A few days afterwards, and Helen, removed to a pure air, and under the
advice of the first physicians, was out of all danger.
It was a pretty detached cottage, with its windows looking over the wild
heaths of Norwood, to which Harley rode daily to watch the convalescence
of his young charge—an object in life was already found. As she grew
better and stronger, he coaxed her easily into talking, and listened to
her with pleased surprise. The heart so infantine, and the sense so
womanly, struck him much by its rare contrast and combination. Leonard,
whom he had insisted on placing also in the cottage, had stayed there
willingly till Helen’s recovery was beyond question. Then he came to
Lord L’Estrange, as the latter was about one day to leave the cottage,
and said quietly, “Now, my Lord, that Helen is safe, and now that she
will need me no more, I can no longer be a pensioner on your bounty. I
return to London.”
“You are my visitor—not my pensioner, foolish boy,” said Harley, who had
already noticed the pride which spoke in that farewell; “come into the
garden, and let us talk.”
Harley seated himself on a bench on the little lawn; Nero crouched at
his feet; Leonard stood beside him.
“So,” said Lord L’Estrange, “you would return to London!—What to do?”
“Fulfil my fate.”
“And that?”
“I cannot guess. Fate is the Isis whose veil no mortal can ever raise.”
“You should be born for great things,” said Harley abruptly. “I am sure
that you write well. I have seen that you study with passion. Better
than writing and better than study, you have a noble heart, and the
proud desire of independence. Let me see your MSS., or any copies of
what you have already printed. Do not hesitate—I ask but to be a reader.
I don’t pretend to be a patron; it is a word I hate.”
Leonard’s eyes sparkled through their sudden moisture. He brought out
his portfolio, placed it on the bench beside Harley, and then went
softly to the further part of the garden. Nero looked after him, and
then rose and followed him slowly. The boy seated himself on the turf,
and Nero rested his dull head on the loud heart of the poet.
Harley took up the various papers before him and read them through
leisurely. Certainly he was no critic. He was not accustomed to analyse
what pleased or displeased him; but his perceptions were quick, and his
taste exquisite. As he read, his countenance, always so genuinely
expressive, exhibited now doubt and now admiration. He was soon struck
by the contrast in the boy’s writings; between the pieces that sported
with fancy, and those that grappled with thought. In the first, the
young poet seemed so unconscious of his own individuality. His
imagination, afar and aloft from the scenes of his suffering, ran riot
amidst a paradise of happy golden creations. But in the last, the
THINKER stood out alone and mournful, questioning, in troubled sorrow,
the hard world on which he gazed. All in the thought was unsettled,
tumultuous; all in the fancy serene and peaceful. The genius seemed
divided into twain shapes; the one bathing its wings amidst the starry
dews of heaven; the other wandering “melancholy, slow,” amidst desolate
and boundless sands. Harley gently laid down the paper and mused a
little while. Then he rose and walked to Leonard, gazing on his
countenance as he neared the boy, with a new and a deeper interest.
“I have read your papers,” he said, “and recognise in them two men,
belonging to two worlds, essentially distinct.”
Leonard started, and murmured, “True, true!”
“I apprehend,” resumed Harley, “that one of these men must either
destroy the other, or that the two must become fused and harmonised into
a single existence. Get your hat, mount my groom’s horse, and come with
me to London; we will converse by the way. Look you, I believe you and I
agree in this, that the first object of every nobler spirit is
independence. It is towards this independence that I alone presume to
assist you; and this is a service which the proudest man can receive
without a blush.”
Leonard lifted his eyes towards Harley’s, and those eyes swam with
grateful tears; but his heart was too full to answer.
“I am not one of those,” said Harley, when they were on the road, “who
think that because a young man writes poetry he is fit for nothing else,
and that he must be a poet or a pauper. I have said that in you there
seem to me to be two men, the man of the Ideal world, the man of the
Actual. To each of these men I can offer a separate career. The first is
perhaps the more tempting. It is the interest of the state to draw into
its service all the talent and industry it can obtain; and under his
native state every citizen of a free country should be proud to take
service. I have a friend who is a minister, and who is known to
encourage talent—Audley Egerton. I have but to say to him, ‘There is a
young man who will well repay to the government whatever the government
bestows on him;’ and you will rise to-morrow independent in means, and
with fair occasions to attain to fortune and distinction. This is one
offer, what say you to it?”
Leonard thought bitterly of his interview with Audley Egerton, and the
minister’s proffered crown-piece. He shook his head, and replied—
“Oh, my Lord, how have I deserved such kindness? Do with me what you
will; but if I have the option, I would rather follow my own calling.
This is not the ambition that inflames me.”
“Hear, then, the other offer. I have a friend with whom I am less
intimate than Egerton, and who has nothing in his gift to bestow. I
speak of a man of letters—Henry Norreys—of whom you have doubtless
heard, who, I should say, conceived an interest in you when he observed
you reading at the book-stall. I have often heard him say, that
literature as a profession is misunderstood, and that rightly followed,
with the same pains and the same prudence which are brought to bear on
other professions, a competence at least can be always ultimately
obtained. But the way may be long and tedious—and it leads to no power
but over thought; it rarely attains to wealth; and, though _reputation_
may be certain, _Fame_, such as poets dream of, is the lot of few. What
say you to this course?”
“My Lord, I decide,” said Leonard firmly; and then his young face
lighting up with enthusiasm, he exclaimed, “Yes, if, as you say, there
be two men within me, I feel, that were I condemned wholly to the
mechanical and practical world, one would indeed destroy the other. And
the conqueror would be the ruder and the coarser. Let me pursue those
ideas that, though they have but flitted across me, vague and
formless—have ever soared towards the sunlight. No matter whether or not
they lead to fortune or to fame, at least they will lead me upward!
Knowledge for itself I desire—what care I, if it be not power!”
“Enough,” said Harley, with a pleased smile at his young companion’s
outburst. “As you decide so shall it be settled. And now permit me, if
not impertinent, to ask you a few questions. Your name is Leonard
Fairfield?”
The boy blushed deeply, and bowed his head as if in assent.
“Helen says you are self-taught; for the rest she refers me to
you—thinking, perhaps, that I should esteem you less—rather than yet
more highly—if she said you were, as I presume to conjecture, of humble
birth.”
“My birth,” said Leonard, slowly, “is very—very—humble.”
“The name of Fairfield is not unknown to me. There was one of that name
who married into a family in Lansmere—married an Avenel—” continued
Harley—and his voice quivered. “You change countenance. Oh, could your
mother’s name have been Avenel?”
“Yes,” said Leonard, between his set teeth. Harley laid his hand on the
boy’s shoulder. “Then, indeed, I have a claim on you—then, indeed, we
are friends. I have a right to serve any of that family.”
Leonard looked at him in surprise—“For,” continued Harley, recovering
himself, “they always served my family; and my recollections of
Lansmere, though boyish, are indelible.” He spurred on his horse as the
words closed—and again there was a long pause; but from that time Harley
always spoke to Leonard in a soft voice, and often gazed on him with
earnest and kindly eyes.
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 devil, 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 to 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 ushered 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 knew 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.”
Harley rose with alertness—shook Norreys cordially by the hand—hurried
out of the room, and returned with Leonard.
Mr Norreys eyed the young man with attention. He was naturally rather
severe than cordial in his manner to strangers—contrasting in this, as
in most things, the poor vagabond Burley. But he was a good judge of the
human countenance, and he liked Leonard’s. After a pause he held out his
hand.
“Sir,” said he, “Lord L’Estrange tells me that you wish to enter
literature as a calling, and no doubt to study it as an art. I may help
you in this, and you meanwhile can help me. I want an amanuensis—I offer
you that place. The salary will be proportioned to the services you will
render me. I have a room in my house at your disposal. When I first came
up to London, I made the same choice that I hear you have done. I have
no cause, even in a worldly point of view, to repent my choice. It gave
me an income larger than my wants. I trace my success to these maxims,
which are applicable to all professions—1st, Never to trust to
genius—for what can be obtained by labour; 2dly, Never to profess to
teach what we have not studied to understand; 3dly, Never to engage our
word to what we do not do our best to execute. With these rules,
literature, provided a man does not mistake his vocation for it, and
will, under good advice, go through the preliminary discipline of
natural powers, which all vocations require, is as good a calling as any
other. Without them a shoeblack’s is infinitely better.”
“Possible enough,” muttered Harley; “but there have been great writers
who observed none of your maxims.”
“Great writers, probably, but very unenviable men. My Lord, my Lord,
don’t corrupt the pupil you bring to me.” Harley smiled and took his
departure, and left Genius at school with Common Sense and Experience.