I must find a name for my place--for its own I will not write: let me call it The Moat: there were signs, plain enough to me after my return from Oxford, that there had once been a moat about it, of which the hollow I have mentioned as the spot where I used to lie and watch for the sun's first rays, had evidently been a part. But the remains of the moat lay at a considerable distance from the house, suggesting a large area of building at some former period, proof of which, however, had entirely vanished, the house bearing every sign of a narrow completeness.

The work I had undertaken required a constantly recurring reference to books of the sixteenth century; and although I had provided as many as I thought I should need, I soon found them insufficient. My uncle's library was very large for a man in his position, but it was not by any means equally developed; and my necessities made me think often of the old library at the Hall, which might contain somewhere in its ruins every book I wanted. Not only, however, would it have been useless to go searching in the formless ma.s.s for this or that volume, but, unable to grant Sir Giles the desire of his heart in respect of my poor field, I did not care to ask of him the comparatively small favour of being allowed to burrow in his dust-heap of literature.

I was sitting, one hot noon, almost in despair over a certain little point concerning which I could find no definite information, when Mr Coningham called. After some business matters had been discussed, I mentioned, merely for the sake of talk, the difficulty I was in--the sole disadvantage of a residence in the country as compared with London, where the British Museum was the unfailing resort of all who required such aid as I was in want of.

'But there is the library at Moldwarp Hall,' he said.

'Yes, _there_ it is; but there is not _here_.'

'I have no doubt Sir Giles would make you welcome to borrow what books you wanted. He is a good-natured man, Sir Giles.'

I explained my reason for not troubling him.

'Besides,' I added, 'the library is in such absolute chaos, that I might with less loss of time run up to London, and find any volume I happened to want among the old-book-shops. You have no idea what a mess Sir Giles's books are in--scarcely two volumes of the same book to be found even in proximity. It is one of the most painful sights I ever saw.'

He said little more, but from what followed, I suspect either he or his father spoke to Sir Giles on the subject; for, one day, as I was walking past the park-gates, which I had seldom entered since my return, I saw him just within, talking to old Mr Coningham. I saluted him in pa.s.sing, and he not only returned the salutation in a friendly manner, but made a step towards me as if he wished to speak to me. I turned and approached him. He came out and shook hands with me.

'I know who you are, Mr c.u.mbermede, although I have never had the pleasure of speaking to you before,' he said frankly.

'There you are mistaken, Sir Giles,' I returned; 'but you could hardly be expected to remember the little boy who, many years ago, having stolen one of your apples, came to you to comfort him.'

He laughed heartily.

'I remember the circ.u.mstance well,' he said. 'And you were that unhappy culprit? Ha! ha! ha! To tell the truth, I have thought of it many times. It was a remarkably fine thing to do.'

'What! steal the apple, Sir Giles?'

'Make the instant reparation you did.'

'There was no reparation in asking you to box my ears.'

'It was all you could do, though.'

'To ease my own conscience, it was. There is always a satisfaction, I suppose, in suffering for your sins. But I have thought a thousand times of your kindness in shaking hands with me instead. You treated me as the angels treat the repentant sinner, Sir Giles.'

'Well, I certainly never thought of it in that light,' he said; then, as if wishing to change the subject,--'Don't you find it lonely now your uncle is gone?' he said.

'I miss him more than I can tell.'

'A very worthy man he was--too good for this world, by all accounts.'

'He's not the worse off for that now, Sir Giles, I trust.' 'No; of course not,' he returned quickly, with the usual shrinking from the slightest allusion to what is called the other world.--'Is there anything I can do for you? You are a literary man, they tell me. There are a good many books of one sort and another lying at the Hall. Some of them might be of use to you. They are at your service. I am sure you are to be trusted even with mouldy books, which, from what I hear, must be a greater temptation to you now than red-cheeked apples,' he added with another merry laugh.

'I will tell you what,' Sir Giles, I answered. 'It has often grieved me to think of the state of your library. It would be scarcely possible for me to find a book in it now. But if you would trust me, I should be delighted, in my spare hours, of which I can command a good many, to put the whole in order for you.'

'I should be under the greatest obligation. I have always intended having some capable man down from London to arrange it. I am no great reader myself, but I have the highest respect for a good library. It ought never to have got into the condition in which I found it.'

'The books are fast going to ruin, I fear.'

'Are they indeed?' he exclaimed, with some consternation. 'I was not in the least aware of that. I thought so long as I let no one meddle with them, they were safe enough.'

'The law of the moth and rust holds with books as well as other unused things,' I answered.

'Then, pray, my dear sir, undertake the thing at once,' he said, in a tone to which the uneasiness of self-reproach gave a touch of imperiousness. 'But really,' he added, 'it seems trespa.s.sing on your goodness much too far. Your time is valuable. Would it be a long job?'

'It would doubtless take some months; but the pleasure of seeing order dawn from confusion would itself repay me. And I _might_ come upon certain books of which I am greatly in want. You will have to allow me a carpenter though, for the shelves are not half sufficient to hold the books; and I have no doubt those there are stand in need of repair.'

'I have a carpenter amongst my people. Old houses want constant attention. I shall put him under your orders with pleasure. Come and dine with me to-morrow, and we'll talk it all over.'

'You are very kind,' I said. 'Is Mr Brotherton at home?'

'I am sorry to say he is not.'

'I heard the other day that he had sold his commission.'

'Yes--six months ago. His regiment was ordered to India, and--and--his mother----But he does not give us much of his company,' added the old man. 'I am sorry he is not at home, for he would have been glad to meet you.'

Instead of responding, I merely made haste to accept Sir Giles's invitation. I confess I did not altogether relish having anything to do with the future property of Geoffrey Brotherton; but the attraction of the books was great, and in any case I should be under no obligation to him; neither was the nature of the service I was about to render him such as would awaken any sense of obligation in a mind like his.

I could not help recalling the sarcastic criticisms of Clara when I entered the drawing-room of Moldwarp Hall--a long, low-ceiled room, with its walls and stools and chairs covered with tapestry, some of it the work of the needle, other some of the Gobelin loom; but although I found Lady Brotherton a common enough old lady, who showed little of the dignity of which she evidently thought much, and was more condescending to her yeoman neighbour than was agreeable, I did not at once discover ground for the severity of those remarks. Miss Brotherton, the eldest of the family, a long-necked lady, the flower of whose youth was beginning to curl at the edges, I found well-read, but whether in books or the reviews of them, I had to leave an open question as yet. Nor was I sufficiently taken with her not to feel considerably dismayed when she proffered me her a.s.sistance in arranging the library. I made no objection at the time, only hinting that the drawing up of a catalogue afterwards might be a fitter employment for her fair fingers; but I resolved to create such a fearful pother at the very beginning, that her first visit should be her last. And so I doubt not it would have fallen out, but for something else. The only other person who dined with us was a Miss Pease--at least so I will call her--who, although the law of her existence appeared to be fetching and carrying for Lady Brotherton, was yet, in virtue of a poor-relationship, allowed an uneasy seat at the table. Her obedience was mechanically perfect. One wondered how the mere nerves of volition could act so instantaneously upon the slightest hint. I saw her more than once or twice withdraw her fork when almost at her lips, and, almost before she had laid it down, rise from her seat to obey some half-whispered, half-nodded behest. But her look was one of injured meekness and self-humbled submission. Sir Giles now and then gave her a kind or merry word, but she would reply to it with almost abject humility. Her face was grey and pinched, her eyes were very cold, and she ate as if she did not know one thing from another.

Over our wine Sir Giles introduced business. I professed myself ready, with a housemaid and carpenter at my orders when I should want them, to commence operations the following afternoon. He begged me to ask for whatever I might want, and after a little friendly chat, I took my leave, elated with the prospect of the work before me. About three o'clock the next afternoon I took my way to the Hall, to a.s.sume the temporary office of creative librarian.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

PREPARATIONS.

It was a lovely afternoon, the air hot, and the shadows of the trees dark upon the green gra.s.s. The clear sun was shining sideways on the little oriel window of one of the rooms in which my labour awaited me.

Never have I seen a picture of more stately repose than the huge pile of building presented, while the curious vane on the central square tower glittered like the outburning flame of its hidden life. The only objection I could find to it was that it stood isolated from its own park, although the portion next it was kept as trim as the smoothest lawn. There was not a door anywhere to be seen, except the two gateway entrances, and not a window upon the ground-floor. All the doors and low windows were either within the courts, or opened on the garden, which, with its terraced walks and avenues and one tiny lawn, surrounded the two further sides of the house, and was itself enclosed by walls.

I knew the readiest way to the library well enough: once admitted to the outer gate, I had no occasion to trouble the servants. The rooms containing the books were amongst the bed-rooms, and after crossing the great hall, I had to turn my back on the stair which led to the ball-room and drawing-room, and ascend another to the left, so that I could come and go with little chance of meeting any of the family.

The rooms, I have said, were six, none of them of any great size, and all ill-fitted for the purpose. In fact, there was such a sense of confinement about the whole arrangement as gave me the feeling that any difficult book read there would be unintelligible. Order, however, is only another kind of light, and would do much to destroy the impression. Having with practical intent surveyed the situation, I saw there was no s.p.a.ce for action. I must have at least the temporary use of another room.

Observing that the last of the suite of book-rooms furthest from the armoury had still a door into the room beyond, I proceeded to try it, thinking to know at a glance whether it would suit me, and whether it was likely to be yielded for my purpose. It opened, and, to my dismay, there stood Clara Coningham, fastening her collar. She looked sharply round, and made a half-indignant step towards me. 'I beg your pardon a thousand times, Miss Coningham,' I exclaimed. 'Will you allow me to explain, or must I retreat unheard?'

I was vexed indeed, for, notwithstanding a certain flutter at the heart, I had no wish to renew my acquaintance with her.

'There must be some fatality about the place, Mr c.u.mbermede!' she said, almost with her old merry laugh. 'It frightens me.'

'Precisely my own feeling, Miss Coningham. I had no idea you were in the neighbourhood.'

'I cannot say so much as that, for I had heard you were at The Moat; but I had no expectation of seeing you--least of all in this house. I suppose you are on the scent of some musty old book or other,' she added, approaching the door, where I stood with the handle in my hand.

'My object is an invasion rather than a hunt,' I said, drawing back that she might enter.