Chapter IV: 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.

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.