IN THE GLOW OF THE RUBIES
Evening had come again.
In fact, it was almost bedtime. Frances and I sat before the hearth in
the library, looking silently into the red heart of the dying embers of
fragrant pine cones. For in the heights of the Pocantico Hills it often
is chilly on summer nights.
My darling sat on a low _fauteuil_, her chin resting upon her hand, her
beautiful eyes fixed dreamily, inscrutably, upon the fading coals. In
her lap lay the spread of the crimson pajamas.
She was thinking--thinking--I wondered what! And I was thinking how
jolly rum it all was; that Francis wasn't Frances, that the professor
wasn't Billings, Colonel Francis Kirkland wasn't Foxy Grandpa and wasn't
the frump's father after all; and that the frump, herself--bless her,
her name was Elizabeth--wasn't Frances, and wasn't a frump at all, but
just a jolly, nice, homely old dear, you know. And I was trying to catch
and hold some of the deuced queer things the professor had discoursed
upon about ancient Oriental what's-its-name, and astral bodies,
obsession, psychical research and all that sort of thing. Somehow, dash
it, it had all seemed devilish unreasonable and improbable to
_me_--couldn't get hold of it, you know; but as everybody else had said
"Ah-h-h!" and had wagged their heads as though they understood, I just
said: "Dash it, of course, you know!" and recrossed my legs and took a
fresher grip on my monocle.
The most devilish hard thing to get hold of had been that Frances had
never sat on the arm of my Morris chair, had never told me she liked me
better than any man she had ever met, and had never called me "Dicky" at
any time or anywhere. I wondered if she ever would, and how the deuce
fellows went about it when they proposed to the girl they madly loved. I
was devilish put out, you know, that I had never tried it so I _could_
know.
From across the hall droned the voices from the smoking-room--Colonel
Kirkland and the judge debating something about treaty ports and the
Manchurian railway. Through the French windows from the open loggia came
the eager, pitched tones of the professor and the frump--no, Elizabeth,
I mean--discussing Aldeberan and Betelguese, dead suns, star clusters
and the nebular hypothesis.
Within the room Billings had snapped out the lights, to bring out the
blazing fire of his treasured ruby, and from the tray in the dark corner
where he was closing it in his collection vault, it gleamed like the end
of a bright cigar. The other four were absently clutched in my darling's
hand and the crimson shine gleamed bravely through her finger bars.
"Carbuncles--ancient carbuncles," the professor had called them, "that
the Chinese believed their dragons carried in their mouths, in their
black caves in days of old, to furnish light whereby they could see to
devour their victims." And _that_ I believed, for I could see some
practical sense about it!
"What _I_ should like to know," said the dear, precious cub, hugging his
knee by the mantel, "is where _I_ come in!"
"You don't come in," said Billings, lifting him playfully by the ear;
"you come _out_!" And out they went.
And my dear girl and I were like what's-his-name's picture--alone at
last, you know. She stirred softly and her sigh came like the wind
through the trees at night.
"I suppose we will have to burn them," she said dolefully; "the
professor says it is the only thing to do."
"Jolly shame, I say!" I murmured indignantly.
"It seems a crime," she said softly, and there was a little choke in her
voice. She slipped to the soft-fibered rug before the fire. I gently
brought my chair closer to her.
[Illustration]
For a moment she pressed her cheek against the crimson mass, then
kneeling forward, laid it gently on the glowing coals. There was a
flash, a lightning blaze of red that almost blinded us, and then for a
brief space a field of shining ash. Against this the tiny serpent frogs
writhed and twisted and turned at last to leaden gray. Over the spread
of all, swept wave after wave of golden, crimsoned pictures--temples and
pagodas--dragons that licked fiery tongues at us--strange faces that
came and went, leering hideously into our own.
And then of a sudden it was all faded--gone! The breeze from the open
window stirred the ashes to the side. She dropped back with a deep sigh.
"They're gone," she breathed mournfully.
"Never mind," I said; "you've these left." And daringly I laid my hand
upon the one that clasped the rubies. And I thrilled as it lay still
beneath my own.
"Good-by, you dear old, wicked, enchanted pajamas," she said. "I don't
care--I just love you, because--" She paused.
"Because they brought us together?" By Jove, I didn't know I had said
it, till it came out!
An instant, and then I caught it--just a little whisper, you know:
"Yes--Dicky!"
By Jove! And then, dash it, my monocle dropped! But I let it go.
Presently she looked at the glowing rubies in her hand.
"They are from India, you know, Dicky--from Mandalay, the professor
said." And she murmured: "'On the road to Mandalay, where the old
flotilla lay'--don't you remember? I've been there, Dicky."
"By Jove!" I said. "Have you, though? Is it jolly?"
"The poet seemed to think so--" She laughed. "Do you know Kipling,
Dicky?" I tried to think, but dashed if I could remember.
I wondered if it would be a good place to take a trip to!
I hitched closer. "What does--er--this poet chap say about it? What's it
like, you know?"
She laughed. "I'm afraid it's wicked, Dicky, a good deal like the
haunted pajamas." She leaned forward, chin upon her hand again, looking
into the fading coals. "I'll tell you what he says."
Then her voice went on:
"Ship me somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst."
"By Jove!" I said, interested.
"For the temple bells are callin', and it's there that I would be--
By the old Moulmein pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea."
I brought my hand down on my knee.
"Oh, I say, you know--er--Frances," I exclaimed with enthusiasm, "we'll
go there for our honeymoon, by Jove! Shall we--eh?"
And then the jolly rubies rolled unheeded to the floor. And nothing
stirred but the ashes of the haunted pajamas!
And then--Oh, but Frances says that's _all_!
THE END
TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST
_A CERTAIN RICH MAN._ By William Allen White.
A vivid, startling portrayal of one man's financial greed, its
wide-spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the
three women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining
American novel.
_IN OUR TOWN._ By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and
W. Glackens.
Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the
town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and
many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.
_NATHAN BURKE._ By Mary S. Watts.
The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence.
Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.
_THE HIGH HAND._ By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grete.
A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the
one side, and a "kid glove" politician on the other. A pretty girl,
interested in both men, is the chief figure.
_THE BACKWOODSMEN._ By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.
Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the
wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.
_YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS._ By Herbert Quick.
A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a
trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at
night. Brilliantly clever and original.
_THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY._ By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker.
Illustrated by Hanson Booth.
A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a
romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped
in a big mystery.
_THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS._ By Meredith Nicholson. Illustrated by
C. Coles Phillips and Reginald Birch.
Seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful girl, and
she subjects them to a test that is full of mystery, magic and sheer
amusement.
_THE MAGNET._ By Henry C. Rowland. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The story of a remarkable courtship involving three pretty girls on a
yacht, a poet-lover in pursuit, and a mix-up in the names of the girls.
_THE TURN OF THE ROAD._ By Eugenia Brooks Frothingham.
A beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success instead of
love, but comes to a place in life where the call of the heart is
stronger than worldly success.
_SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY._ By Margaret Morse. Illustrated by Harold M.
Brett.
A young girl whose affections have been blighted is presented with a
Scotch Collie to divert her mind, and the roving adventures of her pet
lead the young mistress into another romance.
_SHEILA VEDDER._ By Amelia E. Barr. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.
A very beautiful romance of the Shetland Islands, with a handsome,
strong willed hero and a lovely girl of Gaelic blood as heroine. A
sequel to "Jan Vedder's Wife."
_JOHN WARD, PREACHER._ By Margaret Deland.
The first big success of this much loved American novelist. It is a
powerful portrayal of a young clergyman's attempt to win his beautiful
wife to his own narrow creed.
_THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT._ By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by
Maynard Dixon.
One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the
most accurate and picturesque of the stampede of gold seekers to the
Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Haunted Pajamas, by Francis Perry Elliott