Leonard did not appear at the shop of Mr. Prickett that day. Needless
it is to say where he wandered--what he suffered--what thought--what
felt. All within was storm. Late at night he returned to his solitary
lodging. On his table, neglected since the morning, was Helen's
rose-tree. It looked parched and fading. His heart smote him: he
watered the poor plant--perhaps with his tears.
Meanwhile Dr. Morgan, after some debate with himself whether or not to
apprise Mrs. Avenel of Leonard's discovery and message, resolved to
spare her an uneasiness and alarm that might be dangerous to her
health, and unnecessary in itself. He replied shortly, that she need
not fear Leonard's coming to her house--that he was disinclined to
bind himself an apprentice, but that he was provided for at present;
and in a few weeks, when Dr. Morgan heard more of him through the
tradesman by whom he was employed, the Doctor would write to her from
Germany. He then went to Mr. Prickett's--told the willing bookseller
to keep the young man for the present--to be kind to him, watch over
his habits and conduct, and report to the Doctor in his new home, on
the Rhine, what avocation he thought Leonard would be best suited for,
and most inclined to adopt. The charitable Welshman divided with the
bookseller the salary given to Leonard, and left a quarter of his
moity in advance. It is true that he knew he should be repaid on
applying to Mrs. Avenel; but, being a man of independent spirit
himself, he so sympathized with Leonard's present feelings, that he
felt as if he should degrade the boy did he maintain him, even
secretly, out of Mrs. Avenel's money--money intended not to raise, but
keep him down in life. At the worst, it was a sum the doctor could
afford, and he had brought the boy into the world.
Having thus, as he thought, safely provided for his two young charges,
Helen and Leonard, the Doctor then gave himself up to his final
preparations for departure. He left a short note for Leonard with Mr.
Prickett, containing some brief advice, some kind cheering; a
postscript to the effect that he had not communicated to Mrs. Avenel
the information Leonard had acquired, and that it were best to leave
her in that ignorance; and six small powders to be dissolved in water,
and a tea-spoonful every fourth hour--"Sovereign against rage and
sombre thoughts," wrote the Doctor. By the evening of the next day Dr.
Morgan, accompanied by his pet patient with the chronic tic, whom he
had talked into exile, was on the steamboat on his way to Ostend.
Leonard resumed his life at Mr. Prickett's; but the change in him did
not escape the bookseller. All his ingenious simplicity had deserted
him. He was very distant, and very taciturn; he seemed to have grown
much older. I shall not attempt to analyze metaphysically this change.
By the help of such words as Leonard may himself occasionally let
fall, the reader will dive into the boy's heart, and see how there the
change had worked, and is working still. The happy dreamy
peasant-genius, gazing on glory with inebriate, undazzled eyes, is no
more. It is a man, suddenly cut off from the old household holy
ties--conscious of great powers, and confronted on all sides by
barriers of iron--alone with hard reality, and scornful London; and if
he catches a glimpse of the lost Helicon, he sees, where he saw the
muse, a pale melancholy spirit veiling its face in shame--the ghost of
the mournful mother, whose child has no name, not even the humblest,
among the family of men.
On the second evening after Dr. Morgan's departure, as Leonard was
just about to leave the shop, a customer stepped in with a book in
his hand which he had snatched from the shop-boy, who was removing the
volumes for the night from the booth without.
"Mr. Prickett, Mr. Prickett!" said the customer, "I am ashamed of you.
You presume to put upon this work, in two volumes, the sum of eight
shillings."
Mr. Prickett stepped forth from the Cimmerian gloom of some recess,
and cried, "What! Mr. Burley, is that you? But for your voice I should
not have known you."
"Man is like a book, Mr. Prickett; the commonalty only look to his
binding. I am better bound, it is very true."
Leonard glanced towards the speaker, who now stood under the gas-lamp,
and thought he recognized his face. He looked again; yes, it was the
perch-fisher whom he had met on the banks of the Brent, and who had
warned him of the lost fish and the broken line.
_Mr. Burley_ (continuing).--"But 'The Art of Thinking,'--you charge
eight shillings for 'The Art of Thinking?'"
_Mr. Prickett._--"Cheap enough, Mr. Burley. A very clean copy."
_Mr. Burley._--"Usurer! I sold it to you for three shillings. It is
more than 150 per cent. you propose to gain from my 'Art of
Thinking.'"
_Mr. Prickett_, (stuttering and taken aback.)--"_You_ sold it to me!
Ah! now I remember. But it was more than three shillings I gave. You
forget--two glasses of brandy and water."
_Mr. Burley._--"Hospitality, sir, is not to be priced. If you sell
your hospitality, you are not worthy to possess my 'Art of Thinking.'
I resume it. There are three shillings, and a shilling more for
interest. No--on second thoughts, instead of that shilling, I will
return your hospitality; and the first time you come my way you shall
have two glasses of brandy and water."
Mr. Prickett did not look pleased, but he made no objection; and Mr.
Burley put the book into his pocket, and turned to examine the
shelves. He bought an old jest-book, a stray volume of the Comedies of
Destouches--paid for them--put them also into his pocket, and was
sauntering out, when he perceived Leonard, who was now standing at the
doorway.
"Hem! who is that?" he asked, whispering to Mr. Prickett.
"A young assistant of mine, and very clever."
Mr. Burley scanned Leonard from top to toe.
"We have met before, sir. But you look as if you had returned to the
Brent, and had been fishing for my perch."
"Possibly, sir," answered Leonard. "But my line is tough, and is not
yet broken, though the fish drags it amongst the weeds, and buries
itself in the mud."
He lifted his hat, bowed slightly, and walked on.
"He _is_ clever," said Mr. Burley to the bookseller: "he understands
allegory."
_Mr. Prickett._--"Poor youth! He came to town with the idea of turning
author: you know what _that_ is, Mr. Burley."
_Mr. Burley_, (with an air of superb dignity.)--"Bibliopole, yes! An
author is a being between gods and men, who ought to be lodged in a
palace, and entertained at the public charge on ortolans and tokay. He
should be kept lapped in down, and curtained with silken awnings from
the cares of life--have nothing to do but to write books upon tables
of cedar, and fish for perch from a gilded galley. And that's what
will come to pass when the ages lose their barbarism, and know their
benefactors. Meanwhile, sir, I invite you to my rooms, and will regale
you upon brandy and water as long as I can pay for it; and when I
cannot, you shall regale me."
Mr. Prickett muttered, "A very bad bargain, indeed," as Mr. Burley,
with his chin in the air, stepped into the street.