XXVI
When the tip of her cigarette glowed rosy in the pearl-tinted gloom, theshadowy circle at her feet drew a little nearer.
"This is the story of Valdez," she said. "Listen attentively, you whohunger!"
* * * * *
On the first day it rained torrents; the light was very dull in thegalleries; fashion kept away. Only a few monomaniacs braved the weather,left dripping mackintoshes and umbrellas in the coat room, and spent thedull March morning in mousing about among the priceless treasures onview to those who had cards of admission. The sale was to take placethree days later. Heikem was the auctioneer.
The collection to be disposed of was the celebrated library of ProfessorOctavo de Folio--a small one; but it was composed almost exclusively ofrarities. A million and a half had been refused by the heirs, whopreferred to take chances at auction.
And there were Caxtons, first edition Shakespeares, illuminatedmanuscripts, volumes printed privately for various kings and queens,bound sketch books containing exquisite aquarelles and chalk drawings byBargue, Fortuny, Drouais, Boucher, John Downman; there were autographedmonographs in manuscript; priceless order books of revolutionarygenerals, private diaries kept by men and women celebrated and notoriousthe world over.
But the heirs apparently preferred yachts and automobiles.
The library was displayed in locked glass cases, an attendant seated byeach case, armed with a key and discretionary powers.
From where James White sat beside his particular case, he had a view ofthe next case and of the young girl seated beside it.
She was very pretty. No doubt, being out of a job, like himself, shewas glad to take this temporary position. She was so pretty she made hishead ache. Or it might have been the ventilation.
It rained furiously; a steady roar on the glass roof overhead filled thelong and almost empty gallery of Mr. Heikem, the celebrated auctioneer,with a monotone as dull and incessant as the business voice of thatgreat man.
Here and there a spectacled old gentleman nosed his way from case tocase, making at intervals cabalistic pencil marks on the margin of hiscatalogue--which specimen of compiled literature alone cost fivedollars.
It was a very dull day for James White, and also, apparently, for thepretty girl in charge of the adjoining case. Nobody even asked either ofthem to unlock the cases; and it began to appear to young White that thebooks 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 theprivate list furnished him, read the titles, histories and pedigrees ofthe volumes, stifled a yawn, fidgetted in his chair, stared at therain-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. Shewas exceedingly pretty in her way, red haired, white skinned; and hereyes seemed to be a very lovely Sevres blue. Except in porcelain hethought he had never seen anything as dainty. He knew perfectly wellthat he could very easily fall in love with her. Also he knew he'd neverhave the opportunity.
Duller and duller grew the light; louder roared the March rain. Evenmonomaniacs no longer came into the galleries, and the half dozen whohad arrived left by luncheon time.
When it was White's turn to go out to lunch, he went to Childs' andreturned in half an hour. Then the girl across the aisle wentout--probably to a similar and sumptuous banquet. She came back veryshortly, reseated herself, and glanced around the empty galleries.
There seemed to be absolutely nothing for anybody to do, except to sitthere and listen to the rain.
White pondered on his late failure in affairs. Recently out of Yale, andmore recently still established in business, he had gone down in thegeneral slump, lacking sufficient capital to tide him over. Hissettlement with his creditors left him with fifteen hundred dollars. Hewas now waiting for an opportunity to invest it in an enterprise. Hebelieved in enterprises. Also, he was firmly convinced that Opportunityknocked no more than once in a lifetime, and he was always cocking hisear to catch the first timid rap. It was knocking then but he did nothear it, for it was no louder than the gentle beating of his red-hairedneighbour's heart.
But Opportunity is a jolly jade. She knocks every little while--but onemust possess good hearing.
Having nothing better to do as he sat there, White drifted into mentalspeculation--that being the only sort available.
He dreamed of buying a lot in New York for fifteen hundred dollars andselling it a few years later for fifty thousand. He had a well developedimagination; wonderful were the lucky strikes he made in these daydreams; marvellous the financial returns. He was a very Napoleon offinance when he was dozing. Many are.
The girl across the aisle also seemed to be immersed in day dreams. HerSevres blue eyes had become vague; her listless little hands lay in herlap unstirring. She was pleasant to look at.
After an hour or so it was plain to White that she had had enough of herdreams. She sighed very gently, straightened up in her chair, looked atthe rain-swept roof, patted a yawn into modest suppression, and gazedabout her with speculative and engaging eyes.
Then, as though driven to desperation, she turned, looked into the glasscase beside her for a few minutes, and then, fitting her key to thedoor, opened it, selected a volume at hazard, and composed herself toread.
For a while White watched her lazily, but presently with more interest,as her features gradually grew more animated and her attention seemed tobe concentrated on the book.
As the minutes passed it became plain to White that the girl found thedingy little volume exceedingly interesting. And after a while sheappeared to be completely absorbed in it; her blue eyes were rivetted onthe pages; her face was flushed, her sensitive lips expressive of theemotion that seemed to be possessing her more and more.
White wondered what this book might be which she found so breathlesslyinteresting. It was small, dingy, bound in warped covers of oldleather, and anything but beautiful. And by and by he caught a glimpseof the title--"The Journal of Pedro Valdez."
The title, somehow, seemed to be familiar to him; he glanced into hisown case, and after a few minutes' searching he caught sight of anothercopy of the same book, dingy, soiled, leather-bound, unlovely.
He looked over his private list until he found it. And this is what heread 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, andwas surprised to see how her interest in the volume had altered herfeatures. Tense, breathless, utterly absorbed in the book, she bent overthe faded print, leaning close, for the sickly light that filteredthrough the glass roof scarcely illumined the yellow pages at all.
The curiosity of White was now aroused; he opened the glass case besidehim, fished out his copy of the book, opened it, and began to read.
For the first few minutes his interest was a
nything but deep: he readthe well-known pages where Bangs recounts how he discovered the journalof Valdez--and it sounded exceedingly fishy--a rather poorly writtenfairy-tale done by a man with little invention and less imagination, soworn out, hackneyed and trite were the incidents, so obvious thecoincidences.
White shrugged his shoulders and turned from the preface to whatpurported to be the translation.
Almost immediately it struck him that this part of the book was notwritten by the same man. Here was fluency, elegance of expression,ease, the simplicity of a soldier who had something to say and but ashort time in which to say it. Even the apparent clumsiness of thetranslation had not deformed the work.
Little by little the young man became intensely interested, thenabsorbed. And after a while the colour came into his face; he glancednervously around him; suppressed excitement made his hands unsteady ashe unfolded the enclosed map.
From time to time he referred to the map as he read; the rain roared onthe 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 Folioexhibition; White had no time to re-read any passages or to re-examinethe map, because people were continually asking to see and handle thebooks in his case.
Across the aisle he noticed that his pretty neighbour was similarlyoccupied. And he was rather glad, because he felt, vaguely, that it wasjust as well she did not occupy her time in reading "The Journal ofValdez." Girls usually have imagination. The book might stir her up asit had stirred him. And to no purpose.
Also, he was glad that nobody asked to look at the Valdez copy in hisown case. He didn't want people to look at it. There were reasons--amongothers, he wanted to buy it himself. He meant to if fifteen hundreddollars would buy it.
White had not the remotest idea what the book might bring at auction. Hedared not inquire whether the volume was a rare one, dreading even tocall the attention of his fellow employees to it. A word _might_ arousetheir 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 intime enough to read the book a little before the first of the publiccame.
And he did get there very early. The only other employee who had arrivedbefore him was the red-haired girl. She sat by her case reading "TheJournal of Valdez." Once she looked up at him with calm, clear,intelligent eyes. He did not see her; he hastily unlocked his case anddrew out the coveted book. Then he sat down and began to devour it. Andso utterly and instantly was he lost amid those yellow, time-fadedpages that he did not even glance across the aisle at his ornamentalneighbour. If he had looked he would have noticed that she also wasburied in "The Journal of Valdez." And it might have made him a trifleuneasy to see her look from her book to him and from him to the volumehe was perusing so excitedly.
It being the last day that the library was to be on view before thesale, fashion and monomania rubbed elbows in the Heikem Galleries,crowding the well known salons morning and afternoon. And all day longWhite and his neighbour across the aisle were busy taking out books andmanuscripts for inspection, so that they had no time for luncheon, andless for Valdez.
And that night they were paid off and dismissed; and the auctioneer andhis corps of assistants took charge.
The sale took place the following morning and afternoon. White drew fromthe bank his fifteen hundred dollars, breakfasted on bread and milk, andwent to the galleries more excited than he had ever been before in hislong life of twenty-three years. And that is some time.
It was a long shot at Fortune he meant to take--a really desperatechance. One throw would settle it--win or lose. And the idea scared himbadly, and he was trembling a little when he took his seat amid theperfumed gowns of fashion and the white whiskers of high finance, andthe shabby vestments of monomania.
Once or twice he wondered whether he was crazy. Yet, every throb of hisfast-beating heart seemed to summon him to do and dare; and he felt,without even attempting to explain the feeling to himself, that now atlast Opportunity was loudly rapping at his door, and that if he did notlet her in he would regret it as long as he lived.
As he glanced fearfully about him he caught sight of his prettyneighbour who had held sway across the aisle. So she, too, had come towatch the sale! Probably for the excitement of hearing an auctioneertalk in thousands.
He was a little surprised, nevertheless, for she did not lookbookish--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 frightsinnumerable. With terror he heard the auctioneer talking in terms ofthousands; with horror he witnessed the bids on certain books advance bythousands at a clip. Five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand werebid, seen, raised, called, hiked, until his head spun and despairseized him.
What did he know about Valdez? Either volume might bring fifty thousanddollars for all he knew. Had he fifty thousand he felt, somehow, that hewould have bid it to the last penny for the book. And he came to theconclusion that he was really crazy. Yet there he sat, glued to hischair, listening, shuddering, teeth alternately chattering or grimlylocked, while the very air seemed to reek of millions, and the incessantgabble of the auctioneer drove him almost out of his wits.
Nearer and nearer approached the catalogued numbers of the two copies ofValdez; pale and desperate he sat there, his heart almost suffocatinghim as the moment drew near. And now the time had come; now thecelebrated Mr. Heikem began his suave preliminary chatter; now he wasasking confidently for a bid.
A silence ensued--and whether it was the silence of awe at the pricelesstreasure or the silence of indifference White did not know. But afterthe auctioneer had again asked for a bid he found his voice and offeredten dollars. His ears were scarlet when he did it.
"Fifteen," said a sweet but tremulous voice not far from White, and helooked 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 nobodywanted 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 beunusually pale.
"Thirty-five!" she said, still gazing at White in a frightened sort ofway.
"Forty," he said; rose at the same moment and walked over to where thegirl 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 twocopies of the book. Don't bid against me and you can buy in the otherone 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 fivedollars--there being no other bidder.
White had already left the galleries. Lingering at the entrance he sawMiss Sandys pass him, and he lifted his hat. The slightest inclinationof her pretty head acknowledged it. The next moment they were lost toeach other's view in the crowded street.
Clutching his battered book to his chest, not even daring to drop itinto his overcoat for fear of pickpockets, the young fellow started upBroadway at a swinging pace which presently brought him to the officesof the Florida Spanish Grants Company; and here, at his request, he wasushered into a private room; a map of Seminole County spread on thehighly polished table before him, and a suave gentleman placed at hisdisposal.
"Flor
ida," volunteered the suave gentleman, "is the land of perpetualsunshine--the land of milk and honey, as it were, the land of theorange----"
"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--ifyour 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 Whitewas grinning at him.
"It won't do," said White amiably.
"No?" queried the suave gentleman, the ghost of a grin on his own smoothcountenance.
"No, it won't do. Now, if you will restrain your very natural enthusiasmand let me ask a few questions----"
"Go ahead," said the suave gentleman, whose name was Munsell. "But Idon'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 abovewater. We call them hills."
"I might wish to acquire one of those mountain ranges," remarked Whiteseriously.
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 Sunshineand 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 CoakacheeRiver. It's all swamp and jungle, I suppose--although I see you have itplotted into orange groves, truck gardens, pineapple plantations, andvillas."
Munsell made a last but hopeless effort. "Some day," he began, withdignity--but White's calm wink discouraged further attempts. Then theyoung 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 210up 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 thecash."