Chambers Robert William
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XXV

Minute after minute throbbed in silence, timed by the loud rhythm of the roaring wheels. He did not dare lift his head to look at her, though her stillness scared him. Awful and grotesque thoughts assailed him. He wondered whether she had survived the blow – and like an assassin he dared not look to see what he had done, but crouched there, overwhelmed with misery such as he never dreamed that a human heart could endure.

A century seemed to have passed before, far ahead, the locomotive whistled warningly for the Ormond station.

He understood what it meant, and clutched his temples, striving to gather courage sufficient to lift his head and face her blazing contempt – or her insensible and inanimate but beautiful young form lying in a merciful faint on the floor of the baggage car.

And at last he lifted his head.

She had risen and was standing by the locked side doors, touching her eye-lashes with her handkerchief.

When he rose, the train was slowing down. Presently the baggage master came in, yawning; the side doors were unbolted and flung back as the car glided along a high, wooden platform.

They were standing side by side now; she did not look at him, but when the car stopped she laid her hand lightly on his arm.

Trembling in every fibre, he drew the little, gloved hand through his arm and aided her to descend.

"Are you unhappy?" he whispered tremulously.

"No… What are we to do?"

"Am I to say?"

"Yes," she said faintly.

"Shall I register as your brother?"

She blushed and looked at him in a lovely and distressed way.

"What are we to do?" she faltered.

They entered the main hall of the great hotel at that moment, and she turned to look around her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clutching his arm. "Do you see that man? Do you see him?"

"Which man – dearest? – "

"That one over there! That is the clergyman I saw in the crystal. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Is it going to come true right away?"

"I think it is," he said. "Are you afraid?"

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, lifted her eyes to his:

"N-no," she said.

Ten minutes later it was being done around the corner of the great veranda, where nobody was. The moon glimmered on the Halifax; the palmettos sighed in the chilly sea-wind; the still, night air was scented with orange bloom and the odour of the sea.

He wore his overcoat, and he used the plain, gold band which had decorated his little finger. The clergyman was brief and businesslike; the two clerks made dignified witnesses.

When it was done, and they were left alone, standing on the moonlit veranda, he said:

"Shall we send a present to the Princess Zimbamzim?"

"Yes… A beautiful one."

He drew her to him; she laid both hands on his shoulders. When he kissed her, her face was cold and white as marble.

"Are you afraid?" he whispered.

The marble flushed pink.

"No," she said.

"That," said Stafford, "was certainly quick action. Ten minutes is a pretty short time for Fate to begin business."

"Fate," remarked Duane, "once got busy with me inside of ten seconds." He looked at Athalie.

"Ut solent poetae," she rejoined, calmly.

I said: "Verba placent et vox, et quod corrumpere non est; Quoque minor spes est, hoc magis ille cupit."

In a low voice Duane replied to me, looking at her: "Vera incessu patuit Dea."

Slowly the girl blushed, lowering her dark eyes to the green jade god resting in the rosy palm of her left hand.

"Physician, cure thyself," muttered Stafford, slowly twisting a cigarette to shreds in his nervous hands.

I rose, walked over to the small marble fountain and looked down at the sleeping goldfish. Here and there from the dusky magnificence of their colour a single scale glittered like a living spark under water.

"Are you preaching to them?" asked Athalie, raising her eyes from the green god in her palm.

"No matter where a man turns his eyes," said I, "they may not long remain undisturbed by the vision of gold. I was not preaching, Athalie; I was reflecting upon my poverty."

"It is an incurable ailment," said somebody; "the millionaire knows it; the gods themselves suffered from it. From the bleaching carcass of the peon to the mausoleum of the emperor, the world's highway winds through its victims' graves."

"Athalie," said I, "is it possible for you to look into your crystal and discover hidden treasure?"

"Not for my own benefit."

"For others?"

"I have done it."

"Could you locate a few millions for us?" inquired the novelist.

"Yes, widely distributed among you. Your right hand is heavy as gold; your brain jingles with it."

"I do not write for money," he said bluntly.

"That is why," she said, smiling and placing a sweetmeat between her lips.

I had the privilege of lighting a match for her.

XXVI

When the tip of her cigarette glowed rosy in the pearl-tinted gloom, the shadowy circle at her feet drew a little nearer.

"This is the story of Valdez," she said. "Listen attentively, you who hunger!"

On the first day it rained torrents; the light was very dull in the galleries; fashion kept away. Only a few monomaniacs braved the weather, left dripping mackintoshes and umbrellas in the coat room, and spent the dull March morning in mousing about among the priceless treasures on view to those who had cards of admission. The sale was to take place three days later. Heikem was the auctioneer.

The collection to be disposed of was the celebrated library of Professor Octavo de Folio – a small one; but it was composed almost exclusively of rarities. A million and a half had been refused by the heirs, who preferred to take chances at auction.

And there were Caxtons, first edition Shakespeares, illuminated manuscripts, volumes printed privately for various kings and queens, bound sketch books containing exquisite aquarelles and chalk drawings by Bargue, Fortuny, Drouais, Boucher, John Downman; there were autographed monographs in manuscript; priceless order books of revolutionary generals, private diaries kept by men and women celebrated and notorious the world over.

But the heirs apparently preferred yachts and automobiles.

The library was displayed in locked glass cases, an attendant seated by each case, armed with a key and discretionary powers.

From where James White sat beside his particular case, he had a view of the next case and of the young girl seated beside it.

She was very pretty. No doubt, being out of a job, like himself, she was glad to take this temporary position. She was so pretty she made his head ache. Or it might have been the ventilation.

It rained furiously; a steady roar on the glass roof overhead filled the long and almost empty gallery of Mr. Heikem, the celebrated auctioneer, with a monotone as dull and incessant as the business voice of that great man.

Here and there a spectacled old gentleman nosed his way from case to case, making at intervals cabalistic pencil marks on the margin of his catalogue – which specimen of compiled literature alone cost five dollars.

It was a very dull day for James White, and also, apparently, for the pretty girl in charge of the adjoining case. Nobody even asked either of them to unlock the cases; and it began to appear to young White that the books and manuscripts confided to his charge were not by any means the chefs-d'oeuvre of the collection.

They were a dingy looking lot of books, anyway. He glanced over the private list furnished him, read the titles, histories and pedigrees of the volumes, stifled a yawn, fidgetted in his chair, stared at the rain-battered glass roof overhead, mused lightly upon his misfortunes, shrugged his broad shoulders, and glanced at the girl across the aisle.

She also was reading her private list. It seemed to bore her.

He looked at her as long as decency permitted, then gazed elsewhere. She was exceedingly pretty in her way, red haired, white skinned; and her eyes seemed to be a very lovely Sevres blue. Except in porcelain he thought he had never seen anything as dainty. He knew perfectly well that he could very easily fall in love with her. Also he knew he'd never have the opportunity.

Duller and duller grew the light; louder roared the March rain. Even monomaniacs no longer came into the galleries, and the half dozen who had arrived left by luncheon time.

When it was White's turn to go out to lunch, he went to Childs' and returned in half an hour. Then the girl across the aisle went out – probably to a similar and sumptuous banquet. She came back very shortly, reseated herself, and glanced around the empty galleries.

There seemed to be absolutely nothing for anybody to do, except to sit there and listen to the rain.

White pondered on his late failure in affairs. Recently out of Yale, and more recently still established in business, he had gone down in the general slump, lacking sufficient capital to tide him over. His settlement with his creditors left him with fifteen hundred dollars. He was now waiting for an opportunity to invest it in an enterprise. He believed in enterprises. Also, he was firmly convinced that Opportunity knocked no more than once in a lifetime, and he was always cocking his ear to catch the first timid rap. It was knocking then but he did not hear it, for it was no louder than the gentle beating of his red-haired neighbour's heart.

But Opportunity is a jolly jade. She knocks every little while – but one must possess good hearing.

Having nothing better to do as he sat there, White drifted into mental speculation – that being the only sort available.

He dreamed of buying a lot in New York for fifteen hundred dollars and selling it a few years later for fifty thousand. He had a well developed imagination; wonderful were the lucky strikes he made in these day dreams; marvellous the financial returns. He was a very Napoleon of finance when he was dozing. Many are.

The girl across the aisle also seemed to be immersed in day dreams. Her Sevres blue eyes had become vague; her listless little hands lay in her lap unstirring. She was pleasant to look at.

After an hour or so it was plain to White that she had had enough of her dreams. She sighed very gently, straightened up in her chair, looked at the rain-swept roof, patted a yawn into modest suppression, and gazed about her with speculative and engaging eyes.

Then, as though driven to desperation, she turned, looked into the glass case beside her for a few minutes, and then, fitting her key to the door, opened it, selected a volume at hazard, and composed herself to read.

For a while White watched her lazily, but presently with more interest, as her features gradually grew more animated and her attention seemed to be concentrated on the book.

As the minutes passed it became plain to White that the girl found the dingy little volume exceedingly interesting. And after a while she appeared to be completely absorbed in it; her blue eyes were rivetted on the pages; her face was flushed, her sensitive lips expressive of the emotion that seemed to be possessing her more and more.

White wondered what this book might be which she found so breathlessly interesting. It was small, dingy, bound in warped covers of old leather, and anything but beautiful. And by and by he caught a glimpse of the title – "The Journal of Pedro Valdez."

The title, somehow, seemed to be familiar to him; he glanced into his own case, and after a few minutes' searching he caught sight of another copy of the same book, dingy, soiled, leather-bound, unlovely.

He looked over his private list until he found it. And this is what he read concerning it:

Valdez, Pedro – Journal of. Translated by Thomas Bangs, of Philadelphia, in 1760. With map. Two copies, much worn and damaged by water. Several pages missing from each book.

Pedro Valdez was a soldier of fortune serving with Cortez in Mexico and with De Soto in Florida. Nothing more is known of him, except that he perished somewhere in the semi-tropical forests of America.

Thomas Bangs, an Englishman, pretended to have discovered and translated the journal kept by Valdez. After the journal had been translated – if, indeed, such a document ever really existed – Bangs pretended that it was accidentally destroyed.

Bangs' translation and map are considered to be works of pure imagination. They were published from manuscript after the death of the author.

Bangs died in St. Augustine of yellow fever, about 1760-61, while preparing for an exploring expedition into the Florida wilderness.

Mildly edified, White glanced again at the girl across the aisle, and was surprised to see how her interest in the volume had altered her features. Tense, breathless, utterly absorbed in the book, she bent over the faded print, leaning close, for the sickly light that filtered through the glass roof scarcely illumined the yellow pages at all.

The curiosity of White was now aroused; he opened the glass case beside him, fished out his copy of the book, opened it, and began to read.

For the first few minutes his interest was anything but deep: he read the well-known pages where Bangs recounts how he discovered the journal of Valdez – and it sounded exceedingly fishy – a rather poorly written fairy-tale done by a man with little invention and less imagination, so worn out, hackneyed and trite were the incidents, so obvious the coincidences.

White shrugged his shoulders and turned from the preface to what purported to be the translation.

Almost immediately it struck him that this part of the book was not written by the same man. Here was fluency, elegance of expression, ease, the simplicity of a soldier who had something to say and but a short time in which to say it. Even the apparent clumsiness of the translation had not deformed the work.

Little by little the young man became intensely interested, then absorbed. And after a while the colour came into his face; he glanced nervously around him; suppressed excitement made his hands unsteady as he unfolded the enclosed map.

From time to time he referred to the map as he read; the rain roared on the glass roof; the light grew dimmer and dimmer.

At five o'clock the galleries closed for the day. And that evening, sitting in his hall-bedroom, White made up his mind that he must buy "The Journal of Valdez" if it took every penny that remained to him.

The next day was fair and cold; fashion graced the Octavo de Folio exhibition; White had no time to re-read any passages or to re-examine the map, because people were continually asking to see and handle the books in his case.

Across the aisle he noticed that his pretty neighbour was similarly occupied. And he was rather glad, because he felt, vaguely, that it was just as well she did not occupy her time in reading "The Journal of Valdez." Girls usually have imagination. The book might stir her up as it had stirred him. And to no purpose.

Also, he was glad that nobody asked to look at the Valdez copy in his own case. He didn't want people to look at it. There were reasons – among others, he wanted to buy it himself. He meant to if fifteen hundred dollars would buy it.

White had not the remotest idea what the book might bring at auction. He dared not inquire whether the volume was a rare one, dreading even to call the attention of his fellow employees to it. A word might arouse their curiosity.

All day long he attended to his duties there, and at five he went home, highly excited, determined to arrive at the galleries next morning in time enough to read the book a little before the first of the public came.

And he did get there very early. The only other employee who had arrived before him was the red-haired girl. She sat by her case reading "The Journal of Valdez." Once she looked up at him with calm, clear, intelligent eyes. He did not see her; he hastily unlocked his case and drew out the coveted book. Then he sat down and began to devour it. And so utterly and instantly was he lost amid those yellow, time-faded pages that he did not even glance across the aisle at his ornamental neighbour. If he had looked he would have noticed that she also was buried in "The Journal of Valdez." And it might have made him a trifle uneasy to see her look from her book to him and from him to the volume he was perusing so excitedly.

It being the last day that the library was to be on view before the sale, fashion and monomania rubbed elbows in the Heikem Galleries, crowding the well known salons morning and afternoon. And all day long White and his neighbour across the aisle were busy taking out books and manuscripts for inspection, so that they had no time for luncheon, and less for Valdez.

And that night they were paid off and dismissed; and the auctioneer and his corps of assistants took charge.

The sale took place the following morning and afternoon. White drew from the bank his fifteen hundred dollars, breakfasted on bread and milk, and went to the galleries more excited than he had ever been before in his long life of twenty-three years. And that is some time.

It was a long shot at Fortune he meant to take – a really desperate chance. One throw would settle it – win or lose. And the idea scared him badly, and he was trembling a little when he took his seat amid the perfumed gowns of fashion and the white whiskers of high finance, and the shabby vestments of monomania.

Once or twice he wondered whether he was crazy. Yet, every throb of his fast-beating heart seemed to summon him to do and dare; and he felt, without even attempting to explain the feeling to himself, that now at last Opportunity was loudly rapping at his door, and that if he did not let her in he would regret it as long as he lived.

As he glanced fearfully about him he caught sight of his pretty neighbour who had held sway across the aisle. So she, too, had come to watch the sale! Probably for the excitement of hearing an auctioneer talk in thousands.

He was a little surprised, nevertheless, for she did not look bookish – nor even intellectual enough to mar her prettiness. Yet, wherever she went she would look adorable. He understood that, now.

It was a day of alarms for him, of fears, shocks, and frights innumerable. With terror he heard the auctioneer talking in terms of thousands; with horror he witnessed the bids on certain books advance by thousands at a clip. Five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand were bid, seen, raised, called, hiked, until his head spun and despair seized him.

What did he know about Valdez? Either volume might bring fifty thousand dollars for all he knew. Had he fifty thousand he felt, somehow, that he would have bid it to the last penny for the book. And he came to the conclusion that he was really crazy. Yet there he sat, glued to his chair, listening, shuddering, teeth alternately chattering or grimly locked, while the very air seemed to reek of millions, and the incessant gabble of the auctioneer drove him almost out of his wits.

Nearer and nearer approached the catalogued numbers of the two copies of Valdez; pale and desperate he sat there, his heart almost suffocating him as the moment drew near. And now the time had come; now the celebrated Mr. Heikem began his suave preliminary chatter; now he was asking confidently for a bid.

A silence ensued – and whether it was the silence of awe at the priceless treasure or the silence of indifference White did not know. But after the auctioneer had again asked for a bid he found his voice and offered ten dollars. His ears were scarlet when he did it.

"Fifteen," said a sweet but tremulous voice not far from White, and he looked around in astonishment. It was his red-haired vis-a-vis.

"Twenty!" he retorted, still labouring under his astonishment.

"Twenty-five!" came the same sweet voice.

There was a silence. No other voices said anything. Evidently nobody wanted Valdez except himself and his red-haired neighbour.

"Thirty!" he called out at the psychological moment.

The girl turned in her chair and looked at him. She seemed to be unusually pale.

"Thirty-five!" she said, still gazing at White in a frightened sort of way.

"Forty," he said; rose at the same moment and walked over to where the girl was sitting.

She looked up at him as he bent over her chair; both were very serious.

"You and I are the only two people bidding," he said. "There are two copies of the book. Don't bid against me and you can buy in the other one for next to nothing – judging from the course this one is taking."

"Very well," she said quietly.

A moment later the first copy of Valdez was knocked down to James White. An indifferent audience paid little attention to the transaction.

Two minutes later the second copy fell to Miss Jean Sandys for five dollars – there being no other bidder.

White had already left the galleries. Lingering at the entrance he saw Miss Sandys pass him, and he lifted his hat. The slightest inclination of her pretty head acknowledged it. The next moment they were lost to each other's view in the crowded street.

Clutching his battered book to his chest, not even daring to drop it into his overcoat for fear of pickpockets, the young fellow started up Broadway at a swinging pace which presently brought him to the offices of the Florida Spanish Grants Company; and here, at his request, he was ushered into a private room; a map of Seminole County spread on the highly polished table before him, and a suave gentleman placed at his disposal.

"Florida," volunteered the suave gentleman, "is the land of perpetual sunshine – the land of milk and honey, as it were, the land of the orange – "

"One moment, please," said White.

"Sir?"

They looked at each other for a second or two, then White smiled:

"I don't want dope," he said pleasantly, "I merely want a few facts – if your company deals in them."

"Florida," began the suave gentleman, watching the effect of his words, "is the garden of the world." Then he stopped, discouraged, for White was grinning at him.

"It won't do," said White amiably.

"No?" queried the suave gentleman, the ghost of a grin on his own smooth countenance.

"No, it won't do. Now, if you will restrain your very natural enthusiasm and let me ask a few questions – "

"Go ahead," said the suave gentleman, whose name was Munsell. "But I don't believe we have anything to suit you in Seminole County."

"Oh, I don't know," returned White coolly, "is it all under water?"

"There are a few shell mounds. The highest is nearly ten inches above water. We call them hills."

"I might wish to acquire one of those mountain ranges," remarked White seriously.

After a moment they both laughed.

"Are you in the game yourself?" inquired Mr. Munsell.

"Well, my game is a trifle different."

"Oh. Do you care to be more explicit?"

White shook his head:

"No; what's the use? But I'll say this: it isn't the 'Perpetual Sunshine and Orange Grove' game, or how to become a millionaire in three years."

"No?" grinned Munsell, lifting his expressive eyebrows.

White bent over the map for a few moments.

"Here," he said carelessly, "is the Spanish Causeway and the Coakachee River. It's all swamp and jungle, I suppose – although I see you have it plotted into orange groves, truck gardens, pineapple plantations, and villas."

Munsell made a last but hopeless effort. "Some day," he began, with dignity – but White's calm wink discouraged further attempts. Then the young man tapped with his pencil lots numbered from 200 to 210, slowly, going over them again for emphasis.

"Are those what you want?" asked Munsell.

"Those are what I want."

"All right. Only I can't give you 210."

"Why not?"

"Yesterday a party took a strip along the Causeway including half of 210 up to 220."

"Can't I get all of 210?"

"I'll ask the party. Where can I address you?"

White stood up. "Have everything ready Tuesday. I'll be in with the cash."