There was to be a considerable book-sale at a country-house one day's
journey from London. Mr. Prickett meant to have attended it on his own
behalf, and that of several gentlemen who had given him commissions for
purchase; but, on the morning fixed for his departure, he was seized with a
severe return of his old foe, the rheumatism. He requested Leonard to
attend instead of himself. Leonard went, and was absent for the three days
during which the sale lasted. He returned late in the evening, and went at
once to Mr. Prickett's house. The shop was closed; he knocked at the
private entrance; a strange person opened the door to him, and in reply to
his question if Mr. Prickett was at home, said with a long and funereal
face, "Young man, Mr. Prickett, senior, has gone to his long home, but Mr.
Richard Prickett will see you."
At this moment a very grave-looking man, with lank hair, looked forth from
the side-door communicating between the shop and the passage, and then
stepped forward--"Come in, sir; you are my late uncle's assistant, Mr.
Fairfield, I suppose?"
"Your late uncle! Heavens, sir, do I understand aright--can Mr. Prickett 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, &c. 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 fatal step-sons.