I heard a faint jingle of glass as he opened it; but the doors of fluted green silk, latticed with brass wire, prevented, from where I was standing, my seeing inside. My uncle ran his finger along one of the shelves in search of the book I wanted. Meantime I looked curiously about me.
It was a small, dingy room, disproportionately high for its size, with county and estate maps hanging on its damp-stained walls. A handsome old escritoire stood in the corner to the right of the lofty window that faced the door by which I had entered. On one or two tables, dusty pamphlets and papers lay about in a comfortless way. Right in front of the fire was a battered leather-covered armchair, in which my uncle had been sitting, though there was no book or newspaper to indicate that he had been occupied in any way.
“It is an unusual thing to hear of Willy recommending a book. I suppose this is due to your civilizing influence?” said my uncle, emerging from the recesses of the cupboard with the book in question in his hand.
“Oh, well,” I replied, laughing, “this is not a very high class of literature.”
“It is, nevertheless, a classic in its way,” he said, opening the book; “and the prints are very good indeed.”
I came and stood beside him, looking at the illustrations with him.
“The Regulator on Hertford Bridge Flat,” “The Race, Epsom,” “The Whissendine Brook”—we studied them together, Uncle Dominick becoming unexpectedly interesting and friendly in his reminiscences of his own sporting days when he was a young man at Oxford.
As he paused in looking at the pictures to enlarge upon an experience of his own, the pages slipped from his stiff bony fingers, and, turning over of their own accord, remained open at the title-page. There I saw, in faded ink, the words, “Owen Sarsfield, the gift of his affectionate Brother, D. S.”
My uncle looked at the inscription for half an instant, and, drawing a quick breath, closed the book.
“Uncle Dominick,” I said, with a sudden impulse, “won’t you tell me something about my father? My mother could never bear to speak of him, and I know so little about him.”