THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS

IT was now more than three weeks since Bernardine’s return to London. She had gone back to her old home, at her uncle’s second-hand book-shop. She spent her time in dusting the books, and arranging them in some kind of order; for old Zerviah Holme had ceased to interest himself much in his belongings, and sat in the little inner room reading as usual Gibbon’s “History of Rome.” Customers might please themselves about coming: Zerviah Holme had never cared about amassing money, and now he cared even less than before. A frugal breakfast, a frugal dinner, a box full of snuff, and a shelf full of Gibbon were the old man’s only requirements: an undemanding life, and therefore a loveless one; since the less we ask for, the less we get.

When Malvina his wife died, people said: “He will miss her.”

But he did not seem to miss her: he took his breakfast, his pinch of snuff, his Gibbon, in precisely the same way as before, and in the same quantities.

When Bernardine first fell ill, people said: “He will be sorry. He is fond of her in his own queer way.”

But he did not seem to be sorry. He did not understand anything about illness. The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He remembered vaguely that Bernardine’s father had suddenly become ill, that his powers had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, “History repeats itself.” That was all.

Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went out. He came back with fifty pounds.

“When that is done,” he told her, “I can find more.”

When she went away, people said: “He will he lonely.”

But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said:
“I always have Gibbon.”

And when she came back, they said: “He will be glad.”

But her return seemed to make no difference to him.

He looked at her in his usual sightless manner, and asked her what she intended to do.

“I shall dust the books,” she said.

“Ah, I dare say they want it,” he remarked.

“I shall get a little teaching to do,” she continued. “And I shall take care of you.”

“Ah,” he said vaguely. He did not understand what she meant. She had never been very near to him, and he had never been very near to her. He had taken but little notice of her comings and goings; she had either never tried to win his interest or had failed: probably the latter. Now she was going to take care of him.

This was the home to which Bernardine had returned. She came back with many resolutions to help to make his old age bright. She looked back now, and saw how little she had given of herself to her aunt and her uncle. Aunt Malvina was dead, and Bernardine did not regret her. Uncle Zerviah was here still; she would be tender with him, and win his affection. She thought she could not begin better than by looking after his books. Each one was dusted carefully. The dingy old shop was restored to cleanliness. Bernardine became interested in her task. “I will work up the business,” she thought. She did not care in the least about the books; she never looked into them except to clean them; but she was thankful to have the occupation at hand: something to help her over a difficult time. For the most trying part of an illness is when we are ill no longer; when there is no excuse for being idle and listless; when, in fact, we could work if we would: then is the moment for us to begin on anything which presents itself, until we have the courage and the inclination to go back to our own particular work: that which we have longed to do, and about which we now care nothing.

So Bernardine dusted books and sometimes sold them. All the time she thought of the Disagreeable Man. She missed him in her life. She had never loved before, and she loved him. The forlorn figure rose before her, and her eyes filled with tears. Sometimes the tears fell on the books, and spotted them.

Still, on the whole she was bright; but she found things difficult. She had lost her old enthusiasms, and nothing yet had taken their place. She went back to the circle of her acquaintances, and found that she had slipped away from touch with them. Whilst she had been ill, they had been busily at work on matters social and educational and political.

She thought them hard, the women especially: they thought her weak. They were disappointed in her; she was now looking for the more human qualities in them, and she, too, was disappointed.

“You have changed,” they said to her: “but then of course you have been ill, haven’t you?”

With these strong, active people, to be ill and useless is a reproach. And Bernardine felt it as such. But she had changed, and she herself perceived it in many ways. It was not that she was necessarily better, but that she was different; probably more human, and probably less self-confident. She had lived in a world of books, and she had burst through that bondage and come out into a wider and a freer land.

New sorts of interests came into her life. What she had lost in strength, she had gained in tenderness. Her very manner was gentler, her mode of speech less assertive. At least, this was the criticism of those who had liked her but little before her illness.

“She has learnt,” they said amongst themselves. And they were not scholars. They knew.

These, two or three of them, drew her nearer to them. She was alone there with the old man, and, though better, needed care. They mothered her as well as they could, at first timidly, and then with that sweet despotism which is for us all an easy yoke to bear. They were drawn to her as they had never been drawn before. They felt that she was no longer analysing them, weighing them in her intellectual balance, and finding them wanting; so they were free with her now, and revealed to her qualities at which she had never guessed before.

As the days went on, Zerviah began to notice that things were somehow different. He found some flowers near his table. He was reading about Nero at the time; but he put aside his Gibbon, and fondled the flowers instead. Bernardine did not know that.

One morning when she was out, he went into the shop and saw a great change there. Some one had been busy at work. The old man was pleased: he loved his books, though of late he had neglected them.

“She never used to take any interest in them,” he said to himself. “I wonder why she does now?”

He began to count upon seeing her. When she came back from her outings, he was glad. But she did not know. If he had given any sign of welcome to her during those first difficult days, it would have been a great encouragement to her.

He watched her feeding the sparrows. One day when she was not there, he went and did the same. Another day when she had forgotten, he surprised her by reminding her.

“You have forgotten to feed the sparrows,” he said. “They must be quite hungry.”

That seemed to break the ice a little. The next morning when she was arranging some books in the old shop, he came in and watched her.

“It is a comfort to have you,” he said. That was all he said, but Bernardine flushed with pleasure.

“I wish I had been more to you all these years,” she said gently.

He did not quite take that in: and returned hastily to Gibbon.

Then they began to stroll out together. They had nothing to talk about: he was not interested in the outside world, and she was not interested in Roman History. But they were trying to get nearer to each other: they had lived years together, but they had never advanced a step; now they were trying, she consciously, he unconsciously. But it was a slow process, and pathetic, as everything human is.

“If we could only find some subject which we both liked,” Bernardine thought to herself. “That might knit us together.”

Well, they found a subject; though, perhaps, it was an unlikely one. The cart-horses: those great, strong, patient toilers of the road attracted their attention, and after that no walk was without its pleasure or interest. The brewers’ horses were the favourites, though there were others, too, which met with their approval. He began to know and recognize them. He was almost like a child in his newfound interest. On Whit Monday they both went to the cart-horse parade in Regent’s Park. They talked about the enjoyment for days afterwards.

“Next year,” he told her, “we must subscribe to the fund, even if we have to sell a book.”

He did not like to sell his books: he parted with them painfully, as some people part with their illusions.

Bernardine bought a paper for herself every day; but one evening she came in without one. She had been seeing after some teaching, and had without any difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary light work at one of the high schools. She forgot to buy her newspaper.

The old man noticed this. He put on his shabby felt hat, and went down the street, and brought in a copy of the Daily News.

“I don’t remember what you like, but will this do?” he asked.

He was quite proud of himself for showing her this attention, almost as proud as the Disagreeable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful.

Bernardine thought of him, and the tears came into her eyes at once. When did she not think of him? Then she glanced at the front sheet, and in the death column her eye rested on his name: and she read that Robert Allitsen’s mother had passed away. So the Disagreeable Man had won his freedom at last. His words echoed back to her:

“But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt anything else, I have learnt how to wait. And some day I shall be free. And then . . .”