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 is 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, land 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 £1 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
civilisation 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 stepsons.