Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Greatest Battle of All.
Time advanced apace, and wrought many of those innumerable changes in the fortunes of the human race for which Time is famous.
Among other things it brought Sir James Clubley to the bird-shop of Messrs Blurt one Christmas eve.
“My dear sir,” said Sir James to Mr Enoch in the back shop, through the half-closed door of which the owl could be seen gazing solemnly at the pelican of the wilderness, “I have called to ask whether you happen to have heard anything of young Aspel of late?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Mr Blurt, with a sad shake of his head. “Since Bones died—the man, you know, with whom he lived—he has removed to some new abode, and no one ever hears or sees anything of him, except Mrs Bones. He visits her occasionally (as I believe you are aware), but refuses to give her his address. She says, however, that he has given up drink—that the dying words of her husband had affected him very deeply. God grant it may be so, for I love the youth.”
“I join your prayer, Mr Blurt,” said Sir James, who was slightly, though perhaps unconsciously, pompous in his manner. “My acquaintance with him has been slight—in fact only two letters have passed between us—but I entertained a strong regard for his father, who in schoolboy days saved my life. In after years he acquired that passion for spirits which his son seems to have inherited, and, giving up all his old friends, went to live on a remote farm in the west of Ireland.”
Sir James spoke slowly and low, as if reflectively, with his eyes fixed on the ground.