LITTLE MARGERY'S LOSS
"I WONDER if he is any better?" Michael Betts said to himself as he
rose the next morning.
It was something new for him to give a thought to any one, save in
the way of business. It was strange indeed that he should actually
feel anxious concerning the health of a neighbour; but as he moved to
and fro, coaxing his fire into a blaze, and preparing his solitary
meal, Michael was exceedingly desirous of learning how the new day
had found Professor Lavers.
When the woman arrived who came every morning at nine to clean up his
place and do him such womanly services as he required, he broke
through the reserve he was wont to maintain towards her, and asked
her if she could tell him how Professor Lavers was.
"How who is?" she asked, with an air of surprise.
"Professor Lavers."
"And who's 'e? I never 'eard of 'im," she said.
"Oh," Michael answered, with some embarrassment, "he lives in Gower
Street—No. 48. He's a very learned, noted man. I thought you might
know about him."
"I never 'eard of 'im," she said again. "Is 'e ill, then? What's the
matter with 'im?"
Michael answered her very curtly. Since she could not satisfy his
curiosity, he was not disposed to gratify hers. He went back into the
shop, and busied himself with his books.
About noon the bell over his door tinkled, and looking up he saw with
pleasure that little Margery was entering the shop, accompanied by a
servant maid, who carried several small parcels.
"Good morning, Mr. Betts," she said, in her clear, high tones. "I've
come to pay you the fourpence I owe you."
"Thank you, missy," he said, looking with interest at the sweet
childish face and the blue eyes lifted so frankly to his.
"It's for the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' you know. I dare-say you thought
I had quite forgotten it, but I hadn't; only nurse would not let me
come before."
"It was no matter, miss. You need not have troubled about it. And do
you like the book as much as you thought you would?"
"Oh yes; the pictures are lovely. But it is such a pity: we can't
have any nice plays now; we're in dreadful trouble at home. My father
is very ill, and Noel has been sent away to Aunt Susie's because he
would make a noise, and I'm all alone, and I don't like it."
"Dear, dear! I'm very sorry to hear that," said Michael, feeling more
moved than he could have believed it possible that he would have been
by a matter which did not concern himself in the least; "but I hope
your father is a little better this morning, my dear."
"I don't think so," said the little girl, with unshed tears in her
eyes as she lifted them to his, "for mother was crying this morning,
and she would not have cried if father had been better. We're quite
in the Slough of Despond at home, aren't we, Jane?"
Jane smiled in response to the child's quaint words, but her eyes had
a troubled expression. She shook her head as she met Michael's
inquiring glance.
"He's no better," she said in a low tone, "and I'm sore afraid he'll
never be no better."
"It's horrid without Noel," said little Margery, as she sprang
lightly on to the top of a pile of big lexicons and then back again
to the floor. "I can't play alone, and Jane does not know how to play
properly. Besides, we must not make a noise."
She stood for a moment with a troubled look on her pretty pink and
white face. Then, as she looked up at the old bookseller, a new idea
occurred to her.
"Had you ever a little brother or sister to play with you, Mr.
Betts?—when you were a little boy, I mean. Of course it's a very
long time ago."
"Well, yes, miss, I had a little brother once; but, as you say, it's
a long time ago."
"Then I suppose he is grown-up now. Where is he?"
"I don't know, miss."
"You don't know?" repeated the child in amazement. "You don't know
where your brother is?"
The face of old Betts flushed as he caught the surprise in her tones.
"It's true, missy; I don't know where he is. Maybe he is dead; but I
can't say."
"Now, Miss Margery, it's time we were going," said Jane quickly. "You
know you promised me you would not stay a minute if I let you come
in."
"All right; I'm ready," responded Margery; but she turned again to
Michael ere she left the shop.
"Do you live here all by yourself, Mr. Betts? It's very lonely for
you, isn't it? But I suppose people don't mind that when they get
old."
He made no reply, except to bid her good day; and the next minute the
green cloak and long golden locks had floated on the wind round the
corner, and he was alone once more.
Was it very lonely for him? He had not thought so before; but to-day,
as he looked round on the dingy old shop, so closely packed with
books, and later, as he sat eating alone with little appetite the
ill-cooked, unsavoury meal which his charwoman had prepared for him,
he had a vague sense that his life was empty, and dull, and unlovely,
and that he wanted something more for happiness than his trade could
give him, even though he was making a good thing of it.
Almost the first thing Michael Betts saw when he unfolded his
newspaper the next morning was the announcement of the death of
Professor Lavers. After he had read the brief notice more than once,
he read nothing more for some time. He sat with his breakfast
untasted before him, gazing abstractedly at the row of bookshelves
opposite. But he did not see the titles printed on the dingy covers.
He was seeing a wee, winsome face, half hidden by drooping curls, and
hearing the music of a sweet, childish voice. When he roused himself,
it was to sigh heavily, and say half aloud, "It's a sad pity. It's a
sad pity for that sweet little maid."