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
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
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-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 is 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.