After the Book of the Ages had been dispersed among the great world out
of doors, many were the days that elapsed ere the dying poet’s faithful
emissary was seen again in the little room. The old man was thrown into
a fever of dread lest so strange an envoy should never return; but even
in the extremity of his fears he was consoled by the noble courage
of the poet. From day to day he who kept the chimney-side, and whose
hours could be numbered as they passed, retained a superhuman serenity
throughout the whole of this cruel period, which seemed to gnaw at the
vitals of both. In his invincible fortitude he even sought to assuage
the distress of the aged man, his father.
“He will never return, O Achilles,” wailed the old man.
“Our honest servant will not fail one who is the comrade of kingly
death, O my father,” said the blind poet, smiling in his faith.
“Must I pray for a miracle, Achilles?” said the old man, who looked to
him in all things now.
“We would have thee be of good faith, my father,” said the poet. “Never
yet was a destiny but that it fulfilled itself. The printing-presses
are groaning under these pages of ours. To-morrow they will be strown
like autumn leaves all about the floor of this little room.”
Yet the morrow came and the emissary did not return. Another morrow
dawned and yet he came not. Day succeeded day; the dying poet became as
one who has scarce the strength to raise his limbs; the sands grew less
and less in the glass; yet still no breathless messenger issued forth
from the streets of the great city.
In this long-drawn suspense such an anguish of despair besieged the
old man, that again and again he turned to the poet for the sustenance
which it was his to give.
“Be of good courage, O my father,” said the dying poet, yet at this
time the whole of his right side was become paralyzed, so that he could
no longer raise his right hand.
After listening full many weary nights and days for the ever-expected
tap upon the shutters of the shop, there came at last the familiar
sound in a December evening.
With unsteady limbs the old man went forth to unbar the door. Upon the
threshold stood Dodson, worn and pale.
“Do not tell me the miracle has not happened,” cried the old man in a
high, quavering tone.
“Yes, the miracle has happened,” said Dodson in a voice that was thin
and unstrung.
“And--and they have printed the mighty pages?” cried the old man.
“Yes,” said Dodson, “they are printing the cursed pages. I have the
proofs of the first volume under my coat. The others will be through
the press in a few days.”
The old man gave a cry of joy.
“Then the miracle has happened for the second time,” he said. “The Book
of the Ages was cherished by the world of men.”
“Call it what you like,” said Dodson. “Call it a miracle, call it
a business transaction, or call it a daylight robbery, or anything
you please. I can only say that James Dodson had to scour heaven and
earth to get that miserable two hundred pounds. I lied to the dealer;
I drew up a false pedigree for those infernal pages of parchments; I
cajoled them into believing that black was white; I proved to their
satisfaction that that cursed writing in red ink was that of the
Pharaohs, and was supposed to be indelible, because, do what they would
with their chemicals, they could not get it to come off.”
“Oh yes, yes,” said the old man, breathing heavily. “I should have made
it known to you that the writing in the Book of the Ages can never be
effaced.”
“Whatever that infernal writing was,” said Dodson, “it was the cause of
my not being able to get the two hundred pounds I asked for from the
dealers. Do what I would, say what I would, it was only by sheer good
fortune that I was able to get one. They happened to take a fancy to
the clasp of that infernal volume; and as I had the presence of mind
to tell them it was formerly the clasp of an ancient Roman libellus,
they wrote out a cheque for one hundred pounds, less five per cent. for
cash. And after that I had enormous difficulties to raise the other
hundred. Talk about the labours of Hercules; what are they to the
labours of one who attempts to raise a hundred pounds upon no security
in this Christian country? I lied to my aunt; I put my name to an
instrument that may land me in gaol; I lied to Octavius; I cheated an
insurance company; and, as a consequence of all this, the great house
of Crumpett and Hawker have undertaken to send out this three-volume
poem for review on the twelfth of January. And let me tell you, old
man, that in all the long and honourable history of that world-famous
publishing house, James Dodson is the only man who has ever caused it
to betray signs of what you might call undignified haste.”
“No words of mine can requite you, sir,” said the white-haired man,
whose eyes welled with gratitude. “But yet the proud consciousness is
yours that unborn ages will be your debtors.”
“Their monickers on a note of hand or on a three months’ bill don’t go
for much at this hour of the day,” said James Dodson. “I too, like poor
Luney, appear to have made the mistake of being born before my time.
And it seems to me that of all the mistakes a man can commit, there is
none quite so bad as that.”
However, no sooner had Jimmy Dodson come again into the presence of him
who kept the little room, than all these tribulations to which he had
given so free an expression in the shop, yielded immediately to that
solicitude, mingled with awe, with which he had come to regard him.
“Ah, friend,” said the dying poet, “so here are the printed pages at
last.”
“Yes, old boy, here they are at last,” said Jimmy Dodson.
“Give them to me,” said the poet, extending his left hand, which he
could scarcely raise.
Dodson placed a few of the printed sheets upon the extended palm, which
shook like gossamer; and as the poet, with a look of composed passion,
held them up before his sightless eyes, it seemed almost that those
dead orbs were again endowed with life.
“The paper is good,” said the poet, rubbing the pages against his cheek
in order that he might know its quality. “I hope the printing is clear.”
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “a brand new fount, beautifully
clear.”
“Liberal margins, such as are beloved of the gentle reader?”
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “beautiful wide margins. It will
make a fine page.”
“And they are printing the poem in three volumes?” asked the poet,
“with a new phase in each; and also they are omitting the name of the
author from the title page?”
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “they are doing all that. All your
instructions are being carried out to the letter. By the way, would
you like a frontispiece in the first volume of the Wayfarer communing
for the first time with Earth, his Mother? I could get a chap I know
to draw it; last year he had a picture accepted at the Academy; and
Octavius would raise no objection.”
“No, no,” said the poet almost sternly.
“It was only a suggestion, you know, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson with
nervous humility. “You are not offended, old boy, are you?”
In answer the poet extended that weak left hand which he could hardly
raise. Dodson’s first impulse was to clasp the fragile fingers in his
own, which were of such power; but a glance at the countenance of the
blind poet caused this impulse to yield to a finer instinct. Without
in the least knowing why, Dodson sank to his knees and saluted the
extended hand with a reverence he could not have exceeded had it been
that of his sovereign.