charm of it was that only a small proportion
of these precious things represented conscious and deliberate
acquisition. The great majority of them had, as it were, drifted thither
one by one, carried there by the tide of English letters as to a warm
and natural resting-place.

But Robert grew impatient, and hurried on his guest to other things--to
the shelves of French rarities, ranging from Du Bellay's _Visions_, with
his autograph, down to the copy of _Les Memoires d'Outre-Tombe_
presented by Chateaubriand to Madame Recamier, or to a dainty manuscript
volume in the fine writing of Lamartine.

'These,' Robert explained, 'were collected, I believe, by the squire's
father. He was not in the least literary, so they say, but it had always
been a point of honour to carry on the library, and as he had learnt
French well in his youth he bought French things, taking advice, but
without knowing much about them, I imagine. It was in the room
overhead,' said Robert, laying down the book he held, and speaking in a
lower key, 'so the old doctor of the house told me a few weeks ago, that
the same poor soul put an end to himself twenty years ago.'

'What in the name of fortune did he do that for?'

'Mania,' said Robert quietly.

'Whew!' said the other, lifting his eyebrows. 'Is that the skeleton in
this very magnificent cupboard?'

'It has been the Wendover scourge from the beginning, so I hear. Every
one about here of course explains this man's eccentricities by the
family history. But I don't know,' said Robert, his lip hardening, 'it
may be extremely convenient sometimes to have a tradition of the kind. A
man who knew how to work it might very well enjoy all the advantages of
sanity and the privileges of insanity at the same time. The poor old
doctor I was telling you of--old Meyrick--who has known the squire since
his boyhood, and has a dog-like attachment to him, is always hinting at
mysterious excuses. Whenever I let out to him, as I do sometimes, as to
the state of the property, he talks of "inherited melancholy," "rash
judgments," and so forth. I like the good old soul, but I don't believe
much of it. A man who is sane enough to make a great name for himself in
letters is sane enough to provide his estate with a decent agent.'

'It doesn't follow,' said Langham, who was, however, so deep in a
collection of Spanish romances and chronicles that the squire's mental
history did not seem to make much impression upon him. '