evident worth to anyone but his lordship. He collected fossils and animal bones, butterflies and moths (mounted on pins stuck into cardboard), stones and odd bits of polished wood, nails, pocket knives, string, paintings by unknown artists, carved walking sticks, and old books. Very, very old books.
Of all his collections, his lordship’s books had been his lordship’s passion. He kept them in a glass-fronted book cabinet in the main-floor library, where he could take out one or two every day, fondling them lovingly before he replaced them on the shelf. But when he died, Lady Longford (who could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered a lover of books) directed that the moldy old things be carted off to a dark, dusty box room at the far end of the third floor, where the servants’ sleeping quarters were located. There, Lord Longford’s collections were out of sight and out of mind, which was a good thing as far as her ladyship was concerned. She had no affection for fossils or butterflies or walking sticks or pocket knives, and the books were so old that she was sure they had little value. In fact, she had several times threatened to clean out the room and throw the worthless lot away, which she no doubt would have done if she hadn’t been so tightfisted.
It happened that Vicar Sackett, during one of his recent duty visits, had mentioned that he was rather fond of old books, and her ladyship had mentioned that the departed Lord Longford had been fond of old books as well, although she herself could see no merit in them. (But then she does not find any merit in new books, either, since her ladyship is the sort of person who does not care to have her mind broadened in any way.) When the vicar diffidently suggested that he would be delighted to have a look at Lord Longford’s collection, she had agreed. She had been thinking, in fact, that it was time to clean out that room. She ought to take one more look before she instructed Mr. Beever (the manor’s general handyman) to burn the lot.
So her ladyship led the vicar up the stairs to the dark, cluttered room, where he poked about amongst the shelves, muttering this and that and making enthusiastic little exclamations under his breath whilst her ladyship began to plan how best to get rid of everything. At last the vicar asked her, hopefully, whether Lord Longford had made a proper catalog of his books.
“I am sure that he must have had a list,” Lady Longford returned. She could say this with some confidence, since listmaking was another of his lordship’s obsessions.
“Well, then, perhaps you might look for it,” the vicar suggested deferentially. He took a book from the shelf, turned several of the pages, gave a covetous sigh, and added, “Of course, one never knows, but some of these books may have value. I fear that I am no judge, but I daresay I might be able to suggest a reliable person who could appraise the collection for you.”
Her ladyship (who was never inclined to take the vicar’s word for anything) scoffed at the notion that the old books might be valuable, although she decided to postpone telling Mr. Beever to toss the lot on a bonfire. And as it happened, the very next day, when she was looking for something else in one of her husband’s desk drawers, she came across a small notebook bound in black leather. On the first page, in Lord Longford’s spidery hand, was written “My Collection of Rare Books.”
Rare books? Well, now. This was news to her ladyship, who had always considered her husband’s books to be merely “old” books, on a par with his old fossils and old butterflies. If somebody considered them rare, however, they might be worth a few pounds. So she sent a note to the vicar, asking him to recommend a knowledgeable person who could give her an idea of the value of the books.
A day later, the vicar replied that he had contacted a certain Mr. Depford Darnwell, an antiquarian who owned a rare book shop on Rushmore
Of all his collections, his lordship’s books had been his lordship’s passion. He kept them in a glass-fronted book cabinet in the main-floor library, where he could take out one or two every day, fondling them lovingly before he replaced them on the shelf. But when he died, Lady Longford (who could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered a lover of books) directed that the moldy old things be carted off to a dark, dusty box room at the far end of the third floor, where the servants’ sleeping quarters were located. There, Lord Longford’s collections were out of sight and out of mind, which was a good thing as far as her ladyship was concerned. She had no affection for fossils or butterflies or walking sticks or pocket knives, and the books were so old that she was sure they had little value. In fact, she had several times threatened to clean out the room and throw the worthless lot away, which she no doubt would have done if she hadn’t been so tightfisted.
It happened that Vicar Sackett, during one of his recent duty visits, had mentioned that he was rather fond of old books, and her ladyship had mentioned that the departed Lord Longford had been fond of old books as well, although she herself could see no merit in them. (But then she does not find any merit in new books, either, since her ladyship is the sort of person who does not care to have her mind broadened in any way.) When the vicar diffidently suggested that he would be delighted to have a look at Lord Longford’s collection, she had agreed. She had been thinking, in fact, that it was time to clean out that room. She ought to take one more look before she instructed Mr. Beever (the manor’s general handyman) to burn the lot.
So her ladyship led the vicar up the stairs to the dark, cluttered room, where he poked about amongst the shelves, muttering this and that and making enthusiastic little exclamations under his breath whilst her ladyship began to plan how best to get rid of everything. At last the vicar asked her, hopefully, whether Lord Longford had made a proper catalog of his books.
“I am sure that he must have had a list,” Lady Longford returned. She could say this with some confidence, since listmaking was another of his lordship’s obsessions.
“Well, then, perhaps you might look for it,” the vicar suggested deferentially. He took a book from the shelf, turned several of the pages, gave a covetous sigh, and added, “Of course, one never knows, but some of these books may have value. I fear that I am no judge, but I daresay I might be able to suggest a reliable person who could appraise the collection for you.”
Her ladyship (who was never inclined to take the vicar’s word for anything) scoffed at the notion that the old books might be valuable, although she decided to postpone telling Mr. Beever to toss the lot on a bonfire. And as it happened, the very next day, when she was looking for something else in one of her husband’s desk drawers, she came across a small notebook bound in black leather. On the first page, in Lord Longford’s spidery hand, was written “My Collection of Rare Books.”
Rare books? Well, now. This was news to her ladyship, who had always considered her husband’s books to be merely “old” books, on a par with his old fossils and old butterflies. If somebody considered them rare, however, they might be worth a few pounds. So she sent a note to the vicar, asking him to recommend a knowledgeable person who could give her an idea of the value of the books.
A day later, the vicar replied that he had contacted a certain Mr. Depford Darnwell, an antiquarian who owned a rare book shop on Rushmore
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