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.
CHAPTER IV.
One day three persons were standing before an old book-stall in a passage leading from Oxford-street into Tottenham-court-road. Two were gentlemen; the third, of the class and appearance of those who more habitually halt at old book-stalls.
"Look," said one of the gentlemen to the other, "I have discovered here what I have searched for in vain for the last ten years—the Horace of 1580, the Horace of the Forty Commentators—a perfect treasury of learning, and marked only fourteen shillings!"
"Hush, Norreys," said the other, "and observe what is yet more worth your study;" and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and as it were, with a hungering attention over an old worm-eaten volume.
"What is the book, my lord?" whispered Mr. Norreys.
His companion smiled, and replied by another question, "What is the man who reads the book?"
Mr. Norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder. "Preston's translation of Boethius, The Consolations of Philosophy," he said, coming back to his friend.
"He looks as if he wanted all the consolations Philosophy can give him, poor boy."