VIII
Bookshops are the most charming of all shops because they relatethemselves so intimately to their visitors. Mr. Rowlandson's gained byits setting--at the corner of the green square. Not a very good placefor trade, you would say. However, he thrived.
His shop-window does not differ from a score of others one may see, on amorning's walk: a shallow bay-window, with small, square panes ofinferior glass; the familiar array of old books turn their mellowtitle-pages toward the light; a window designed for lingering. Threerows, or four, of books--and a few old prints--may be examined from thefront; these whet the appetite. But two other rows are so set in thewindow as to necessitate sidelong inspection, and tempt the observer totake two steps around the corner. Here, to be at ease, one must standwith one foot on the first of the four stone stairs leading downward tothe door; stairs worn by the footfalls of four generations ofbook-hunters. Just within the door one sees an alluring stack of books,the topmost sustaining a neatly printed sign--"Sixpence--your choice."
In short--the foot once placed upon the first of these descending stairsreturns not to its fellow. A little bell rings, and one is inside.
Against the background of his overflowing shelves, with hisold-fashioned clothes, his stooping shoulders, his iron-gray hair, andhis firm, tender, and melancholy face,--you will never visit SamuelRowlandson's shop without wishing to frame him as he stands, and set himin the window, among the other rare old prints.
He must have known you a long, long time to intrude a particular bookupon your notice; and then with the air of consulting a connoisseurrather than suggesting a purchase. Yet he is a shrewd dealer. Not forSamuel Rowlandson is the fairly marked price on the fly-leaf; nor evenhieroglyphics representing cost. A book is worth what it will fetch; andevery customer's purchasing power is appraised with discrimination,concealed, indeed, but most effective.
The shop grows larger as your eyes become accustomed to the gloom of itsremoter part. There are four thousand books on those overweightedshelves; all sorts and conditions of books; big folios and littleduodecimos, ragged books and books clothed by Riviere and Bedford. Oncehe thought a Roger Payne binding had found its way to the shop, aninadvertent bargain; but, alas! the encyclopaedia dashed his tremuloushopes; years before the date on the title-page that seedy but gloriouscraftsman had laid down his tools forever.
The shelves are catholic: Samuel Pepys, immortally shameless; AdamSmith, shaken; Beaumont and Fletcher, in folio as they should always befound; Boswell's Johnson, of course, but Blackstone's "Commentaries"also; Plutarch's "Lives" and Increase Mather's witches; all of Fieldingin four stately quarto volumes; Sterne, stained and shabby; Congreve, inred morocco, richly gilt; Moliere, pocket size, in an Englishtranslation; Gibbon in sober gray; Burton's "Anatomy"----
"The only book," says Mr. Rowlandson, "that ever put me to sleep twohours before I wished."
Here is Addison's "Spectator," its near neighbor Steele; the"Gentleman's Magazine," a long run this, but not complete; rare BenJonson, rubbed at the joints; Spenser's "Faerie Queen," with marginalnotes in a contemporary hand; the "History of the Valorous and WittyKnight Errant," in sable morocco, with armorial decorations; Tacitus inall his atrocity, Herbert, all gentleness.
Overweighted shelves! Overweighted, indeed, for the books standdouble-breasted. One must never assume a volume is not in stock becauseit is not in sight, though Mr. Rowlandson himself does not always know.
"Otway," he ponders, in response to your inquiry; "let me think. H'm.Yes, yes, to be sure, behind the set of 'English Men of Letters.' Notthere? H'm. Well, I must have sold him, then. Oh, no. You will find himin that row of old dramatists, behind the--yes, there! A little to theleft--Ah! of course. Old Otway, and a very nice, sound copy, too."
Not that all the books in Mr. Rowlandson's shop are old; his clienteleis too diversified. The moderns are there, too. Thackeray and Dickens;Meredith and Carlyle; Tennyson; gallant old Sir Walter in variouseditions.
"Lockhart's 'Life,'" he would say, handling a volume from one hand tothe other. "The saddest true story in the world"; and then, brightening,"Two pound, ten."
Mr. Barrie is always handsomely represented on Mr. Rowlandson's shelves.He is one of the few authors Mr. Rowlandson will recommend to casualcustomers. He suggests "Margaret Ogilvy: A Memoir. By her Son." "But areyou sure it is by Barrie?"--they ask. He has sold more than four hundredcopies. Once a year for several years he has written a letter to Mr.Barrie's publishers: "Why don't you bring out his Plays?" he pleads."Think of the thousands of people in the provinces and in America whocan't see them on the stage."
Mr. Rowlandson treasures a half-promise from Mr. Hewlett that he willwrite a novel around the picturesque, if unheroic, figure of FrancoisVillon. "I am keeping his letter," says Mr. Rowlandson, "to insert inthe book--when it is published."
Of De Morgan he observes, sententiously: "Too late." Joseph Conrad'snovels he shelves next to Stevenson's, significantly. He has a highregard for Arthur Christopher Benson's essays. "But does the man think Ihave as much shelving as the Museum?" he growls.
But these newer books are the minority. The composed, brown calfbindings give the shop its tone,--and its faint odor, too; a cultivatedtaste, the liking for that odor of old books.
Mr. Rowlandson's desk is in the alcove at the back of the shop; and inits lowest drawer, oftener than elsewhere, his gray cat, Selima,stretches her lazy length.
On a bright, crisp morning, nearly a week after Phyllis had lain awakethinking, Mr. Rowlandson sat at this desk, looking through his post,which consisted chiefly of book-catalogues. Having laid these aside, heopened a bulky parcel the post had brought. It proved to be a thick,square, black volume; a most unattractive book. But Mr. Rowlandsonviewed it with interest.
"My me! My me!" he exclaimed, and read the title-page; "'Proceedings ofthe British Engineering Society for the Year 1848.' So, you have finallycome to light, old hide-and-seek! Sir Peter Oglebay will be pleased.From Brussels, of all the unlikely--Well, well, I must remember tocancel the advertisement in the 'Athenaeum.'"
He picked up a blue saucer from the floor and stood, for a moment,watching Selima's quick paw, engaged in ablutions.
"Over your ear it goes," said he. "That means customers."
He began his morning's work with a feather duster. Occasionally hestraightened a row of books. The bell tinkled, and Phyllis, in her browncoat and hat, stood, hesitant, at the door. She carried a parcel.
"Mr. Rowlandson?" she asked timidly.
"My name," he replied. "And you are Mrs. Landless. I have seen youbefore, although you have not seen me."
"I have heard a great deal about you, though, from Farquharson," saidPhyllis. "And yesterday I took advantage of your invitation to see thepretty things in your rooms; I want to thank you for the opportunity;they are lovely old things."
"Mrs. F. took you up, did she? Well, they are pretty, and I am glad theypleased you. A foolish fancy, Mrs. Landless; a foolish fancy for an oldman like me. But I am very fond of my fans and patch-boxes."
"I should think you would love them," said Phyllis. "Where in the worlddid you find them all?"
"Oh, in all sorts of odd nooks. They turn up when one is looking forthem. Everything does, Mrs. Landless. That is one of the queer thingsabout collecting. I could tell you some curious stories. Your oldvalentines, now. My me! The attics of the Continent must have beenransacked for them. It is very interesting. But the scattering of acollection is the sad part; saddest when books are dispersed. Only theother day I saw an autograph letter of De Quincey's,--the opium-eater,you know; it was written to the auctioneer who sold his library. Itseems De Quincey had his son buy a few of the books at his own auction.The poor old fellow could not bear the thought of parting with them, Ifancy, when it came to the pinch."
Mr. Rowlandson waited for Phyllis to say something. Poor Phyllis! It waseven more difficult than she had expected. She was tempted to retreat;but she thought of John's book.
"A remarkable coincide
nce,--your finding your way to Mrs. F.'s,"continued Mr. Rowlandson. "And a very happy one for her."
"For me, too," said Phyllis. "We have you to thank for that."
"Well--in a way." Mr. Rowlandson nodded. "It is strange what fortuitouscircumstances seem to direct the current of our lives. I say they seemto, Mrs. Landless, for it may be only seeming. Perhaps all is plannedfor us, even when our decisions rest on the toss of a penny."
A gentle pressure against her skirt attracted Phyllis's attention.Selima's arched back invited her caress.
"Isn't that an unusual name for a cat?" she asked, when told of it.
Mr. Rowlandson's eyes twinkled and he began to quote, straightway. Hisvoice was pleasant to hear:--
"'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dy'd The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclin'd Gazed on the lake below.
"Thomas Gray, the poet, Mrs. Landless. The cat is historic. She was oneof Horace Walpole's pets at Strawberry Hill, his country-seat, when Grayvisited him there. Gray's first book was printed privately by Horace,who had ample means and recognized genius. The book is scarce now; itfetches five pounds and upward."
He resumed the quotation:--
"Still had she gaz'd; but midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam.
"The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?
"Your husband doubtless knows the poem, Mrs. Landless. Mrs. F. tells mehe writes poetry himself. Some one once said of Gray that no other poetentered the portals of fame with so slender a volume under his arm. Hewrote very little, Mrs. Landless, but he polished every letter of everyword until the lines were flawless as the facets of a diamond."
"Did puss get the fish?" asked Phyllis, stooping to stroke Selima'ssleek, gray side again.
"No," replied Mr. Rowlandson. "'The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd,she tumbled headlong in.' But cats have nine lives, you know.
"Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite has no friend.
"Now comes the moral," he continued. "Poets, in those days realizedtheir obligation to society: to tell it something for its own good."
His eyes twinkled again; bright blue they were; friendly eyes, Phyllisthought.
"From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold."
Mr. Rowlandson concluded, smiling. Phyllis returned his smile. The taskbefore her was still difficult, but she felt she had known this dear oldman a long, long time. She took the plunge.
"Mr. Rowlandson, I came in to thank you for letting me see yourpatch-boxes and fans; and to thank you, also, for having directed Mr.Landless to Farquharson's house. But there was something else,--too."She caught her breath prettily, in that quick way of hers. "It is a--amatter of--of business."
He bowed slightly, and awaited the expression of her wish. "I shallrecommend something of Barrie's; or else 'Lorna Doone,'" he reflected.
"May I be seated?" asked Phyllis.
"My me! My me!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlandson. "Here is a chair. I beg yourpardon Mrs. Landless." He seated himself on the third step of theconvenient ladder, leaning against the high, book-laden shelves.
"You cannot imagine the nature of my errand," began Phyllis. It wasdreadfully hard to go on. Her eyes were brimming, but they should notoverflow if she could help it.
Mr. Rowlandson looked at the parcel in her lap; and then at her face;and then at the parcel again. She was not the first embarrassed visitorhe had seen--nor the twenty-first.
"Shall I untie this for you?" he asked gently.
Phyllis nodded; she could not speak.
About twenty of the prettiest valentines were in the parcel. Mr.Rowlandson laid them on a little table and looked through them quietly,while Phyllis recovered her composure.
"May I see if I can save your feelings a little?" his pleasant voicesaid finally. "Mrs. Farquharson has told me of your--your quarrel withSir Peter. A pity; a great pity. And so, perhaps I can guess the rest.The profession of poetry, inspiring as it is, is not--not exactlyremunerative; not--not in a large way. No, I fancy the returns are notwhat you would call--well, say, generous. Things are not going quite sosmoothly and easily for you as you--that is, as they should for twoyoung people who have just started life together. And so it occurred toyou that these old valentines might be sacri--sold, to help, a little."
He paused; Phyllis's handkerchief was at her eyes.
"Ah, yes," he added, "I feared that was it."
He gazed thoughtfully out of the window before he continued:--
"I am very sorry, my dear young lady. I am really very sorry. But I findit necessary to confine my purchases strictly to books. My me! Yes,strictly to books. If you had a few books, now, that you had ceased tocare for, I might allow you something eh?"
"I have only the valentines, Mr. Rowlandson" said Phyllis. "It was verysilly and wrong for me to come to you. I can see that now. Of course,you only buy and sell books."
"Except when commissioned by customers," said Mr. Rowlandson. "Aninvariable rule. If I could break it for any one, I--"
"You have been very kind," said Phyllis, rising. "So kind that I think Icannot leave you under a misapprehension. Mr. Landless's income is quitesufficient for our modest needs." A sudden thought made her heart beatrapidly. "Oh, Mr. Rowlandson! You must not think he knows I am here!Although, of course, I meant to tell him if--if I had been successful."
She hesitated again, and then, with a little appealing gesture, wenthurriedly on.
"I think I should be quite frank with you. Mr. Landless has a book ofpoems--I mean--poems enough to make a book. But, although he has triedeverywhere, he cannot find a publisher who is willing to undertake hislittle book. It is such a very little one, too. One firm of publishersoffered to issue it if he would pay the cost, amounting to about fiftypounds. They wanted the copyright, too, but they have yielded thatpoint. Farquharson told me you said that my uncle paid nearly twohundred pounds for my valentines when--at the time of my father's sale;and I thought, perhaps--perhaps----Do you see? I brought a few of theprettiest ones to show you. I thought you might have forgotten howpretty they are. I want so badly to have John's book published, becausehe is certain to succeed if only this first little book can be broughtout."
The bookseller made no reply. He sat on the step of the ladder, gazingabsently out of the window, over Phyllis's head.
Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, you old sentimentalist, with your fadedold patch-boxes and tattered old fans. You very nearly said somethingthen, quite out of the line of trade. Fortunately you thought it over,for a minute or two, while Phyllis turned her pretty eyes away, to hidethe tears that filled them. Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, or you willsay it now, as she tries to smile at you, with the corners of her sweetmouth trembling. Be care--It is of no use; he will say it.
* * * * *
"I have thought of a way I might be of service to you," said Mr.Rowlandson meditatively. "You see--it is not as though I did not knowthe value of that collection of valentines. They are worth one hundredpounds, at the lowest figure. Now--if you would not take offense, andyou should not, I am sure, when no offense is meant; I might offer tolend you--say, fifty pounds, or half their lowest value, accepting thevalentines as security, and--"
Phyllis's face lighted eagerly; then clouded again.
"But, Mr. Rowlandson," she objected, "that wouldn't be--quite--youknow--busine
sslike, would it? I shouldn't like to do anything that Johnwould feel was not quite regular and proper."
Mr. Rowlandson swallowed something in his throat.
"I should make it very businesslike, indeed by asking you to sign anote; drawn in the strictest, legal terms," he said gravely. "And Ishould charge you interest, at the rate of five per cent, payablehalf-yearly; on the appointed day."
Phyllis considered his face with serious eyes; Mr. Rowlandson slowlyrepeated:--
"Five percent? payable half-yearly; on the appointed day."
"It really sounds quite--quite businesslike and regular," she said. "Areyou certain you can spare so large a sum?--without the slightestinconvenience?"
ARE YOU CERTAIN YOU CAN SPARE SO LARGE A SUM?]
"Quite certain," said Mr. Rowlandson; and then added, "I always have alittle ready money laid by--waiting for a really safe investment--likethis one--at five per cent."
Half an hour later Phyllis shook hands with the old bookseller. She hadan afterthought.
"A few of the valentines are framed. Does that make any difference? And,tell me, Mr. Rowlandson, how can they be taken from our rooms anddelivered at your shop?"
"Well, now," said Mr. Rowlandson, pondering, "I am so much afraid offire in the shop it would really be a favor to me if you would let themremain where they are--for the present; for the present, at least."
Phyllis shook hands again. The little bell tinkled. She was gone. In herpurse were five ten-pound notes. In her heart was a glad song.
Through the shop-window, Mr. Rowlandson watched her cross the streetswiftly. Then he turned. The valentines lay on the table, where she hadleft them,--samples of the wares she brought to market. He wrapped them,tied the parcel neatly, and carried it back to his desk. The square,black volume labeled "Proceedings of the British Engineering Society"caught his attention. He stared at it for some moments Then his blueeyes twinkled.
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