MICHAEL MAKES A GOOD BARGAIN
SOME weeks passed by, and Michael saw nothing more of little Margery.
He thought of her more than once, wondering how it was with her and
her little brother, now that their father was no more. Sometimes when
the sudden tinkling of the bell over the shop door warned him of the
approach of a customer, he would look up, half hoping that he might
see the wee figure in the green cloak and close-fitting velvet
bonnet. But Margery did not come, and if she had, she would not have
worn the green cloak. That had been exchanged for sombre black, which
gave a new and pathetic beauty to her sweet, round, pink and white
face.
More than a month had passed since the professor's death, when one
evening the servant who had accompanied little Margery when she came
to pay the fourpence entered the shop, and asked Michael if he could
call at No. 48, Gower Street, on the following morning, as her
mistress wished to see him. After a moment's reflection, Michael
replied that he would come, and added an inquiry as to the health of
the little lady who had accompanied her when she came before.
"Miss Margery is quite well, thank you," replied the maid, "and as
much of a chatterbox as ever. I never knew such a child for asking
you questions and saying queer things. There's no knowing how to
answer her."
"Did she grieve much for her father?" asked Michael.
"Well, yes, she cried a great deal. She was fond of her father, was
Miss Margery. And it upset her to see her mother crying. But she got
over it sooner than you would think. Children quickly forget their
troubles. If you could have seen her and her little brother playing
together on the day their father was buried, you'd have been
surprised. But, there, it wasn't to be expected they could miss their
father, for they saw so little of him. He was always shut up in his
study with his books. A regular bookworm he was. You couldn't call
him nothing else."
Michael made no reply; but he wondered whether, if he had been the
father of a sweet little girl like Margery, he would have been
content to live shut up with his books all day.
"Then I may tell Mrs. Lavers that you will come to-morrow morning at
ten o'clock?" said the maid as she turned to go.
Michael assented. He was not surprised that Mrs. Lavers should send
for him. It frequently happened that his attendance was requested at
houses where there had been a recent bereavement, necessitating
considerable changes. The professor's widow doubtless wished to
dispose of some or all of her husband's books.
Michael was not mistaken. On his arrival at the house he was at once
ushered into the late professor's library, and whilst he waited
there, he feasted his eyes on the contents of the ample bookshelves,
which were fully and richly stocked. He had time to form a good
estimate of the value of the books ere Mrs. Lavers came into the room.
The professor's widow was a delicate, graceful woman of about
thirty-five years of age. Her face was pale, and it had a very
careworn, sorrowful expression; but it still bore the traces of past
beauty, and the fair, rippling hair which showed beneath her widow's
cap, and her soft blue eyes, reminded Michael of little Margery. As
she addressed him, Michael knew instinctively that he had to deal
with a true lady in the highest sense of the term. And she, glancing
at him, was struck with his air of respectability, and believed that
she might trust in his integrity.
"I sent for you, Mr. Betts," she said, "because I am obliged to part
with my husband's books. I have to move into a very small house, into
which I cannot take them. And indeed for other reasons I feel it my
duty to sell them. I have been advised to show them to you; I have
been told that I may trust you to give me a fair price for them."
"I can give you as good a price for them as any one in the trade,
madam," replied Michael promptly. "Though I say it myself, it's true
that I understand the second-hand book market as well as any one can.
Do I understand that you wish to part with all the books in this
room?"
"Yes, all of them," said the lady, with a sigh; "I have taken away
such as I want to retain."
"Then with your permission, madam, I will make a brief inspection of
the shelves, after which I shall be able to tell you the sum I can
offer."
The lady made a sign of assent, and sank wearily into a large easy
chair which stood by the hearth. She watched him with a melancholy
expression on her face as he slowly directed his glance from shelf to
shelf, occasionally pausing to jot down certain titles in his
notebook.
Michael had already made up his mind as to the probable value of the
books; but he was not going to commit himself till he had made a
thorough survey of the shelves. When at last he had fully satisfied
himself as to the number and character of the books, he turned to the
lady and named the sum he was willing to give for them.
[Illustration]
Mrs. Lavers' delicate cheek flushed as she heard it. She looked at
him with troubled eyes. "No more than that!" she said. "It seems very
little. Why, my husband spent pounds and pounds every year upon
books."
"' I've no doubt he did, madam; but buying and selling are different
things. I know what I may expect to make by these books, and I assure
you it would not pay me to give more."
"No? Well, of course you know best." She looked disappointed and
anxious. "I must think more about it before I decide."
"Certainly, madam. You may like to consult other dealers, perhaps;
but I do not think any one in the trade will offer you more than I
do."
With that he bade her good day, and went back to his shop.
Apparently his words proved true, and Mrs. Lavers found no one
willing to give a larger price for the professor's books, for three
days later she sent him an intimation that she was willing to part
with them for the sum he had named. She requested that he would
remove them as quickly as possible, as she was about to quit the
house.
Michael Betts lost no time in sealing the bargain, from which he knew
he should reap good profit. He promptly waited on Mrs. Lavers and
handed her the sum he had agreed to give, and on the following
evening he began to remove the books, engaging for this purpose the
help of a man with a small hand-cart.
He did not see Mrs. Lavers ere he set about his task of dismantling
the bookshelves. Doubtless she felt it a cruel necessity which forced
her to dispose of her husband's books. It was little wonder if she
shrank from the pain of seeing them carried out of the house, and
therefore kept out of the way.
Michael had removed the books from several shelves, when he found
lying on the top of a row of books, as if thrust there by chance, the
copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress" which little Margery had purchased
of him with such pleasure. He took it up and looked at it in
surprise. He could not be mistaken in the book. He knew it by various
tokens. Moreover, a glance at the fly-leaf showed him that Margery
had written on it her own and her brother's name in a large, round,
childish hand.
"Margery and Noel Lavers—the book of them both," she had written,
that there might be no doubt as to the ownership of the volume.
Surely it was by accident that the book lay there! It could not be
intended that he should carry it away with the others. The children
could hardly have tired so soon of the book they had longed to
possess. Persuaded that it was a mistake, Michael laid the book
carefully aside in a safe place ere he went on with his task.
Presently he became aware of the sound of eager voices and noisy
little feet on the stairs, then suddenly the door of the room in
which he was working was flung back with a jerk, and little Margery
ran in, followed by a little boy with dark, curly hair and dark eyes,
who, however, started back on seeing a stranger, and sped away as
quickly as he had come.
Margery looked astonished at finding the room occupied and books
lying about in piles on the floor. She stood still for some moments,
too surprised to utter a word. She wore a black frock, and black
shoes and stockings covered her dainty feet and ankles; but a large
white pinafore hid most of the frock, and over it her golden curls
fell in rich profusion.
"Why, you're Mr. Betts, in whose shop I bought our 'Pilgrim's
Progress,' she said at last. What are you doing here in my father's
library?"
"I'm looking over the books, my dear," replied Michael; after a
moment's hesitation. "Was that your little brother I saw just now?"
"Yes, that's Noel; but he always runs away when he sees anybody. It's
riddiklus to be so shy. We were coming to look for a sermon book,
because we are going to play at church, and I must have a book to
read out of for the sermon—something with plenty of long, hard
words. It doesn't matter if I don't say them properly, you know, for
there's only Noel there."
"I see. So you play at going to church. That's a strange game."
"It's a very nice game," said Margery with eagerness. "I'm the
clergyman, and Noel's the congregation. Sometimes Noel wants to
preach; but he can't preach well. He means to preach when he is a
man, though. He says he shall drive an omnibus all the week and
preach on Sundays."
"Dear me!" said Michael, smiling, "that will be an unusual kind of
life. But look here, little missy, see what I've found! Your
'Pilgrim's Progress!' You don't want to lose that, do you?"
"Oh, where did you find it?" exclaimed the child. "Noel and I have
wanted it for days, and nurse said she did not know where it was."
"It was here on this shelf," said Michael, as he gave it to her.
"Oh, who could have put it there?" said little Margery, taking the
book and beginning to turn over its pages. "Do you know, I like the
pictures even better than I thought I should. See, here is Giant
Despair. Doesn't he look horrid! But this is the picture I like
best—'The Pilgrims Passing the River.' Mother says that father has
crossed the river and gone to be with Jesus in the beautiful city.
But I wish-oh, I do wish that he could have stayed here with us!"
The child's voice had suddenly grown mournful, and tears were dimming
the blue eyes. A strange feeling came over Michael Betts—a curious,
choking sensation which he could not understand. He longed to say
something to comfort the child; but what could he say?
"Mother says we must all cross the river some day," continued little
Margery, after a moment's silence. "We don't know when it will be. I
should think you would cross soon, Mr. Betts, for you are so very
old. You are older than my father was, aren't you?"
"I don't know, I am sure, miss," said Michael, turning hastily to the
shelves and beginning to lift down the books without much heeding
what he was doing.
"What are you going to do with those books, Mr. Betts?" demanded the
child.
"I am going to take them away, missy. You see, your poor father won't
want them any more, and they'd only be a trouble to your mother,
especially as she is leaving this house, so I am going to take them
to my shop."
Margery looked at him for a few moments in a troubled, bewildered
way. Then big tears gathered again in her eyes.
"Oh, I can't bear it!" she cried suddenly. "Father is gone, and now
his books are going, and everything will be different. I cannot bear
it."
And then, to Michael's consternation, she threw herself face
downwards on the rug and sobbed aloud with a child's passionate
vehemence. He was in utter dismay, not knowing in the least what to
say or do. It seemed to him quite a long time that he stood there,
helpless and embarrassed; but in truth only a few minutes passed ere
the door opened and a woman wearing a white cap and apron came
quickly into the room.
"Come, come, Miss Margery, this won't do," she said, not unkindly,
though in a tone of remonstrance, as she bent over the weeping child.
"You mustn't give way like this. Come, come now."
And taking the child in her arms, she carried her from the room.
There were tears in Michael's eyes as he turned back to the
bookshelves. The hands which tried to lift the books shook strangely.
He hated his task now. He was thankful when he had got through with
it, and the last load was conveyed to his shop.
He could not forget the child. He sat up late that night, still
busied with the books, for it was not easy to find room for them all
in the limited space which his premises afforded. Margery's words
kept ringing in his ears—"I should think you would cross soon, Mr.
Betts, for you are so very old. You are older than my father was,
aren't you?"
The child was right, though how she knew he could not imagine.
Michael had seen the professor's age recorded in the newspaper—he
was fifty-one, whereas Michael was fifty-nine. But what of that?
No one but a child would think him old. Many men lived to be eighty,
and some even to ninety. And he was so well and strong. No, he need
not think yet of that dark, chill river of death, the very thought of
which made him shiver. But he reflected, and the thought caused him
to breathe more than one heavy sigh, that when his time came to pass
that river there would be no one to go with him to the brink, no
loving voice to bid him farewell, no child to mourn for him as little
Margery mourned for her father. There had been no time in his
hard-working, self-centred, business absorbed life to cultivate love;
but Michael Betts was beginning to feel that its absence made a sore
and woeful lack in his life.