Duncombe came over to the table and rested one hand on Henry's shoulder.
"Now, let's see," he said. "You've had more than a month—I expect to find great progress. How many boxes have you done?"
"I'm still at the first," said Henry, his voice low and gentle.
"Still at the first? Ah, well, I expect there are more than one knew. What's your system? First in months and then in years, I suppose?"
"The trouble is," said Henry, the words choking in his throat, "that so many of them aren't dated at all."
"Yes—that would be so. Well, here we have April, 1816. What I should do, I think, is to make them into six-monthly packets—otherwise the—Hullo, here's 1818!"
"They move about so," said Henry feebly.
"Move about? Nobody can move them if you don't—March 7, 1818; March 12, 1818; April 3—Why, here we are back in '16 again!"
There followed then the most dreadful pause. It seemed to the agonized Henry to last positively for centuries. He grew an old, old man with a long, white, sweeping beard, he looked back over a vast, misspent lifetime, his hearing was gone, his vision was dulled, he was tired, deadly tired, and longed only for the gentle peace of the kindly grave. Not a word was said. Duncombe's long white fingers moved with a deadly and practised skill from packet to packet, taking up one, looking at it, laying it down again, taking up another, holding it for an eternity in his hand then carefully replacing it. The clock wheezed and gurgled and chattered, the sunlight danced on the bookshelves, Henry was in his grave, dead, buried, a vague pathetic memory to those who once had loved him.
"Why!" a voice came from vast distances; "these letters aren't arranged at all!" The worst was over, the doom had fallen; nothing more terrible could occur.