Short Fiction by M. R. James (inspirational books for women TXT) 📕

as to your book, sir, perhaps you might be able to find it for yourself. It’s too bad you should be disappointed this way twice over⁠—” “Er⁠—well, but I’m so sorry that Mr. Garrett should have been taken ill in this way while he was obliging me. I think I must leave the book, and call and inquire after him. You can give me his address, I suppose.” That was easily done: Mr. Garrett, it appeared, lodged in rooms not far from the station. “And, one other question. Did you happen to notice if an old gentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a⁠—yes⁠—in a black cloak, left the library after I did yesterday. I think he may have been a⁠—I think, that is, that he may be staying⁠—or rather that I may have known him.”

“Not in a black cloak, sir; no. There were only two gentlemen left later than what you done, sir, both of them youngish men. There was Mr. Carter took out a music-book and one of the prefessors with a couple o’ novels. That’s the lot, sir; and then I went off to me tea, and glad to get it. Thank you, sir, much obliged.”

Mr. Eldred, still a prey to anxiety, betook himself in a cab to Mr. Garrett’s address, but the young man was not yet in a condition to receive visitors. He was better, but his landlady considered that he must have had a severe shock. She thought most likely from what the doctor said that he would be able to see Mr. Eldred tomorrow. Mr. Eldred returned to his hotel at dusk and spent, I fear, but a dull evening.

On the next day he was able to see Mr. Garrett. When in health Mr. Garrett was a cheerful and pleasant-looking young man. Now he was a very white and shaky being, propped up in an armchair by the fire, and inclined to shiver and keep an eye on the door. If however there were visitors whom he was not prepared to welcome, Mr. Eldred was not among them. “It really is I who owe you an apology, and I was despairing of being able to pay it, for I didn’t know your address. But I am very glad you have called. I do dislike and regret giving all this trouble, but you know I could not have foreseen this⁠—this attack which I had.”

“Of course not; but now, I am something of a doctor. You’ll excuse my asking; you have had, I am sure, good advice. Was it a fall you had?”

“No. I did fall on the floor⁠—but not from any height. It was, really, a shock.”

“You mean something startled you. Was it anything you thought you saw?”

“Not much thinking in the case, I’m afraid. Yes, it was something I saw. You remember when you called the first time at the library?”

“Yes, of course. Well, now, let me beg you not to try to describe it⁠—it will not be good for you to recall it, I’m sure.”

“But indeed it would be a relief to me to tell anyone like yourself: you might be able to explain it away. It was just when I was going into the class where your book is⁠—”

“Indeed, Mr. Garrett, I insist; besides, my watch tells me I have but very little time left in which to get my things together and take the train. No⁠—not another word⁠—it would be more distressing to you than you imagine, perhaps. Now there is just one thing I want to say. I feel that I am really indirectly responsible for this illness of yours, and I think I ought to defray the expense which it has⁠—eh?”

But this offer was quite distinctly declined. Mr. Eldred, not pressing it, left almost at once: not, however, before Mr. Garrett had insisted upon his taking a note of the class-mark of the Tractate Middoth, which, as he said, Mr. Eldred could at leisure get for himself. But Mr. Eldred did not reappear at the library.

William Garrett had another visitor that day in the person of a contemporary and colleague from the library, one George Earle. Earle had been one of those who found Garrett lying insensible on the floor just inside the “class” or cubicle (opening upon the central alley of a spacious gallery) in which the Hebrew books were placed, and Earle had naturally been very anxious about his friend’s condition. So as soon as library hours were over he appeared at the lodgings. “Well,” he said (after other conversation), “I’ve no notion what it was that put you wrong, but I’ve got the idea that there’s something wrong in the atmosphere of the library. I know this, that just before we found you I was coming along the gallery with Davis, and I said to him, ‘Did ever you know such a musty smell anywhere as there is about here? It can’t be wholesome.’ Well now, if one goes on living a long time with a smell of that kind (I tell you it was worse than I ever knew it) it must get into the system and break out some time, don’t you think?”

Garrett shook his head. “That’s all very well about the smell⁠—but it isn’t always there, though I’ve noticed it the last day or two⁠—a sort of unnaturally strong smell of dust. But no⁠—that’s not what did for me. It was something I saw. And I want to tell you about it. I went into that Hebrew class to get a book for a man that was inquiring for it down below. Now that same book I’d made a mistake about the day before. I’d been for it, for the same man, and made sure that I saw an old parson in a cloak taking it out. I told my man it was out: off he went, to call again next day. I went back to see if I could get it out of the parson: no parson there, and the book on the shelf. Well, yesterday, as I say, I went again. This time, if you please⁠—ten o’clock