FullReads

‘If you have five minutes to spare,’ was the timid reply, ‘I will show you my house. I mean’–again the little crowing laugh–‘the house which was mine.’

Willingly I walked on with him. He led me a short distance up the road skirting Regent’s Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposing terrace.

‘There,’ he whispered, ‘I used to live. The window to the right of the door–that was my library. Ah!’

And he heaved a deep sigh.

‘A misfortune befell you,’ I said, also in a subdued voice.

‘The result of my own folly. I had enough for my needs, but thought I needed more. I let myself be drawn into business–I, who knew nothing of such things–and there came the black day–the black day.’

We turned to retrace our steps, and walking slowly, with heads bent, came in silence again to the church.

‘I wonder whether you have bought any other of my books?’ asked Christopherson, with his gentle smile, when we had paused as if for leave-taking.

I replied that I did not remember to have come across his name before; then, on an impulse, asked whether he would care to have the book I carried in my hand; if so, with pleasure I would give it him. No sooner were the words spoken than I saw the delight they caused the hearer. He hesitated, murmured reluctance, but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushed with joy as he took the volume.

‘I still have a few books,’ he said, under his breath, as if he spoke of something he was ashamed to make known. ‘But it is very rarely indeed that I can add to them. I feel I have not thanked you half enough.’

We shook hands and parted.

My lodging at that time was in Camden Town. One afternoon, perhaps a fortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back I stopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; I looked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old friends.

‘I have seen you several times lately,’ said the broken gentleman, who looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, ‘but I–I didn’t like to speak. I live not far from here.’

‘Why, so do I,’ and I added, without much thinking what I said, ‘do you live alone?’

‘Alone? oh no. With my wife.’

There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down and his head moved uneasily.

We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a very intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof of erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I asked whether he wrote. No, he had never written anything–never; he was only a bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave.

It was not long before we again met by chance. We came face to face at a street corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. He looked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand he gave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faint expression.

‘I am going away,’ he said in reply to my inquiring look. ‘I am leaving London.’

‘For good?’

‘I fear so, and yet’–he made an obvious effort–‘I am glad of it. My wife’s health has not been very good lately. She has need of country air. Yes, I am glad we have decided to go away–very glad–very glad indeed!’

He spoke with an automatic sort of emphasis, his eyes wandering, and his hands twitching nervously. I was on the point of asking what part of the country he had chosen for his retreat, when he abruptly added:

‘I live just over there. Will you let me show you my books?’

Of course I gladly accepted the invitation, and a couple of minutes’ walk brought us to a house in a decent street where most of the ground-floor windows showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at the door, my companion seemed to hesitate, to regret having invited me.