And with Burley there reeled in another man--a friend of his--a man who had
been a wealthy trader and once well to do, but who, unluckily, had literary
tastes, and was fond of hearing Burley talk. So, since he had known the
wit, his business had fallen from him, and he had passed through the
Bankrupt Court. A very shabby-looking dog he was, indeed, and his nose was
redder than Burley's.
John made a drunken dash at poor Helen. "So you are the Pentheus in
petticoats who defies Bacchus," cried he; and therewith he roared out a
verse from Euripides. Helen ran away, and Leonard interposed.
"For shame, Burley!"
"He's drunk," said Mr. Douce the bankrupt trader--"very drunk--don't
mind--him. I say, sir, I hope we don't intrude. Sit still, Burley, sit
still and talk, do--that's a good man. You should hear him ta--ta--talk,
sir."
Leonard meanwhile had got Helen out of the room, into her own, and begged
her not to be alarmed, and keep the door locked. He then returned to
Burley, who had seated himself on the bed, trying wondrous hard to keep
himself upright; while Mr. Douce was striving to light a short pipe that he
carried in his buttonhole--without having filled it--and, naturally failing
in that attempt, was now beginning to weep.
Leonard was deeply shocked and revolted for Helen's sake: but it was
hopeless to make Burley listen to reason. And how could the boy turn out of
his room the man to whom he was under obligations?
Meanwhile there smote upon Helen's shrinking ears loud jarring talk and
maudlin laughter, and cracked attempts at jovial songs. Then she heard Mrs.
Smedley in Leonard's room, remonstrating, and Burley's laugh was louder
than before, and Mrs. Smedley, who was a meek woman, evidently got
frightened, and was heard in precipitate retreat. Long and loud talk
recommenced. Burley's great voice predominant, Mr. Douce chiming in with
hiccupy broken treble. Hour after hour thus lasted, for want of the drink
that would have brought it to a premature close. And Burley gradually began
to talk himself somewhat sober. Then Mr. Douce was heard descending the
stairs, and silence followed. At dawn, Leonard knocked at Helen's door. She
opened it at once, for she had not gone to bed.
"Helen," said he very sadly, "you cannot continue here, I must find out
some proper home for you. This man has served me when all London was
friendless, and he tells me that he has nowhere else to go--that the
bailiffs are after him. He has now fallen asleep. I will go and find you
some lodging close at hand--for I cannot expel him who has protected me;
and yet you cannot be under the same roof with him. My own good angel, I
must lose you."
He did not wait for her answer, but hurried down the stairs.
The morning looked through the shutterless panes in Leonard's garret, and
the birds began to chirp from the elm-tree, when Burley rose, and shook
himself, and stared round. He could not quite make out where he was. He got
hold of the water-jug, which he emptied at three draughts, and felt greatly
refreshed. He then began to reconnoitre the chamber--looked at Leonard's
MSS.--peeped into the drawers--wondered where the devil Leonard himself had
gone to--and finally amused himself by throwing down the fire-irons,
ringing the bell, and making all the noise he could, in the hopes of
attracting the attention of somebody or other, and procuring himself his
morning dram.
In the midst of this _charivari_ the door opened softly, but as if with a
resolute hand, and the small quiet form of Helen stood before the
threshold. Burley turned round, and the two looked at each other for some
moments with silent scrutiny.
_Burley_, (composing his features into their most friendly
expression.)--"Come hither, my dear. So you are the little girl whom I saw
with Leonard on the banks of the Brent, and you have come back to live with
him--and I have come to live with him too. You shall be our little
housekeeper, and I will tell you the story of Prince Prettyman, and a
great, many others not to be found in _Mother Goose_. Meanwhile, my dear
little girl, here is sixpence--just run out and change this for its worth
in rum."
_Helen_, (coming slowly up to Mr. Burley, and still gazing earnestly into
his face.)--"Ah, sir, Leonard says you have a kind heart, and that you have
served him--he cannot ask you to leave the house; and so I, who have never
served him, am to go hence and live alone."
_Burley_, (moved.)--"You go, my little lady?--and why? Can we not all live
together?"
_Helen._--"No sir. I left every thing to come to Leonard, for we had met
first at my father's grave. But you rob me of him, and I have no other
friend on earth."
_Burley_, (discomposed.)--"Explain, yourself. Why must you leave him
because I come?"
Helen looks at Mr. Burley again, long and wistfully, but makes no answer.
_Burley_, (with a gulp.)--"Is it because he thinks I am not fit company for
you?"
Helen bowed her head.
Burley winced, and after a moment's pause said,--"He is right."
_Helen_, (obeying the impulse of her heart, springs forward and takes
Burley's hand.)--"Ah, sir," she cried, "before he knew you he was so
different--then he was cheerful--then, even when his first disappointment
came, I grieved and wept; but I felt he would conquer still--for his heart
was so good and pure. Oh, sir, don't think I reproach you; but what is to
become of him if--if--No, it is not for myself I speak. I know that if I
was here, that if he had me to care for, he would come home early and--work
patiently--and--and--that I might save him. But now when I am gone, and you
with him--you to whom he is grateful, you whom he would follow against his
own conscience, (you must see that, sir,)--what is to become of him?"
Helen's voice died in sobs.
Burley took three or four long strides through the room--he was greatly
agitated. "I am a demon," he murmured. "I never saw it before--but it is
true--I should be this boy's ruin." Tears stood in his eyes, he paused
abruptly, made a clutch at his hat, and turned to the door.
Helen stopped the way, and taking him gently by the arm, said,--"Oh, sir,
forgive me--I have pained you;" and looked up at him with a compassionate
expression, that indeed made the child's sweet face as that of an angel.
Burley bent down as if to kiss her, and then drew back--perhaps with a
sentiment that his lips were not worthy to touch that innocent brow.
"If I had had a sister--a child like you, little one," he muttered,
"perhaps I too might have been saved in time. Now----"
"Ah, now you may stay, sir; I don't fear you any more."
"No, no; you would fear me again ere night time, and I might not be always
in the right mood to listen to a voice like yours, child. Your Leonard has
a noble heart and rare gifts. He should rise yet, and he shall, I will not
drag him into the mire. Good-bye--you will see me no more." He broke from
Helen, cleared the stairs with a bound, and was out of the house.
When Leonard returned he was surprised to hear his unwelcome guest was
gone--but Helen did not venture to tell him of her interposition. She knew
instinctively how such officiousness would mortify and offend the pride of
man; but she never again spoke harshly of poor Burley. Leonard supposed
that he should either see or hear of the humorist in the course of the
day. Finding he did not, he went in search of him at his old haunts; but no
trace. He inquired at the _Beehive_ if they knew there of his new address,
but no tidings of Burley could be obtained.
As he came home disappointed and anxious, for he felt uneasy as to the
disappearance of his wild friend, Mrs. Smedley met him at the door.
"Please, sir, suit yourself with another lodging," said she. "I can have no
such singings and shoutings going on at night in my house. And that poor
little girl too! you should be ashamed of yourself."
Leonard frowned and passed by.