“Oh, yes, ’m!” Elsie eagerly concurred.
“Yes, and the first thing to do is to get straight and tidy. I know it’s Sunday, and I’m as much for rest and church as anybody, and I hope you’ll go to church yourself every Sunday evening regular. But tradespeople aren’t like others, and they can’t be. There’s certain things that can only be done on Sundays in a place of business—same as they have to lay railway lines on Sundays, you see. And what’s more, I’m one of those that can’t rest until what has to be done is done. They do say, the better the day the better the deed, don’t they? Now all those books lying about on the floor and so on everywhere—they’ve got to be put right.”
“Master used to say so, ’m, but somehow—”
“Yes,” Violet broke in, anticipating some implied criticism of the master. “Yes. But, of course, he simply hasn’t been able to do it. He’s been dreadfully overworked as it is. Now there’s all those books in the bathroom to begin with. I’m going to have them in the top front room, next to yours, you know. … I wish there were some spare shelves, but I suppose we must arrange the books on the floor.”
“There’s a lot of shelves slanting down the cellar steps, ’m,” said Elsie, with the joy of the bringer of glad tidings.
“Oh! I didn’t know we had a cellar.”
“Oh, yes, ’m, there’s a cellar.”
Violet enveloped herself in the pinafore-apron and put on the gloves. The bride on her honeymoon and the girl crept softly downstairs, and one by one, with miraculous success in the avoidance of any sound, the planks—they were no more than planks—were transported from the bottom of the house to the top. No uprights for the shelves could be discovered, but Violet, whose natural ingenuity had been intensified by the resistless force of her grandiose idea, improvised supports for the shelves out of a lot of shabby old volumes of The Illustrated London News. She laid a shelf on three perpendicular tomes—one at either end and one in the middle—and then three more tomes on the shelf, and then another shelf on them, and so on, till the whole of the empty wall in the front room was a bookcase ready to receive books. Violet was well pleased, and Elsie marvelled at Violet’s magical creative power.
The house was sealed up from the world. Not a door open; not a window open! Hours passed. The sun coldly shone. The faint jangle of church-bells was the only sound within the house where the two devotees laboured in a tiptoeing silence upstairs and downstairs while the master reposed unconscious. Violet filled Elsie’s stout apron with books, and, bearing a handful of books herself, followed her upstairs; the books were ranged; the devotees descended again. The work was simplified by the fact that the vacuum-cleaners had remedied the worst disorder on the previous day; they had, for example, emptied the bath of all its learning. At intervals Violet listened anxiously at the bedroom door. Once she peeped in. No sign of life. And the devotees were happy because in their rage of constructive energy they had contrived not to wake the master. The bathroom was cleared; the chief obstructions on the stairs were cleared; and there was still some space available on the improvised shelves.
“We’ll move on to that dark corner of the shop-floor by the stairs,” said Violet, triumphing more and more.
This decision meant still more stair-climbing. When Elsie, breathless, had lifted the first load out of the shop to the top-floor, Violet said thoughtfully as she emptied the apron: “I suppose your master is still asleep? Does he ring? Is there a bell?”
“Yes, there’s a bell, ’m, but it’s been out of order ever since I was here, and I don’t know where it would ring if it wasn’t out of order. He’s never slept like this before, ’m.”
Anxiety passed across their intent faces. Such sleeping was unnatural. Then they heard his footsteps on the stairs. … He had gone down into the shop, probably into his office.
“Better go and make some more tea,” said Violet gravely.
“Yes, ’m.”
The bride preceded the girl down the stairs. She felt suddenly guilty in well-doing. She wondered whether she was a ministering angel or a criminal. Henry stood in the bright, clean shop, gazing at the disturbed corner from which books had been taken.
“My dear, you’re ruining my business,” he said mildly and blandly.
“Henry!” She stopped near the foot of the stairs, as it were thunderstruck by a revelation.
“You don’t understand how much of it depends on me having lots of books lying about as if they weren’t anything at all. That’s just what book-collectors like. If everything was shipshape they wouldn’t look twice at the place. Whenever they see a pile of books in the dark they think there must be bargains.”
He did not say he was sure she meant for the best, nor praise her enterprise and energy. He merely stated baldly, simply, quietly, impartially, dispassionately a psychological fact. And he asked no questions.
“Oh, Henry! I never thought of that. I’m so sorry.”
And she for her part did not try to justify herself. In her self-confident ignorance she had sinned. His perfect tranquillity intimidated her. And he was so disturbingly sure of his position. He stood there in his neat blue Sunday suit, with the necktie hiding all the shirtfront, and the shirt-cuffs quite invisible, and his leather slippers, and his trim, greying beard and full, heavy, crimson lips, and his little eyes (rather fatigued now), and he put the plain truth before her, neither accusing nor excusing. She saw that, witless, she had been endangering the security of their joint future. She felt as though she had had the narrowest escape from actually ruining the business! In her vivacity and her proud carriage she was humbled. She came forward and took his hand.
“How cold
