When Lydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubon slowly receding with his hands behind him according to his habit, and his head bent forward.  It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from the lofty limes were falling silently across the sombre evergreens, while the lights and shadows slept side by side:  there was no sound but the cawing of the rooks, which to the accustomed ear is a lullaby, or that last solemn lullaby, a dirge.  Lydgate, conscious of an energetic frame in its prime, felt some compassion when the figure which he was likely soon to overtake turned round, and in advancing towards him showed more markedly than ever the signs of premature age—­the student’s bent shoulders, the emaciated limbs, and the melancholy lines of the mouth.  “Poor fellow,” he thought, “some men with his years are like lions; one can tell nothing of their age except that they are full grown.”

“Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. Casaubon, with his invariably polite air, “I am exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality.  We will, if you please, carry on our conversation in walking to and fro.”

“I hope your wish to see me is not due to the return of unpleasant symptoms,” said Lydgate, filling up a pause.

“Not immediately—­no.  In order to account for that wish I must mention—­ what it were otherwise needless to refer to—­that my life, on all collateral accounts insignificant, derives a possible importance from the incompleteness of labors which have extended through all its best years.  In short, I have long had on hand a work which I would fain leave behind me in such a state, at least, that it might be committed to the press by—­others.  Were I assured that this is the utmost I can reasonably expect, that assurance would be a useful circumscription of my attempts, and a guide in both the positive and negative determination of my course.”

Here Mr. Casaubon paused, removed one hand from his back and thrust it between the buttons of his single-breasted coat.  To a mind largely instructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be more interesting than the inward conflict implied in his formal measured address, delivered with the usual sing-song and motion of the head.  Nay, are there many situations more sublimely tragic than the struggle of the soul with the demand to renounce a work which has been all the significance of its life—­a significance which is to vanish as the waters which come and go where no man has need of them?  But there was nothing to strike others as sublime about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate, who had some contempt at hand for futile scholarship, felt a little amusement mingling with his pity.  He was at present too ill acquainted with disaster to enter into the pathos of a lot where everything is below the level of tragedy except the passionate egoism of the sufferer.

“You refer to the possible hindrances from want of health?” he said, wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon’s purpose, which seemed to be clogged by some hesitation.