Chapter III: Part 3

One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel.

"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"But your arm and your--"

"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,--"I told you I'd get it."

"Where is it?"

"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!"

The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a dingy pamphlet.

There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks.

The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M. Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken? How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with Marie Perrin?

Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle?

His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by his secretary.

"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?"

"Nothing, John, thank you."

The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly!

"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get _that_!"

Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead.

"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to me--and Marie Perrin."

"She was my--"

John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement.

"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know something of it."

"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the combination. I told you I knew nothing about it--that perhaps it had been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head."

"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?"

"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same since. I think of her every night of my life--I've now told you all and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of me."

"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home--and come down to-morrow, as usual."

The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its wanderings, all the pages were intact--"collating" it, as bibliophiles love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect--just as when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,--what were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin.

THE GREAT DISCOVERY

He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all universally condemned the last!

John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books!

Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions.

It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined she became. At last they reached a compromise--he would put the matter squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study.

"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in the stock-market--"

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?"

"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading--"

"Speculating again, have you?"

"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the engagement until I spoke to you."

"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing for my daughter."

"Perhaps some day when I go to work--" poor Libro pleaded.

"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker who _worked_!"

Without another word they parted--and Libro returned to the drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel.

When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most terrible thing in the world--it destroyed in a moment love and happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool--for he was not engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident appealed to him.

The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, who could do nothing "on account of the war."

He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the theatres--everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. Mr. Edwards was right!

But he must live--the situation had become not so fantastic. He would sell everything--his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, everything but his books. Those he would not part with.

On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop--he had passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry had a huge white card on which ran some such legend--"Former price $1,000--now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real "business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of heaven--he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep.

Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality of this American Mont de Piete. But he was again afraid to enter. He seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up to the door and enter before anyone would notice him.

He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met _friends_! All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were putting up "more margin!"

John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well known Broadway habitue objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his mother.

"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king among his brethren of this old and honorable profession.

"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro.

"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you fifteen dollars, and not a cent more."

"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!"

"Fifteen dollars--my time is valuable."

It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or implored him, Steinman remained the same--heartless, brusque, cutting, satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," gasped Libro--"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!"

This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If I could only get even"--he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he had pledged everything.

Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the "Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus.

Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh of his own.

But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers.

"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice before. Not one cent!"

"You,--you--" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He would have killed him had he a weapon near.

"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at auction," exclaimed Libro.

"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him.

"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would like to see this."

Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy the book. He opened it.

"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then stopped suddenly.

The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus," 1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great discovery!

"What's it worth?" said Steinman.

"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you."

"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No Books!"

John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself.

"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable I possess,--but this."

He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring. It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy.

"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath.

"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly on the scales.

"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents."

Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed. He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not to be patronized.

"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly.

"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase another!

It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall give you five dollars. Not a cent more."

"No. Ten dollars or nothing."

"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up."

He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he passed through the swinging doors.

It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book--the only book he ever parted with--for a fabulous sum--more than its weight in gold,--and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful library.

With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own money.

"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe and take them with me."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied Steinman affably.

"I want to thank you, Steinman."

"Thank me! Why?"

"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for thirty thousand dollars!"

In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of "the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I _am_ a fool; and I glory in it!"

THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE

He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library. He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In glass-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed in the light. At one end of the spacious room was a case with bronze mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant, powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve, binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to give its history.

"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was its title: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!" exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a treasure should have been used so damnably!"

"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is its history:--

"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together. Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for both of us!

"About twelve years ago, attracted by a great book sale, I started to form this library, which has been the passion of my life. I read all the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops; spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a few to one of my friends yesterday.'

"I winced; but said nothing.

"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors--men after my own heart--rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes--so my good wife said--came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She remarked that I had changed--that I no longer loved her. This was not true; I loved her as I always did--but I would not allow anyone to dictate to me.

"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had bought, but brought them home surreptitiously, placing them in the corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me _flagrante delicto_, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was sure she had not seen before.

"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a scholarly thing I was doing,--but it was of no avail. She became actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the _appearance_ of a book.

"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe, scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer; I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I had more courage than he and snatched the uncut 'Comus' from him when it was almost within his grasp.

"I tried no longer to bear with my wife--she was a vixen, a mad woman, a very devil. I resolved to divorce her--but on what grounds? I could not think of a single charge that could be placed before a jury,--American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the grounds of infidelity,--that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more than I did her!

"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I marked with ink the things I most _needed_ and determined to buy a few exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived. I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid.

"I drew my check for the amount and carried it home. I was reading it in the library when my wife entered. I casually, in an unconcerned way, although my heart was trembling, placed it on the table. I looked at my wife. Her eyes were flashing. She held the evening paper on which I could read the headlines.--'Rare Book brings $3010.'

"I knew the storm was coming. She said I was an ingrate, a dissipater of her fortune, a fool, a heartless villain, a--

"She went no further.

"I grabbed the first thing at hand,--it was 'The Fifteen Joys of Marriage,'--and threw it at her head. It struck her arm and fell upon the floor. When I stooped to pick it up, noticing the poor, bruised, broken corner, I looked about. My wife was gone.

"The next day she served me with the papers for the divorce which is now a _cause celebre_.

"At last I was free!"

End of Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. Rosenbach