A few days afterward, and Helen, removed to a pure air, and under the
advice of the first physician, 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 staid
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?"
"Fulfill my fate."
"And that?"
"I can not guess. Fate is the Isis whose vail 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 farther 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 analyze
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 deeper interest.
"I have read your papers," he said, "and recognize 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 harmonized 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 noble spirit is
independence. It is toward 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 toward 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
seems 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 toward 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-humoredly, 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 labor; 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.