LIII

LIII

Afterthe 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, yieldedimmediately 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 impulsewas 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.

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