Part 72 (1/2)

”Your late uncle! Heavens, sir, do I understand aright, can Mr. p.r.i.c.kett be dead since I left London?”

”Died, sir, suddenly, last night. It was an affection of the heart. The doctor thinks the rheumatism attacked that organ. He had small time to provide for his departure, and his account-books seem in sad disorder: I am his nephew and executor.”

Leonard had now--followed the nephew into the shop. There still burned the gas-lamp. The place seemed more dingy and cavernous than before.

Death always makes its presence felt in the house it visits.

Leonard was greatly affected,--and yet more, perhaps, by the utter want of feeling which the nephew exhibited. In fact the deceased had not been on friendly terms with this person, his nearest relative and heir-at-law, who was also a bookseller.

”You were engaged but by the week, I find, young man, on reference to my late uncle's papers. He gave you L1 a week,--a monstrous sum! I shall not require your services any further. I shall move these books to my own house. You will be good enough to send me a list of those you bought at the sale, and your account of travelling expenses, etc. What may be due to you shall be sent to your address. Good-evening.”

Leonard went home, shocked and saddened at the sudden death of his kind employer. He did not think much of himself that night; but when he rose the next day, he suddenly felt that the world of London lay before him, without a friend, without a calling, without an occupation for bread.

This time it was no fancied sorrow, no poetic dream disappointed.

Before him, gaunt and palpable, stood Famine. Escape!--yes. Back to the village: his mother's cottage; the exile's garden; the radishes and the fount. Why could he not escape? Ask why civilization cannot escape its ills, and fly back to the wild and the wigwam.

Leonard could not have returned to the cottage, even if the Famine that faced had already seized him with her skeleton hand. London releases not so readily her fated step-sons.

CHAPTER IV.

One day three persons were standing before an old bookstall in a pa.s.sage leading from Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road. Two were gentlemen; the third, of the cla.s.s and appearance of those who more habitually halt at old bookstalls.

”Look,” said one of the gentlemen to the other, ”I have discovered here what I have searched for in vain the last ten years,--the Horace of 1580, the Horace of the Forty Commentators, a perfect treasury of learning, and marked only fourteen s.h.i.+llings!”

”Hush, Norreys,” said the other, ”and observe what is yet more worth your study;” and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and, as it were, with a hungering attention over an old worm-eaten volume.

”What is the book, my lord?” whispered Mr. Norreys. His companion smiled, and replied by another question, ”What is the man who reads the book?”

Mr. Norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder.

”Preston's translation of Boethius's 'The Consolations of Philosophy,'”

he said, coming back to his friend.

”He looks as if he wanted all the consolations Philosophy can give him, poor boy.”

At this moment a fourth pa.s.senger paused at the bookstall, and, recognizing the pale student, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, ”Aha, young sir, we meet again. So poor p.r.i.c.kett is dead. But you are still haunted by a.s.sociations. Books, books,--magnets to which all iron minds move insensibly. What is this? Boethius! Ah, a book written in prison, but a little time before the advent of the only philosopher who solves to the simplest understanding every mystery of life--”

”And that philosopher?”

”Is death!” said Mr. Burley. ”How can you be dull enough to ask? Poor Boethius, rich, n.o.bly born, a consul, his sons consuls, the world one smile to the Last Philosopher of Rome. Then suddenly, against this type of the old world's departing WISDOM stands frowning the new world's grim genius, FORCE,--Theodoric the Ostrogoth condemning Boethius the schoolman; and Boethius in his Pavian dungeon holding a dialogue with the shade of Athenian Philosophy. It is the finest picture upon which lingers the glimmering of the Western golden day, before night rushes over time.”

”And,” said Mr. Norreys, abruptly, ”Boethius comes back to us with the faint gleam of returning light, translated by Alfred the Great; and, again, as the sun of knowledge bursts forth in all its splendour by Queen Elizabeth. Boethius influences us as we stand in this pa.s.sage; and that is the best of all the Consolations of Philosophy,--eh, Mr.

Burley?”

Mr. Burley turned and bowed.

The two men looked at each other; you could not see a greater contrast,--Mr. Burley, his gay green dress already shabby and soiled, with a rent in the skirts and his face speaking of habitual night-cups; Mr. Norreys, neat and somewhat precise in dress, with firm, lean figure, and quiet, collected, vigorous energy in his eye and aspect.