“And the greatest of these—” added Courtleigh with a laugh, “is the Peryford Household Book. What a stir its discovery made! I wonder the British Museum has not been after it. I’ve always wanted to see it for myself.”
“I’m afraid,” said the rector, now suddenly gloomy, “you’ll be disappointed. It’s not here now.”
“What? Sold, you mean, or away on loan?” asked Courtleigh, a little annoyed.
“No. Not that,” replied Sanderton in evident misery. “I fear it’s stolen—or at any rate it disappeared some time back. But, please, please, don’t say a word about it. I perhaps shouldn’t have told you. Dr. Propert still thinks to find it again without any public inquiries and excitement. And I hope he will, poor man, for the loss of it has weighed on him considerably.”
The professor could only gasp at the news. “And how long do you suppose you’re going to keep a thing like this quiet?” he said at length. “Why, it’s a matter of national interest.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” pleaded the harassed clergyman. “Only the doctor especially wants nothing to be done as yet. He thinks it will turn up.”
“Well, well,” sighed Courtleigh at length. “I suppose he is the one most concerned and must have his way. But, thank heaven, you’ve got some valuable items still. I say,” he brightened, “while I’m here I must have a peep at some of them. I’d dearly like to see that Flemish missal and the freak psalter you spoke about.”
Sanderton reflected for a moment, anxious to please his friend, but again looked doubtful. “I’m afraid the place is locked for the night,” he said despondently, “or else I would have been delighted. Can’t you take a later train in the morning and give us time to look round together?”
“It’s really most important I should go first thing,” answered Courtleigh with genuine regret. “I suppose we couldn’t get the key and just have a rapid glance at things now? It won’t be dark for an hour yet.”
“Very well, I’ll go and get the keys while you have a look round the outside,” declared his friend at last. “Dr. Propert is rather averse to anyone’s going into the library after dusk, but for once I think we might.”
So saying, the good little man hurried off and left Courtleigh strolling round to survey the exterior features of the building.
It certainly bore signs of having been “restored” and heightened by nineteenth-century hands. This was specially evident at the east end where a fine large window took up almost the whole height from ground to gable point. The sides were flanked by wide and heavy buttresses, apparently strengthened in recent years but ivy-clad to tone with the older stonework. It looked as if parts of the choir window of the priory had been incorporated here, but for some reason the upper tracery had been replaced by a great wheel-window of the type so dear to Gothic architects of Queen Victoria’s reign.
Such atrocious treatment of an old building made Courtleigh shake his head, and he was glad to give up stumbling among the bushes and get back to the pathway to wait for Sanderton’s return. Standing in the library doorway in loitering mood, he was surprised when the door opened and a man came out bearing a bag of tools. The man was apparently also surprised for as he went off toward the lodge he looked back more than once at the professor.
But, whoever he was, he had not locked the door. So after a moment Courtleigh took the heavy iron ring in both hands and let himself in. Sanderton was not in sight and his friend smiled to think what he would say when he returned. Entering, he found himself in a churchlike hall of oblong shape, running east and west. The entrance was on the north side, and just within was a staircase leading up to a gallery. This upper floor both formed a sort of vestibule by the doorway and also ran the full length of the wall. The south side had no gallery, but a flight of stone steps led eastward up to the stout door of what appeared to be a raised vestry in the corner. (“A good strong-room for scarce volumes,” thought Courtleigh as he noted this last feature.) The whole western end was taken up with a chapel shut off by an oak screen. It was rather dingy as most of the light came from the window at the farther end, and the evening sun was getting faint by now.
The walls, both in the gallery and below, were lined with shelves of books and, his attention drawn toward some rich bindings, Courtleigh had soon forgotten all about the architecture as he wandered from case to case taking down and replacing various books that his interest lighted on.
Thus occupied, he kept moving gently about on the ground floor till he became aware that he was not alone. He was by this time at the western end of the building where the library proper was terminated by the little oratory or chapel we have mentioned. It was somewhere above that he heard a snuffling sound. He looked up to the gallery and noticed that the end of it which overlooked the oratory was also partitioned off by a wooden screen, evidently so as to form a compartment for more private study. Yes, there was someone in there, for a chair was pushed back, and through the balusters Courtleigh saw a person rise and move slowly to the staircase.
Presently a tall man descended, nodding his head with the involuntary gravity of old age, and mouthing somewhat as he went. Courtleigh was wondering how to address him, but the old man seemed not to have noticed his presence. Indeed, having reached the ground floor, he passed straightway into the little oratory and closed the screen again. For the next few minutes there followed a rapid muttering and much sighing from within, while Courtleigh pretended to be examining an antiquated commentary. Then, his devotion ended, the old man re-emerged and, catching sight of the stranger, turned halting as if to inquire what brought him there.
“Ah! Good day, sir. A visitor, I presume?” he cried in a sharp, old-fashioned tone.
“A good evening to you, sir,” replied Courtleigh. “My friend Mr. Sanderton’s left me here while . . .”
“Yes, yes, yes,” chattered the other with a comprehending wag of the head as he moved away to end the conversation without more ado. “He will tell you sufficient of the vanities and vicissitudes of the place.”
Before Courtleigh had time to do more than mutter some word of thanks, the old man had trotted past him and up the stone stairs at the other side to the strong-room which he unlocked and entered, returning presently with a heavy quarto volume under his arm. He relocked the place and descended again to leave the library, and was in the act of letting himself out when he returned a pace or two as with an afterthought.
“It is, I believe,” said he, “my duty to commend to you as a stranger our little oratory there. Should you be in need of ghostly succor it is a very present help.”
He cocked a shrewd eye intently upon the stranger, pausing a moment as if he might say more. As he stood, the faint light falling upon his aged face gave its drawn quizzical grimace an air most cryptic. But presently the door had closed behind him, and Courtleigh, with a fading smile upon his lips, was left alone.
The twilight was thickening now, hardly a good time to be examining the east window, but it compelled attention. For what a gigantic window it was: the dimensions were almost cathedral. Indeed, the additional mullions, standing off from the glasswork to give vertical support on the inner side, reminded Courtleigh of the great window at York Minster. So also did the two transoms whose horizontal lines divided the whole space into three separate areas. The lower lights—up to where the outline of the window curved away from the oblong to the arch—were filled with countless fragments of mediaeval glass. By dint of twisting his head about, Courtleigh could decipher broken scraps of mitred heads, ships’ prows, rich canopies and flowing robes, all jumbled into a mosaic of dull tinctures glowing ever so faintly against the library’s interior gloom. There were heraldic medallions among all this but any effort to identify the arms at that hour was bound to be in vain. It remained but to scan the topmost section above the upper transom. Here the original tracery had disappeared and a rose-window been inserted in its place. No wonder the antiquary shook his head. With some impatience he too found himself trying to make out the motif o
f the pattern in this glass. For, though the coloring was fearsome, the emblems had a barbaric vigor unlike the jejeune conventions usually found in imitations of this sort. With a sigh of frustration, though, he soon turned away to explore elsewhere.
And then it was that he had to jerk himself together. Perhaps he had been craning upward too long and made his head a little giddy. But, just for the moment when his back was turned, something had clattered on the glass, and a sudden shadow seemed to swoop down from across the window and behind him. He ducked involuntarily as from a stealthy blow, and swung around with his arm upraised.
Then he laughed softly at the idea. The appearance of the old man and his morbid-sounding words had probably reacted on his mind. After all, what more likely than that this queer old gentleman had thought it was not mere curiosity, but a troubled mind in need of spiritual comfort, that brought a stranger into the chapel library at that hour? It was all very natural. No doubt there was a tree outside swayed by the wind, and the sound he had heard would be the twigs scrabbled against the glass. Certainly there was nothing to be seen now. And so, jeering inwardly at himself to find his nerves so jumpy, he turned his attention once more from the glass and decided to have a look inside the eccentric’s place of retreat.
He was quite composed again as he pushed back the screen door and entered this dim and poky oratory. It was, though small, elaborately fitted out in High Church style. Above the altar a votive lamp, burning steadfastly and low, cast a slumbering gleam upon the gilded finery. At one side there stood a curious Sanctus bell, and at the other an antique prayer-desk where, it seemed, the old man said his frequent orisons. His lighted candle, fixed in an iron bracket, was still flickering before an image of the Virgin.
As Courtleigh was engrossed with these things, Sanderton returned, apologizing for being away so long. “What a chase I’ve had,” he exclaimed. “When I got up to the house they told me Dr. Propert was down here. I met him on the way back. He said there was a friend of mine in the library when he came out!”
“So that was the doctor!” murmured Courtleigh. “He didn’t give me much chance to explain myself and I felt a bit of a trespasser. He seems a queer man.”
“Yes,” returned the rector, “he is a bit diffident with strangers. Anyway, it’s lucky you tried the door.”
“In point of fact, I didn’t,” confessed Courtleigh. “It was a mechanic coming out that made me realize it was open. An elderly man with some joiner’s tools; and he looked a bit suspicious of me too!”
“That would be Hook, I should think,” said the rector. “I heard the doctor had sent for him again but I don’t know what for—some little repair job, I expect. It’s a bit surprising, though, for he used to work for Faik.”
“Faik? Who’s Faik?” asked the professor as they left the oratory together.
“Oh, he’s the man responsible for altering this place and turning it into a library. I’ll tell you about him afterward when we’ve had a glance through some of the books. It’s getting dark so we shall have to be quick: there’s no artificial light in the place. But fancy my going for the key while the door was open all the time!”
So saying, the rector escorted his friend rapidly around the shelves in the gallery and below. There was not enough time to do more than pick out a few unusual volumes here and there.
“The best of our treasures are in the Muniment Room, as we call it,” said he next, leading up the stone steps and unlocking the strong-room. “And it will hardly be possible to see them to advantage now, I fear.” It was indeed so dark inside that Courtleigh could only catch a tantalizing glimpse of heavy oak presses filled with shadowy volumes. In order to get at least some idea of its rich contents they took one or two items to the doorway—a sixteenth-century herbal by Nicholas Huby; a Book of Hours, said to have belonged to the mother of Lady Jane Grey; a volume or so of an early set of the Greek Fathers; a treatise on the Court of Piepowder (the only known copy) by Spelman; some seventeenth-century manuscripts on Church Law; and an abstruse work on casuistry, ascribed to Charles I.
“And all these go to Oxford when Dr. Propert dies. I shall have to come along again and have a proper look at them before long,” said Courtleigh with a sigh, thinking of psalters and missals yet unseen. As they locked the doors and emerged into the park again, he added: “But what a pity the Household Book should be missing. The flower of the collection.”
“Good gracious me! I was going to tell you about that,” exclaimed Sanderton, suddenly remembering. “When I met Dr. Propert on the terrace I mentioned your special interest in it and said I had often wondered about it myself. Imagine my astonishment when the doctor smiled at me in that strange way of his and said, ‘My dear Sanderton, have no fear. It’s safe all right in spite of the devices of the ungodly. It’s here, Sanderton, it’s here!’ he hissed, tapping a heavy volume which he was carrying under his arm.
“ ‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed. ‘When did you find it? I am itching to examine it, and I’m also sure my friend would be delighted.’ ‘So you shall, both of you, but not just yet. There’s more about this matter than you know of. One day you will understand why I say this, but meanwhile we must be patient—patient and secret.’ With that he left me. And that’s all I can tell you,” concluded Sanderton.
“Ah,” said Courtleigh, “that would be the old quarto he fetched out of the Muniment Room. Perhaps he thought I’d come to steal it! What a mysterious-minded man he is. He seems to make good use of that oratory too. You never told me he was—shall I say?—a man of devotion.”
The rector was silent for a while. He was a kindly, simple man and obviously did not relish discussing the eccentricities of a patron for whom he had so much regard.
“You know,” he said at last, “it is very easy to misunderstand Dr. Propert. People say he is an oddity. Some—who would do well to take themselves to church a bit oftener—even whisper that he has become a religious maniac, and other nonsense. You, as a stranger, would find him perhaps a trifle erratic. But I know him well enough to make allowances. He has not always been like this, and he has not changed without a cause.”
It was growing dark as the two men walked along under the beech avenue, and Courtleigh kept sympathetically silent till his friend resumed:
“You see, Dr. Propert scarcely saw Peryford till last year. He was born while his father, Sir Ronald, was busy with the Asia Commission. He spent his childhood in India before going to Oxford. There he met Faik (the man I mentioned before) and formed some sort of friendship with him. But the doctor’s studies soon took him abroad again, first to Cairo and later to Peking where—as you know—he gained his name as an archaeologist. Being but distantly connected with the main branch of the Peryford family, he did not interest himself in its history, and certainly never looked to inherit the estate. But, as luck would have it, a succession of deaths (first Baron Peryford and his two sons and finally Lady Ann who died without issue) put the whole property, as they say, ‘in Chancery.’
“This is where Faik with his legal knowledge comes on the scene again. As a friend of Propert’s, he wrote urging him to press his claim at law before it became too late. The doctor, with characteristic nonchalance, put the matter in Faik’s hands and bade him fight the case if he thought it worthwhile. The lawyer certainly did exert himself and actually secured the estate for his friend and client. Most men in Propert’s shoes would have come back to see their inheritance, but the Doctor had just entered upon another project with some American explorers and was in no mood for returning to England then. So, to save himself trouble and also to reward his friend, he generously invited Faik to become his free tenant and reside at Peryford, looking after it in any way he thought best. That was five years ago.
“Then began the fatal renovations which led up to final quarrel. There was a huge but much-neglected library occupying half the east wing of the hall. To this was added a large batch of volumes belonging to Propert himself, books he had acquired in his travel
s and which he now decided to send home ready for when he should some day return. All these were in the charge of the rector—Mr. Laycock, my predecessor—who was quite a bibliographer.
“Now Faik, having a household of his own, soon formed a scheme for turning the old chapel, then ruinous, into a new library (that is, of course, the one we’ve just visited here in the park) and getting all the books down there together. Well, you’ve seen the place for yourself and can judge how much rebuilding and altering he did. I admit there was much to be said for the scheme. There was no reason (except to an architectural purist like yourself!) why some masonry from the priory ruins should not be incorporated into the restorations.
“I never understood the details but it was evident my predecessor took a dislike to Faik almost from the start. There was the vandalism to do with the priory remains; and also, of course, here was a consecrated building, however disused, suddenly being secularized. I think that grieved him. Whatever it was, he put his foot down about the whole plan though he was unable to stop its being carried out. It was a queer position for him, you see. So far as the books were concerned, Laycock was in charge; but he could not insist that they remain in the house if Faik wanted them out. There were valuable editions and unique specimens—a number of them uncatalogued—and after their removal to the new library there was talk of some volumes being missed: in fact the Household Book itself disappeared. In the end everything came to a head with the doctor’s return to England. He supported my predecessor entirely; there was a violent quarrel with Faik (probably about the expenditure) and he was turned out. Propert came to reside here himself; poor Laycock died soon afterward and—here I am.”
When the rector finished his story, it was some time before Courtleigh made any comment. “Did the doctor ever tell you the full extent of the charges Mr. Laycock made against Faik?” he asked at length.
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