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 a £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 traveling 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 can not escape its ills and fly back to the wilds 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.