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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
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do not download or redistribute this file.
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ANNE ALEXANDER looked around her with a sense of satisfaction. It was a quaint little shop she had happened on, with a tiny, narrow window through which she could catch a glimpse of the corner of the opposite street and the red and blue signboard swinging above the draper's shop. When she sat at the counter and looked out it was just like watching figures pass in a cinematograph show. They seemed to come from nothing and vanish into nothing. She saw them for a moment, and then they were no more, unless of course she liked to get up and go to the door; but this would have spoilt the whole illusion. She liked that sense of stories begun and never completed, and it pleased her to fit her own fancies to the people who hurried by.
The stout gentleman with a tightly-buttoned waistcoat and the white spats, who passed every morning at eleven o'clock, would have been considerably astonished if he had known the romantic story the little girt in the bookshop opposite had woven around him; but then one has to do something to pass the time when one keeps a second-hand bookshop to which business simply refuses to come.
Anne had always longed to possess a second-hand bookshop of her own. It had always been one of her chief pleasures to poke about in them in the quest for treasures, which, however, she never found. Her father had taught her, as a child, to love books, and when he died and left her with a capital of three hundred pounds and an income of one pound a week, it seemed to her like a special act of a beneficent Providence that old Franzi Rignhold should want to sell his business for exactly that sum.
Within two days the three hundred pounds had changed hands, and Anne Alexander was the proud possessor of Franzi Rignhold's second-hand bookshop.
It was rather alarming to find, when she came to add up her first week's profit and loss, that she had only taken twelve shillings in cash, of which she had given five away to beggars who had come to the door with a story about six children starving at home and a wife—or a husband as the case might be—dying in the hospital, and was the poorer for the loss of four books stolen from the sixpenny box outside.
Still, to counter-balance this, there were all the charming friends she had made. The boys from the college close by who came to sell their text books; the old lady with the bonnet and mantle who had a craze for collecting Bibles, and came every day to see if she had an original edition of the time of King James; and the courtly old gentleman with the long frock coat and white beard who called Anne "Madam," and gravely discussed archaeology with her. Anne knew nothing whatever about archaeology, but that did not prevent her discussing it, and she felt flattered when the old gentleman complimented her on her knowledge.
"Such erudition, Madam, in one so young astounds me," he said. It was rather a shock to discover later that this courtly old gentleman was in the habit of concealing books beneath his coat-tails. However she put this down to an amiable idiosyncrasy on his part, though she nevertheless took the precaution of removing all loose books beyond his reach.
Besides Anne, the bookshop had to support Janet. Janet was some sort of a relation of Anne's—they had never been able to work out exactly what relation, the effort was too exhausting—and she had come to look after the housekeeping, as Anne had expected to be so engaged with her large financial operations as to have no time for domestic worries. Janet was thirty-five, though she looked fifty, and was a persistent pessimist. For Janet no cloud ever had a silver lining; it was always sable on both sides. Janet did not approve of Anne's venture, and predicted disaster for it.
"Why books?" she said. "And if you must have books, why second-hand books? Couldn't you sell new ones instead? Nice clean ones without a smell?"
Anne sighed. Sometimes she found Janet rather tiring. There were so many things she did not approve of, such as too much laughter, which she said gave her a headache; fresh air, which gave her a cold; and flowers, which she said only made a mess about the place. She really belonged to an age of antimacassars and German oleographs, and Anne was sometimes tempted to wish that she had never left it. Still, she had to admit that Janet was a thorough housewife, and she supposed that was a virtue. She could hear her now banging things about in the little sitting-room at the back of the shop, and raising a great dust. Anne sighed again—she hated dust—and leant her elbows on the counter.
"Oh," she said aloud, "if only something, interesting would happen!"
As she spoke the shop door opened with the protesting squeak it always gave and a young man entered. He had bright blue eyes, and was dressed in a grey Norfolk suit that had evidently seen better days a long time ago. Under his arm he carried a large book which he thumped down on the counter.
"Why, hullo," he said, expressing some surprise as he saw a stranger. "Where's old Franzi?"
For answer Anne twinkled at him. Then she looked grave. She remembered that young persons behind shop counters do not twinkle at young men, even though they are particularly nice young men with merry blue eyes.
"Mr Rignhold is not here," she said with dignity.
"Gone for a holiday, has he? Not before he wanted it, poor old chap. You're the assistant, I suppose? Well, I say."
He leant confidentially across the counter.
"You can fix me up. I want a loan of a pound on this book. Old Franzi would give it like a shot if he was here. He's often lent me money on it. It's a valuable book, you know, and I believe the old rascal used to hope I wouldn't be able to redeem it some time."
Anne looked taken aback. Her idea of business had not included lending a pound to any strange young man who came in and demanded it, even though he left a valuable book behind. Besides, she was doubtful as to whether she had a pound in the till.
"What's the matter?" asked the young man. "You needn't be frightened of getting into trouble with old Franzi. I'll bring back the pound all right. I wouldn't lose that book for anything. Hurry up, there's a good girl. I must have the money."
Anne took up the book and turned the leaves uncertainly. It certainly looked valuable, and she wanted to oblige the young man if she could, as he was evidently so desperately In need of the money. She could, of course, tell him that old Franzi was no longer the owner of the shop, but then in that case he probably would not take the money. He did not look the sort of man who would borrow from a woman. She made up her mind. Opening the till, she counted out twenty shillings—the last shilling had to be made up of coppers—which she handed to him.
"Thanks," he said gratefully, as he jingled the coins into his pocket. "Thanks for making it seem such a lot. By the way," he added, "you'll want my name in case old Franzi comes back. It's Donald McLean. But," he waved his hand, "Franzi will recognise the book."
He laughed, the door banged behind him, and he was gone.
Anne sat down at the counter so that she could see him when he passed the corner of the street. He had a quick, alert step and carried himself well. Altogether he was a decidedly presentable young man. She was glad she had lent him that pound.
"Humph!" said a disapproving voice behind her. "So that's the way you do business! Giving money away to the first good-looking young man who comes along and asks for it."
"My dear Janet." Anne tried to speak with, smooth dignity, though the flush on her cheeks showed she was rather discomposed that Janet should have overheard the transaction. "You don't understand. That was a perfectly legitimate business deal. As a matter of fact, I hope he won't come back with the money. I would rather keep the book. It is extremely valuable. The plates alone are worth a guinea each, and there are thirty of them."
"A lot of rubbish," said Janet, looking at the hook with unconcealed scorn. "I suppose he wanted to get rid of it. I just came in to tell you," she went on, "that the bath wants mending and we'll have to get a plumber in. There's always something," she added gloomily.
NEARLY a fortnight passed before Donald McLean came to redeem his book, and Anne had almost given up hope of seeing him again. Her own inner doubts had not been helped by the predictions of Janet, who was obviously hoping for the worst.
"He's probably stolen it somewhere," she remarked when Anne, more to reassure herself than anything else, pointed out again the value of the book.
"The next thing will be a visit from the police, I suppose."
It was in the evening when Donald came. Anne was writing at the counter while Janet was sewing in the little room at the back of the shop. Anne could see her shadow through the glass door which separated the two.
"Hullo," said Donald, cheerfully.
"Good evening," returned Anne rather primly. She was conscious of the disapproving figure of Janet in the background, and Janet always had the effect of making her feel prim.
"How will you have It?" Donald went on, as he spread twenty shillings on the counter. "In notes or gold?"
Anne's air was severely business-like as she gathered up the money and handed him his book. Then she waited for him to go.
But Donald seemed in no hurry to leave. He leant easily against the counter, and his attitude seemed to say that, he was willing to stay there for ever if necessary. Anne glanced uneasily behind her. She had heard the murmur of voices and wondered whom Janet was talking to. Then she dismissed the matter from her mind with the consoling thought that so long as Janet was talking to someone else she could not be watching her.
"What do you do here all day?" asked the young man, conversationally. "Don't you find it a bit slow?"
"Slow? Certainly not," said Anne, indignantly. Now that Janet was otherwise engaged she felt more at ease with him. "I read, and when I get tired of that I watch the people outside and try and guess what they are and what they do."
"That sounds rather a fascinating game," remarked Donald. "How do your guesses pan out?"
"Well, I don't know," replied Anne doubtfully. "You see, I've not been able to test them."
"Let's begin now," said the other. "What do you think I am?"
"What are you?" Anne looked him up and down, and hesitated. Then the untidy Norfolk suit decided her. "I think you might be a poet," she said.
"Good Lord!" His face fell. "Do I look as bad as that?"
"But," protested Anne, "I always thought a poet was a nice sort of person."
"My dear girl," said Donald gloomily, "have you ever seen one?"
Anne shook her head.
"Well," he said, "I have."
He stared moodily at the toes of his boots and looked so depressed that Anne faltered an apology.
"Oh, it's all right," he said sadly, "you couldn't know. As a matter of fact," he went on, "I am a poet—of sorts, but I don't want to look like one."
"I think you're the most ridiculous person I've ever met," said Anne, unaccountably annoyed with him. "If you are a poet you ought to be proud of it."
"No one could be proud of my poetry," sighed the young man. "One of these days I will bring in my last little booklet and read it aloud—just to punish you!"
But Anne refused to carry on the conversation. She suspected him of teasing her, and Anne was young enough to dislike being teased. Nevertheless she felt curiosity enough to go through the files of the weekly papers in which she saw his name attached to verses and stories, and discovered that his poetry really was poetry. He came often after that. In fact, he came every day and sometimes twice a day.
Anne grew to look for his coming, but, unfortunately, Janet felt a strong distrust of him, no doubt engendered by that first monetary transaction. She looked at him with a cold and suspicious eye, which had the effect of reducing him to silence and generally lead to his utter defeat and rout. Janet was not always there, however. Latterly, to Anne's unbounded surprise, she often went out in the evening, returning, a little flushed, perhaps, but more taciturn than ever. Anne wondered where she went to, but was too much In awe of Janet to question her.
"I do hope nothing is wrong with Janet," she said to Donald one evening. "She is always out lately, and when she comes in she looks so queer. I hope she's not ill, but I'm frightened to ask her."
"She's all right," returned Donald, easily. "But don't let us talk about her."
He swung himself on to the counter and looked down at Anne.
"I say," he said, "I am glad old Franzi went away for a holiday. It was rather a sporting thing to leave you in charge."
Anne looked demure, but said nothing.
"You know," he went on, "I nearly bought this place once. At least, when I say I nearly bought it, I mean I would have bought it if I had had the necessary cash. Franzi wanted £300 for it, but I only had £3 at the time. I tried to solve the problem, but the two sums wouldn't meet, so I had to give it up. It is rather a jolly little place." He looked round approvingly. "I've always wanted to run a second-hand bookshop. I feel I've got a flair for it."
"Have you?" said Anne.
"Yes. Well, who knows? I may own this place some day. If I ever do I could offer you a permanent job."
"Could you?" said Anne. Her voice was non-committal, but her face looked a little flushed and her eyes were shining.
"Yes, I could. Would you like that?"
"Perhaps." He looked at her keenly.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
"Wrong?" repeated Anne, gazing at him with wide and innocent eyes. "Certainly not. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," He moved a little uneasily. "Only your conversation seems a little—limited. There's not the ceaseless flow I've been used to."
"But you held the floor," said Anne, "I was only acting as an occasional chorus. Anyway," she went on hastily, as he was about to interrupt, "Janet might come in at any moment and she doesn't like to see me talking to strange young men."
"Strange young men! But dash it all, you can't call me a strange young man. Why, you lent me a pound the first time you saw me. An action like that establishes an Intimacy at once. Life can never be the same again, and all that sort of thing."
"I wonder," said Anne, looking at him reflectively, "if you can ever be serious?"
"Serious? Of course I can. I've been trying to be serious all the evening, but I never seemed able to get the opportunity. Listen, little girl—" He laid his hand over hers. "Do you think—" He paused and cleared his throat; for a poet he was singularly inarticulate. "Do you think," he began again, "you could like me a little?"
"Well, perhaps I could." She looked at him from under her long eyelashes. "Just a little."
"But—" He cleared the counter and stood by her side. "That's not what I really meant," he whispered. "I don't want you to like me. I want you to love me."
Anne gave a tremulous little laugh.
"That's just what I want you to do to me," she said softly.
It was Anne who remembered first that they were standing in the shop with a window looking onto street, and drew away from his embrace.
"Donald," she said rather timidly, when she had quite recovered herself, "Did you really mean it when you said you would like to own this place?"
"Of course I did. Wouldn't it be jolly," he went on, "if I could save up enough money to buy it? I would rather like to live here—with you."
"Donald." Anne's voice sounded a little breathless. "I've got something to confess to you, but don't be angry with me. Oh, please don't be angry with me. I own this place. I bought it from old Franzi. He's in Germany by this time."
"Well, I'm jiggered!"
Donald stared at her in amazement, then threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter.
"What a game you've had with me, and what a blatant ass I must have seemed boasting about what I was going to do."
"No you didn't. Only it made me a bit uneasy, because I knew some time you must find out, and I was afraid you'd be angry." Her face lit up and she looked at him eagerly.
"Donald," she said, "would you really and truly like to live here when we're married? We could, you know, and I would love to. But—there's Janet."
"So there is," he agreed gloomily. "I'd forgotten her for the moment. Janet certainly seems to be a bit superfluous. What are we going to do about Janet?"
"You needn't worry about Janet," said an icy voice. They turned with a guilty start, horror In their eyes. Janet was standing In the door of the shop, a peculiar expression on her face.
"You needn't worry about me," she repeated. "I am going to be married."
"Married!" gasped Anne. She put her hand to her head. For the moment she thought she must be dreaming.
"Who to?" she asked weakly.
"To Mr Brown."
"Mr Brown?" repeated Anne. "Janet, you can't mean you are going to marry Mr Brown? Mr Brown sounds so—so indefinite. Who is Mr Brown?"
"Mr Brown is the gentleman who came to mend the bath," explained Janet coldly.
"Oh, Janet, not—not the plumber?"
"And why not?" asked Janet grimly. "Better to marry a plumber than a poet, I should say," she added, with a cold eye on Donald who was trying unsuccessfully to look as though he was not there. With an air that defied them both she stalked into the inner room, while Anne leant against the counter helpless with laughter.
"Oh, Donald," she said, when at last she could speak, "I wish you could have seen your face when Janet was breaking the news to us. Why, where are you going?" she I asked, as Donald made a move towards I the door.
"I am going," he said, "to find that plumber and shake him by the hand."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.