The Haunted Bookshop

  Chapter III

  Titania Arrives

  The first pipe after breakfast is a rite of some importance to seasonedsmokers, and Roger applied the flame to the bowl as he stood at thebottom of the stairs. He blew a great gush of strong blue reek thateddied behind him as he ran up the flight, his mind eagerly meditatingthe congenial task of arranging the little spare room for the comingemployee. Then, at the top of the steps, he found that his pipe hadalready gone out. "What with filling my pipe and emptying it, lightingit and relighting it," he thought, "I don't seem to get much time forthe serious concerns of life. Come to think of it, smoking, soilingdishes and washing them, talking and listening to other people talk,take up most of life anyway."

  This theory rather pleased him, so he ran downstairs again to tell itto Mrs. Mifflin.

  "Go along and get that room fixed up," she said, "and don't try to palmoff any bogus doctrines on me so early in the morning. Housewives haveno time for philosophy after breakfast."

  Roger thoroughly enjoyed himself in the task of preparing theguest-room for the new assistant. It was a small chamber at the backof the second storey, opening on to a narrow passage that connectedthrough a door with the gallery of the bookshop. Two small windowscommanded a view of the modest roofs of that quarter of Brooklyn, roofsthat conceal so many brave hearts, so many baby carriages, so many cupsof bad coffee, and so many cartons of the Chapman prunes.

  "By the way," he called downstairs, "better have some of the prunes forsupper to-night, just as a compliment to Miss Chapman."

  Mrs. Mifflin preserved a humorous silence.

  Over these noncommittal summits the bright eye of the bookseller, as hetacked up the freshly ironed muslin curtains Mrs. Mifflin had allotted,could discern a glimpse of the bay and the leviathan ferries that linkStaten Island with civilization. "Just a touch of romance in theoutlook," he thought to himself. "It will suffice to keep a blaseeyoung girl aware of the excitements of existence."

  The room, as might be expected in a house presided over by HelenMifflin, was in perfect order to receive any occupant, but Roger hadvolunteered to psychologize it in such a fashion as (he thought) wouldconvey favourable influences to the misguided young spirit that was tobe its tenant. Incurable idealist, he had taken quite gravely hisresponsibility as landlord and employer of Mr. Chapman's daughter. Nochambered nautilus was to have better opportunity to expand the tendermansions of its soul.

  Beside the bed was a bookshelf with a reading lamp. The problem Rogerwas discussing was what books and pictures might be the best preachersto this congregation of one. To Mrs. Mifflin's secret amusement he hadtaken down the picture of Sir Galahad which he had once hung there,because (as he had said) if Sir Galahad were living to-day he would bea bookseller. "We don't want her feasting her imagination on youngGalahads," he had remarked at breakfast. "That way lies prematurematrimony. What I want to do is put up in her room one or two goodprints representing actual men who were so delightful in their day thatall the young men she is likely to see now will seem tepid andprehensile. Thus she will become disgusted with the present generationof youths and there will be some chance of her really putting her mindon the book business."

  Accordingly he had spent some time in going through a bin where he keptphotos and drawings of authors that the publishers' "publicity men"were always showering upon him. After some thought he discardedpromising engravings of Harold Bell Wright and Stephen Leacock, andchose pictures of Shelley, Anthony Trollope, Robert Louis Stevenson,and Robert Burns. Then, after further meditation, he decided thatneither Shelley nor Burns would quite do for a young girl's room, andset them aside in favour of a portrait of Samuel Butler. To these headded a framed text that he was very fond of and had hung over his owndesk. He had once clipped it from a copy of Life and found muchpleasure in it. It runs thus:

  ON THE RETURN OF A BOOK LENT TO A FRIEND

  I GIVE humble and hearty thanks for the safe return of this book whichhaving endured the perils of my friend's bookcase, and the bookcases ofmy friend's friends, now returns to me in reasonably good condition.

  I GIVE humble and hearty thanks that my friend did not see fit to givethis book to his infant as a plaything, nor use it as an ash-tray forhis burning cigar, nor as a teething-ring for his mastiff.

  WHEN I lent this book I deemed it as lost: I was resigned to thebitterness of the long parting: I never thought to look upon its pagesagain.

  BUT NOW that my book is come back to me, I rejoice and am exceedingglad! Bring hither the fatted morocco and let us rebind the volume andset it on the shelf of honour: for this my book was lent, and isreturned again.

  PRESENTLY, therefore, I may return some of the books that I myself haveborrowed.

  "There!" he thought. "That will convey to her the first element ofbook morality."

  These decorations having been displayed on the walls, he bethoughthimself of the books that should stand on the bedside shelf.

  This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion.Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest-room are of asoporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. Thisschool advises The Wealth of Nations, Rome under the Caesars, TheStatesman's Year Book, certain novels of Henry James, and The Lettersof Queen Victoria (in three volumes). It is plausibly contended thatbooks of this kind cannot be read (late at night) for more than a fewminutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of information.

  Another branch of opinion recommends for bedtime reading short stories,volumes of pithy anecdote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep oneawake for a space, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in theend. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonableby these pundits. This class of reading comprises O. Henry, BretHarte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, W. W. Jacobs, Daudet, deMaupassant, and possibly even On a Slow Train Through Arkansaw, thatgrievous classic of the railway bookstalls whereof its author, Mr.Thomas W. Jackson, has said "It will sell forever, and a thousand yearsafterward." To this might be added another of Mr. Jackson's onslaughtson the human intelligence, I'm From Texas, You Can't Steer Me, whereofis said (by the author) "It is like a hard-boiled egg, you can't beatit." There are other of Mr. Jackson's books, whose titles escapememory, whereof he has said "They are a dynamite for sorrow." Nothingused to annoy Mifflin more than to have someone come in and ask forcopies of these works. His brother-in-law, Andrew McGill, the writer,once gave him for Christmas (just to annoy him) a copy of On a SlowTrain Through Arkansaw sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known tothe trade as "dove-coloured ooze." Roger retorted by sending Andrew(for his next birthday) two volumes of Brann the Iconoclast bound inwhat Robert Cortes Holliday calls "embossed toadskin." But that isapart from the story.

  To the consideration of what to put on Miss Titania's bookshelf Rogerdevoted the delighted hours of the morning. Several times Helen calledhim to come down and attend to the shop, but he was sitting on thefloor, unaware of numbed shins, poring over the volumes he had cartedupstairs for a final culling. "It will be a great privilege," he saidto himself, "to have a young mind to experiment with. Now my wife,delightful creature though she is, was--well, distinctly mature when Ihad the good fortune to meet her; I have never been able properly tosupervise her mental processes. But this Chapman girl will come to uswholly unlettered. Her father said she had been to a fashionableschool: that surely is a guarantee that the delicate tendrils of hermind have never begun to sprout. I will test her (without her knowingit) by the books I put here for her. By noting which of them sheresponds to, I will know how to proceed. It might be worth while toshut up the shop one day a week in order to give her some brief talkson literature. Delightful! Let me see, a little series of talks onthe development of the English novel, beginning with Tom Jones--hum,that would hardly do! Well, I have always longed to be a teacher, thislooks like a chance to begin. We might invite some of the neighboursto send in their child
ren once a week, and start a little school.Causeries du lundi, in fact! Who knows I may yet be the Sainte Beuveof Brooklyn."

  Across his mind flashed a vision of newspaper clippings--"Thisremarkable student of letters, who hides his brilliant parts under theunassuming existence of a second-hand bookseller, is now recognized asthe----"

  "Roger!" called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs: "Front! someone wants toknow if you keep back numbers of Foamy Stories."

  After he had thrown out the intruder, Roger returned to his meditation."This selection," he mused, "is of course only tentative. It is to actas a preliminary test, to see what sort of thing interests her. Firstof all, her name naturally suggests Shakespeare and the Elizabethans.It's a remarkable name, Titania Chapman: there must be great virtue inprunes! Let's begin with a volume of Christopher Marlowe. Then Keats,I guess: every young person ought to shiver over St. Agnes' Eve on abright cold winter evening. Over Bemerton's, certainly, because it's abookshop story. Eugene Field's Tribune Primer to try out her sense ofhumour. And Archy, by all means, for the same reason. I'll go downand get the Archy scrapbook."

  It should be explained that Roger was a keen admirer of Don Marquis,the humourist of the New York Evening Sun. Mr. Marquis once lived inBrooklyn, and the bookseller was never tired of saying that he was themost eminent author who had graced the borough since the days of WaltWhitman. Archy, the imaginary cockroach whom Mr. Marquis uses as avehicle for so much excellent fun, was a constant delight to Roger, andhe had kept a scrapbook of all Archy's clippings. This bulky tome henow brought out from the grotto by his desk where his particulartreasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heardhim utter shrill screams of laughter.

  "What on earth is it?" she asked.

  "Only Archy," he said, and began to read aloud--

  down in a wine vault underneath the city two old men were sitting they were drinking booze torn were their garments hair and beards were gritty one had an overcoat but hardly any shoes

  overhead the street cars through the streets were running filled with happy people going home to christmas in the adirondacks the hunters all were gunning big ships were sailing down by the isthmus

  in came a little tot for to kiss her granny such a little totty she could scarcely tottle saying kiss me grandpa kiss your little nanny but the old man beaned her with a whisky bottle.

  outside the snowflakes began for to flutter far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen not another word did angel nanny utter her grandsire chuckled and pledged the whisky demon

  up spake the second man he was worn and weary tears washed his face which otherwise was pasty she loved her parents who commuted on the erie brother im afraid you struck a trifle hasty

  she came to see you all her pretty duds on bringing christmas posies from her mothers garden riding in the tunnel underneath the hudson brother was it rum caused your heart to harden----

  "What on earth is there funny in that?" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Poorlittle lamb, I think it was terrible."

  "There's more of it," cried Roger, and opened his mouth to continue.

  "No more, thank you," said Helen. "There ought to be a fine for usingthe meter of Love in the Valley that way. I'm going out to market soif the bell rings you'll have to answer it."

  Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania's shelf, and went onbrowsing over the volumes he had collected.

  "The Nigger of the Narcissus," he said to himself, "for even if shedoesn't read the story perhaps she'll read the preface, which notmarble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens' ChristmasStories to introduce her to Mrs. Lirriper, the queen of landladies.Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for thefamous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how manyof them know that that was where Mrs. Lirriper had her immortallodgings? The Notebooks of Samuel Butler, just to give her a littleintellectual jazz. The Wrong Box, because it's the best farce in thelanguage. Travels with a Donkey, to show her what good writing islike. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to give her a sense of pityfor human woes--wait a minute, though: that's a pretty broad book foryoung ladies. I guess we'll put it aside and see what else there is.Some of Mr. Mosher's catalogues: fine! they'll show her the truespirit of what one book-lover calls biblio-bliss. Walking-StickPapers--yes, there are still good essayists running around. A boundfile of The Publishers' Weekly to give her a smack of trade matters.Jo's Boys in case she needs a little relaxation. The Lays of AncientRome and Austin Dobson to show her some good poetry. I wonder if theygive them The Lays to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fearthey are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of'76. And now we'll be exceptionally subtle: we'll stick in a RobertChambers to see if she falls for it."

  He viewed the shelf with pride. "Not bad," he said to himself. "I'lljust add this Leonard Merrick, Whispers about Women, to amuse her. Ibet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to haveincluded the Bible, but I'll omit it on purpose, just to see whetherthe girl misses it."

  With typical male curiosity he pulled out the bureau drawers to seewhat disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find alittle muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in each."Very nice," he remarked. "Very nice indeed! About the only thingmissing is an ashtray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them,that'll be the first thing she'll call for. And maybe a copy of EzraPound's poems. I do hope she's not what Helen calls a bolshevixen."

  There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew upat the corner of Gissing and Swinburne streets early that afternoon. Achauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase ofbeautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision thatemerged from depths of lilac-coloured upholstery.

  "Where do you want me to carry the bag, miss?"

  "This is the bitter parting," replied Miss Titania. "I don't want youto know my address, Edwards. Some of my mad friends might worm it outof you, and I don't want them coming down and bothering me. I am goingto be very busy with literature. I'll walk the rest of the way."

  Edwards saluted with a grin--he worshipped the original youngheiress--and returned to his wheel.

  "There's one thing I want you to do for me," said Titania. "Call up myfather and tell him I'm on the job."

  "Yes, miss," said Edwards, who would have run the limousine into agovernment motor truck if she had ordered it.

  Miss Chapman's small gloved hand descended into an interesting pursethat was cuffed to her wrist with a bright little chain. She drew outa nickel--it was characteristic of her that it was a very bright andengaging looking nickel--and handed it gravely to her charioteer.Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving through certaindignified arcs, swam swiftly away down Thackeray Boulevard.

  Titania, after making sure that Edwards was out of sight, turned upGissing Street with a fluent pace and an observant eye. A small boycried, "Carry your bag, lady?" and she was about to agree, but thenremembered that she was now engaged at ten dollars a week and waved himaway. Our readers would feel a justifiable grudge if we did notattempt a description of the young lady, and we will employ the fewblocks of her course along Gissing Street for this purpose.

  Walking behind her, the observer, by the time she had reached ClemensPlace, would have seen that she was faultlessly tailored in genialtweeds; that her small brown boots were sheltered by spats of that paletan complexion exhibited by Pullman porters on the PennsylvaniaRailroad; that her person was both slender and vigorous; that hershoulders were carrying a sumptuous fur of the colour described by thetrade as nutria, or possibly opal smoke. The word chinchilla wouldhave occurred irresistibly to this observer from behind; he might also,if he were the father of a family, have had a fleeting vision of manyautographed stubs in a check book. The general impression that hewould h
ave retained, had he turned aside at Clemens Place, would be"expensive, but worth the expense."

  It is more likely, however, that the student of phenomena would havecontinued along Gissing Street to the next corner, being that ofHazlitt Street. Taking advantage of opportunity, he would overtake thelady on the pavement, with a secret, sidelong glance. If he were wise,he would pass her on the right side where her tilted bonnet permitted awider angle of vision. He would catch a glimpse of cheek and chinbelonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair thatheld sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wristwatch that might pardonably be excused, in its exhilarating career, forbeating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would note a bunch ofsuch violets as never bloom in the crude springtime, but reservethemselves for November and the plate glass windows of Fifth Avenue.

  It is probable that whatever the errand of this spectator he would havecontinued along Gissing Street a few paces farther. Then, withcalculated innocence, he would have halted halfway up the block thatleads to the Wordsworth Avenue "L," and looked backward with carefullysimulated irresolution, as though considering some forgotten matter.With apparently unseeing eyes he would have scanned the brightpedestrian, and caught the full impact of her rich blue gaze. He wouldhave seen a small resolute face rather vivacious in effect, yet with aquaint pathos of youth and eagerness. He would have noted the cheekslit with excitement and rapid movement in the bracing air. He wouldcertainly have noted the delicate contrast of the fur of the wildnutria with the soft V of her bare throat. Then, to his surprise, hewould have seen this attractive person stop, examine her surroundings,and run down some steps into a rather dingy-looking second-handbookshop. He would have gone about his affairs with a new andsurprised conviction that the Almighty had the borough of Brooklynunder His especial care.

  Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling ofthe Ritz-Carlton lobbies and Central Park riding academies, wasagreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady.

  "Is this Mr. Mifflin?" she said, as he advanced all agog from his smokycorner.

  "Miss Chapman?" he replied, taking her bag. "Helen!" he called. "MissTitania is here."

  She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. "I do think it'sadorable of you to take me in," she said. "Dad has told me so muchabout you. He says I'm impossible. I suppose this is the literaturehe talks about. I want to know all about it."

  "And here's Bock!" she cried. "Dad says he's the greatest dog in theworld, named after Botticelli or somebody. I've brought him a present.It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!"

  Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his ownfashion.

  "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mifflin. "We are delighted to see you. Ihope you'll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is ahard man to get along with."

  "Oh, I'm sure of it!" cried Titania. "I mean, I'm sure I shall behappy! You mustn't believe a word of what Dad says about me. I'mcrazy about books. I don't see how you can bear to sell them. Ibrought these violets for you, Mrs. Mifflin."

  "How perfectly sweet of you," said Helen, captivated already. "Comealong, we'll put them right in water. I'll show you your room."

  Roger heard them moving about overhead. It suddenly occurred to himthat the shop was rather a dingy place for a young girl. "I wish I hadthought to get in a cash register," he mused. "She'll think I'mterribly unbusiness-like."

  "Now," said Mrs. Mifflin, as she and Titania came downstairs again,"I'm making some pastry, so I'm going to turn you over to youremployer. He can show you round the shop and tell you where all thebooks are."

  "Before we begin," said Titania, "just let me give Bock his present."She showed a large package of tissue paper and, unwinding innumerablelayers, finally disclosed a stalwart bone. "I was lunching atSherry's, and I made the head waiter give me this. He was awfullyamused."

  "Come along into the kitchen and give it to him," said Helen. "He'llbe your friend for life."

  "What an adorable kennel!" cried Titania, when she saw the remodelledpacking-case that served Bock as a retreat. The bookseller's ingeniouscarpentry had built it into the similitude of a Carnegie library, withthe sign READING-ROOM over the door; and he had painted imitationbook-shelves along the interior.

  "You'll get used to Mr. Mifflin after a while," said Helen amusedly."He spent all one winter getting that kennel fixed to his liking. Youmight have thought he was going to live in it instead of Bock. All thetitles that he painted in there are books that have dogs in them, and alot of them he made up."

  Titania insisted on getting down to peer inside. Bock was muchflattered at this attention from the new planet that had swum into hiskennel.

  "Gracious!" she said, "here's 'The Rubaiyat of Omar Canine.' I do thinkthat's clever!"

  "Oh, there are a lot more," said Helen. "The works of Bonar Law, andBohn's 'Classics,' and 'Catechisms on Dogma' and goodness knows what.If Roger paid half as much attention to business as he does to jokes ofthat sort, we'd be rich. Now, you run along and have a look at theshop."

  Titania found the bookseller at his desk. "Here I am, Mr. Mifflin,"she said. "See, I brought a nice sharp pencil along with me to makeout sales slips. I've been practicing sticking it in my hair. I cando it quite nicely now. I hope you have some of those big red bookswith all the carbon paper in them and everything. I've been watchingthe girls up at Lord and Taylor's make them out, and I think they'refascinating. And you must teach me to run the elevator. I'm awfullykeen about elevators."

  "Bless me," said Roger, "You'll find this very different from Lord andTaylor's! We haven't any elevators, or any sales slips, or even a cashregister. We don't wait on customers unless they ask us to. They comein and browse round, and if they find anything they want they come backhere to my desk and ask about it. The price is marked in every book inred pencil. The cash-box is here on this shelf. This is the keyhanging on this little hook. I enter each sale in this ledger. Whenyou sell a book you must write it down here, and the price paid for it."

  "But suppose it's charged?" said Titania.

  "No charge accounts. Everything is cash. If someone comes in to sellbooks, you must refer him to me. You mustn't be surprised to seepeople drop in here and spend several hours reading. Lots of them lookon this as a kind of club. I hope you don't mind the smell of tobacco,for almost all the men that come here smoke in the shop. You see, Iput ash trays around for them."

  "I love tobacco smell," said Titania. "Daddy's library at home smellssomething like this, but not quite so strong. And I want to see theworms, bookworms you know. Daddy said you had lots of them."

  "You'll see them, all right," said Roger, chuckling. "They come in andout. To-morrow I'll show you how my stock is arranged. It'll take youquite a while to get familiar with it. Until then I just want you topoke around and see what there is, until you know the shelves so wellyou could put your hand on any given book in the dark. That's a gamemy wife and I used to play. We would turn off all the lights at night,and I would call out the title of a book and see how near she couldcome to finding it. Then I would take a turn. When we came more thansix inches away from it we would have to pay a forfeit. It's greatfun."

  "What larks we'll have," cried Titania. "I do think this is a cunningplace!"

  "This is the bulletin board, where I put up notices about books thatinterest me. Here's a card I've just been writing."

  Roger drew from his pocket a square of cardboard and affixed it to theboard with a thumbtack. Titania read:

  THE BOOK THAT SHOULD HAVE PREVENTED THE WAR

  Now that the fighting is over is a good time to read Thomas Hardy's TheDynasts. I don't want to sell it, because it is one of the greatesttreasures I own. But if any one will guarantee to read all threevolumes, and let them sink into his mind, I'm willing to lend them.

  If enough thoughtful Germans had read The Dynasts before July, 1914,there would have been no
war.

  If every delegate to the Peace Conference could be made to read itbefore the sessions begin, there will be no more wars.

  R. MIFFLIN.

  "Dear me," said Titania, "Is it so good as all that? Perhaps I'dbetter read it."

  "It is so good that if I knew any way of doing so I'd insist on Mr.Wilson reading it on his voyage to France. I wish I could get it ontohis ship. My, what a book! It makes one positively ill with pity andterror. Sometimes I wake up at night and look out of the window andimagine I hear Hardy laughing. I get him a little mixed up with theDeity, I fear. But he's a bit too hard for you to tackle."

  Titania was puzzled, and said nothing. But her busy mind made a noteof its own: Hardy, hard to read, makes one ill, try it.

  "What did you think of the books I put in your room?" said Roger. Hehad vowed to wait until she made some comment unsolicited, but he couldnot restrain himself.

  "In my room?" she said. "Why, I'm sorry, I never noticed them!"