The bitter cold weather out of doors made the cosy glow of my little
library even more than usually grateful. I had carried the warm and
bright anticipation of it close-buttoned under my top-coat throughout
my cold drive in the hansom from the South-Western Railway Station to
my rooms on the Thames Embankment. But now, as I stepped in and shut
the door behind me, I found I had done it less than justice.
The four comfortable walls gave a broad smile of welcome, which was
multitudinously repeated from the well-known back of every beloved
book. Softly gleamed the Argand burner from the green-topped study
table; hospitably flickered the blazing Wallsend from the wide-mouthed
grate; seductive was the invitation extended me by padded easy-chair,
fox-skin hearthrug, and toasted slippers; crisp was the greeting of
the evening's _Pall Mall_ lying on the table; and solid the promise of
the latest _Contemporary_, containing, as I knew, my article on
"Unrecognisable Truths in their Relation to Non-existent Phenomena."
Bethinking myself, moreover, of the decanter of matchless old
port-wine in the right-hand cupboard of the table, and of the box of
prime Cabanas, made to my own order in Habana, in the drawer on the
left, I was not so much disposed to envy Calbot his late betrothal to
the beautiful Miss Burleigh, the news whereof he had triumphantly
poured into my bachelor ears a week or two before.
"Never mind, Drayton, old fellow," I muttered to myself, as I pushed
off my boots and slid my feet into the toasted slippers; "what matter
though love, courtship, and marriage be not for thee? Thou hast yet
thy luxuries"--here I sank slowly into my easy-chair, "thy creature
comforts"--here I got out the wine and the cigars, "and thy beloved
offspring!"--here I glanced at "Unrecognisable Truths," &c., printed on
the cover of the _Contemporary_.
While I am pouring out and tasting a mellow glass of port, let me
briefly recall what and whence I am.
Snugness, comfort, and privacy are my _desiderata_. My visible
possessions must be few, intrinsically valuable, and so disposed as to
lie within the scope of two or three paces and an outstretched arm. My
being a bachelor (and at the age of forty, I think I may add a confirmed
one) enables me to indulge these and other whims conveniently and
without embarrassment.
My forefathers kept large establishments and had big families--and
plenty of bother and discomfort into the bargain. But when my turn came,
I sold out everything (except a few old heirlooms, and a part of the
library, and an ancestral portrait or two), put the cash proceeds in the
Funds, and myself, with my literary tastes and æsthetic culture, into
the rooms which I now occupy. I might live in a much more grandiose
style if I pleased, but in my opinion I am very well off as I am. I can
find my way to Freemasons' Tavern on occasions; my essays are a power in
the philosophic and theologic worlds; and I can count on a friend or two
worth their weight in gold, morally, mentally, and materially. Poor
Calbot, to be sure--but more of him anon.
That is old Dean Drayton's portrait, over the mantelpiece--taken one
hundred and fifty years ago: an ancestor and namesake of mine. He wrote
a pamphlet on witchcraft, or something of that sort, which made a stir
in its day. I had thoughts of entering the ministry myself a long while
ago; I think it was about the time of my engagement to Miss Seraphine
Angell--the Bishop of Maresnest's daughter. But when she jil---- when
the affair was discontinued I had second thoughts, ending in the resolve
to let both women and the ministry severely alone for the future. So the
name of Drayton dies with me.
There is, I fancy, at once a curious similarity and dissimilarity
between the Dean and his descendant. For one thing, we are both of us
singularly liable to be made confidants of delicate subjects; with this
difference, however, that whereas the Dean is--or was--an old busybody
(I am quoting history, not my private judgment), my natural tendency
is not only to mind my own business, but to tell other people to mind
theirs. It's no use, though--they only babble the more; and were I
to lose all my fortune, I could, by turning black-mailer, ensure a
permanent income twice as large as the one I have now.
Another thing. The Dean was an alchemist--so tradition says; and his
descendant has a marked taste for scientific subjects, though not of the
occult kind. One of the family heirlooms, by-the-way, was a monument
of the Dean's alchemic skill; it was a large sealed vase or phial,
ornamented with cabalistic figures and inscriptions, and affirmed to
contain the veritable Elixir Vitæ, manufactured after years of labour
by the old gentleman, and corked up and put away for future use. It
unfortunately happened, however, that he was killed by an upset of his
coach, away from home; and the vase remained sealed ever afterwards. I
have often thought of taking a little out and analysing it; for even
should it turn out not to be the water of life, I thought it might
possibly resolve itself into a bottle of excellent brandy. But I delayed
too long; and at last the mysterious phial very unexpectedly analysed
itself, and dissipated itself at the same moment--but, again, let me not
anticipate.