“Finding myself in your vicinity, Mr. Vane, I have given myself the pleasure of calling,” he said, in a peculiar but not disagreeable voice. “Your honoured grandfather treated me—I may say it without presumption—as a friend, having known me from childhood as his father’s librarian.”
It did not strike me at the time how old the man must be.
“May I ask where you live now, Mr. Crow?” I said.
He smiled an amused smile.
“You nearly hit my name,” he rejoined, “which shows the family insight. You have seen me before, but only once, and could not then have heard it!”
“Where was that?”
“In this very room. You were quite a child, however!”
I could not be sure that I remembered him, but for a moment I fancied I did, and I begged him to set me right as to his name.
“There is such a thing as remembering without recognising the memory in it,” he remarked. “For my name—which you have near enough—it used to be Raven.”
I had heard the name, for marvellous tales had brought it me.
“It is very kind of you to come and see me,” I said. “Will you not sit down?”
He seated himself at once.
“You knew my father, then, I presume?”
“I knew him,” he answered with a curious smile, “but he did not care about my acquaintance, and we never met.—That gentleman, however,” he added, pointing to the portrait—“old Sir Up’ard, his people called him—was in his day a friend of mine yet more intimate than ever your grandfather became.”
Then at length I began to think the interview a strange one. But in truth it was hardly stranger that my visitor should remember Sir Upward, than that he should have been my great-grandfather’s librarian!
“I owe him much,” he continued; “for, although I had read many more books than he, yet, through the special direction of his studies, he was able to inform me of a certain relation of modes which I should never have discovered of myself, and could hardly have learned from anyone else.”
“Would you mind telling me all about that?” I said.
“By no means—as much at least as I am able: there are not such things as wilful secrets,” he answered—and went on.
“That closet held his library—a hundred manuscripts or so, for printing was not then invented. One morning I sat there, working at a catalogue of them, when he looked in at the door, and said, ‘Come.’ I laid down my pen and followed him—across the great hall, down a steep rough descent, and along an underground passage to a tower he had lately built, consisting of a stair and a room at the top of it. The door of this room had a tremendous lock, which he undid with the smallest key I ever saw. I had scarcely crossed the threshold after him, when, to my eyes, he began to dwindle, and grew less and less. All at once my vision seemed to come right, and I saw that he was moving swiftly away from me. In a minute more he was the merest speck in the distance, with the tops of blue mountains beyond him, clear against a sky of paler blue. I recognised the country, for I had gone there and come again many a time, although I had never known this way to it.
“Many years after, when the tower had long disappeared, I taught one of his descendants what Sir Upward had taught me; and now and then to this day I use your house when I want to go the nearest way home. I must indeed—without your leave, for which I ask your pardon—have by this time well established a right of way through it—not from front to back, but from bottom to top!”
“You would have me then understand, Mr. Raven,” I said, “that you go through my house into another world, heedless of disparting space?”
“That I go through it is an incontrovertible acknowledgement of space,” returned the old librarian.
“Please do not quibble, Mr. Raven,” I rejoined. “Please to take my question as you know I mean it.”
“There is in your house a door, one step through which carries me into a world very much another than this.”
“A better?”
“Not throughout; but so much another that most of its physical, and many of its mental laws are different from those of this world. As for moral laws, they must everywhere be fundamentally the same.”
“You try my power of belief!” I said.
“You take me for a madman, probably?”
“You do not look like one.”
“A liar then?”
“You give me no ground to think you such.”
“Only you do not believe me?”
“I will go out of that door with you if you like: I believe in you enough to risk the attempt.”
“The blunder all my children make!” he murmured. “The only door out is the door in!”
I began to think he must be crazy. He sat silent for a moment, his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the table, and his eyes on the books before him.
“A book,” he said louder, “is a door in, and therefore a door out.—I see old Sir Up’ard,” he went on, closing his eyes, “and my heart swells with love to him:—what world is he in?”
“The world of your heart!” I replied; “—that is, the idea of him is there.”
“There is one world then at least on which your hall-door does not open?”
“I grant you so much; but the things in that world are not things to have and to hold.”
“Think a little farther,” he rejoined: “did anything ever become yours, except by getting into that world?—The thought is beyond you, however, at present!—I tell you there are more worlds, and more doors to them, than you will think of in many years!”
He rose, left the library, crossed the hall, and went straight up to the garret, familiar evidently with every turn. I followed, studying his back. His hair hung down long and dark, straight
