Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration]
AN ELDER BROTHER
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
Author of "The Old Worcester Jug," "Worthy of his Name," etc.
London
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
BUTLER & TANNER,
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS,
FROME, AND LONDON.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. OLD BETTS
II. A NEIGHBOUR
III. LITTLE MARGERY'S LOSS
IV. MICHAEL MAKES A GOOD BARGAIN
V. UNRIGHTEOUS GAIN
VI. AN UNWELCOME ENCOUNTER
VII. IN THE GRIP OF PAIN
VIII. THE BURDEN MAKES ITSELF FELT
IX. RESTITUTION
X. MICHAEL FINDS A FRIEND
XI. MUTUAL CONFESSION
XII. MICHAEL'S HOUSE BECOMES A HOME
AN ELDER BROTHER
CHAPTER I
OLD BETTS
THERE are persons for whom no shop has a greater attraction than a
second-hand book-shop. It may be that they have a passion for
collecting the old and rare, and love to turn over the well-thumbed,
dusty volumes, in the hope of lighting upon a treasure in the form of
a first edition, or a work long out of print. Or they may be drawn
merely by a desire to acquire cheaply the coveted book which their
poverty will not permit them to purchase fresh from the publisher.
Whatever the nature of the attraction, the shop of Michael Betts,
which stood a few years ago at the corner of a narrow, quiet street
in Bloomsbury, had for such individuals, an irresistible fascination.
It was a small shop, but it had a high reputation of its kind, and
its importance was not to be measured by its size. It lay several
feet below the level of the street, and a flight of stone steps led
down to the door. Every available inch of space within the shop was
occupied by books. They crowded the shelves which lined the shop from
floor to ceiling; they filled the storey above, and a great part of
the tiny room at the back of the shop in which Michael took his
meals; they overflowed into the street, and stood on a bench before
the window, and were piled at the side of each step which led up to
the pavement. They were books of all sorts and conditions, of various
tongues and various styles.
Michael knew them perhaps as well as it was possible for a man to
know such a mixed multitude. He was not a scholarly man, having
received, indeed, but the most ordinary education; but in his leisure
hours, he had managed to acquaint himself with most of the classics
of our mother tongue. For the rest, by virtue of close observation,
and, where possible, a little judicious skimming or dipping, he
contrived to discover the nature of most books that came into his
hands, and to pretty accurately determine their worth.
Michael Betts struck most persons as being an elderly man, though he
was not so old as he appeared. Some of his customers were wont to
describe him as "Old Betts." He did not feel himself to be old,
however, and once when he happened to overhear some one so describe
him, the term struck him as singularly inappropriate.
He was a man about the middle height, but inclined to stoop. His
smooth, beardless face, surmounted by thick, wiry, iron-grey hair,
which curled about his brows, was broad and of the German type. Its
hue was pallid, rather as the result of the confined life he led in
the close, ill-lighted shop, than from positive ill-health. His dark,
deep-sunken eyes had often a dreamy, absent expression, but grew keen
at the call of business, for Michael Betts was a shrewd man of
business, and made few mistakes either in buying or selling.
He had kept that corner shop for nearly thirty years, and though his
business had steadily grown during that period, he had managed it
without assistance. It might be that he would have done better had he
not attempted to carry it on single-handed. He was a young man when
he started the business, but now that he was on the borderland of old
age he might have found the help of a youth of much service. But
Michael judged otherwise. He "was not fond of boys," he said. He felt
that he had not the patience to train one.
He could not bear to have his nice, orderly, methodical ways upset by
a careless youth. Moreover, from living constantly alone, he had
become of such a reserved, suspicious, even secretive disposition,
that the very thought of having any one constantly with him in the
shop was hateful to him. For his shop was his all. He had no life
behind or beyond it. He had no one to love him, or whom he could
love. Even his books he did not love as they should be loved. Though
he lived in them and with them, as well as by them, he prized them
chiefly for the sake of what they brought him. But he did not care
that another hand should meddle with them. Rather than that, he
preferred to adhere to his old-fashioned plan, so behind the day, of
locking his shop when he was called out on business, and affixing to
the door a notice of the hour at which he might be expected to return.
Early one gloomy afternoon in November, Michael was busy at the back
of the shop, sorting, as well as he could in the dim light, a
newly-acquired purchase. He looked round as the bell which hung at
the door gave a little tinkle announcing the entrance of a customer;
but though he looked he could not at once discern who it was who
entered with such a light tread, and strange, irregular movements. He
had to move to the other side of a high pile of books ere he
perceived his customer, and then he was very much surprised. Such a
pretty, dainty, wee one he had never seen in his shop before.
A little girl of six or seven years stood there alone, making a
bright, fair spot in the midst of the gloom and dust and piles of
dingy volumes. She wore a little serge cloak of a soft green shade,
lined with pink silk, and a tiny, close-fitting velvet hood of the
same green hue covered her golden locks, which, however, escaped from
it wherever they could, hanging in ringlets down her cheeks and over
her little shoulders. With her rosebud mouth, soft liquid blue eyes,
and fair pink and white complexion, she was the sweetest picture
imaginable; but she was a bewildering vision to Michael Betts. He
stood looking at her in amazement, quite at a loss how to address her.
She, in her turn, regarded him gravely for a few moments; but she
showed no sign of embarrassment. When she spoke, it was with the
simple, unconscious dignity of childhood.
"Are you old Mr. Betts?"
"My name is Betts, certainly," replied Michael; "I don't know about
the old. Can I do anything for you, missy?"
"Yes. I want a 'Pilgrim's Progress,' if you please. Noel and I want
to have one for our very own. On Sundays, we are allowed to have
mother's, which is a beautiful one, with such lovely pictures in it;
but she will not let us have it in the nursery during the week, and
we really must have one, for, you see, we like to play at being
Christian and Faithful, and we want the book in order to know exactly
what they do and say. We each like being Christian best, so we take
it in turns. That is the fairest way, I think, don't you?"
"I can't say, I am sure, my dear," said Betts, looking very puzzled.
"Do you wish me to see if I have a 'Pilgrim's Progress'?"
"Yes, please," said the child eagerly, with brightening face. "Father
said he'd no doubt you would have one you could let us have for a
shilling. He said he would see about it, but he generally forgets
when he says that, so I thought I had better come myself. I have the
shilling here," she added, fumbling in her glove. "It's in two
sixpences: one sixpence is mine, and the other is Noel's."
"And who is your father, little missy?" asked Michael.
"Why, father is father, of course," said the wee girl, as if she
considered the question rather unnecessary; adding, however, after a
moment's reflection, "but perhaps you would call him Professor
Lavers."
"Ah, to be sure," said Michael, nodding his head. He knew Professor
Lavers well. He was one of his best customers. But it was difficult
to think of the elderly, worn-looking professor as the father of this
sweet little maiden.
"Father is a very learned man," said the child, nodding her head
sagaciously; "mother says so. That's why they call him Professor. My
name is Margery, you know, and Noel's is Noel. Noel means Christmas
in French, and mother called him that because he was born on
Christmas Day."
"Is Noel older than you?" asked Michael, who was beginning to feel
interested in the child's frank confidences.
"Oh no. He is a year younger; but he's nearly as big as I am. That's
because he is a boy. Mother says boys ought to be big. What lots and
lots of books you have, Mr. Betts! My father has a great many books;
but not nearly so many as you have."
"No. I've got another room full of them upstairs, little missy."
"Have you?" said Margery, in an awestruck voice. "And have you read
them every one, Mr. Betts?"
"Oh dear no," said Betts, smiling as he shook his head; "life
wouldn't be long enough for that, missy. But I think I know something
about most of them, though."
"Do you?" Margery looked at him in wonder. "How clever you must be!
It takes me such a time to find out what is in a book. But then you
are very, very old. You have had a great many years to do it in."
"Humph!" said Betts, pushing his fingers through his thick, grizzly
hair, and hardly knowing what to make of this remark.
"Can you read Greek, Mr. Betts?" asked Margery eagerly. "My father
can read Greek—can you?"
"No, miss, that I can't," said Michael, looking as if he did not
quite like to own his inferiority; "but now, about this book you
want. I believe I have a 'Pilgrim's Progress' somewhere, if only I
can lay my hand on it. Ah, I think I know where it is."
He drew forward his library steps, mounted them, and after a brief
search amongst the books on an upper shelf came down with one in his
hand, which he dusted carefully ere he showed it to Margery.
"Here's the book you want, missy," he said, bending down to her as he
held it open. "The back's a bit shabby; but the reading is all right.
And there are pictures, too."
"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Margery, in delighted tones. "I do love
books with pictures, don't you? Ah, there is poor Christian with his
burden on his back. Oh, weren't you glad, Mr. Betts, when his burden
fell off?"
"I glad?" said Mr. Betts, looking puzzled. "I don't understand you."
He had once read the "Pilgrim's Progress," wading through it with
difficulty, many years ago; but had found it a book he "could make
nothing of."
"When you read about it, I mean," said Margery. "But p'raps it's so
long ago that you have forgotten. Mother says the burden means sin,
and every one has that burden to carry till Jesus takes it away. Have
you lost your burden, Mr. Betts?"
"My burden?" repeated Betts, more puzzled than ever.
"Yes—your burden of sin. You're a sinner, aren't you?"
"Indeed, miss, you're under a mistake," said Michael stiffly. "I know
there are plenty of sinners in London; but I am not to be counted
amongst them. I can honestly say that I never did anything wrong in
my life."
Margery stood looking at him, her blue eyes opened to their widest
extent, expressing the utmost wonder.
"Oh, Mr. Betts! Never in all your life! And you have lived so many
years! What a very, very good man you must be! Why, I am always doing
naughty things, though I do try to be good. And I thought everybody
did wrong things sometimes. But never in all your life—"
"Well, here's the book, little missy, if you like to take it," said
Michael, finding her remarks embarrassing, and wishing to put an end
to them. "The price is one shilling and fourpence."
"But I have only a shilling," said Margery, giving him her two
sixpences; "that won't be enough, will it?"
"That'll do, thank you, miss. Any day that you're passing you may
bring me the fourpence."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Betts!" said Margery, delighted. "I won't forget.
How pleased Noel will be! But I must go now, or nurse will be angry.
I expect she will say it was naughty of me to come alone. Good-bye,
Mr. Betts."
"Good day, missy."
He opened the door for her, and she passed out, shaking back her
sunny curls. But when she was half-way up the steps she suddenly
stopped, stood in thought for a moment, and then turned back.
"Mr. Betts," she said, thrusting her pretty head inside the door
again.
"Well, missy?"
"I can't understand about your never doing wrong. Mother says Jesus
died for sinful people, and I thought that every one had sinned. But
if you've never done wrong, then Jesus can't have died for you. It's
very strange."
"Is it, miss?" said Michael, with a grim smile. "Well, don't you
trouble your pretty self about me. It's all right. There's some
things, you know, that little folks can't understand."
"Oh, there are, I know, lots. I'm always finding that out. But it's
horrid not to be able to understand. Well, good-bye."
She ran off again, and was quickly out of sight.
"What a little chatterbox!" said Michael to himself; "what an
extraordinary child! But why should they stuff her head with those
old-fashioned theological ideas? I suppose she was right in a sense
about my being a sinner. These old theologians would say so, at any
rate. And in church, people confess themselves miserable sinners, but
not one in a hundred means it. Anyhow, I'm sure of this, that if
there was no one worse than me in the world to-day, it would be a
very different world from what it is. So that is Professor Lavers'
little girl. I wonder if she'll remember the fourpence."