FullReads

‘I’m really afraid it isn’t worth your while,’ he said timidly. ‘The fact is, I haven’t space to show my books properly.’

I put aside the objection, and we entered. With anxious courtesy Christopherson led me up the narrow staircase to the second-floor landing, and threw open a door. On the threshold I stood astonished. The room was a small one, and would in any case have only just sufficed for homely comfort, used as it evidently was for all daytime purposes; but certainly a third of the entire space was occupied by a solid mass of books, volumes stacked several rows deep against two of the walls and almost up to the ceiling. A round table and two or three chairs were the only furniture–there was no room, indeed, for more. The window being shut, and the sunshine glowing upon it, an intolerable stuffiness oppressed the air. Never had I been made so uncomfortable by the odour of printed paper and bindings.

‘But,’ I exclaimed, ‘you said you had only a few books! There must be five times as many here as I have.’

‘I forget the exact number,’ murmured Christopherson, in great agitation. ‘You see, I can’t arrange them properly. I have a few more in–in the other room.’

He led me across the landing, opened another door, and showed me a little bedroom. Here the encumberment was less remarkable, but one wall had completely disappeared behind volumes, and the bookishness of the air made it a disgusting thought that two persons occupied this chamber every night.

We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson began picking out books from the solid mass to show me. Talking nervously, brokenly, with now and then a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little light on his history. I learnt that he had occupied these lodgings for the last eight years; that he had been twice married; that the only child he had had, a daughter by his first wife, had died long ago in childhood; and lastly–this came in a burst of confidence, with a very pleasant smile–that his second wife had been his daughter’s governess. I listened with keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the circumstances of this singular household.

‘In the country,’ I remarked, ‘you will no doubt have shelf room?’

At once his countenance fell; he turned upon me a woebegone eye. Just as I was about to speak again sounds from within the house caught my attention; there was a heavy foot on the stairs, and a loud voice, which seemed familiar to me.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Christopherson with a start, ‘here comes some one who is going to help me in the removal of the books. Come in, Mr. Pomfret, come in!’

The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry fellow, whose sandy hair, light blue eyes, jutting jawbones, and large mouth made a picture suggestive of small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome manhood. No wonder I had seemed to recognise his voice. Though we only saw each other by chance at long intervals, Pomfret and I were old acquaintances.

‘Hallo!’ he roared out, ‘I didn’t know you knew Mr. Christopherson.’

‘I’m just as much surprised to find that you know him!’ was my reply.

The old book-lover gazed at us in nervous astonishment, then shook hands with the newcomer, who greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully. Pomfret spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the angularity of demeanour which marks the typical Yorkshireman. He came to announce that everything had been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson’s library; it remained only to decide the day.

‘There’s no hurry,’ exclaimed Christopherson. ‘There’s really no hurry. I’m greatly obliged to you, Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking. We’ll settle the date in a day or two–a day or two.’

With a good-humoured nod Pomfret moved to take his leave. Our eyes met; we left the house together. Out in the street again I took a deep breath of the summer air, which seemed sweet as in a meadow after that stifling room. My companion evidently had a like sensation, for he looked up to the sky and broadened out his shoulders.