The Ghost Breaker: A Novel Based Upon the Play Read online

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  "_Warren--don't call me Highness!... my name is Maria_"]

  THE GHOST BREAKER

  A NOVEL BASED UPON THE PLAY

  By

  CHARLES GODDARD

  AND

  PAUL DICKEY

  HEARST'S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANYNEW YORK 1915

  Copyright, 1915, by

  HEARST'S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO., INC.

  _All rights reserved, including that of translation into the foreignlanguages, including the Scandinavian_

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. JARVIS OF KENTUCKY 1

  II. THE BLIND PURSUIT 18

  III. IN THE ROYAL SUITE 35

  IV. AN OATH OF ALLEGIANCE 47

  V. EXIT JARVIS, LAUGHING 59

  VI. OVER THE SEA AND FAR AWAY 74

  VII. THE ROMANCE OF THE CASTLE 87

  VIII. THE NEW PROFESSION 105

  IX. CHECKMATE THE FIRST 125

  X. A WAGER WITH THE DUKE 140

  XI. WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN 161

  XII. WELCOME TO SEGURO! 181

  XIII. "GENTLEMEN, A MAN!" 198

  XIV. MORE OBSTACLES 217

  XV. MYSTERIOUS INFLUENCES 239

  XVI. AS IN DAYS OF OLD 250

  XVII. CONCLUSION 267

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  "Warren--don't call me Highness!... my name is Maria" _Frontispiece_

  FACING PAGE

  It was Jarvis of Kentucky 38

  --"and to faithfully fight in my lady's cause" 56

  "Just a minute. How did that lock get broken?" 70

  "I am known from Bowling Green to the Golden Gate, as Warren the Ghost Breaker" 106

  "Gentlemen--a man" 212

  "So, you are the brave American, are you?" 214

  "Ah, senor, in all my experience I have never seen such an adventurous palm...." 222

  "Ah, Mr. Warren, looking for an honest man, like old Socrates?" 232

  Rusty caught him by the arm 262

  His next weapon was a chair 270

  "Don't shoot!" 278

  I

  JARVIS OF KENTUCKY

  Down the winding roadway came the thunder of hoofbeats!

  As the two horsemen approached through the deepening twilight a sobbingnegro woman peered timidly through the doorway of the old Southernmanor house. There was a call from within.

  "Put out this light, Mandy," were the words of the weak voice. "Hurry,Mandy. Maybe it's the Marcums coming back."

  "Yas, Cunnel; yassir." She obediently retreated, and the dim lightwithin was suddenly extinguished.

  The two riders turned in from the thoroughfare, speeding past thehalf-swung gate up the drive toward the broad portico. The foremostslid from his saddle before his horse had come to a stop.

  "Hold her, Rusty!" And then he leaped up the steps, to dash into thedark entry.

  "Who is it? Stop!"

  There was no weakness of spirit in the tremulous tones from the roomwithin.

  "Dad! dad! I've come!"

  "Oh, my boy! You're just in time," and the speech ended in a sigh whichsent a thrill of horror through the newcomer. "Just ... in ... time!"

  "Lawd be praised, Marse Warren," sobbed the negress, as she sank to herknees before the table, where she fumbled with the lamp.

  "Light the lamp ... why, it's Mandy!" and the young man ran a nervoushand across his forehead as the wick caught the flame. "Dad! What's thetrouble? Where's mother? Why were the lights all out?"

  In the corner of the room, on an antique "settle," was stretched theform of old Colonel Jarvis of Meadow Green.

  "It's the end, Warren. I stood off Yankee charges and artillery, but asneaking hound from the hills has put the finish on it all--and sent itin a bullet through my back, without giving me the chance to fightback, as the Yanks did."

  Warren Jarvis dropped to his knees beside his father. His pleasant,youthful face was drawn to mummy-like wanness. His eyes glowed withcurious intensity, as they devoured the beloved features of the oldman. The rays from the oil lamp cast a melancholy glow over thefurniture of a bygone society, in this characteristic parlor of an oldSouthern mansion. But their effect upon the ghastly features of ColonelHenderson Jarvis presaged only too well the tragedy which was to come.

  The aged man raised a weak arm, to encircle the shoulders of his son.His eyes closed in exhaustion, and for a full moment the lips movedwithout the emanation of a word.

  Warren Jarvis turned toward the panic-stricken Mandy.

  "Quick! What is the trouble? Where is mother? Speak up, Mandy.... I'vecome all the way from New York in answer to father's telegram. What'sthe trouble?"

  Mandy became more disconsolate, and, with the hysterical sorrow of aSouthern family servant, the more incapable of expression.

  "Warren ... Warren, my boy!" were the words which at last came from thewhite lips of his father. "I am going to leave you soon.... I kept upuntil you arrived, for I must give the honor of the family into yourkeeping, before it is all over.... Are you prepared to take it up whereI stand now?"

  The young man nodded. He beckoned to the servant woman, with aneloquent pantomimic command, to bring his sire a drink. The girlsilently obeyed, leaving the room for the moment.

  "Father, I've come back from the East to do anything, everything. Tellme--what happened, and where is mother? I am frantic!" His shouldersshook as though from a chill. His face was close to his father's, asthe colonel's gray eyes opened upon him.

  "Your mother passed away last night--it was too much for her poor weak,aching heart, Warren," and his voice sank again to a whisper, as headded, "Your first duty will be to lay us away together, and then toavenge this double murder."

  Warren Jarvis lost his worldly-wise self-control, acquired through theadventurous years since he had journeyed forth from the quaint oldKentucky home. A sob broke from his lips, and his face sank on the armof the old aristocrat,--he was instinctively boyish in his grief,returning once more to the shelter of that paternal shoulder.

  Mandy had returned with a glass of stimulant, which she held to thecolonel's lips. The draught refreshed him immensely. He gently pattedthe shoulders of his son, and continued with firmer tones:

  "There, Warren boy, pull yourself together. The doctor will be along inhis buggy soon. He dressed my wound, two days ago, and he sat with yourdear mother ever since she received the shock of the shooting. I sentthe Marlowe girls back to their house just an hour ago to rest, becausethey were worn out.... Ever
yone has been good and tried to help, but itis no use.... Leave us alone, Mandy."

  The woman stepped unsteadily through the door, her hands covering hertwitching face. There she bumped into a fat, coal-black darky, he whohad accompanied the son on the long ride. She drew him into the shelterof the corridor, leaving father and son together for the finalconfidences.

  "But, father, it was all so sudden? Are you comfortable now? Where isyour wound?"

  Warren rose more upright on his knees. He now observed the swathingsabout the elder's breast, beneath the crumpled soft shirt. He caressedthe shattered frame with affectionate simplicity.

  "I must speak quickly, Warren, for although I suffer no more pain, Dr.Grayson told me the truth--my strength is going every hour. Your motherhad been in poor health, and I had ridden down to the village to seethe doctor, for a tonic for her. On the way out again, I passedHenley's poolroom, where the cheap gamblers are still running theircrooked betting on the Louisville and Lexington races. Jim Marcumcrossed from the front of the saloon, and I had to rein in quickly tokeep from running him down. He looked up at me, with his hand on hiship. 'Trying the same old trick on me that you did with my brother Ed?'he called. I had nothing to say to Jim Marcum--you know, Warren, thatold feud was over these thirty years, as far as I was concerned. Ilooked him in the eye, and he dropped his gaze, like a wolf whichdaren't stare back at you. Then I rode on. As I turned the corner, pastthe little church, I heard a shot and tumbled forward in the saddle."

  Warren's hands clenched until the nails cut his palms.

  "The cowardly hound!" he muttered.

  "Just as my father was shot by Marcum's father, right after the War--inthe back, Warren. The horse knew enough to stop, and I rolled down tothe ground. Dr. Grayson ran down the street, carried me into the churchvestibule, and dressed my back. They wanted to keep me in the parson'shouse--but I told them to bring me on home, for I wanted to be nearyour mother. It was a mistake ... a grave mistake. For when theybrought me back in the doctor's buggy and called her to the portico,she fainted, and never regained consciousness. That's all, Warren. Theend came last night for her--to-night I will join her."

  He opened his eyes with ghastly intensity of expression. Then, to thesurprise of the younger man, he half raised himself on his elbow.

  "Warren!" and the tones were almost shrill, "you must _get_ Jim Marcumif it's the last act of your life. He broke the feud law when he killeda woman, as he did with the death of your mother. My dying command isthat you end this old fight between our families: he is the last of hisline, and you the last of yours. The feud began nearly eighty yearsago. It is a different world then in that old Kentucky. I have tried tolive upright, God-fearing, and had supposed that time would efface theold hatred. At least I ignored it. But Jim Marcum never forgot thatyour Uncle Warren had killed his father in that stand-up battle in theold tobacco warehouse; it is the curse of the Blue Grass State, thisfeud law. But you must carry out the vengeance, Warren. When you scotchthat snake, there will be no more."

  "Didn't they try to get Marcum, dad?" asked Warren slowly, trying torealize it all.

  "No. He disappeared--helped by some of those touts and gamblers. Theysay he has gone to the mountains. But you follow him, after ... afterI...." He sank back again, groaning. "God bless you, boy. When you endthis bitter debt, you will have done everything in the world I everwanted,--what a fine son you have been through all the years!"

  Warren rose to his feet, and with hands clasped tensely behind himwalked to the window. He heard a sound of buggy wheels and the trottingof a horse; it neared the house.

  "It must be the doctor, dad. I'm glad he is here again." He turnedabout to look at the clear-cut face. He was horror-stricken: the eyeswere closed, the hand had dropped limply, and already the fine firmmouth had opened weakly, with a piteous weakness. He rushed forward,dropping again by the side of the couch.

  A step behind him did not interrupt the soft pleadings of the tearfulvoice.

  "Dad, dad! Won't you speak to me? You _must_ hold out. The doctor hascome. Dad, old daddie mine. Speak! Speak!"

  The eyes opened, but there was no expression in them. The mouth closedconvulsively, and as he leaned close he heard the last message: "Godbless you, boy!... Take ... care ... of ... yourself."

  Warren's face was buried on the bosom as it ceased to breathe. A kindlytouch on his shoulder brought him to a knowledge of the doctor'spresence.

  "It's so good that you arrived in time, Warren," was the soft-voicedcomment. "Your father passed away happy, I know--he had held himself tothis life by a marvelous will-power until you came. Steady yourselfnow."

  The doctor knelt by the couch and, with the manly tenderness of an oldfamily friend, crossed the tired patrician hands above that valiantheart.

  Warren Jarvis answered not. He walked toward the window again. Hepeered out into the great, black, miserable, lonely void stretchingaway toward the southeast. In those distant hills, beyond his visionbut familiar as the landmarks of his boyhood, he knew the cowardlyassassin of his parents was exulting over the cruel success.

  Not a tear came to his relief. His pleasant face hardened to therigidity of a stone image. The sinews of his athletic frame thrilledwith a new emotion--the feud hatred inherited through generations ofKentucky fighters. He would have gladly given his own life for thesublime pleasure of throttling with his bare hands the scoundrel whohad wiped out all that was fine and sweet in his life.

  Behind him the doctor gave whispered orders to Mandy and two tearfulwomen neighbors who had quietly slipped into the house. Warren did notnotice them in his abstraction; they respected his suffering by leavingthe room without a greeting.

  As he stood there the soft spring breeze fluttered the curtains of thebroad parlor windows, bearing in the fragrance of the vines on theportico outside. It was all so silent and different from the brilliantsocial life he had left behind in New York. Warren's whole life seemedto flit past him, as he stood there now, with the impersonality of akaleidoscope.

  He remembered the early years on this beautiful Blue Grass estate ofhis father's ... the romantic boyhood of the South, enlivened byhorseback rides, hunting trips, boating, fishing--those elementalcountry sports so sadly lacking in the life of the city youth, ... thefaithful, admiring negro servants to whom young "Marse Warren" had beena veritable Sir Galahad--the flower of the neighborhood chivalry.Indeed, in this portion of the States still glows the tradition of theancient knighthood: the gallantry to women, the reverence for familyhonor, the bravery in men, the loyalty to neighborhood, commonwealth,and nation,--in verity, the spirit of ideal citizenship.

  Warren saw once more the gentle face of his mother, as she worked inher old-fashioned garden of rosemary, hollyhocks, larkspur, iris, rue,... heard the soft dialect of quaint old ladies gossiping on the broad,shaded portico ... listened again to the laughter of neighboringjudges, colonels, majors--his father's old cronies--as theygood-naturedly wrangled and bantered over the battles of the War, themerits of their respective thoroughbreds, or the correct manner inwhich to concoct that nectarian classic of the Southland, the mintjulep!

  To Warren's retrospection came the vision of his departure for thefamous college in the East, the joyful vacation times, and finally hisdecision to seek adventure far, far to the south--in Brazil, Guatemala,Panama, where he had developed his own executive caliber as a commanderof men, in the great construction work on the Big Ditch.... Then camethe sorrowful day when he had returned from his travels, to behold theravages of time on his mother's aging face and his father's stoopingshoulders. Even the servants were changed, and it had been to keep acloser bond with the dear old estate that he had taken faithful RustySnow as his manservant when he went on to New York again to pursue hisprofession.

  Warren's mind burrowed in the memories of the feudism of thecountryside, the sole blot on its simple yet aristocratic modes. Heremembered the fragmentary stories of the ancient Marcum-Jarvis quarrel... this had cost the lives of men for three generations, in
an equityof vengeful settlement based strictly on the Mosaic law of "an eye foran eye--a tooth for a tooth." The Marcum family fortunes had beendissipated, those of the Jarvis clan ascending--yet still the feudcontinued, until the men of both families had paid for the bitternesswith their lives. Now his father had been the last Jarvis to go--aftera lull of many years.

  The sweetness of the old memories was swept by the maelstrom of hatewhich surged through his heart. As a boy he hardly knew the meaning ofthe word--the grim looks of the kinsmen, the tear-stained face of hismother, had been little explanation--little had been said. But _now_the iron of vengeance had entered his soul; and he turned aboutsuddenly, facing the body of the colonel.

  Advancing toward the settle, he knelt by the body, even as a knight ofold, to take his vows. He raised his clenched right hand.

  "Father! I swear by my love for you and my mother that I will wipe outthe Marcums, cost what it may. I will devote my life to settling thescore Jim Marcum has made. I swear it to you, father!"

  It seemed to him as though a faint smile of approbation flitted acrossthe face despite the seal of the Great Calm. Even as he knelt there,his quick brain began to lay the plans--and then ... then he rememberedwhat he must see upstairs! His brief moments in the old home had beenso absorbed by the dying words of his sire, by the engulfing flame ofhate which had burned away all the sweetness of the environment, thathe had selfishly forgotten everything but his own grief.

  He staggered to his feet and walked slowly from the room.

  Outside the door, on an old-fashioned chair in the long corridorrunning from portico to kitchen, he found faithful Rusty, sobbing withhis face in his hands.

  "Oh, Marse Warren! Oh, Marse Warren!"

  "Rusty, call Mandy," was the simple answer.

  Rusty hastened to obey. The woman was assisting the two neighbors insome preparations on the floor above. She came down the stairstremulously, catching his outstretched hand and kissing it impetuously.

  "Where is _she_, Mandy?" he asked, in a stifled voice.

  Mandy spoke not, but ascended the stairway, as Warren followed withbowed head. Each broad step seemed steeper than the one below. At lasthe raised his eyes before the doorway of his parents' bedroom. Mandystepped aside.

  Within, on a little mahogany sewing-table, burned a dozen candles inhis great-grandmother's Colonial candelabra. He turned unsteadily tothe right, and saw her!

  "O mother, mother!..."

  That was all.