"A hundred pounds!" Henry gasped out, the tears almost starting to his eyes.

Mr. Fairfax did not miss his frank joy, and liked him for his ingenuousness.

"All right, then; we'll call it settled. I shall be ready for the verses as soon as you care to write them."

"Mr. Fairfax, I will tell you frankly that this is a great deal to me, and I thank you from my heart."

"Not a word, not a word, my boy. We want your verses, we want your verses. That's right, isn't it? Good verses, good money! Now no more of that," and the good man, in alarm lest he should be thanked further, made an abrupt and awkward farewell.

"It will keep the lad going a few months anyhow," he said to himself, as he tramped downstairs, glad that he'd been able to think of something; for, while the scheme was admirable as an advertis.e.m.e.nt, and would more than repay Messrs. Owens' outlay, its origin had been pure philanthropy. Such good angels do walk this world in the guise of bulky, quite unpoetic-looking business-men.

"One hundred pounds!" said Henry, over and over again to himself. "One hundred pounds! What news for Angel!"

He had soon a scheme in his head for the book, which entirely hit Mr.

Fairfax's fancy. It was to make a volume of verse celebrating each of the various departments of the great store, in metres parodying the styles of the old English ballads and various poets, ancient and modern, and was to be called, "Bon Marche Ballads."

"Something like this, for example," said Henry, a few days later, pulling an envelope covered with pencil-scribble from his pocket. "This for the ladies' department,--

_"Oh, where do you buy your hats, lady?

And where do you buy your hose?

And where do you buy your shoes, lady?

And where your underclothes?_

_"Hats, shoes, and stockings, everything A lady's heart requires, Quality good, and prices low, We are the largest buyers!

"The stock we bought on Wednesday last Is fading fast away, To-morrow it may be too late-- Oh, come and buy to-day!"_

Mr. Fairfax fairly trumpeted approval. "If they're all as good as that,"

he said; "you must have more money. Yes, you must. Well, well,--we'll see, we'll see!" And when the "Bon Marche Ballads" actually appeared, the generous creature insisted on adding another fifty pounds to the cheque.

As many were afterwards of opinion that Henry never again did such good work as these nonsense rhymes, written thus for a frolic,--and one hundred and fifty pounds,--and as copies of the "Bon Marche Ballads" are now exceedingly scarce, it may possibly be of interest to quote two or three more of its preposterous numbers. This is a lyric ill.u.s.trative of cheese, for the provision department:--

"_Are you fond of cheese?

Do you sometimes sigh For a really good Gorgonzola? Try,

"Try our one-and-ten, Wonderfully rotten, Tasted once, it never can Be again forgotten_!"

Here is "a Ballad of Baby's Toys:"--

"_Oh, give me a toy" the baby said-- The babe of three months old,-- Oh, what shall I buy my little babee, With silver and with gold?"

"I would you buy a trumpet fine, And a rocking-horse for me, And a bucket and a spade, mother, To dig beside the sea."

"But where shall I buy these pretty things?"

The mother's heart inquires.

"Oh, go to Owens!" cried the babe; "They are the largest buyers."_

The subject of our last selection is "Melton Mowbray," which bore beneath its t.i.tle due apologies to Mr. Swinburne:--

_"Strange pie, that is almost a pa.s.sion, O pa.s.sion immoral, for pie!

Unknown are the ways that they fashion, Unknown and unseen of the eye, The pie that is marbled and mottled, The pie that digests with a sigh: For all is not Ba.s.s that is bottled, And all is not pork that is pie."_

Of all the goodness else that Henry and Angel were to owe in future days to Mr. Fairfax, there is not room in this book to write. But that matters little, for is it not written in the Book of Love?

CHAPTER XLIII

STILL ANOTHER CALLER

One afternoon the step coming along the corridor was almost light enough to be Angel's, though a lover's ear told him that hers it was not. Once more that feminine rustle, the very whisper of romantic mystery; again the little feminine knock.

Daintiness and Myrtilla!

"Well, this is lovely of you, Myrtilla! But what courage! How did you ever dare venture into this wild and savage spot,--this mountain-fastness of Bohemia?"

"Yes, it was brave of me, wasn't it?" said Myrtilla, with a little laugh, for which the stairs had hardly left her breath. "But what a climb! It is like having your rooms on the Matterhorn. I think I must write a magazine article: 'How I climbed the fifty-thousand stairs,'

with ill.u.s.trations,--and we could have some quite pretty ones," she said, looking round the room.

"That big skylight is splendid! As close, dear lad, to the stars as you can get it? Are you as devoted to them as ever?"

"Aren't you, Myrtilla?"

"Oh, yes; but they don't get any nearer, you know."

"It's awfully good to see you again, Myrtilla," said Henry, going over to her and taking both her hands. "It's quite a long time, you know, since we had a talk. It was a sweet thought of you to come. You'll have some tea, won't you?"

"Yes, I should love to see you make tea. Bachelors always make such good tea. What pretty cups! My word, we are dainty! I suppose it was Esther bought them for you?"

Henry detected the little trap and smiled. No, it hadn't been Esther.

"No? Someone else then? eh! I think I can guess her name. It was mean of you not to tell me about her, Henry. I hear she's called Angel, and that she looks like one. I wish I could have seen her before I went away."

"Going away, Myrtilla? why, where? I've heard nothing of it. Tell me about it."

The atmosphere perceptibly darkened with the thought of Williamson.

"Well!" she said, in the little airy melodious way she had when she was telling something particularly unhappy about herself--a sort of harpsichord bravado--"Well, you know, he's taken to fancying himself seriously ill lately, and the doctors have aided and abetted him; and so we're going to Davos Platz, or some such health-wilderness--and well, that's all!"

"And you I suppose are to nurse the--to nurse him?" said Henry, savagely.

"Hush, lad! It's no use, not a bit! You won't help me that way," she said, laying her hand kindly on his, and her eyes growing bright with suppressed tears.

"It's a shame, nevertheless, Myrtilla, a cruel shame!"

"You'd like to say it was a something-else shame, wouldn't you, dear boy? Well, you can, if you like: but then you must say no more. And if you really want to help me, you shall send me a long letter now and again, with some of your new poems enclosed; and tell me what new books are worth sending for? Will you do that?"