‘Ah! Well, I only wondered. No question it’s an out-of-the-way book.’
‘Shall we send it round, sir? You shall have it within the next half-hour.’
‘No, I can carry it. I’m going straight home. I’ll take it with me.’
As a matter of fact Dr Hodsoll did not go straight home, for less than a couple of hundred yards from the book-shop he was buttonholed by a bore of the first water, from whom he could not escape without a promise of lunch at an early date. The delay caused him to fall straight into the arms of Miss Matty Davies, whom he must needs squire to her garden gate—it was not so very far out of his way, as she remarked, and she was sure he would be interested to know about the doings and misdoings of her new maid. ‘Ah, once servants were servants,’ she said, with a shake of her crisp, gray curls, ‘and now——!’
The result was that by the time he put his latch-key in his own front door the clock of St Matthew’s at the corner of the road had struck half-past six some minutes, and simultaneously with his entrance there appeared in the hall the excellent Burkitt, who ministered so admirably to his creature comforts and who was (be it whispered) a little bit of a tyrant in his way, to remind his master that he was dining at a house three miles distant and it behoved him not to loiter in the study over his letters and paper if he intended to be anything like punctual. In consequence the new purchase had to be put on the table, and Dr Hodsoll dared not trust himself to open it before he went up to dress. He left it, however, with a promise to do something more than dip into it on his return before he went to sleep, a promise that was never fulfilled since the dinner was longer and more formal, the company larger, and he got back considerably later than he had expected, feeling not a little tired and very ready for bed.
The next morning Dr Hodsoll proved quite unable to do such ample justice as his wont, in fact to do justice at all, to the tempting breakfast Mrs Burkitt sent up from her well-ordered kitchen. He turned aside from kidneys and bacon, York ham and new-laid eggs alike, only able to manage a little dry toast with his tea. He had passed a restless and disturbed night, which left him curiously inert and depressed. He was a sound sleeper—he used to boast that he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow and that he never knew anything more until eight o’clock next morning—yet not only had he tossed and turned and counted numberless sheep quite unavailingly, but when he did doze off he dreamed, and his dreams were of a singularly unpleasant nature. True they partook of that seemingly incoherent nature which appears a general characteristic of dreams, and he had, as is not infrequent, a very vague and confused memory of them upon waking, but in each there was the recurrent figure of a man, the same man, who in some way persisted and returned quite clearly every time he had closed his eyes. The man was an ordinary figure enough—he had never been able to catch sight of his face—but in some way he realized that this visitant was evil and wished him ill. The curious part was that the man seemed to be loitering up and down the corridor outside his bedroom and on the landing beyond. He had even stood outside the door with his ear bent to the keyhole listening to what was going on within. In fact once this seemed so vivid that waking with a start Dr Hodsoll had switched on the light, and jumping out of bed unbolted the door and flung it wide open. Of course there was nobody there, and he got back again conscious that he was more than a trifle ashamed of himself.
As he drank his last cup of tea—he was feeling particularly thirsty—and gazed out on to his gay flower-beds and smooth green lawn, he passed in review his dietary of the day and particularly of the evening before, but he was unable to accuse himself of any especial indiscretion. A plain and careful liver, last night he had pointedly eschewed that rich-looking trifle with the avalanche of cream spangled with hundreds and thousands and chosen the more wholesome apples and rice. He had taken sole rather than the lobster cutlets, and avoided the mushroom savoury. No, he had nothing then with which to reproach himself. Perhaps he was ailing for something. If so Canon Spenlow wouldn’t want an invalid in his house. Dr Hodsoll crossed to a mirror and gravely examined his tongue. That looked all right at all events. Should he ring up little Dillon, and be overhauled before he went? (I should explain that Julian Hodsoll was a Doctor of Literature and not a physician.) Just because he had happened to have had a bad night! It would never do to get so old-womanish. What could it be but indigestion? He had no headache, and no temperature. It was only this stupid laziness. Perhaps he had been overdoing it a bit lately. Well, at Silchester he would take a regular holiday, and slack. It was a soothing, restful place. The Canon was a model host, too, he let one do just as one liked so long as one attended a couple of services on Sunday. Of course that always became rather a bore, but then the music at the Cathedral was invariably first-rate. Why, to please the old fellow he wouldn’t mind turning up two or three times on week-days during his visit. Ten o’clock or ten-thirty, he forgot which. It was worth it. Undoubtedly Silchester would do him all the good in the world.
Canon Spenlow, the only son of a wealthy Birmingham manufacturer (long since deceased), although a bachelor, kept up a large and rather old-fashioned household. Of extremely conservative views, he belonged to what was once known as the ‘high and dry’ school of thought, and was altogether an entirely correct and proper old gentleman, who profoundly distrusted both innovations or enthusiasms of any kind. The narrowness of his intellectual outlook was to a large extent modified, it is true, by his love of books and a keen interest in ecclesiastical archaeology, and it was at a meeting of a learned Society some years before that he had first met Dr Hodsoll, to find that although he strongly disapproved of the laxity, not to say the scepticism, of his new friend’s opinions, they had many tastes and pursuits in common. An invitation to Silchester resulted; since when several visits had been exchanged. The acquaintanceship was in one sense perforce rather one-sided, for Dr Hodsoll could not very well enter into and indeed had small sympathy with the Canon’s most intimate convictions, but he was both tactful and shrewd, and with the interests they had in common, their talk of books, their cult of antiquity, they did very well.
It was rather late on an afternoon towards the end of April that Dr Hodsoll’s taxi turned into Silchester Close, and as he looked out of his window he saw with great satisfaction and content the large, square, red-brick house, built by some old churchman in the reign of the second James, and mellowed to an august beauty during the passage of years. The westering sun was brightly reflected in the many tall and narrow windows, whose little panes twinkled like very diamonds. The calm nobility and stateliness of the frontage pleased and soothed him, as did the gates of elaborate iron scroll work, the broad smooth path of yellow gravel beyond, sweeping round the velvety grass with its close and sombre shrubberies until it ended in a wide oval at the foot of the imposing flight of steps that led up to the great double door.
His friend welcomed him with evident pleasure, and after an elaborately planned and served dinner—for Canon Spenlow would bate no jot of his punctiliousness because they were only two at table, and both butler and footman were required to be in attendance—they settled down to a long and chatty evening in the library, a room of magnificent proportions lined from floor to ceiling with books. Here the latest treasures had to be exhibited and commented upon and admired. The bright fire blazing merrily away was grateful on the spring night; the armchairs were comfortable, neither too luxurious, nor too small; the port was of the finest vintage; the Canon had acquired some genuine rarities, including several incunabula; the topics of conversation were many and varied. Midnight struck as the host was taking down yet another recent treasure trove from his shelves. ‘Oh! Dear me!’ he exclaimed, ‘twelve o’clock already. Who would have thought it? But I mustn’t be inconsiderate, my dear Hodsoll, and keep you from your bed. Because I’m a late sitter it doesn’t follow that you are. One last glass of port? No? A brandy and soda, then? Nothing more? Ah, well, perhaps you are wise. And I think we’ll be turning in. If I may say so, you are not looking quite so robust as I’ve seen you, and perhaps I’ve been to blame in detaining you so late as it is.’