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 moiety 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 teaspoonful 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 ingenuous 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 one hundred and fifty 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 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 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 upon 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.