CHAPTER XIII.
“Dora,” said Mr. Mannering, half raising his head from the large folio which had come from the old book dealer during his illness, and which, in these days of his slow convalescence, had occupied much of his time. After he had spoken that word he remained silent for some time, his head slightly raised, his shoulders bent over the big book. Then he repeated “Dora” again. “Do you think,” he said, “you could carry one of these volumes as far as Fiddler’s, and ask if he would take it back?”
“Take it back!” Dora cried in surprise.
“You can tell him that I do not find it as interesting as I expected—but no; for that might do it harm, and it is very interesting. You might say our shelves are all filled up with big books, and that I have really no room for it at present, which,” he added, looking anxiously up into her face, “is quite true; for, you remember, when I was so foolish as to order it, we asked ourselves how it would be possible to find a place for it? But no, no,” he said, “these are inventions, and I see your surprise in your face that I should send you with a message that is not genuine. It is true enough, you know, that I am much slackened in the work I wanted this book for. I am slackened in everything. I doubt if I can take up any piece of work again to do any good. I’m old, you see, to have such a long illness,” he said, looking at her almost apologetically; “and, unless it had been with an idea of work, I never could have had any justification in ordering such an expensive book as this.”
“You never used to think of that, father,” Dora said.
“No, I never used to think of that; but I ought to have done so. I’m afraid I’ve been very extravagant. I could always have got it, and consulted it as much as I pleased at the Museum. It is a ridiculous craze I have had for having the books in my own possession. Many men cannot understand it. Williamson, for instance. He says: ‘In your place I would never buy a book. Why, you have the finest library in the world at your disposal.’ And it’s quite true. There could not be a more ridiculous extravagance on my part, and pride, I suppose to be able to say I had it.”
“I don’t think that’s the case at all,” cried Dora. “What do you care for, father, except your library? You never go anywhere, you have no amusements like other people. You don’t go into society, or go abroad, or—anything that the other people do.”
“That is true enough,” he said, with a little gleam of pleasure. Then, suddenly taking her hand as she stood beside him: “My poor child, you say that quite simply, without thinking what a terrible accusation it would be if it went on,—a sacrifice of your young life to my old one, and forgetfulness of all a girl’s tastes and wishes. We’ll try to put that right at least, Dora,” he said, with a slight quiver in his lip, “in the future—if there is any future for me.”
“Father!” she said indignantly, “as if I didn’t like the books, and was not more proud of your work that you are doing——”
“And which never comes to anything,” he interjected, sadly shaking his head.