Part 6

"True," assented the other, "and possibly the race three thousand years ago differed materially from the degenerate Sphinx-like personalities of the hieroglyphics. We must get Biggins of the Smithsonian to give us his opinion."

"Never!" cried Morewood, thrusting the negative in his breast.

"But in the interest of science----" protested Dunbarton.

"Science?" Morewood returned scornfully; "what has science to do with this? What right have I to betray a lady's confidence?"

Dunbarton made a sign of impatience. "Your lady has been dead a matter of three thousand years or more," he remarked.

"That's not true!" the other contradicted, warmly. "I tell you, man, that woman is alive to-day. Don't ask me to explain the unexplainable. I simply know that she lives, as young and innocent as every feature of her face proclaims her. For years, for centuries, perhaps, she has been trying to make herself known to the stupid brutes who have been incapable of comprehending. But now, thank heaven, she has selected me to do her will--whatever it may be--and I shall consecrate my life to her!"

He grew very pale as he spoke, but there was a rapt joy in his face.

"See here, old man," Dunbarton remonstrated kindly, with a hand on his shoulder, "you're rather overwrought just now, and I don't blame you. But take a friend's advice, and don't get spoony on a girl so very much older than yourself. It never turns out well."

"That's my affair!" Morewood said, doggedly.

"Of course, of course!" Dunbarton assented. "She's awfully pretty, I admit, and no doubt well connected; but, even if we overlook her playful little way of killing people, think of the difficulties about meeting, and that sort of thing."

"I'm willing to leave it all to her," Morewood said. "A priestess of Amen Ra must have learned by this time every mystery of life and death, and I am confident that in the proper time and place I shall meet her face to face."

"Old chap," Dunbarton pronounced with conviction, "what you need is a good night's rest."

But Morewood did not reply to this, for the gentle swaying of an Eastern curtain just then caught his eye. It hung before the open door of the studio, and the movement might have come from some breath of air. But immediately it occurred again, and this time accompanied by the vision of a human hand, clearly in search of something on which to rap.

"There's someone there," said the painter, whose eyes had followed the other's, and he spoke lower: "Possibly a model in search of work." Then he raised his voice in an encouraging "Come in!"--the tone that painters use to models who are often pretty and sometimes timid.

Morewood paid no attention; he stood transfixed, watching the swaying curtain. His finger tips tingled with a strange electric current and his pulses beat with an unreasoning hope. Then Dunbarton said, a little louder:

"Come in; please come in."

"I think the curtain must be caught," replied a low, melodious voice without. Dunbarton took three strides across the room, seized the drapery, and, with a single movement of his arm, swept it aside.

"Oh!" he cried, starting back, while Morewood clutched the table for support. Then, instantly recovering themselves, both men bowed as in the presence of a queen. And well they might.

Against the background of green velvet curtain with its embroidery of dull gold, there stood a lady all in poppy red, crowned with a headdress seemingly of the flowers themselves. It was not the dress of any period of time, for since the beginning of time flowers have grown for women to wear, and the two onlookers, being masculine, knew only that she wore them, and cared not whether they had bloomed in Eden or the Rue de la Paix. Time was for the moment eliminated, disregarded: the centuries rolled away like dewdrops from a rose, for, by the grace of Isis and Osiris, were they not bowing before the peerless priestess of the rites of Amen Ra? It was she and none other--the mistress of the mummy-case, the mystery of the Kodak film; the lady of Thebes three thousand years ago.

Morewood passed his hand across his brow and caught his breath; Dunbarton was the first to recover the power of speech.

"Madam," he said, and his voice shook a little, "you do me far too great an honor. What is your will? You have but to command me."

"I venture to assert a prior claim to do your bidding," put in Morewood, coming forward quickly.

The priestess of Amen Ra tried to control a little laugh, and failed bewitchingly. "I am looking for a Mr. Dunbarton," she explained.

The painter drew himself erect and bowed with dignity. "I have the good fortune to bear that name," he said, taking a sidewise step which left his friend a trifle in the background.

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried the lady. "Then perhaps you can tell me where to find a Mr. Morewood?"

"Your humble and devoted servant!" the other man pronounced himself, executing a maneuver which totally eclipsed Dunbarton.

"Really?" asked the lady, her face radiant with pleasure. "How very fortunate!"

At this Morewood fairly beamed with satisfaction, but she went on rapidly, in a silvery ripple of feminine narrative:

"Do you know, Mr. Morewood, that you have something of mine and I have something of yours? It was not my fault and it wasn't yours, either; it was the stupid person in the parcel room of the Museum. Of course two Kodaks are exactly alike, if one of them hasn't got a name scratched on the bottom with a pin; but I don't suppose he ever thought of looking, so he gave you mine and me yours, and I should never have found out who you were if you hadn't been arrested. Of course it wouldn't have made very much difference, after all, if my Cousin Jack hadn't snapped me in a most ridiculous Egyptian fancy dress."

Dunbarton gave a groan as of agony suppressed, and Morewood's face might have been in color a fragment of the sacerdotal robe of Ra.

"Oh!" moaned the painter, "if I could only howl!"

"Don't mind him, please!" the other man pleaded. "You see, I, too, had used a film, and we were rather interested in seeing how it came out."

"Oh, but yours came out beautifully!" she reassured him. "My Cousin Jack developed it after lunch. That's the way we discovered the mistake, and here it is. We made up our minds that you must be at least seventy-five years old to want to photograph a hideous mummy-case."

It was then that Dunbarton mastered himself and became once more conscious of the duties of hospitality.

"A thousand pardons!" he protested, "for not offering you a seat. This is a painter's workshop, as you see, and therefore public property in a way. Might I suggest a cup of tea? It won't take me a minute to telephone for a chaperon."

The priestess was graciously pleased to laugh.

"I should like tea," she said, with an approving glance about the room, flooded with the last of a long sunset; "but, if you don't mind, I detest chaperons. You see, I'm from Oklahoma."

There was an instant's hesitation, then:

"My friend, Mr. Morewood," remarked the painter, "has just been telling me the strangest story in the world. Perhaps you can induce him to repeat it for you."

He laughed a mocking laugh and turned to busy himself with the silver tea-service standing on an Adams table, while Morewood drew forward a low chair for the lady.

"Is your story romantic?" she asked, as she settled her poppy-colored ruffles; "has it a heroine?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," he answered, by no means including Dunbarton in the confidence. "No less a personage than the priestess of Amen Ra."

She looked at him suspiciously, while the veriest suggestion of a blush suffused her cheek.

"Is there anything about photographs in it?" she demanded, regarding him defiantly.

"Yes," he replied, "there is; a lot!"

"Then I don't care to hear it, for it's certain to be stupid," she protested, pouting.

"It is," he told her, frankly; "and I shall not inflict it on you now. But some day, when we know each other better."

"We start for Boston to-morrow morning early," she interrupted; "and from there we go to Bar Harbor for mamma's hay fever. We're staying at the Waldorf."

"Then I shall return the camera this evening," said Morewood.

"If you do," she said, "my Cousin Jack will be very glad to talk photographs with you."

"How old is your Cousin Jack?" Morewood demanded.

"Twelve," replied the lady, with just the shadow of a smile.

THE GIRL FROM MERCURY

AN INTERPLANETARY LOVE STORY

Being the interpretation of certain phonic vibragraphs recorded by the Long's Peak Wireless Installation, now for the first time made public through the courtesy of Professor Caducious, Ph. D., sometime secretary of the Boulder branch of the association for the advancement of interplanetary communication.

It is evident that the following logograms form part of a correspondence between a young lady, formerly of Mercury, and her confidential friend still resident upon the inferior planet. The translator has thought it best to preserve as far as possible the spirit of the original by the employment of mundane colloquialisms; the result, in spite of many regrettable trivialities will, it is believed, be of interest to students of Cosmic Sociology.

THE GIRL FROM MERCURY

THE FIRST RECORD

Yes, dear, it's me. I'm down here on the Earth, and in our Settlement House, safe and sound. I meant to have called you up before, but really this is the first moment I have had to myself all day.--Yes, of course, I said "all day." You know very well they have days and nights here, because this restless little planet spins, or something of the sort.--I haven't the least idea why it does so, and I don't care.--I did not come here to make intelligent observations like a dowdy "Seeing Saturn" tourist. So don't be Uranian. Try to exercise intuitive perception if I say anything you can't understand.--What is that?--Please concentrate a little harder.--Oh! Yes, I have seen a lot of human beings already, and would you believe it? some of them seem almost possible--especially _one_.--But I will come to that one later. I've got so much to tell you all at once I scarcely know where to begin.--Yes, dear, the One happens to be a man. You would not have me discriminate, would you, when our object is to bring whatever happiness we can to those less fortunate than ourselves? You know success in slumming depends first of all upon getting yourself admired, for then the others will want to be like you, and once thoroughly dissatisfied with themselves they are almost certain to reform. Of course I am only a visitor here, and shall not stay long enough to take up serious work, so Ooma says I may as well proceed along the line of least resistance.--If you remember Ooma's enthusiasm when she ran the Board of Missions to Inferior Planets, you can fancy her now that she has an opportunity to carry out all her theories. Oh, she's great!

My transmigration was disappointing as an experience. It was nothing more than going to sleep and dreaming about circles--orange circles, yellow circles, with a thousand others of graduated shades between, and so on through the spectrum till you pass absolute green and get a tone or two toward blue and strike the Earth color-note. Then with me everything got jumbled together and seemed about to take new shapes, and I woke up in the most commonplace manner and opened my eyes to find myself externalized in our Earth Settlement House with Ooma laughing at me.

"Don't stir!" she cried. "Don't lift a finger till we are sure your specific gravity is all right." And then she pinched me to see if I was dense enough, because the atmosphere is heavier or lighter or something here than with us.

I reminded her that matter everywhere must maintain an absolute equilibrium with its environment, but she protested.

"That's well enough in theory; you must understand that the Earth is awfully out of tune at present, and sometimes it requires time to readjust ourselves to its conditions."

--I did not say so, but I fancy Ooma may have been undergoing readjustment.--My dear, she has grown as pudgy as a Jupitan, and her clothes--but then she always did look more like a spiral nebula than anything else.

(_The record here becomes unintelligible by reason of the passage of a thunderstorm above the summit of Long's Peak._)

--There must be star-dust in the ether.--I never had to concentrate so hard before.--That's all about the Settlement House, and don't accuse me again of slighting details. I'm sure you know the place now as well as Ooma herself, so I can go on to tell what little I have learned about human beings.

It seems I am never to admit that I was not born on Earth, for, like all provincials, the humans pride themselves on disbelieving everything beyond their own experience, and if they understood they would be certain to resent intrusions from another planet. I'm sure I don't blame them altogether when I recall those patronizing Jupitans.--And I'm told they are awfully jealous and distrustful even of one another, herding together for protection and governed by so many funny little tribal codes that what is right on one side of an imaginary boundary may be wrong on the other.--Ooma considers this survival of the group-soul most interesting, and intends to make it the subject of a paper. I mention it only to explain why we call our Settlement a Boarding-House. A Boarding-House, you must know, is fundamentally a hunting pack which one can affiliate with or separate from at will.--Rather a pale yellow idea, isn't it? Ooma thinks it necessary to conform to it in order to be considered respectable, which is the one thing on Earth most desired.--What, dear?--Oh, I don't know what it means to be respectable any more than you do.--One thing more. You'll have to draw on your imagination! Ooma is called here Mrs. Bloomer.--Her own name was just a little too unearthly. Mrs. signifies that a woman is married.--What?--Oh, no, no, no, nothing of the sort.--But I shall have to leave that for another time. I'm not at all sure how it is myself.

By the way, if _any one_ should ask you where I am, just say I've left the planet, and you don't know when I shall be back.--Yes, you know who I mean.--And, dear, perhaps you might drop a hint that I detest all foreigners, especially Jupitans.--Please don't laugh so hard; you'll get the atmospheric molecules all woozy.--Indeed, there's not the slightest danger here. Just fancy, if you please, beings who don't know when they are hungry without consulting a wretched little mechanism, and who measure their radius of conception by the length of their own feet.--Of course I shall be on hand for the Solstice! I wouldn't miss that for an asteroid!--Oh, did I really promise that? Well, I'll tell you about him another time.

THE SECOND RECORD--THOUGH PROBABLY THIRD COMMUNICATION

--I really must not waste so much gray matter, dear, over unimportant details. But I simply had to tell you all about my struggles with the clothes. When Ooma came back, just as I had mastered them with the aid of her diagrams, the dear thing was so much pleased she actually hugged me, and I must confess the effect made me forget my discomfort. Really, an Earth girl is not so much to be pitied if she has becoming dresses to wear. As you may be sure I was anxious to compare myself with others, I was glad enough to hear Ooma suggest going out.

"Come on," she said, executively, "I have only a half-hour to devote to your first walk. Keep close beside me, and remember on no account to either dance or sing."

"But if I see others dancing may I not join them?" I inquired.

"You won't see anybody dancing on Broadway," she replied, a trifle snubbily, but I resolved to escape from her as soon as possible and find out for myself.

I shall never forget my shock on discovering the sky blue instead of the color it should be, but soon my eyes became accustomed to the change. In fact, I have not since that first moment been able to conceive of the sky as anything but blue. And the city?--Oh, my dear, my dear, I never expected to encounter anything so much out of key with the essential euphonies. Of course I have not traveled very much, but I should say there is nothing in the universe like a street they call Broadway--unless it be upon the lesser satellite of Mars, where the poor people are so awfully cramped for space. When I suggested this to Ooma she laughed and called me clever, for it seems there is a tradition that a mob of meddling Martians once stopped on Earth long enough to give the foolish humans false ideas about architecture and many other matters. But I soon forgot everything in my interest in the people. Such a poor puzzle-headed lot they are. One's heart goes out to them at once as they push and jostle one another this way and that, with no conceivable object other than to get anywhere but where they are in the shortest time possible. One longs to help them; to call a halt upon their senseless struggles; to reason with them and explain how all the psychic force they waste might, if exerted in constructive thought, bring everything they wish to pass. Mrs. Bloomer assures me they only ridicule those who venture to interfere, and it will take at least a Saturn century to so much as start them in the right direction. Our settlement is their only hope, she says, and even we can help them only indirectly.

Not long ago, it appears, they had to choose a King or Mayor, or whatever the creature is called who executes their silly laws, and our people so manipulated the election that the choice fell on one of us.

I thought this a really good idea, and supposed, of course, we must at once have set about demonstrating how a planet should be managed. But no! that was not our system, if you please. Instead of making proper laws our agent misbehaved himself in every way the committee could suggest, until at last the humans rose against him and put one of themselves in his place, and after that things went just a little better than before. This is the only way in which they can be taught. But, dear me, isn't it tedious?

Of course, I soon grew anxious for an exchange of thought with almost anyone, but it was a long while before I discovered a single person who was not in a violent hurry. At last, however, we came upon a human drawn apart a little from the throng, who stood with folded arms, engaged apparently in lofty meditation. His countenance was amiable, although a little red.

Saying nothing to Ooma of my purpose, I slipped away from her, and looking up into the creature's eyes inquired mentally the subject of his thoughts; also, how he came to be so inordinately stout, and why he wore bright metal buttons on his garment. But my only answer was a stupid blink, for his mentality seemed absolutely incapable of receiving suggestions not expressed in sounds. I observed farther that his aura inclined too much toward violet for perfect equipoise.

"G'wan out of this, and quit yer foolin'," he remarked, missing my meaning altogether.

Of course I spoke then, using the human speech quite glibly for a first attempt, and hastened to assure him that though I had no idea of fooling, I should not go on until my curiosity had been satisfied. But just then Ooma found me.

"My friend is a stranger," she explained to the brass-buttoned man.

"Then why don't you put a string to her?" he asked.

I learned later that I had been addressing one of the public jesters employed by the community to keep Broadway from becoming intolerably dull.

"But you must not speak to people in the street," said Ooma, "not even to policemen."

"Then how am I to brighten others' lives?" I asked, more than a little disappointed, for several humans hurrying past had turned upon me looks indicating moods receptive of all the brightening I could give.

I might have amused myself indefinitely, studying the rapid succession of varying faces, had not Bloomer cautioned me not to stare. She said people would think me from the country, which is considered discreditable, and as this reminded me that I had as yet seen nothing growing, I asked to be shown the gardens and groves.

"There is one," she said, indicating an open space not far away where sure enough there stood some wretched looking trees which I had not recognized before, forgetting that, of course, leaves here must be green. I saw no flowers growing, but presently we came upon some in a sort of crystal bower guarded by a powerful black person. I wanted so to ask him how he came to be black, but the memory of my last attempt at information deterred me. Instead, I inquired if I might have some roses.

"Walk in, Miss," he replied most civilly, and in I walked through the door, past the sweetest little embryonic, who wore the vesture of a young policeman.

"Boy," I said, "have you begun to realize your soul?"

"Nope," he replied. "I ain't in fractions yet."

--Some stage of earthly progress, I suppose, though I did not like a certain movement of his eyelid, and one never can tell, you know, how hard embryonics are really striving. So I made haste to gather all the roses I could carry, and was about to hurry after Ooma, when a person barred my way.

"Hold on!" he cried. "Ain't you forgetting something? Why don't you take the whole lot?"

"Because I have all I want for the present," I answered, rather frightened, perceiving that his aura had grown livid, and I don't know how I could have soothed him had not Ooma once more come to my relief. I could see that she was annoyed with me, but she controlled herself and placed some token in the being's hand which acted on his agitation like a charm.

As I told you, Bloomer had given me with the other things, a crown of artificial roses which, now that I had real flowers to wear, I wanted to throw away, but this she would not permit, insisting that such a proceeding would make the humans laugh at me--though to look into their serious faces one would not believe this possible. The thoughts of those about me, as I divined them, seemed anything but jocular. They came to me incoherent and inconsecutive, a jumble of conditional premises leading to approximate conclusions expressed in symbols having no intrinsic meaning.--Of course, it is unfair to judge too soon, but I have already begun to doubt the existence of direct perception among them.--What did you say, dear?--Bother direct perception?--Well, I wonder how _we_ should like to apprehend nothing that could not be put into words? You, I'm sure, would have the most confused ideas about Earthly conditions if you depended entirely upon my remarks.--Now concentrate, and you shall hear something really interesting.

--No, not the One yet.--He comes later.--

We had not gone far, I carrying my roses, and Bloomer not too well pleased, as I fancied, because so many people turned to look at us (Bloomer has retrograded physically until she is at times almost Uranian, probably as the result of wearing black, which appears to be the chromatic equivalent of respectability), when suddenly I became sensible of a familiar influence, which was quite startling because so unexpected. Looking everywhere, I caught sight of--who do you suppose? Our old friend Tuk.--Mr. Tuck, T-u-c-k here, if you please. He was about to enter a--a means of transportation, and though his back was towards me, I recognized that drab aura of his at once, and projected a reactionary impulse which was most effective.

In his surprise he was for the moment in danger of being trampled upon by a rapidly moving animal.--Yes, dear, I said "animal."--I don't know and I don't consider it at all important. I do not pretend to be familiar with mundane zoölogy.--Tuck declared himself delighted to see me, and so I believe he was, though he controlled his radiations in the supercilious way he always had. But upon one point he did not leave me long in doubt. Externally, at least, my Earthly Ego is a--