Christopherson

by George Gissing

　　From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).

　　It was twenty years ago, and on an evening in May. All day long there hadbeen sunshine. Owing, doubtless, to the incident I am about to relate, thelight and warmth of that long-vanished day live with me still; I can seethe great white clouds that moved across the strip of sky before my window,and feel again the spring languor which troubled my solitary work in theheart of London.Only at sunset did I leave the house. There was an unwonted sweetness inthe air; the long vistas of newly lit lamps made a golden glow under thedusking flush of the sky. With no purpose but to rest and breathe, Iwandered for half an hour, and found myself at length where Great PortlandStreet opens into Marylebone Road. Over the way, in the shadow of TrinityChurch, was an old bookshop, well known to me: the gas-jet shining upon thestall with its rows of volumes drew me across. I began turning over pages,and--invariable consequence--fingering what money I had in my pocket. Acertain book overcame me; I stepped into the little shop to pay for it.While standing at the stall, I had been vaguely aware of some one besideme, a man who also was looking over the books; as I came out again with mypurchase, this stranger gazed at me intently, with a half-smile of peculiarinterest. He seemed about to say something. I walked slowly away; the manmoved in the same direction. Just in front of the church he made a quickmovement to my side, and spoke.'Pray excuse me, sir--don't misunderstand me--I only wished to ask whetheryou have noticed the name written on the flyleaf of the book you have justbought?'The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at firstthat the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. Ijudged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair andstraggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out fromhis bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as afallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class heoriginally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so muchintelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a patheticdiffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I hadnot seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by thelight of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very fine hand, 'W. R.Christopherson, 1849.''It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice.'Indeed? The book used to belong to you?''It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh,at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'Younever heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you weretoo young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name inthem on the stalls--often. I had happened to notice this just before youcame up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether youwould buy it. Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books--don'tyou think--?'The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quiteunderstood and agreed with him he crowed his little laugh.'Have you a large library?' he inquired, eyeing me wistfully.'Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too many for one who has no houseof his own.'He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly:'My catalogue numbered 24,718.'I was growing curious and interested. Venturing no more direct questions, Iasked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.'If you have five minutes to spare,' was the timid reply, 'I will show youmy house. I mean'--again the little crowing laugh--'the house which wasmine.'Willingly I walked on with him. He led me a short distance up the roadskirting Regent's Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposingterrace.'There,' he whispered, 'I used to live. The window to the right of thedoor--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 Ineeded more. I let myself be drawn into business--I, who knew nothing ofsuch things--and there came the black day--the black day.'We turned to retrace our steps, and walking slowly, with heads bent, camein silence again to the church.'I wonder whether you have bought any other of my books?' askedChristopherson, with his gentle smile, when we had paused as if forleave-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 carriedin my hand; if so, with pleasure I would give it him. No sooner were thewords spoken than I saw the delight they caused the hearer. He hesitated,murmured reluctance, but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushedwith joy as he took the volume.'I still have a few books,' he said, under his breath, as if he spoke ofsomething he was ashamed to make known. 'But it is very rarely indeed thatI 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 afortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back Istopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; Ilooked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of oldfriends.'I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken gentleman, wholooked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, 'but I--I didn't like tospeak. I live not far from here.''Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking what I said, 'do youlive alone?''Alone? oh no. With my wife.'There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down andhis head moved uneasily.We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away togethercontinued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but avery intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof oferudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I askedwhether he wrote. No, he had never written anything--never; he was only abookworm, 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 astreet corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. Helooked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand hegave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faintexpression.'I am going away,' he said in reply to my inquiring look. 'I am leavingLondon.''For good?''I fear so, and yet'--he made an obvious effort--'I am glad of it. Mywife'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 hishands twitching nervously. I was on the point of asking what part of thecountry 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' walkbrought us to a house in a decent street where most of the ground-floorwindows showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at the door, mycompanion seemed to hesitate, to regret having invited me.'I'm really afraid it isn't worth your while,' he said timidly. 'The factis, I haven't space to show my books properly.'I put aside the objection, and we entered. With anxious courtesyChristopherson 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 asmall one, and would in any case have only just sufficed for homelycomfort, used as it evidently was for all daytime purposes; but certainly athird of the entire space was occupied by a solid mass of books, volumesstacked several rows deep against two of the walls and almost up to theceiling. A round table and two or three chairs were the onlyfurniture--there was no room, indeed, for more. The window being shut, andthe sunshine glowing upon it, an intolerable stuffiness oppressed the air.Never had I been made so uncomfortable by the odour of printed paper andbindings.'But,' I exclaimed, 'you said you had only a few books! There must befive 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 otherroom.'He led me across the landing, opened another door, and showed me a littlebedroom. Here the encumberment was less remarkable, but one wall hadcompletely disappeared behind volumes, and the bookishness of the air madeit a disgusting thought that two persons occupied this chamber every night.We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson began picking out booksfrom the solid mass to show me. Talking nervously, brokenly, with now andthen a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little light on hishistory. I learnt that he had occupied these lodgings for the last eightyears; that he had been twice married; that the only child he had had, adaughter by his first wife, had died long ago in childhood; andlastly--this came in a burst of confidence, with a very pleasantsmile--that his second wife had been his daughter's governess. I listenedwith keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the circumstances ofthis 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 Iwas 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 seemedfamiliar to me.'Ah!' exclaimed Christopherson with a start, 'here comes some one who isgoing to help me in the removal of the books. Come in, Mr. Pomfret, comein!'The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry fellow, whose sandy hair,light blue eyes, jutting jawbones, and large mouth made a picturesuggestive of small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome manhood. Nowonder I had seemed to recognise his voice. Though we only saw each otherby 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 handswith the newcomer, who greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully. Pomfret spokewith a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the angularity of demeanourwhich marks the typical Yorkshireman. He came to announce that everythinghad been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson'slibrary; it remained only to decide the day.'There's no hurry,' exclaimed Christopherson. 'There's really no hurry. I'mgreatly 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; weleft the house together. Out in the street again I took a deep breath ofthe 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 skyand broadened out his shoulders.'Eh, but it's a grand day! I'd give something for a walk on Ilkley Moors.'As the best substitute within our reach we agreed to walk across Regent'sPark together. Pomfret's business took him in that direction, and I wasglad of a talk about Christopherson. I learnt that the old book-lover'slandlady was Pomfret's aunt. Christopherson's story of affluence and ruinwas quite true. Ruin complete, for at the age of forty he had been obligedto earn his living as a clerk or something of the kind. About five yearslater came his second marriage.'You know Mrs. Christopherson?' asked Pomfret.'No! I wish I did. Why?''Because she's the sort of woman it does you good to know, that's all.She's a lady--my idea of a lady. Christopherson's a gentleman too,there's no denying it; if he wasn't, I think I should have punched his headbefore now. Oh, I know 'em well! why, I lived in the house there with 'emfor several years. She's a lady to the end of her little finger, and howher husband can 'a borne to see her living the life she has, it's more thanI can understand. By--! I'd have turned burglar, if I could 'a found noother way of keeping her in comfort.''She works for her living, then?''Ay, and for his too. No, not teaching; she's in a shop in Tottenham CourtRoad; has what they call a good place, and earns thirty shillings a week.It's all they have, but Christopherson buys books out of it.''But has he never done anything since their marriage?''He did for the first few years, I believe, but he had an illness, and thatwas the end of it. Since then he's only loafed. He goes to all thebook-sales, and spends the rest of his time sniffing about the second-handshops. She? Oh, she'd never say a word! Wait till you've seen her.''Well, but,' I asked, 'what has happened. How is it they're leavingLondon?''Ay, I'll tell you; I was coming to that. Mrs. Christopherson has relativeswell off--a fat and selfish lot, as far as I can make out--never lifted afinger to help her until now. One of them's a Mrs. Keeting, the widow ofsome City porpoise, I'm told. Well, this woman has a home down in Norfolk.She never lives there, but a son of hers goes there to fish and shoot nowand then. Well, this is what Mrs. Christopherson tells my aunt, Mrs.Keeting has offered to let her and her husband live down yonder, rent free,and their food provided. She's to be housekeeper, in fact, and keep theplace ready for any one who goes down.''Christopherson, I can see, would rather stay where he is.''Why, of course, he doesn't know how he'll live without the bookshops. Buthe's glad for all that, on his wife's account. And it's none too soon, Ican tell you. The poor woman couldn't go on much longer; my aunt says she'sjust about ready to drop, and sometimes, I know, she looks terribly bad. Ofcourse, she won't own it, not she; she isn't one of the complaining sort.But she talks now and then about the country--the places where she used tolive. I've heard her, and it gives me a notion of what she's gone throughall these years. I saw her a week ago, just when she had Mrs. Keeting'soffer, and I tell you I scarcely knew who it was! You never saw such achange in any one in your life! Her face was like that of a girl ofseventeen. And her laugh--you should have heard her laugh!''Is she much younger than her husband?' I asked.'Twenty years at least. She's about forty, I think.' I mused for a fewmoments.'After all, it isn't an unhappy marriage?''Unhappy?' cried Pomfret. 'Why, there's never been a disagreeable wordbetween them, that I'll warrant. Once Christopherson gets over the change,they'll have nothing more in the world to ask for. He'll potter over hisbooks--''You mean to tell me,' I interrupted, 'that those books have all beenbought out of his wife's thirty shillings a week?''No, no. To begin with, he kept a few out of his old library. Then, when hewas earning his own living, he bought a great many. He told me once thathe's often lived on sixpence a day to have money for books. A rum old owl;but for all that he's a gentleman, and you can't help liking him. I shallbe sorry when he's out of reach.'For my own part, I wished nothing better than to hear of Christopherson'sdeparture. The story I had heard made me uncomfortable. It was good tothink of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of toil, and inthese days of midsummer free to enjoy the country she loved. A touch ofenvy mingled, I confess, with my thought of Christopherson, who henceforthhad not a care in the world, and without reproach might delight in hishoarded volumes. One could not imagine that he would suffer seriously bythe removal of his old haunts. I promised myself to call on him in a day ortwo. By choosing Sunday, I might perhaps be lucky enough to see his wife.And on Sunday afternoon I was on the point of setting forth to pay thisvisit, when in came Pomfret. He wore a surly look, and kicked clumsilyagainst the furniture as he crossed the room. His appearance was asurprise, for, though I had given him my address, I did not in the leastexpect that he would come to see me; a certain pride, I suppose,characteristic of his rugged strain, having always made him shy of suchintimacy.'Did you ever hear the like of that!' he shouted, half angrily. 'It's allover. They're not going! And all because of those blamed books!'And spluttering and growling, he made known what he had just learnt at hisaunt's home. On the previous afternoon the Christophersons had beensurprised by a visit from their relatives and would-be benefactress, Mrs.Keeting. Never before had that lady called upon them; she came, no doubt(this could only be conjectured), to speak with them of their approachingremoval. The close of the conversation (a very brief one) was overheard bythe landlady, for Mrs. Keeting spoke loudly as she descended the stairs.'Impossible! Quite impossible! I couldn't think of it! How could you dreamfor a moment that I would let you fill my house with musty old books? Mostunhealthy! I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, never!' Andso she went out to her carriage, and was driven away. And the landlady,presently having occasion to go upstairs, was aware of a dead silence inthe room where the Christophersons were sitting. She knocked--prepared withsome excuse--and found the couple side by side, smiling sadly. At once theytold her the truth. Mrs. Keeting had come because of a letter in which Mrs.Christopherson had mentioned the fact that her husband had a good manybooks, and hoped he might be permitted to remove them to the house inNorfolk. She came to see the library--with the result already heard. Theyhad the choice between sacrificing the books and losing what their relativeoffered.'Christopherson refused?' I let fall.'I suppose his wife saw that it was too much for him. At all events, they'dagreed to keep the books and lose the house. And there's an end of it. Ihaven't been so riled about anything for a long time!'Meantime I had been reflecting. It was easy for me to understandChristopherson's state of mind, and without knowing Mrs. Keeting, I sawthat she must be a person whose benefactions would be a good deal of aburden. After all, was Mrs. Christopherson so very unhappy? Was she not thekind of woman who lived by sacrifice--one who had far rather lead a lifedisagreeable to herself than change it at the cost of discomfort to herhusband? This view of the matter irritated Pomfret, and he broke intoobjurgations, directed partly against Mrs. Keeting, partly againstChristopherson. It was an 'infernal shame,' that was all he could say. Andafter all, I rather inclined to his opinion.When two or three days had passed, curiosity drew me towards theChristophersons' dwelling. Walking along the opposite side of the street, Ilooked up at their window, and there was the face of the old bibliophile.Evidently he was standing at the window in idleness, perhaps in trouble. Atonce he beckoned to me; but before I could knock at the house-door he haddescended, and came out.'May I walk a little way with you?' he asked.There was worry on his features. For some moments we went on in silence.'So you have changed your mind about leaving London?' I said, as ifcarelessly.'You have heard from Mr. Pomfret? Well--yes, yes--I think we shall staywhere we are--for the present.'Never have I seen a man more painfully embarrassed. He walked with headbent, shoulders stooping; and shuffled, indeed, rather than walked. Even somight a man bear himself who felt guilty of some peculiar meanness.Presently words broke from him.'To tell you the truth, there's a difficulty about the books.' He glancedfurtively at me, and I saw he was trembling in all his nerves. 'As you see,my circumstances are not brilliant.' He half-choked himself with a crow.'The fact is we were offered a house in the country, on certain conditions,by a relative of Mrs. Christopherson; and, unfortunately, it turned outthat my library is regarded as an objection--a fatal objection. We havequite reconciled ourselves to staying where we are.'I could not help asking, without emphasis, whether Mrs. Christophersonwould have cared for life in the country. But no sooner were the words outof my mouth than I regretted them, so evidently did they hit my companionin a tender place.'I think she would have liked it,' he answered, with a strangely patheticlook at me, as if he entreated my forbearance.'But,' I suggested, 'couldn't you make some arrangements about the books?Couldn't you take a room for them in another house, for instance?'Christopherson's face was sufficient answer; it reminded me of hispennilessness. 'We think no more about it,' he said. 'The matter issettled--quite settled.'There was no pursuing the subject. At the next parting of the ways we tookleave of each other.I think it was not more than a week later when I received a postcard fromPomfret. He wrote: 'Just as I expected. Mrs. C. seriously ill.' That wasall.Mrs. C. could, of course, only mean Mrs. Christopherson. I mused over themessage--it took hold of my imagination, wrought upon my feelings; and thatafternoon I again walked along the interesting street.There was no face at the window. After a little hesitation I decided tocall at the house and speak with Pomfret's aunt. It was she who opened thedoor to me.We had never seen each other, but when I mentioned my name and said I wasanxious to have news of Mrs. Christopherson, she led me into asitting-room, and began to talk confidentially.She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike the common Londonlandlady. 'Yes, Mrs. Christopherson had been taken ill two days ago. Itbegan with a long fainting fit. She had a feverish, sleepless night; thedoctor was sent for; and he had her removed out of the stuffy,book-cumbered bedroom into another chamber, which luckily happened to bevacant. There she lay utterly weak and worn, all but voiceless, able onlyto smile at her husband, who never moved from the bedside day or night. He,too,' said the landlady, 'would soon break down: he looked like a ghost,and seemed "half-crazed."''What,' I asked, 'could be the cause of this illness?'The good woman gave me an odd look, shook her head, and murmured that thereason was not far to seek.'Did she think,' I asked, 'that disappointment might have something to dowith it?'Why, of course she did. For a long time the poor lady had been all but atthe end of her strength, and this came as a blow beneath which she sank.'Your nephew and I have talked about it,' I said. 'He thinks that Mr.Christopherson didn't understand what a sacrifice he asked his wife tomake.''I think so too,' was the reply. 'But he begins to see it now, I can tellyou. He says nothing but.'There was a tap at the door, and a hurried tremulous voice begged thelandlady to go upstairs.'What is it, sir?' she asked.'I'm afraid she's worse,' said Christopherson, turning his haggard face tome with startled recognition. 'Do come up at once, please.'Without a word to me he disappeared with the landlady. I could not go away;for some ten minutes I fidgeted about the little room, listening to everysound in the house. Then came a footfall on the stairs, and the landladyrejoined me.'It's nothing,' she said. 'I almost think she might drop off to sleep, ifshe's left quiet. He worries her, poor man, sitting there and asking herevery two minutes how she feels. I've persuaded him to go to his room, andI think it might do him good if you went and had a bit o' talk with him.'I mounted at once to the second-floor sitting-room, and foundChristopherson sunk upon a chair, his head falling forwards, the image ofdespairing misery. As I approached he staggered to his feet. He took myhand in a shrinking, shamefaced way, and could not raise his eyes. Iuttered a few words of encouragement, but they had the opposite effect tothat designed.'Don't tell me that,' he moaned, half resentfully. 'She's dying--she'sdying--say what they will, I know it.''Have you a good doctor?''I think so--but it's too late--it's too late.'As he dropped to his chair again I sat down by him. The silence of a minuteor two was broken by a thunderous rat-tat at the house-door. Christophersonleapt to his feet, rushed from the room; I, half fearing that he had gonemad, followed to the head of the stairs.In a moment he came up again, limp and wretched as before.'It was the postman,' he muttered. 'I am expecting a letter.'Conversation seeming impossible, I shaped a phrase preliminary towithdrawal; but Christopherson would not let me go.'I should like to tell you,' he began, looking at me like a dog underpunishment, 'that I have done all I could. As soon as my wife fell ill, andwhen I saw--I had only begun to think of it in that way--how she felt thedisappointment, I went at once to Mrs. Keeting's house to tell her that Iwould sell the books. But she was out of town. I wrote to her--I said Iregretted my folly--I entreated her to forgive me and to renew her kindoffer. There has been plenty of time for a reply, but she doesn't answer.'He had in his hand what I saw was a bookseller's catalogue, just deliveredby the postman. Mechanically he tore off the wrapper and even glanced overthe first page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the thingviolently away.'The chance has gone!' he exclaimed, taking a hurried step or two along thelittle strip of floor left free by the mountain of books. 'Of course shesaid she would rather stay in London! Of course she said what she knewwould please me! When--when did she ever say anything else! And I was cruelenough--base enough--to let her make the sacrifice!' He waved his armsfrantically. 'Didn't I know what it cost her? Couldn't I see in her facehow her heart leapt at the hope of going to live in the country! I knewwhat she was suffering; I knew it, I tell you! And, like a selfishcoward, I let her suffer--I let her drop down and die--die!''Any hour,' I said, 'may bring you the reply from Mrs. Keeting. Of courseit will be favourable, and the good news--''Too late, I have killed her! That woman won't write. She's one of thevulgar rich, and we offended her pride; and such as she never forgive.'He sat down for a moment, but started up again in an agony of mentalsuffering.'She is dying--and there, there, that's what has killed her!' Hegesticulated wildly towards the books. 'I have sold her life for those.Oh!--oh!'With this cry he seized half a dozen volumes, and, before I couldunderstand what he was about, he had flung up the window-sash, and cast thebooks into the street. Another batch followed; I heard the thud upon thepavement. Then I caught him by the arm, held him fast, begged him tocontrol himself.'They shall all go!' he cried. 'I loathe the sight of them. They havekilled my dear wife!'He said it sobbing, and at the last words tears streamed from his eyes. Ihad no difficulty now in restraining him. He met my look with a gaze ofinfinite pathos, and talked on while he wept.'If you knew what she has been to me! When she married me I was a ruinedman twenty years older. I have given her nothing but toil and care. Youshall know everything--for years and years I have lived on the earnings ofher labour. Worse than that, I have starved and stinted her to buy books.Oh, the shame of it! The wickedness of it! It was my vice--the vice thatenslaved me just as if it had been drinking or gambling. I couldn't resistthe temptation--though every day I cried shame upon myself and swore toovercome it. She never blamed me; never a word--nay, not a look--of areproach. I lived in idleness. I never tried to save her that daily toil atthe shop. Do you know that she worked in a shop?--She, with her knowledgeand her refinement leading such a life as that! Think that I have passedthe shop a thousand times, coming home with a book in my hands! I had theheart to pass, and to think of her there! Oh! Oh!'Some one was knocking at the door. I went to open, and saw the landlady,her face set in astonishment, and her arms full of books.'It's all right,' I whispered. 'Put them down on the floor there; don'tbring them in. An accident.'Christopherson stood behind me; his look asked what he durst not speak. Isaid it was nothing, and by degrees brought him into a calmer state.Luckily, the doctor came before I went away, and he was able to report aslight improvement. The patient had slept a little and seemed likely tosleep again. Christopherson asked me to come again before long--there wasno one else, he said, who cared anything about him--and I promised to callthe next day.I did so, early in the afternoon. Christopherson must have watched for mycoming: before I could raise the knocker the door flew open, and his facegleamed such a greeting as astonished me. He grasped my hand in both his.'The letter has come! We are to have the house.''And how is Mrs. Christopherson?''Better, much better, Heaven be thanked! She slept almost from the timewhen you left yesterday afternoon till early this morning. The letter cameby the first post, and I told her--not the whole truth,' he added, underhis breath. 'She thinks I am to be allowed to take the books with me; andif you could have seen her smile of contentment. But they will all be soldand carried away before she knows about it; and when she sees that I don'tcare a snap of the fingers!'He had turned into the sitting-room on the ground floor. Walking aboutexcitedly, Christopherson gloried in the sacrifice he had made. Already aletter was despatched to a bookseller, who would buy the whole library asit stood. But would he not keep a few volumes? I asked. Surely there couldbe no objection to a few shelves of books; and how would he live withoutthem? At first he declared vehemently that not a volume should be kept--henever wished to see a book again as long as he lived. But Mrs.Christopherson? I urged. Would she not be glad of something to read now andthen? At this he grew pensive. We discussed the matter, and it was arrangedthat a box should be packed with select volumes and taken down into Norfolktogether with the rest of their luggage. Not even Mrs. Keeting could objectto this, and I strongly advised him to take her permission for granted.And so it was done. By discreet management the piled volumes were stowed inbags, carried downstairs, emptied into a cart, and conveyed away, soquietly that the sick woman was aware of nothing. In telling me about it,Christopherson crowed as I had never heard him; but methought his eyeavoided that part of the floor which had formerly been hidden, and in thecourse of our conversation he now and then became absent, with head bowed.Of the joy he felt in his wife's recovery there could, however, be nodoubt. The crisis through which he had passed had made him, in appearance,a yet older man; when he declared his happiness tears came into his eyes,and his head shook with a senile tremor.Before they left London, I saw Mrs. Christopherson--a pale, thin, slightlymade woman, who had never been what is called good-looking, but her face,if ever face did so, declared a brave and loyal spirit. She was not joyous,she was not sad; but in her eyes, as I looked at them again and again, Iread the profound thankfulness of one to whom fate has granted her soul'sdesire.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *