They reached a house in a central, though not fashionable street. A man-servant of a singularly grave and awful aspect opened the door,—a man who had lived all his life with authors. Poor fellow, he was indeed prematurely old! The care on his lip and the pomp on his brow—no mortal’s pen can describe!
“Is Mr. Norreys at home?” asked Harley.
“He is at home—to his friends, my Lord,” answered the man, majestically; and he stalked across the hall with the step of a Dangeau ushering some Montmorenci into the presence of Louis le Grand.
“Stay; show this gentleman into another room. I will go first into the library; wait for me, Leonard.” The man nodded, and conducted Leonard into the dining-room. Then pausing before the door of the library, and listening an instant, as if fearful to disturb some mood of inspiration, opened it very softly. To his ineffable disgust, Harley pushed before, and entered abruptly. It was a large room, lined with books from the floor to the ceiling. Books were on all the tables, books were on all the chairs. Harley seated himself on a folio of Raleigh’s “History of the World,” and cried, “I have brought you a treasure!”
“What is it?” said Norreys, good-humouredly, looking up from his desk.
“A mind!”
“A mind!” echoed Norreys, vaguely.
“Your own?”
“Pooh! I have none,—I have only a heart and a fancy. Listen. You remember the boy we saw reading at the book stall. I have caught him for you, and you shall train him into a man. I have the warmest interest in his future, for I know some of his family, and one of that family was very dear to me. As for money, he has not a shilling, and not a shilling would he accept gratis from you or me either. But he comes with bold heart to work,—and work you must find him.” Harley then rapidly told his friend of the two offers he had made to Leonard, and Leonard’s choice.
“This promises very well; for letters a man must have a strong vocation, as he should have for law. I will do all that you wish.”