A great mass of a man was Valentine Morley, a collection of sinew and firm flesh, a monolith who towered impressively above the average human to the extent of six feet two. Such a man was made for hand to hand combat, straining flesh against straining flesh, with muscles taut under the smooth skin; such a man was for work with his two hands, wresting a livelihood from a world that was his if he would but go forth and throttle it. That’s the kind of man Valentine Morley looked.
But was he straining any flesh or tightening any muscles? Was he engaged in the business of wresting a livelihood? Not perceptibly. It is simply one of the ironies of the Fates, the stern gods who control the destinies of human kind. The only thing Val Morley was straining at the moment was his eyesight, over the fine print of an old book in the dim recesses of the second hand bookshop kept by old man Masterson on Fourth Avenue from time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.
Valentine Morley did not have to strain a thing. Here were six feet two of manhood, endowed with youth, health, and a dangerous kind of good looks, even to the fascinating cleft in his firm chin—the kind of a man to conquer worlds, if he had to. He did not have to. An industrious and loving parent, now gathered to the bosom of his equally industrious ancestors, had generously left him more millions than there were letters in his illustrious name.
In a desultory fashion, now, Val was engaged in riding his old hobby. He was an amateur of books and bindings, and more of an expert than his careless attitude toward them might indicate. The old zest, however, was gone from the pursuit, much as it had departed from almost every walk of life for Val, since he had returned from his two years as a private in France. His body had returned, but there was something of Val that would always be in France; perhaps it was his former naïve enjoyment in the little things that make up a life and a world.
Nothing nowadays seemed to matter much; his life for the past two years had been so filled with great things that he could not now get himself oriented to the irritating atoms of daily routine. His spirit craved much more than living the usual grind; he rather needed something to bring him out of himself. Bindings could not seem to do it, even the imitation he held in his hand, which was so good an imitation that many an expert would have been deceived. He turned irritably to the old man, Masterson.
“How come you got stuck on this Bauzonnet, Mat?” he inquired. The old man removed his double eyeglasses and looked at him slowly.
“I didn’t,” he said at length. “It’s a copy—that’s all I paid for.” He turned back to his work, that of meticulously putting a small spot of book paste on the broken binding of a copy of The Duchess.
“Good piece of work,” approved Val, secretly pleased with himself for not having been deceived in the binding. It was a good piece of work; a dark blue morocco affair, gold tooled, with a coat of arms in the center, inlaid with red morocco. It was a rather gorgeous piece of work.
There was silence for a space, the crusty old bookseller seemingly intent on nothing but his work. He spoke at last, without turning; it was as if he were talking to the book in his hands, or to himself.
“People are like that,” he said. “At least, the people who drift in here—and most people do get in here at some time or other.”
“How do you mean?” asked Val, turning.
“Why, imitations,” he replied, shortly, as if annoyed that so plain a point should have been missed.
“There are lots of them. Beautiful and expensive—on the outside. They look like the real thing. Face and expression and manner and clothes. Inside they are—copies. Just imitation, that’s all.” He turned definitely to his work, dismissing the subject.
“Not referring to me, or anything like that?” smiled Val, but there was no answer. He knew, of course, that there was no reference to him. He and Masterson had been friends ever since Val had left college. He understood the cranky old bookseller better than perhaps any one else in the world, with the possible exception of Sam Peters, Masterson’s old clerk, who was at present engaged in ponderously moving the sidewalk book racks into the store, preparatory to closing up for the night.
It was getting late, and one by one the street lights and the softer lights in office and residence windows flared into life, throwing the sidewalk in front into blacker relief. Masterson moved around creakily, lighting the antiquated gas jets in his store. He had never had electric lights installed—the ramshackle old building was not wired for electricity, and his store seldom was open in the evening.
A shadow halted at the door for a moment, hesitated, descended the steps and came in. Val looked up from his book. Even in the uncertain light he could see that there was a presence there—something out of the ordinary—a girl to be remembered. The mark of breeding was on her troubled face and on the garments she wore.
Her features were small and regular, with the flnest, wispiest tendrils of hair escaping from under her toque that you ever saw. Her finely modeled chin had a coquettishly determined cast to it that bespoke—along with the nose that barely hinted at being retroussé—a temper that was not always kept under the firmest control. The big, lustrous eyes were shaded by miraculously long, silky lashes that cast a shadow over dark eyes, pools at midnight under the moon. She was below medium height, with hands and feet that were almost ridiculously small to be used for the purpose of supporting a human body, and when she spoke the dimples in her fine cheeks came and went ravishingly. All this Val noted from his corner, approvingly. He shut the book.
He noticed her clothes, too. Quiet and in good taste, with the simple lines that betoken numerous dollars spent with modistes. She was expensively dressed, as even Val’s superlatively male eyes could discern at a glance. In each hand she held a bundle of books bound by a strap such as school children use for their school books, ten or a dozen in each bundle. Quite a heavy burden for so slight a girl, and he noted that she put them down with relief.
All this he noted before old Masterson looked up—she was standing in front of him at the desk. She flashed a quick glance at Val in his corner, and back at Masterson. Val could see that she was nervous and ill at ease. There was agitation in her manner and a look in her eyes that he could hardly classify—could it have been fear? It seemed to him uncommonly like it, in that instant’s glance at him. He had managed to see into her eyes then, before they were again shaded by her wonderful fringed lashes.
“Do—do you buy books here?” she asked Masterson. Her voice seemed cold and calm enough to Val. Perhaps it was imagination on his part.
“Why, occasionally, my child,” said Masterson, creaking to his feet.
“I have some here⸺” she motioned to her erstwhile burden with an inclusive sweep of her small gloved hand.
“Well, I don’t think I care for any, to-day,” he said, and added kindly, “You see, I have more books now than I like to carry, so I’m not buying for a while.”
She showed her disappointment.
“But these are very good books, sir,” she protested. “I’m sure you’ll like them, if you’ll only look at them. I was told that you are always in the market⸺”
“Not now, my child,” he interrupted, turning again to his work, not unkindly, but definitely. She stood there, looking at him almost helplessly.
“If you would only give me—say, ten dollars for them⸺” she faltered.
“Impossible,” he said, without looking. “I never pay ten dollars for books—and besides, I don’t need them. I have too many as it is. No doubt they are worth it.” He went on pasting.
“Won’t you give me something for them,” she pleaded, and there was agitation in her tone.
“Sam!” called Masterson to his assistant, still without looking up. “See how much money is in the cash register.”
“Two dollars and thirteen cents, Mr. Masterson,” replied Peters, after a glance, “You made a deposit to-day.”
He looked at the young woman inquiringly.
“Two dollars and thirteen cents,” she murmured, repeating it after him monotonously.
“If that will be of any use to you—” he deprecated.
“Yes, I’ll take it,” she said swiftly. The money was passed over in silence and she went out immediately, leaving the books behind her. The old man turned again to his work. Val Morley sauntered out from his corner.
“Mat,” he said, “you’re an abominable old profiteer, and you’ll come to no good end.” There was no answer. It was as if the bookseller had not even heard.
“I hope, when you die and go to Purgatory, as you surely will,” continued the young man, “that you’ll be condemned to read Harold Bell Wright and Ouida through all eternity, world without end, and have nothing to smoke but cubeb cigarettes and nothing to drink but celery tonic.”
“My boy,” answered the bookseller, “Wright amuses me and Ouida still thrills me and cubeb cigarettes are good for a cold. As for celery tonic, you’ll be glad of even that to quench your thirst, where you’re going. You didn’t suppose I make my living by giving people as much money for their books as they are worth, did you? Anyway, I really didn’t want any more books, and these are probably not worth more. Bemember what I told you about imitations.”
“This girl’s no imitation,” flashed back the young man. “She’s the real thing.”
“And yet—she wants two dollars and thirteen cents badly enough to give up two packages of books for them—with all those expensive clothes on her back.”
“Now that you mention her back, it was adorable, wasn’t it? By jingo, that was rather queer, wasn’t it?” Val murmured, more to himself than to his friend, the bookseller.
He pondered this, for awhile. It interested him, and anything that interested him these days was distinctly worth thinking about. It isn’t good to be jaded with life at thirty; life should still have a sparkle; a bubble. Here was a beautiful girl, really beautiful, with breeding, position and money marked in plain signs all over her, who seemed to need a couple of dollars badly enough to agitate her. Surely it was fear—or desperation—he had glimpsed in her eyes in that fleeting glance when their gazes crossed. Here was mystery, then . . . and a beautiful girl . . . a beautiful girl. . . .
“Listen, Shylock,” he said suddenly to Masterson. “Since you’re not so anxious about those books, anyway, I’ll give you a hundred per cent profit.” He took out a five dollar bill. “This for the books—as is.” It had suddenly occurred to him that he might find a clue to the girl’s identity in the books. A bookplate, perhaps. Or an inscription.
“Nonsense. You’re an optimist, my son, the old man answered quietly. “I’ll make much more than that on these books-—without looking.”
“Then I’ll give you five dollars for one of the packages—ten dollars,” he tempted, as he saw denial in the eyes of the bookseller. “It’s a profit—clean velvet—without your even having to open the strap.”
Masterson hesitated for a moment. The young man was right . . . he was a bookseller, and it was his business to make a profit. Val saw victory in his eyes.
“Is it a deal?” he asked.
“You’ve bought that bundle of books,” answered Masterson, pointing to one of them, containing ten or eleven books. “Show me ten dollars.”
Money was passed and the deal consummated.
“Never mind wrapping them up,” said Val. “I’ll just throw them into the car.” His machine was at the door, a flying roadster of an expensive and recent make.