Part 72 (2/2)
”If,” replied Mr. Burley, ”a poor devil like me may argue with a gentleman who may command his own price with the booksellers, I should say it is no consolation at all, Mr. Norreys. And I should like to see any man of sense accept the condition of Boethius in his prison, with some strangler or headsman waiting behind the door, upon the promised proviso that he should be translated, centuries afterwards, by kings and queens, and help indirectly to influence the minds of Northern barbarians, babbling about him in an alley, jostled by pa.s.sers-by who never heard the name of Boethius, and who don't care a fig for philosophy. Your servant, sir, young man, come and talk.”
Burley hooked his arm within Leonard's, and led the boy pa.s.sively away.
”That is a clever man,” said Harley L'Estrange. ”But I am sorry to see yon young student, with his bright earnest eyes, and his lip that has the quiver of pa.s.sion and enthusiasm, leaning on the arm of a guide who seems disenchanted of all that gives purpose to learning, and links philosophy with use to the world. Who and what is this clever man whom you call Burley?”
”A man who might have been famous, if he had condescended to be respectable! The boy listening to us both so attentively interested me too,--I should like to have the making of him. But I must buy this Horace.”
The shopman, lurking within his hole like a spider for flies, was now called out. And when Mr. Norreys had bought the Horace, and given an address where to send it, Harley asked the shopman if he knew the young man who had been reading Boethius.
”Only by sight. He has come here every day the last week, and spends hours at the stall. When once he fastens on a book, he reads it through.”
”And never buys?” said Mr. Norreys.
”Sir,” said the shopman, with a good-natured smile, ”they who buy seldom read. The poor boy pays me twopence a day to read as long as he pleases.
I would not take it, but he is proud.”
”I have known men ama.s.s great learning in that way,” said Mr. Norreys.
”Yes, I should like to have that boy in my hands. And now, my lord, I am at your service, and we will go to the studio of your artist.”
The two gentlemen walked on towards one of the streets out of Fitzroy Square.
In a few minutes more Harley L'Estrange was in his element, seated carelessly on a deal table smoking his cigar, and discussing art with the gusto of a man who honestly loved, and the taste of a man who thoroughly understood it. The young artist, in his dressing robe, adding slow touch upon touch, paused often to listen the better. And Henry Norrey s, enjoying the brief respite from a life of great labour, was gladly reminded of idle hours under rosy skies; for these three men had formed their friends.h.i.+p in Italy, where the bands of friends.h.i.+p are woven by the hands of the Graces.
CHAPTER V.
Leonard and Mr. Burley walked on into the suburbs round the north road from London, and Mr. Burley offered to find literary employment for Leonard,--an offer eagerly accepted.
Then they went into a public-house by the wayside. Burley demanded a private room, called for pen, ink, and paper; and placing these implements before Leonard, said, ”Write what you please, in prose, five sheets of letter-paper, twenty-two lines to a page,--neither more nor less.”
”I cannot write so.”
”Tut, 't is for bread.”
The boy's face crimsoned.
”I must forget that,” said he.
”There is an arbour in the garden, under a weeping-ash,” returned Burley. ”Go there, and fancy yourself in Arcadia.”
Leonard was too pleased to obey. He found out the little arbour at one end of a deserted bowling-green. All was still,--the hedgerow shut out the sight of the inn. The sun lay warm on the gra.s.s, and glinted pleasantly through the leaves of the ash. And Leonard there wrote the first essay from his hand as Author by profession. What was it that he wrote? His dreamy impressions of London, an anathema on its streets and its hearts of stone, murmurs against poverty, dark elegies on fate?
Oh, no! little knowest thou true genius, if thou askest such questions, or thinkest that there under the weeping-ash the task-work for bread was remembered; or that the sunbeam glinted but over the practical world, which, vulgar and sordid, lay around. Leonard wrote a fairy tale,--one of the loveliest you can conceive, with a delicate touch of playful humour, in a style all flowered over with happy fancies. He smiled as he wrote the last word,--he was happy. In rather more than an hour Mr.
Burley came to him, and found him with that smile on his lips.
Mr. Burley had a gla.s.s of brandy-and-water in his hand; it was his third. He too smiled, he too looked happy. He read the paper aloud, and well. He was very complimentary. ”You will do!” said he, clapping Leonard on the back. ”Perhaps some day you will catch my one-eyed perch.” Then he folded up the ma.n.u.script, scribbled off a note, put the whole in one envelope, and they returned to London.
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