* * * * *
Doctor Syn spent a very comfortable night at Haxell’s, in the Strand. It was a quiet and comfortable house, with good plain cooking and an excellent cellar, if you were popular with the landlord. Doctor Syn was popular with the landlord, who respected a country parson who seemed to be quite a connoisseur in French wines. Consequently Doctor Syn was ever a welcome guest at this family tavern, which was famed as a respectable country home in the hub of London life. Yes — the very place for a learned scholar who preferred the noise of the capital to be outside the windows, with quiet, well-mannered guests within. Haxell’s was also very handy to travellers who wished to catch the Kent-bound coach from Charing Cross, for you had only to inform the Coaching Counting House situated at the ‘Golden Keys’, which faced Duncannon Street, and the guard would reserve your seats and pick you up at Haxell’s on the way to London Bridge. Having on this occasion taken the precaution, Doctor Syn was under no anxiety about missing the mail, which pulled out at ten o’clock for the coast. He was called at half past seven with a dish of tea into which he poured a strong measure of brandy. Having ordered his breakfast for fifteen minutes past eight, and being dressed before it was ready, he strolled as far as St. Martin’s Church to encourage his appetite. The storm of the night before had cleared the skies, and he was welcomed by a pleasant sun, and cold, crisp air. His steps took him past the church and into Hedge Lane, famed for its book market. Many a poor scholar he found there before him, reading greedily from old volumes piled on stalls before the shops. To some of these Doctor Syn addressed a cheery good morning as he passed — with some of them he discussed the merits of a volume which the reader seemed tempted to purchase. Indeed, for one poor man he bought a book outright when he ascertained that the old fellow had not the money to indulge his taste, but called each morning just for the pleasure of holding it in his hand. Imagine the student’s gratitude for this generosity. It was indeed a gift from the gods, and had Syn been Jupiter himself he could not have received more adoration. Passers-by noted the elegant parson with the charming smile and stopped in pretence of viewing the bookstalls in order to watch him the more closely. Certainly he seemed to have done a great favour to the old student who, clutching his prized volume to his heart, kept bowing low before his benefactor while tears of gratitude ran shamelessly down his cheeks. Indeed it seemed that the parson was becoming embarrassed with such loud laudations, such hymns of praise, for he was overheard to say, ‘My dear sir, there is nothing more to be said. If that book is to be somebody’s property, that somebody must be you, since nobody could have shown me better than you what love a man may bestow upon a work of art. Besides, your taste is good. In all this great jangle street of literature you have found a gem. You appreciate its worth, and the regard you give to it but adds to its value. And pray do not thank me. It is for me to thank you for permitting me to spend a few coins in order that a great work shall be truly cared for. If that will not bring me a blessing — then blessedness is dead in our age. No more, dear sir, no more.’ Doctor Syn seemed to be attempting to pass on, but the grateful receiver of the book begged to know his name in order that he might remember it in his prayers. ‘You carry a pencil-case, sir, no doubt? Will you not writer your name for me in the fly-leaf of the book?’ With a smile Doctor Syn took a silver pencil-case from his pocket and wrote his name and address, which the old man, blinking through his spectacles, repeated aloud. The name brought the shopkeeper out on to the pavement, where, catching sight of Doctor Syn, he greeted him profusely. ‘So it was you, Doctor, who has proved to be this ardent bookworm’s benefactor. ’Tis like you, sir. And now I trust you will find that your goodness to a stranger brings you a reward. In short, I have a book for you within the shop. An agent from Paris left it for you. A French translation of the ?niad — a fine first edition, too, which I know you have long sought for. If you step in, reverend sir, I shall be glad to give it to you.’
Taking leave of the happy old student, Doctor Syn entered the shop and in a few minutes was handling tenderly the fine copy of Virgil referred to.
‘As I received it, I deliver it,’ explained the bookseller, ‘though I should like to remove these untidy slips of paper which some reader has cluttered it up with. Book-marks, no doubt. But they spoil the appearance of such a beautiful piece of printing. The fellow has undoubtedly torn up an old letter for the purpose. I cannot read the French myself. Used to regret it, having so many fine volumes in my shop that I could not understand. But since they started losing their manners as well as their heads, I have no mind to lose any sleep studying the language of such barbarians.’
Doctor Syn had already examined one of the slips in question, and with a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes he answered: ‘This reader was at least not barbaric enough to mark the book with his own notes. Do not trouble to remove the markers. I will take them with the book. ’Twill be interesting to see if he has penned any erudite ideas.’
A quarter of an hour later the volume lay on the table beside Doctor Syn as he breakfasted in Haxell’s Coffee Room whose windows looked out upon the busy Strand. His walk had put him in good appetite and he thoroughly enjoyed a generous helping of grilled ham and eggs. But while waiting for the second cover, he picked up the book, and a close observer might well have been surprised to see him paying far more attention to what was written on the book-markers than upon the exquisite volume itself. He would have been more surprised still had he known what was written on those same book-markers. But why should anyone pay the slightest attention to such a normal sight as a scholarly cleric engrossed upon the French translation of a classic while enjoying a typical English breakfast?
And so, at five minutes past ten the warning notes of a coach-horn cleared the traffic in front of Haxell’s, as with a flourish and jingling of harness the Dover coach pulled up, and Doctor Syn stepped inside.
* * * * *
Yet another traveller had been awakened that morning in time to make preparation for the same journey. In the large bedroom of the best suite that the ‘Golden Keys’ could offer, propped up by pillows in a gigantic four-poster, sat a little old lady. From beneath the frills of a modish night-cap twinkled a pair of intelligent bird-like eyes, while over the rim of a tankard of small ale her aristocratic nose made her look like the proverbial early bird in search of the worm.
The small, shapely hands holding the tankard seemed to be weighed down by the vast collection of rings that she wore on almost every finger, while at her wrists innumerable bracelets jingled and flashed, as she gave orders to a French lady’s-maid. Beside the bed was perched an enormous white wig in the style that had been favoured by the ladies of the French Court, and which at the moment the maid was dressing. Upon the bed, curled up on the old lady’s feet, brushed and beribboned, looking like another wig, lay a white poodle, sleepily regarding his mistress out of one eye and paying not the slightest attention to the open jewel-case under his nose, for indeed he knew he was wearing his own jewellery — golden bracelets hung with little bells that tinkled merrily when he moved his two front paws.
Finishing her small ale with a gusto slightly incongruous for so frail a lady she put down the tankard and gave the tapestry bell-pull a vigorous jerk, which brought scurrying feet along the corridor, and an answering tap upon the door. The old lady raised herself and prodded the white dog with a playful bejewelled finger. ‘Come now, Mister Pitt. ’Tis time for your morning perambulation.’ Then, speaking to the maid: ‘Lisette, open the door for Mister Pitt, and tell the chambermaid to take him downstairs and see that he amuses himself in the yard. And see that he really amuses himself, for the poor gentleman will be cooped up in a stuffy old coach all day, and you know what happened on the journey to Aberdeen on my best tartan travelling-rug.’
