In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of his iniquities, and nobody will be surprised to hear that he met the appropriate punishment of his offence. Blinton had passed, on the whole, a happy day, notwithstanding the error about the Elzevir. He dined well at his club, went home, slept well, and started next morning for his office in the City, walking, as usual, and intending to pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the book-stalls. At the very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a man turning over the rubbish in the cheap box. Blinton stared at him, fancied he knew him, thought he didn't, and then became a prey to the glittering eye of the other. The Stranger, who wore the conventional cloak and slouched soft hat of Strangers, was apparently an accomplished mesmerist, or thought-reader, or adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni (in the novel of that name), Mendoza (in 'Codlingsby'), the soul-less man in 'A Strange Story,' Mr. Home, Mr. Irving Bishop, a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most other mysterious characters of history and fiction. Before his Awful Will, Blinton's mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child abashed. The Stranger glided to him and whispered, "Buy these.""These" were a complete set of Auerbach's novels, in English, which, I need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of purchasing had he been left to his own devices.
"Buy these!" repeated the Adept, or whatever he was, in a cruel whisper. Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast load of German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend.
They reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny's 'Jour de l'An d'un Vagabond' was exposed.
"Look," said Blinton, "there is a book I have wanted some time.
Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing trifle."" Nay, buy THAT," said the implacable Stranger, pointing with a hooked forefinger at Alison's 'History of Europe' in an indefinite number of volumes. Blinton shuddered.
"What, buy THAT, and why? In heaven's name, what could I do with it?""Buy it," repeated the persecutor, "and THAT" (indicating the 'Ilios' of Dr. Schliemann, a bulky work), "and THESE" (pointing to all Mr. Theodore Alois Buckley's translations of the Classics), "and THESE" (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain Friswell, and at a 'Life,' in more than one volume, of Mr.
Gladstone).
The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along carrying the bargains under his arm. Now one book fell out, now another dropped by the way. Sometimes a portion of Alison came ponderously to earth;sometimes the 'Gentle Life' sunk resignedly to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again, and packing them under the arms of the weary Blinton.
The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and tried to enter into conversation with his tormentor.
"He DOES know about books," thought Blinton, "and he must have a weak spot somewhere."So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational style.
He talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou, of Derome, of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of Bauzonnet. He discoursed of first editions, of black letter, and even of illustrations and vignettes. He approached the topic of Bibles, but here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, interrupted him.
"Buy those!" he hissed through his teeth.
"Those" were the complete publications of the Folk Lore Society.
Blinton did not care for folk lore (very bad men never do), but he had to act as he was told.
Then, without pause or remorse, he was charged to acquire the 'Ethics' of Aristotle, in the agreeable versions of Williams and Chase. Next he secured 'Strathmore,' 'Chandos,' 'Under Two Flags,'
and 'Two Little Wooden Shoes,' and several dozens more of Ouida's novels. The next stall was entirely filled with school-books, old geographies, Livys, Delectuses, Arnold's 'Greek Exercises,'
Ollendorffs, and what not.
"Buy them all," hissed the fiend. He seized whole boxes and piled them on Blinton's head.
He tied up Ouida's novels, in two parcels, with string, and fastened each to one of the buttons above the tails of Blinton's coat.
"You are tired?" asked the tormentor. "Never mind, these books will soon be off your hands."So speaking, the Stranger, with amazing speed, hurried Blinton back through Holywell Street, along the Strand, and up to Piccadilly, stopping at last at the door of Blinton's famous and very expensive binder.
The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of Blinton's treasures. Then the miserable Blinton found himself, as it were automatically and without any exercise of his will, speaking thus:-"Here are some things I have picked up,--extremely rare,--and you will oblige me by binding them in your best manner, regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant morocco, double, every book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat of arms, plenty of gilding. Spare no cost. Don't keep me waiting, as you generally do;" for indeed book-binders are the most dilatory of the human species.
Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary questions, Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of the room.
"Come on to the sale," he cried.
"What sale?" said Blinton.
"Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky day.""But I have forgotten my catalogue."
"Where is it?"
"In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of the ebony book-case at home."The stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated itself till the hand disappeared from view round the corner. In a moment the hand returned with the catalogue. The pair sped on to Messrs.
