The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

Oh!

       Yes, they are indeed arcades ambo.”

       SIR GILBERT HARKNESS was a bookworm.

      All his life he had fed and fattened on books, until they had become part of himself. When they (the books) found themselves in the citadel of his heart, they turned and devoured all the other passions until the heart of their victim was emptied of all save themselves. Sir Gilbert found himself at the age of fifty with a brain weary of its cumbersome load of knowledge, and eyes dim with long study to acquire that same load. Left an orphan at the age of twenty, master of his own actions and a magnificent fortune, he had spent all his time and much of his money in filling the shelves of his library. He spared no cost in procuring any rare and valuable book, and on his frequent visits to London he would be found turning over the dusty treasures of the old book-stalls with eager hands. The nature of the man could be seen at once by the way in which he smoothed and caressed his treasures. How tenderly did he brush the dust off the back of some antique volume; how gloatingly did his eyes dwell on its yellow pages, as they displayed their store of black-letter type. He honoured Fust and Caxton above all men, and looked up to them with as much reverence as the world does to its great heroes. He would descant for hours on the extraordinary excellence of the printing of John de Spira, and would show with pride a quaint old folio of Caxton which he had picked up in some dingy bookstall. But his bookish propensities had devoured dragon-like the rest of his passions, and beyond his library he was a childish and simple man. He never went out save on some bookish expedition, but passed his days in his great library, cataloguing his treasures and writing his history of chemistry. To give an exhaustive and critical work on this subject, he had collected at enormous expense a great number of famous books by German chemists. He was a tall, thin man, with a stoop, doubtless caused by his sedentary habits; and clad in his long velvet dressing-gown, with his thin white hair scattered from under a velvet skull-cap, he looked like a magician of mediævalism. He was standing by the quaint diamond-paned window of his library, examining a book which he had just received from London, and his eyes, dim and blear with work, were bent on the yellow page in a severe scrutiny of the text. All around him were books from floor to ceiling, in all kinds of binding, of shapes and sizes. They had overflowed the shelves, and were piled in little heaps here and there upon the floor. They were scattered on all the chairs, they were heaped upon his writing-table, they were lying on the ledge of the window, they peered out of all the pockets of his dressing-gown—wherever the eye turned it saw nothing but books, books, books.

      Good heavens! What an amount of learning of industry was collected between those four walls. East, west, north, south, ancient, mediæval, and modern; representatives of all time and all countries were there. Oh, shades of Fust, Guttenberg, and Caxton, if, indeed, spirits be permitted to revisit the “glimpses of the moon,” come hither and feast your spiritual eyes on your progeny. In these myriad bindings, many-coloured as the coat of Joseph, is the spirit of past ages preserved. Here you will find the supreme singer of the world, Shakespeare himself, fast bound betwixt these boards, and as securely prisoned as ever the genie was under the seal of Solomon in the Arabian tale. Open yon grim brown folio, and lo! Homer will step forth, followed by all the fresh untrodden generations of the world. Ulysses, with his sea-weary eyes, eagerly straining for the low rocky coast of Ithaca. Helen, with her imperial beauty, standing on the towers of Illium. Achilles, with his angry face set fierce against the walls of windy Troy, over the dead body of his friend. All, all are there, and will appear to thee in their fresh eternal beauty if thou sayest but the word. Truly, the deftest necromancer of the middle ages held not half the airy spirits and fantastic fancies under the spell of his wand as thou dost, oh, Gilbert Harkness.

      Outside, the short November twilight is closing in, and Sir Gilbert finds that the fat black letters are all running into one blurred line under his eager eyes. A knock at the door of his library disturbs him, and it is with a spirit of relief that he pitches the volume on the table and calls, “Come in.” A servant enters with a card, which Sir Gilbert takes to the window, and reads in the failing, grey light: “Otto Brankel.”

      “Show the gentleman in,” he says, and then looks at the card again. “Brankel? Brankel?” he murmurs, in a dreamy tone; “where have I heard that name? Nuremburg? Leipsic?”

      “No! Heidelberg,” interrupts a voice, and looking up he sees a tall, slender man wrapped in a fur great-coat, regarding him with a smile.

      “Heidelberg,” repeated Sir Gilbert. “Ah, yes; are you not the Professor of Chemistry there?”

      “I have that honour,” replied the visitor, sinking with a complacent sigh into the chair indicated by the baronet. “I must apologise for this untimely visit, but I have a letter of introduction to you from Professor Schlaadt, and I was so impatient that I thought I would lose no time, but present it at once.”

      The baronet took the letter, and glancing rapidly over it, shook the Professor warmly by the hand.

      “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Professor,” he said, eagerly. “I have heard a great deal about your learning and research.”

      “A mere nothing,” said the Professor, with a deprecating glance and a wave of his hand; “mere scraps of knowledge, picked out of the infinite ocean of learning. You have a wonderful collection of books here. I heard about your library in Germany;” and he cast a keen glance round into all the dark corners of the room.

      “Ah, you do not see all,” said Sir Gilbert, with a grateful smile, as the servant brought in a lamp and placed it on the writing-table; “this dim light does not show it to advantage.”

      “The fame of it has penetrated to Heidelberg,” said the Professor, with another glance round.

      “Perhaps that is because I have so many of your German works on chemistry,” returned Sir Gilbert. “You know that I am writing a History of Chemistry.”

      “Have you any alchemists of the fourteenth century—any of their works I mean?” asked Brankel, with a faint glow of interest.

      “Oh, yes,” answered the baronet, pointing towards a dark corner of the library, where the Professor’s gaze eagerly followed him. “You will find there Rostham von Helme, Gradious, Giraldus.”

      The Professor’s hands were resting lightly on the arms of the chair, but at the last word he gripped them hard. However, he merely observed coldly:

      “‘Giraldus’ is rather a rare book, is it not?”

      “Yes,” replied the baronet, slowly. “I got it by a curious chance. I——”

      “Oh, Governor! Governor!” cried a clear ringing voice, and a young lady in a riding habit, all splashed with mud, stepped lightly through the window into the room. “Such a splendid run. Fiddle-de-dee carried me splendidly, I was in at the death,” displaying a fox’s brush, “so was Jack. I was the only lady; we came home in about half an hour—both nags quite worn out, which I am sure I don’t wonder at. Jack has behaved like a trump all day, so as a reward I have brought him to dinner—come in, Jack.”

      A young gentleman in a hunting costume, likewise splashed with mud, in reply to this invitation also came in through the window. He was advancing with a smile towards Sir Gilbert when the young lady suddenly caught sight of the Professor, who had risen at her entry and was standing somewhat in the shade.

      “Visitor, dad?” she said, carelessly, shifting the folds of her riding-habit, which was lying on her arm. “Introduce me, dear.”

      “My daughter—Philippa—Professor Brankel,” said Sir Gilbert, in a vexed tone. “I do wish, Philippa, you would come in at the door like a Christian and not by the window like a——”

      “Pagan; eh, dad?” said Philippa, with a laugh.

      She was looking at the Professor, and his eyes seemed to have a magnetic attraction for her. The German had stepped out of the shade, and the light of the lamp was striking full on his face, which the girl regarded curiously. It was a remarkable face—a white complexion with jet black hair, brushed back from a high forehead; dark, bushy eyebrows, with a Mephistophelian curve over light and brilliant eyes,