There are extant numerous clippings from famous writers which, coming
"trippingly off the tongue," have grown into popular favor and are
generally accepted as the essence of wisdom, but which will not stand
the test of cold and logical analysis. Hence it is that so many
familiar proverbs belie themselves. Among these popular sayings may be
classed the description of life as a fitful fever. There are few men
and women to whom this will apply; with the great majority of human
beings life glides from one groove into another with ease and
naturalness, and the most startling changes are effected without
violent strain. Poor men grow rich, rich men grow poor, the lowly
mount, the high slip into the downward paths, and one and all accept
the reversals of position with a certain innate philosophy which makes
life desirable, and often sweet, however wide the gulf which separates
the present from the past. It is something to be genuinely grateful
for; were it otherwise, existence would become an intolerable burden,
and every waking moment would be charged with pain.
These observations are pertinent to the course of our story, in
respect of which the incidents already narrated may be accepted as a
kind of prologue. The scene changes to the busy East of this mighty
city, the precise locality being a second-hand bookshop in Church
Alley. The proprietor of this shop was Mr. Joseph Loveday, Nansie's
uncle, and that the reflections upon the shiftings in life's
kaleidoscope are not out of place was proved by words which fell from
his lips as he sorted a pile of books which he had purchased at
auction.
"Change, change, change--nothing but change. Some drop out, some
remain, and time rolls on. I live, with a likelihood of living for
many years; he is dying, with the certainty of death in the course of
a few days. So he says in his letter, and in serious affairs he was
never given to light talk. Presently he will leave the world behind
him. What matters?"
The question, addressed with mingled bitterness and mournfulness to
himself, aroused him from his reverie.
"It does matter," he said. "We are not exactly lumber."
He was a man of middle age, a bachelor, and he conducted his business
alone, without assistance of any kind, taking down his shutters in the
morning and putting them up again at night, arranging the books on his
shelves within and on the stall without, and knowing where to lay his
hand, almost blindfold, upon any volume which he or a customer
required. In this lonely mode of carrying on his trade there were
inconveniences which were beginning to tell upon him. The toilers
round about were not as a rule blessed with libraries of any value,
and although he was always ready to purchase any odd lots that were
brought to him, he picked up very little stock in this way. The
greater portion of his treasures was bought at book auctions in the
West, and whenever he attended one of these sales he was under the
necessity of shutting up his shop and taking the key with him. Of late
he had thought seriously of employing an assistant, but the difficulty
was to find one to suit both his business and his peculiarities. In
his domestic arrangements he was compelled to call in assistance. He
employed a charwoman twice a week, for half a day on each occasion, to
clean his place and set it in order; his breakfasts, teas, and suppers
he prepared himself with his own hands, and when he did not purchase
his dinner at a convenient cook-shop, it was sent in to him by Mrs.
Peeper, keeper of a wardrobe-shop in Church Alley. He looked older
than he was, and had too early acquired a stoop from poring over
books; he had blue eyes, large and shapely hands, and features
furrowed with lines of thoughtfulness. When he was not called
away to attend an auction or upon other business, he would be seen
sitting at his counter, or upon the floor, sorting books and making
lists of them, or standing at his door in slippers, wearing a loose
dressing-gown and a plain skull-cap, and with a pair of spectacles
resting generally above his eyebrows. His reputation extended far
beyond the immediate East in which his shop was situated. In the
course of his career it had been his good-fortune to light upon rare
books in the odd lots he had picked up at auction, and book-hunters
from afar would come to look over his stock of treasures. On the day
of his introduction to the reader he had been much exercised. There
was the letter from his brother, to which he had replied in terms with
which we are familiar; it had taken his thoughts to the past, and old
memories had troubled his mind; domestic and business worries were
also troubling him. The charwoman he had employed for years, and who
was now up-stairs making a noise which annoyed him, had, during the
last few weeks, generally made her appearance in a state of
inebriation. He had expostulated with her upon this new and evil
departure, but his remonstrances had not effected an improvement, and
now, as he sat musing and sorting his books, a sudden crash in the
room above caused him to start to his feet with an angry exclamation.
He calmed himself instantly, having a great power of self-control,
and, going to the staircase, called out:
"What is the matter, Mrs. Chizlet?"
"Only the wash'and basin, sir," replied a voice from above.
"Oh," he said.
"And the jug, sir."
"Oh."
"And the soap-dish, sir."
"Oh."
Then there was a pause and an ominous stillness.
"Have you broken anything else?" he asked.
"I didn't break 'em, sir," was the reply. "It was the cat."
"There's no cat in the house. Come down."
"In a minute, sir, when I've recovered myself."
He waited the minute, and down came the woman, with a vacant smile on
her face, and a number of pieces of broken crockery in her hands,
which she let fall with a crash on the floor of the shop.
"The cat, eh?"
"Yes, sir, the cat."
"Where did it come from? The sky? What is that sticking out of your
pocket? The skeleton of the cat? No. A bottle. Empty, of course."
"Yes, sir, worse luck."
"Mrs. Chizlet," said Mr. Loveday, gravely, "last Friday you broke two
dishes."
"Not me, sir."
"Well, the cat. This day week the cat broke all my cups and saucers.
If I keep you in my service, in the course of another week there will
not be a sound piece of crockery or glass in the place. Therefore I
will not trouble you to come here again."
"We're all born, and none buried," said the charwoman, with a silly
smile.
And having received her half-day's wage, she departed contentedly, and
made her way to the nearest public-house.
Mr. Joseph Loveday gazed disconsolately around; it was not the broken
crockery that annoyed him, it was the disarrangement of domestic
custom. Having discharged the woman who had served him so long, it was
a settled thing that she would never be employed by him again. Where
could he find another who would serve him more faithfully? He detested
strangers, and a break in his usual habits was a great discomfort to
him. He was in a mood to exaggerate the discomfort, and in a few
minutes he had magnified it considerably. It is not from the most
important disasters of life, but from its pins and needles, that we
draw our acutest miseries. Everything had been going wrong with Mr.
Loveday lately. During the past week he had missed three books from
his stall outside, and had been unable to discover the thief. Even if
he had been successful in catching him he would have hesitated to
prosecute him, because of the loss of time it would entail. Then, Mrs.
Peeper, proprietor of the wardrobe shop, who occasionally cooked his
dinners for him, had been behaving badly, keeping him waiting an hour
and more, and placing before him food, so villainously cooked that he
could not eat it. Some change was decidedly necessary to restore the
harmony of his days. As he was debating with himself in what way the
change could be made, he raised his eyes and saw through the window a
lad standing at the stall outside, turning over the leaves of a book.
The age of this lad was twelve, and his name was Timothy Chance.
"I might do worse," thought Mr. Loveday. The drawback was that Timothy
was a bundle of rags.
He was turning over the leaves of the book he had lifted at haphazard
from the stall, but he was not reading it. Every now and then he
directed a furtive glance towards the interior of the shop, in the
hope, without obtruding himself, of attracting favorable attention.
Hanging on his left arm was an old open-work basket, and sitting
therein was a bedraggled hen. Mr. Loveday stepped to the shop door,
and said:
"Well, Timothy."
"Yes, sir," said the lad, looking up with a cheerful smile, and
speaking in quite respectable English, "here I am, back again, like a
bad penny."
"Come in," said Mr. Loveday.
Timothy gladly obeyed the summons, and entered. Placing his basket
with the hen in it upon the floor, he stood respectfully before the
bookseller. In classic story a goose became historical; in this modern
tale, wherein heroic deeds are not heralded by clang of trumpets, it
may by and by be admitted that the fowl which Timothy Chance set down
deserves no less a fame.