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 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 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 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,
vailing 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 toward 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 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 among 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. PICKETT.--"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 can not, 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.