to treat you seriously."
"I suppose I owe some sort of an explanation in connection with my
remark about jealousy. It's due my wife."
"May I ask where she is at present?"
"She's on the range in Patagonia. I--I couldn't bring her here, you
know. Betty, I want you to help me with Agatha. She's got that ruby
and I simply have to get it back again. I'll tell you all about--about
my marriage. Perhaps you'll understand. You see, I meant to be true to
Agatha. But it was so cursed lonesome down there--worse than Siberia
or mid-ocean. We were surveying near the west coast--rotten country--
and I met her at her father's place. You see, they raise cattle and
all that sort of thing there. Her old man--I should say Mr. Grimes--is
the cattle king of Patagonia. He's worth a couple of millions easy.
Well, to make a long story short, we all fell in love with Pansy--the
whole engineering corps--and I won out. She's the only child and she's
motherless. The old man idolises her. She's fairly good-looking and--
well, she's being educated by private tutors from Buenos Aires. I'm
not a cad to tell you. She's pure gold in spite of her environment."
"No doubt, if she's surrounded by millions."
"Don't be sarcastic. Some day she'll come in for the old man's money.
She'll be educated by that time and as good as anybody. Then we'll
come back to the States and she'll--well, you'll see. The only trouble
is that she thinks there's a woman up here that I loved before I loved
her. One day, shortly after we were married, she found a photograph of
Agatha which I'd always carried around in my trunk. It was the picture
in which she wore the Green ruby. Don't you remember it? "Well, you
can't imagine how she carried on. She acted like a sav--but I won't
say it. She has had no advantages--yet, and she's a bit untrained in
the ways of the world. Of course, she hated Agatha's face because it
was beautiful. She complained to the old man. The worst of it all is
that I had already shown her a picture of the ruby, taken from that
eastern magazine, and she recognised it as the one on Agatha's neck.
"Well, you should have heard the old--my father-in-law! Phew!"
"What did he say?" asked Betty, pitying him.
"I can't repeat it. He went on at a fearful rate about fellows of my
stripe having wives in other parts of the world, and he was in a
condition to commit murder before he got through. It all ended with a
monstrous demand from my wife. She commanded me to produce the
pendant. By George, Betty, I was in a frightful mess!
"I could only say it was in New Orleans. The old man looked holes
through me and said he'd give me four months in which to produce it.
Anything that Pansy demanded he'd see that she got it, if he had to
shoot his way to it. You ought to see him! And, incidentally, she can
shoot like Buffalo Bill herself. She shot a gaucho through the neck
half a mile away."
"A gaucho?"
"Yes--a cowherder. Hang it, everybody carries a gun down there. Now
you know why I'm here. The old man said if I didn't bring that ruby to
my wife in a given time he'd find me and shoot me full of holes. She
loves me, but she said she'd do the same thing. I've just got to have
that ruby. They mean it."
"You poor boy," said Betty scornfully. "And I was feeling so sorry for
you because of Agatha."
"It's no joke, Betty. These big blacks are my servants for
appearance's sake only. They are in reality my keepers. The old man
sent them along to see that I did come back, one way or another.
They'd just as soon throttle me as eat."
"It would be easy to lose them up here, I should say."
"Well, I reckon you don't know a Patagonian. They can scent like a
bloodhound and they never give up. Those fellows are here to attend to
me, and they'll do it, never fear. Either one of them could thrash
half the police in New Orleans. They are terrible! There's no escape
from them. I'd thought of something desperate but--but Grimes himself
is to be reckoned with. Sometimes I--I almost wish I hadn't won out."
"But think of the millions."
"The only thing I can think of, Betty, is that miserable ruby. I've
got to recover it and sail for South America inside of ten days. And
she's in California! Did you ever hear of such luck?"
Betty Carrithers walked over and looked from the window. The giant
black was still under the street lamp and she could not repress a
shudder as she glanced from time to time to the man on the couch. A
feeling of pity arose in her breast. Harry Green was unworthy, after
all. He was not what he had seemed to be to her in those days of her
teens. He was no longer an idol; her worshipful hours were ended.
Instead, he was a weak, cringing being in the guise of a strong
attractive man; he had been even more false than Agatha, and he had
not the excuse of love to offer in extenuation. Pity and loathing
fought for supremacy. Something was shattered, and she felt lonely yet
relieved. Strangely, she seemed content in the discovery.
He was leaning forward, staring blankly at the rug, when she turned to
resume her seat. A haggard face was raised to hers and his hand
trembled as he jerked out his watch for the fourth time since entering
the room.
"I'm a bit nervous," said he. "Time flies."
"Do you remember the fairy princesses of your childhood books?" she
asked suddenly. "What would you say if one should quickly appear in
real life?"
"What do you mean?"
"Outside stands the terrible ogre, ready to eat you up. Permit me to
appear before you as the fairy princess. I can save you from death. My
only regret is that I can not provide you with an enchanted tapestry,
to waft you back to your lady love in the beautiful land of Patagonia.
Here, behold! I restore to you the wonderful ruby!"
She unclasped the chain and dropped the great jewel into his shaking
hand. He turned deathly white and then leaped up with a shout of
incredulous joy. A hundred questions flew to his lips, faster than she
could answer. She allowed him to babble on disjointedly for some time.
"Isn't it sufficient that I restore it to you? Why ask questions? It
was my commission to do this thing. I'll confess it hasn't happened
just as I anticipated, but what of that? Doubtless you recall this
ring also. I think it signified an engagement. Take it. There may come
a day when it will be ornamental as well as useful to your wife." He
accepted the solitaire which she drew from her finger. His face was a
study.
"Betty," he said, puzzled and helpless, "it--it isn't possible that it
was you instead of Agatha that I gave these things to? I had typhoid
fever down there. There are a lot of things I don't remember since
then. It wasn't you, of course."
She laughed in his perplexed face--a good-humoured, buoyant laugh.
"If you can't remember, Harry, I shan't enlighten you. You have the
ruby, isn't that enough?"
Ten minutes later he said good-bye to her and sallied forth into the
night. She stood in the window and watched the huge sentinel stride
off behind him like a gaunt shadow which could not be shaken off. That
figure and another like it were to cling to his heels until he came to
his journey's end. She smiled and shook her head pityingly as Harry
Green passed out of her life at the corner below.
In her own room shortly afterward she took an old photograph from a
drawer, looked at it a moment with a smile on her lips, and then tore
it into many pieces.
"The strangest part of it is that I don't seem to mind," she said to
herself, and that night she slept peacefully.
THE GLOAMING GHOSTS
PART I
Gloaming had been the home of the Gloames for two centuries at least.
Late in the seventeenth century one of the forebears acquired the
picturesque acres in Virginia and they have not been without a Gloame
as master since that time. At the time when the incidents to be
related in this story transpired, Colonel Cassady Gloame was the owner
of the famous old estate and he was lord of the countryside. The power
of the ancient Gloames was not confined to the rural parts of that
vast district in southern Virginia; it was dominant in the county
seats for miles around. But that is neither here nor there. The reader
knows the traditional influence of every old Virginia family. It is
like the royal household of an eastern monarchy. It leads, dominates,
and sets the pace for all its little universe. No one cares to learn
that the Gloames were the first family of them all; it does not matter
especially that old Sir Henry settled there nearly a hundred years
before the Revolution; it is simple history that some of the Gloames
who followed after him fought like tigers for the country in one war
and just as hard against it in another. Let it be understood that
Gloaming was two centuries old and that there was no fairer, prouder
name in all Virginia than that which had been handed down to Colonel
Cassady Gloame, the last of the race.
The rambling old house that faced the river was known from one end of
the state to the other, not only for its age, but for its hospitality.
The Gloames, whether wild or sedate, had always been famous for the
warmth of their hearts. The blood was blue and the hearts were true,
is what the world said of the Gloames. The years had made but little
change in the seat of the Gloames. The mansion, except for the repairs
that time demanded, was virtually the same as in the days of old Sir
Henry. Nine generations of Gloames had begun life in the picturesque
old house and it had been the pride of each. It had borne good
Americans and blue Virginians. The architecture, like its children,
seemed perennial. Time made few inroads upon the character of its
lines. Its furnishings and its treasures were almost as antique.
Decrepit age alone was responsible for the retirement of historic bits
of furniture. The plate was as old as the hills, the service as
venerable. Gloaming looked to be the great-great-grand-parent of every
other habitation in the valley.
Colonel Cassady Gloame was the last of the long and illustrious race.
He was going to the grave childless; the name would end with him.
True, he would doubtless leave a widow, but what is a widow when one
figures on the perpetuation of a name? The Colonel was far past sixty,
his wife barely twenty-five. He loved her devotedly and it is only
just to say that she esteemed him more highly than any other man in
all the world. But there would be no children.
Mrs. Gloame, beautiful, cultured, gay as a butterfly, was the daughter
of Judge Garrison of New York. She had been married for five years and
she was not yet tired of the yoke. Her youth was cheerfully, loyally
given over to the task of making age a joy instead of a burden to this
gallant old Virginian. She was a veritable queen in this little
Virginia kingdom. Though she was from the North, they loved her in the
South; they loved her for the same reason that inspired old Colonel
Gloame to give his heart and honour to her keeping--because they could
not help it.
The Christmas holidays were always a season of great merriment at
Gloaming. There never had been a Christmas Eve without festivities in
the good old home of the Gloames. Sometimes, in the long array of
years, there may have been sorrow and grief and trouble in the hearts
of the inmates, but all such was dissipated when the Christmas bells
began to ring. Even that terrible tragedy in the winter of 1769 lifted
its shadow long enough to permit the usual happiness to shine through
all the last week of the dying year.
There was always a genial house party in holiday times, and Gloaming
rang free with the pleasures of the light-hearted. The Colonel himself
was the merriest of the merry-makers, second only in enthusiasm to the
sunny young wife from the North. The night of December 24, 1897, found
the old mansion crowded with guests, most of whom were spending the
week with the Gloames. There had been dancing and music and games, and
eleven o'clock brought fatigue for even the liveliest of the guests.
It was then that pretty Louise Kelly, of the Major Kellys of Richmond,
peremptorily commanded the Colonel to tell the oft-told tale of the
Gloaming Ghosts.
"Come to order," she cried to the guests in the double parlours.
"Colonel Gloame is going to tell us about those dear old ghosts."
"Now, my dear Louise, I've told that story times without number to
every soul in this house," remonstrated the Colonel. "You, to my
certain knowledge have been an attentive listener for one hundred and
nine times. Even though it brings upon my head the weight of your
wrath, I must positively decline to--"
"You have nothing to say about it, Colonel Gloame," declared Miss
Kelly definitely. "The first thing required of a soldier is duty. It
is your duty to obey when commanded by the officer of the night. In
the first place, you've not told the story to every one here.
Lieutenant King has just confessed that he never has heard of the
Gloaming Ghosts and, furthermore, he laughed when I told him that you
boasted of real, live ghosts more than a hundred years old."
"Oh, we are very proud of our ghosts, Lieutenant King," cried Mrs.
Gloame.
"I imagined that people lived in some terror of ghosts," ventured
King, a young West Pointer.
"You couldn't drag the Colonel into the south wing up-stairs with a
whole regiment of cavalry horses," said old Mr. Gordon, the Colonel's
best friend.
"Tush," remonstrated the Colonel.
"There's a real ghost, a white lady who walks on air, who spends her
time in the room whose windows look out over the low lands along the
river," piped up little Miss Gordon, a grand-daughter in very short
dresses.
"How romantic," laughed the Lieutenant.
The Colonel, despite his customary remonstrances, would not have
missed telling the story for worlds. He liked to be coaxed. He was in
his element when the score or more of eager guests, old and young,
crowded into the room about him and implored him to go on with the
tale.
"It's a mighty threadbare sort of a ghost we have here, my dear
Lieutenant," he admitted at last, and there was a sigh of contentment
from the lips of many. They knew the story would be forthcoming. "Poor
old thing, I've told about her so often I'm afraid she'll refuse to
come and visit us any more."
At this juncture, young Mr. Gates Garrison strolled leisurely into the
room, coming from the dining-room where he had lingered with the
apples and cider and doughnuts. He was a tall, fair young fellow of
twenty-four, a year younger than his sister, the pretty Mrs. Gloame,
and a senior in Columbia College. The Colonel stood with his back to
the blazing grate, confronting the crowd of eager listeners, who had
dragged chairs and settees and cushions from all parts of the house to
prepare the auditorium.
"Come here, Gates, and hear the ghost story," cried his sister, making
room between herself and Miss Kelly.
"Same old story?" inquired the law student, stifling a yawn.
"Of course; come and sit between us."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of ghosts," replied Gates indifferently.
Miss Kelly looked daggers through her tender blue eyes.
"I wonder what that boy has on his mind?" murmured Mrs. Gloame
anxiously.
"Nothing," responded Miss Kelly, sweetly. But the Colonel was
beginning.
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