"By-the-way, where's the young man to stay? At Abbie's, of course,
if--Margaret says, at some good boarding-house. Well, Abbie's is the
only one in town. It's a singular coincidence, certainly, if it is a
coincidence! Perhaps I'd better go down at once and see Abbie, and have
the whole matter cleared up. I shall have time enough before supper, if
I harness Dolly now."
As Professor Valeyon arrived at this conclusion, he uplifted himself,
with some slight signs of the rustiness of age, from his chair, took his
brown-linen duster from the balcony railing across which it had been
thrown, and put it on, with laborious puffings, and a slight increase of
perspiration. Then, first turning round, to make sure that he had all
his belongings with him, he entered the hall-door, and passed through
into his study.
The rooms in which we live seem to imbibe something of our
characteristics, and the examination of a dwelling-place may not
infrequently throw some light upon the inner nature of its occupant. The
professor's study was of but moderate size, carpeted with a
red-and-white check straw matting, considerably frayed and defaced in
the region of the table, and faded where the light from the windows fell
upon it. The four walls were hidden, to a height of about seven feet
from the floor, with rows upon rows of books, of all sizes and varieties
of binding, no small proportion being novels, and even those not
invariably of a classical standard. The only picture was a stained
engraving of the Transfiguration, over the mantel-piece, in a faded and
fly-be-spotted gilt frame. In the centre of the room, occupying, indeed,
a pretty large share of all the available space, stood an ample
study-table, covered with green baize, darkened, for a considerable
space around the inkstand, by innumerable spatterings of ink. It
supported a confused medley of natural and unnatural accompaniments to
reading and writing. A ponderous ebony inkstand, with solid cut-glass
receptacles, one being intended for powder, though none was ever put in
it, a mighty dictionary, which, being too heavy to be considered
movable, occupied one corner of the table by itself: the earthen
tobacco-jar, with a small piece chipped from the cover; pamphlets and
books, standing or lying upon one another; heaps of rusty steel and
blunted quill pens; a quire or two of blue and white letter-paper; a
paper-knife, loose in the handle, but smooth of edge; a box of lucifer
matches, and several burnt ends; an extra pipe or two; the professor's
straw hat; a brass rack for holding letters and cards; and a great deal
of pink blotting-paper scattered about everywhere.
Opposite the table stood a chair, straight-backed and severe, in which
Professor Valeyon always sat when at work. He had a theory that it was
not well to be too much at bodily ease when intellectually occupied.
Directly behind the chair, upon the shelf of a bookcase, stood a plaster
cast of Shakespeare's face, the nose of which was most unaccountably
darkened and polished. It is doubtful whether even the professor himself
could have cleared up the mystery of this deepened color in the immortal
bard's nose. But whoever, during those hours set apart by the old
gentleman for solitary labor and meditation, had happened to peep in at
the window, would, ten to one, have beheld him tilted thoughtfully back
in his chair, abstractedly tweaking, with the forefinger and thumb of
his right hand, the sacred feature in question. He had done it every
day, for many years past, and never once found himself out, and,
doubtless, the great poet was far too broad-minded ever to think of
resenting the liberty, especially as it was only in his most thoughtful
moments that the professor meddled with him.