Part 8

"I should have found you all the same," he whispered, half laughing, but his blue eyes glistened. "I do not think that space itself could separate us."

"Oh, do you realize that?" I asked, "and do you really know?"

"I know I have you with me now," he said, "and that is all I care to know."

We were flying now, flying as comets fly to perihelion. The world about was slipping from us, disintegrating and dissolving into cosmic thoughts expressed in color. Only his eyes were actual, and the blue hills far away, and the wind from them in the key of the Pleiades.

"There shall never any more be time or space for us," he said.

"But," I protested, "we must not overlook the fundamental facts."

"In all the universe there is just one fact," he cried, catching my hand in his, and then--

(NOTE: _Here a portion of the logogram becomes indecipherable, owing, perhaps, to the passage of some large bird across the line of projection. What follows is the last recorded vibragraph to date._)

--Yes, dear, I know I should have been more circumspect. I should have remembered my position, but I didn't. And that's why I'm engaged to be married.--You have to here, when you reach a certain point--I know you will think it a great come-down for one of us, but after all do we not owe something to our sister planets?--

THE UNEXPECTED LETTER

As much as I dislike superlatives, I must confess that nothing in my life has given me greater surprise than that letter addressed to me in a firm but unfamiliar hand, face upward on the counter of a small curiosity shop in an insignificant by-street of a strange city.

I have a weakness for such small shops, where one is commonly permitted to roam at will amid a multitude of attractive objects without the slightest obligation to buy, and the proprietors are often men of intelligence and education. When I have leisure I rarely resist the temptation to enter, and in this case the impulse had been almost mandatory.

It was my first visit to Selbyville, and I may say that it will probably be my last; for I have never seen a duller, less interesting place. A bad connection had left me stranded at the railway station there, with several hours to be disposed of, as I feared, in aimless wanderings along streets and avenues each one more crude and commonplace than the last; but the chance discovery of a favorite haunt filled me at once with lively satisfaction.

A dark and musty little shop, it proved to be, and its owner all I could have wished--a mild old Dickens person who had a virtuous pride in his collection, and at once divined in me a sympathetic listener. At first I followed him from case to case with unaffected interest and attention; but presently, I own, his conversation grew a trifle wearisome, and I allowed my thoughts to stray.

He had produced, as I remember well, a tray of antique cameos, and to make room for it upon the counter brushed aside a litter of disordered papers. Neglected bills, they seemed to be, and circulars such as a careless man forgets to throw away. But I noted nothing more; for suddenly amid the trash my own familiar name confronted me, bold, clear, and unmistakable, across a large and square envelope of a bluish tint: "Josiah Brunson Dykefellow, Esq., 109 South Ninth Street, City."

Now, I am not a man to jump at rash conclusions. The address, of course, was one that might be found in almost any city; but as it happened to be mine in Masonburg, and as my name was not a common one, to say the least, the letter seemed so clearly meant for me that I should have taken it without compunction, could I have done so unobserved. But the merchant never left me for a moment, and though most amiable I gave him credit for too much good sense to deliver a sealed communication on the unsupported statement of a perfect stranger; for I had left my card-case in my satchel at the station, and as I am a bachelor my linen is unmarked. However the letter came to be there, it was evident that I should have to exercise diplomacy to gain possession of my own. And so, continuing our circuit of the shop, I weighed the matter nicely. My final resolution was, I shall always think, little short of inspiration.

We had reached an ancient rosewood wardrobe of enormous size and hideous design before I found the opportunity to put my plan in operation.

"Ah! this is something I should like to own," I cried, "provided that my new rooms are large enough to hold it. And," I added carelessly, "perhaps you can direct me to the address"--I feigned to consult a memorandum--"109 South Ninth Street."

The worthy dealer turned on me a look of half-amused surprise. "That's here," he said--"right here, this street and house."

"Indeed!" I cried, though I had not been wholly unprepared for such an answer. "That's really odd! for this, my dear sir, is the very place where I was told to seek lodgings."

"There must be some mistake," replied the dealer civilly; "for as it is the house is too small to accommodate my family."

At this I must have feigned the signs of extreme annoyance rather cleverly; for the dealer joined in condemnation of officious friends in general, and especially of one McPherson, a second auditor, who had so misled me.

"That ass McPherson," I explained, "has put me to the greatest inconvenience! For, feeling certain of the rooms, I have actually given this address to correspondents. But," I hastened to assure my courteous listener, "I shall, of course, write at once and save you any trouble on that score. Please save the wardrobe for a day or two. My name is Josiah Brunson Dykefellow."

As I pronounced each syllable with distinctness, I could perceive the dealer's kindly face expand with pleasure. "Why, Mr. Dykefellow!" he exclaimed, "a letter came for you this morning. I was about to return it to the carrier. Here it is."

I thanked him, gave the square envelope only a casual glance before slipping it into an inner pocket, and then bought a curio, scarcely knowing what I did. I could hardly wait to see my purchase wrapped in newspaper. I feared the dealer might think better of his confidence and make demands on me for identification. I felt the prick of conscience that an honest man must feel who gains even a righteous victory by disingenuous means.

When the door had closed behind me and I was free to stride up Ninth Street with my curio beneath my arm, I dreaded at every step to hear the hue and cry of "Stop thief!" at my heels. Once safe beyond the nearest corner, I actually ran. Up one street, down another, now running, and now short of breath, proceeding at a rapid walk, I came at length to a small, well-nigh deserted public square, and here, seated on a retired bench, I cautiously took out my blue envelope, and for the first time scrutinized its inscription.

The writer was evidently a person of decided character; but whether man or woman it was impossible to guess. There was something masculine about the stationery, which suggested a well-appointed club; but on the other hand, the seal of violet wax, the rather blurred impression of what might have been a dainty crest, the smell of orris, I fancied, spoke of a lady's boudoir. As for the postmark, it was non-committal as to place, but the hour and date were clearly nine-thirty P. M. the previous day, which seemed rather late for a lady; but again, few men ever write "In haste" across the corner of a letter. Of course it would have been a simple matter to have solved the mystery then and there; but a mystery solved can never be itself again, and for the moment I determined to prolong the pleasures of anticipation. I chuckled to myself, and cast a friendly glance about me, vaguely imagining what Selbyville might mean to me in after years. Assuming an easy attitude upon the bench, I gazed into the sky.

"Ah, Fate!" I was beginning to soliloquize, when a rude voice beside me interrupted.

"Say, kape yer feet offen the grass, unless ye own the earth!" it said, and looking up I saw before me the sinister visage of a minion of the law. "And what are ye doin' here anyway?" the voice went on while the visage turned with undisguised suspicion toward my curio, which did look something like an infant wrapped in newspaper.

I said that I was waiting for my train, and asked with all humility to be directed to the station.

I was answered with contumely. I was commanded to "Get a move on!" I was told with scant civility that the Union Station was only one block away. "Even you can't miss it," my informant said. "Follow South Ninth Street."

I rose and thanked the man with all the dignity at my command. I also gave him a cigar, which seemed to mollify him; but if my random flight had brought me once more to the far end of Ninth Street, I should have let every train that ever cleared from Selbyville depart without me rather than have risked another meeting with the curiosity man. As I sauntered nonchalantly in the wrong direction, I am sure that I caught a vulgar idiom muttered by official lips.

But the experience had taught me that one who has a secret to conceal should avoid above all things making himself conspicuous. So, carrying my curio--which was of bronze and growing every moment heavier--as though it was a package from the laundry, I struck into a swinging gait, and hummed a popular refrain. My single wish now was to seem absolutely sane; for to be "bug-house" (such was the policeman's phrase), though not a crime, may lead to inquiries, perhaps examination, and I was by no means certain what incriminating matter my hidden letter might contain. Thus reasoning, I became doubtful all at once of my right to the blue envelope. And the more I thought about it, the weaker grew my confidence in the course I had pursued. What if after all I had appropriated some one's else business, some one's else secret, the hideous clue to some one's else misdemeanor?

It had been my half-formed purpose to walk until the town was far behind me, out into the quiet country where there were surely haystacks and deserted barns, or at least, if nothing better offered, trees to climb. But now the thought occurred to me that it might be safer to read my letter in broad daylight and the open street, than in uncertain and suspicious solitude.

The decision was a wise one, and I lost no time in turning it into action; for my surroundings at the moment could scarcely have been more favorable. I stood before what appeared to be a public building, tightly closed and to all appearance unused, and right at hand there was a most convenient newel-post on which to rest my curio, which had for some time been threatening to shed its wrappings altogether. I can't remember now just what it was--some Eastern object, doubtless--but scarcely had it left my hands when all the air grew resonant with yells as though the fiends of Tophet were released from durance; the great doors of the building opened, and children, innumerable children, issued forth. I have never in my life beheld so many children all at once. They swarmed about me and my curio, uttering uncouth cries, and pointing with their horrid little fingers urged their young companions far and near to join in the affray. I yield to no one in my love for childhood--properly conducted childhood--but Selbyville is not the place to find it.

With one disheartened cry, I grabbed my property, and started whither I neither knew nor cared, the children pursuing like a pack of misbehaved young wolves. I crossed a crowded thoroughfare, doubled on my tracks, overturned a push-cart full of oranges, threw a matinee audience into wild alarm, and everywhere I seemed to hear two fatal words. And when at last I threw myself upon a trolley-car the stupid vulgarism still rang in my ears.

I am sure the conductor eyed me with suspicion; but I did not care; for I was moving every moment farther from the scenes of my discomfiture, my curio out of sight beneath the seat, and my letter safely in my inside pocket. I picked up an abandoned paper, and read it, or appeared to do so, with composure, though all the while the fingers of my left hand never ceased to pinch the blue envelope, making fresh discoveries.

Within the sheet of folded note-paper there was unquestionably an inclosure of a smaller size and softer texture, perhaps a bank-note, perhaps a draft. Of course I held my imagination well in check, and tried to think of nothing more important than a newspaper cutting; but even this allowed a certain scope for fancy. Advertisements for missing heirs are not uncommon, and even poems when embalmed in orris may have deep significance. Ah! What if I were rich? What if I were loved? What if both at once? The thing is not impossible. Soon I should know all, beneath my haystack, in my barn, or, bird-like, swinging in my tree. I was so certain now that what had cost so much inconvenience must be all my own, that I would have parted from the blue envelope only with my life.

It was a shock to have my dreaming interrupted by the conductor's cheerful call, "All out!" and to find that the thrice accursed trolley had all the while been flying, not toward the country, but into the depths of darkest Selbyville, where gasworks, rolling-mills, and docks compete for grimy precedence. But if by that time I had not grown used to disappointment, the opportunity to abandon my curio beneath the seat would have made up for much.

I have often wondered since my afternoon in Selbyville where the man who wrote in praise of solitude obtained his information. I feel convinced that Crusoe never sat down for a quiet pipe without black Friday butting in to ask what time it was. But this is idle speculation.

Once freed from my incumbrance, my heart beat high with hope, and crawling through a broken fence I found myself within a lumber-yard. On every hand well-ordered planks were piled reposefully, and under foot the ground was soft with sawdust. And here I lost no time in taking out my letter. As I did so, a new and most absorbing possibility flashed upon me. The smaller inclosure might be a photograph, one of those unmounted carbon prints taken by amateurs, and so frankly truthful that only good-looking people care to send them to their friends. I felt my pulses flutter at the thought and pressed the blue envelope to my lips, secure from observation, as I fancied.

But such was not the case. A large check-jumpered person, with a protruding jaw, perched on a heap of railway ties, had been regarding me with tolerant amusement all the while. "Well, what in Paradise are you up to anyhow?" he drawled complacently.

"I trust that you will pardon the intrusion," I replied politely; "but I have taken the liberty of stepping in to read a letter."

"Then you can just step out again," returned the man with a deliberation in itself a rudeness. "This ain't no reading-room."

"But," I protested, "surely you will not grudge me a modicum of solitude and quiet?"

"I guess we ain't got what you want in stock to-day. I guess you'd better inquire up at the jail; they make a sort of specialty of just them things."

I left, unwilling to expose myself to further incivility; and presently I quitted the gas-house region altogether; but not before I had been driven from a brewery by a dog, and from a canal-boat by a woman bargeman; a stevedore had challenged me to fight, and an intoxicated roustabout had given me an apple. And nowhere, nowhere, did I find a spot to read my letter.

Time passed; how much I shall never know, for I had lost all track of it. Nor could I find to-day the little bridge where, weary and disheartened, I sank down upon the broad stone coping to rest. Below, the waters tumbled foaming through a raceway toward the turbines of a power-house, with a sound that mingled pleasantly with the whir of wheels and dynamos within. In contrast with the sordid sights and sounds of Selbyville, the place was grateful and refreshing to the eye and ear, and looking from the coping I was pleased to perceive a shelf of masonry projecting below, wide enough to form a comfortable seat, and easily reached by a short drop from the bridge. Here, indeed, was an oasis, a refuge, a retreat. But unfortunately the place had been preëmpted by a negro, who appeared to be asleep.

"Hello!" I shouted, for nothing short of manslaughter could now balk me of my purpose. "Hello, my colored friend! Would you not like to earn a dollar?"

"Sure, boss!" he answered, waking instantly.

"Then go," I said, "directly to the City Hall and find out if the Mayor is in town."

The man demurred, until the actual contact of the dollar with his palm convinced him of my good faith. And presently he clambered to the bridge, while I lost little time in dropping to his place.

"Say, boss," he called down to me in a nervous whisper, "if youse done goin' to drown yourself, won't you please wait till I get off where I cain't hear you splash?"

At last I was alone, at last secure from interruption! And scarcely daring to believe in such good fortune, I crouched against the wall and held my breath. So minutes went by, each one an agony of fear that some fresh difficulty might yet confront me. Then, gaining strength, I cautiously drew forth once more the treasured blue envelope.

My hands were tremulous, my nerves tingling with emotion; but I had schooled myself to bear whatever good or evil Fate might have in store. The strong cool wind from beneath the bridge brought me new courage, and the very machinery seemed to murmur promises. I pressed my blue envelope to my heart; I laid it on my knee for one brief instant, to experience again the tantalizing delights of anticipation.

The breeze became a gale. It threatened to dislodge my hat, and in one mad moment I raised both hands. In the next--I know not how it happened--in the next, I saw my letter far below where the wild waters whirled. For an instant it leaped and danced before me, lighter than the foam, and then with one last flash of blue it disappeared in the black waters of the turbine pit.--

"Continued on page 14," _Sunday Magazine_, April 1, '07.

Much as I dislike superlatives, I may say that never have I been so disappointed and annoyed.

("If you have read this story, it may be well to remind you that this is April 1st."--ED. _Sunday Magazine_.)

THE MONEY METER

Hiram Clatfield, upon the threshold of his office, peered out into the counting-room in a manner difficult to associate with the inscriptions on the plate-glass door half open at his back. "Private" was printed there in gilded letters, and "President," but the tone of the president was almost that of one who asks a favor as he said:

"Mr. Wattles, if you should happen to be disengaged, I should like to speak with you a moment."

The cashier, wheeling on his lofty-legged stool, gave one regretful glance toward a regiment of figures, a marching column six abreast from which he had been casting out the nines, and replied resignedly:

"I'm disengaged at present."

"Then please come in," said Mr. Clatfield, accepting the untruth with gratitude. "Come in and shut the door."

The room marked "President," paneled in quartered oak much like the state apartment of a private car, contained a polished desk, six chairs with red morocco seats, a Turkish rug, and the portrait of a former president done in oil. Beneath the picture, upon a pedestal and protected by a dome of glass, stood a small machine which, from time to time, emitted jerky, nervous clicks, and printed mystic characters upon an endless paper tape.

The former president upon the wall smiled perpetually, with eyes directed to the plate-glass door, as though it pleased him to observe through it the double row of neat young men on lofty stools so well employed. Perhaps it pleased him better still to watch the little, brass-barred windows farther on, where countless faces came and went all day from ten till three--thin faces and fat, and old and young, and hands, innumerable hands, some to carry and some to fetch, but all to leave a tribute for whomever might be sitting at the polished desk.

"Please read this item, Mr. Wattles," said the president, indicating with a well-kept finger-nail a paragraph in the _Morning Mercury_, and, putting on his glasses, Mr. Wattles read:

"Conservative estimates place the fortune of Hiram Clatfield at seven million dollars."

At the same moment the small machine appeared to rouse itself.

"Con-ser-vat-ive--est-i-ma-tes--place--the--for-tune--of--Hi-ram-- Clat-field--at----" it seemed to repeat deliberately, as for dictation, and stopped.

"S.e.v.e.n.m.i.l.l.i.o.n.d.o.l.l.a.r.s," concluded a typewriter in the counting-room beyond the plate-glass doors, and the sentence ended in the tinkle of the little bell which gives warning that a line is nearly finished.

Mr. Wattles, having laid the paper on the table, wiped his glasses with a pocket-handkerchief and held them to the light.

"Do you propose to take action in the matter?" he inquired. "Is there anything I can do?"

Mr. Clatfield moved to the center of the rug and thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets.

"Wattles," he said, "is that thing true?"

"Not altogether," said the other, betraying nothing in his tone beyond a wish for accuracy. "I think it would be safe to say at least--allowing for fluctuations--ten million dollars."

"Al-low-ing--for--fluc-tua-tions----" repeated the ticker.

"T.e.n.m.i.l.l.i.o.n.d.o.l.l.a.r.s," the typewriter concluded.

Between the two men on the Turkish rug there was so little to choose that, with straw cylinders to protect his cuffs and a left coat sleeve somewhat marred by wiping pens, either might have been cashier, and without these tokens either might very well have been president. The banker was a trifle bald and gray about the temples. The other's hair was still erect and of a hue which had suggested "Chipmunk" as a fitting nickname in his school days.

"Wattles," said the banker slowly, "what is ten million dollars?"

"Why, it's--it's a heap of money," faltered the cashier.

The other took a turn towards the margin of the rug and back.

"That doesn't help me," he protested. "That doesn't give me an idea. You used to be so full of fancies," he went on, somewhat pettishly; "you used to bring a book of poetry to read at lunch when we were kids outside there"--he nodded toward the counting-room. "You used to laugh at me for puzzling over discounts, and say I went about with blinders, like a horse, to shut out everything that was not right ahead. I never could imagine anything--I can't imagine ten millions now. How long would it be if it were all in dollar bills placed end to end? How big would it be if it were in two-cent postage stamps?"

"It would take a little time to work that out," replied the other man respectfully, though not without a twinkle in his eye. "I can let you have a statement in half an hour."

"Don't do it, then," rejoined the banker. "I'm sick of figures, and you never needed them when you used to make up fairy tales as we went roaming through the streets after the bank had closed."

"I often make up fairy stories still," said Mr. Wattles, "after the bank has closed."

"Do you?" demanded the other. "Do you still? And do you still take walks before going home to supper?"

"Yes, when it does not rain."

"And do you think it will be clear to-night?"

Mr. Wattles laughed.

"To-night I shall be late in getting off," he said, "because to-morrow is a holiday."

"What holiday?" inquired Mr. Clatfield.

"Christmas," said Mr. Wattles.

"I don't pretend to keep track of all the holidays," said Mr. Clatfield.

"No," said Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not."

It was a busy day at the bank, and the city clocks had sounded six before the cashier set the time-locks in the vault and bade good-night to the watchman at the door. But if he was surprised to find an old companion waiting on the steps, his face did not betray the fact.