"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents."

Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed.

He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not to be patronized.

"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly.

"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase another!

It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall give you five dollars. Not a cent more."

"No. Ten dollars or nothing."

"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up."

He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he pa.s.sed through the swinging doors.

It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book--the only book he ever parted with--for a fabulous sum--more than its weight in gold,--and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful library.

With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own money.

"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe and take them with me."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied Steinman affably.

"I want to thank you, Steinman."

"Thank me! Why?"

"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for thirty thousand dollars!"

In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of "the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I _am_ a fool; and I glory in it!"

THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE

He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library.

He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In gla.s.s-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed in the light. At one end of the s.p.a.cious room was a case with bronze mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant, powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve, binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to give its history.

"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was its t.i.tle: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!"

exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a treasure should have been used so d.a.m.nably!"

"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is its history:--

"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together.

Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for both of us!

"About twelve years ago, attracted by a great book sale, I started to form this library, which has been the pa.s.sion of my life. I read all the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops; spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a few to one of my friends yesterday.'

"I winced; but said nothing.

"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors--men after my own heart--rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes--so my good wife said--came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She remarked that I had changed--that I no longer loved her. This was not true; I loved her as I always did--but I would not allow anyone to dictate to me.

"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had bought, but brought them home surrept.i.tiously, placing them in the corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me _flagrante delicto_, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was sure she had not seen before.

"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a scholarly thing I was doing,--but it was of no avail. She became actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the _appearance_ of a book.

"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe, scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer; I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I had more courage than he and s.n.a.t.c.hed the uncut 'Comus' from him when it was almost within his grasp.

"I tried no longer to bear with my wife--she was a vixen, a mad woman, a very devil. I resolved to divorce her--but on what grounds? I could not think of a single charge that could be placed before a jury,--American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the grounds of infidelity,--that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more than I did her!

"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I marked with ink the things I most _needed_ and determined to buy a few exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived.

I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid.

"I drew my check for the amount and carried it home. I was reading it in the library when my wife entered. I casually, in an unconcerned way, although my heart was trembling, placed it on the table. I looked at my wife. Her eyes were flashing. She held the evening paper on which I could read the headlines.--'Rare Book brings $3010.'

"I knew the storm was coming. She said I was an ingrate, a dissipater of her fortune, a fool, a heartless villain, a--

"She went no further.

"I grabbed the first thing at hand,--it was 'The Fifteen Joys of Marriage,'--and threw it at her head. It struck her arm and fell upon the floor. When I stooped to pick it up, noticing the poor, bruised, broken corner, I looked about. My wife was gone.

"The next day she served me with the papers for the divorce which is now a _cause celebre_.

"At last I was free!"