"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER VI

The villanous “Beehive”! Bread was worked out of it, certainly; but fame, but hope for the future,—certainly not. Milton’s Paradise Lost would have perished without a sound had it appeared in the “Beehive.”

Fine things were there in a fragmentary crude state, composed by Burley himself. At the end of a week they were dead and forgotten,—never read by one man of education and taste; taken simultaneously and indifferently with shallow politics and wretched essays, yet selling, perhaps, twenty or thirty thousand copies,—an immense sale; and nothing got out of them but bread and brandy!

“What more would you have?” cried John Burley. “Did not stern old Sam Johnson say he could never write but from want?”

“He might say it,” answered Leonard; “but he never meant posterity to believe him. And he would have died of want, I suspect, rather than have written ‘Rasselas’ for the ‘Beehive’! Want is a grand thing,” continued the boy, thoughtfully,—“a parent of grand things. Necessity is strong, and should give us its own strength; but Want should shatter asunder, with its very writhings, the walls of our prison-house, and not sit contented with the allowance the jail gives us in exchange for our work.”

“There is no prison-house to a man who calls upon Bacchus; stay, I will translate to you Schiller’s Dithyramb. ‘Then see I Bacchus; then up come Cupid and Phoebus, and all the Celestials are filling my dwelling.’”

Breaking into impromptu careless rhymes, Burley threw off a rude but spirited translation of that divine lyric. “O materialist!” cried the boy, with his bright eyes suffused. “Schiller calls on the gods to take him to their heaven with them; and you would debase the gods to a ginpalace.”

“Ho, ho!” cried Burley, with his giant laugh. “Drink, and you will understand the Dithyramb.”

CHAPTER VII

Suddenly one morning, as Leonard sat with Burley, a fashionable cabriolet, with a very handsome horse, stopped at the door. A loud knock, a quick step on the stairs, and Randal Leslie entered. Leonard recognized him, and started. Randal glanced at him in surprise, and then, with a tact that showed he had already learned to profit by London life, after shaking hands with Burley, approached, and said, with some successful attempt at ease, “Unless I am not mistaken, sir, we have met before. If you remember me, I hope all boyish quarrels are forgotten?”

Leonard bowed, and his heart was still good enough to be softened.

“Where could you two ever have met?” asked Burley. “In a village green, and in single combat,” answered Randal, smiling; and he told the story of the Battle of the Stocks, with a well-bred jest on himself. Burley laughed at the story. “But,” said he, when this laugh was over, “my young friend had better have remained guardian of the village stocks than come to London in search of such fortune as lies at the bottom of an inkhorn.”

“Ah,” said Randal, with the secret contempt which men elaborately cultivated are apt to feel for those who seek to educate themselves,—“ah, you make literature your calling, sir? At what school did you conceive a taste for letters? Not very common at our great public schools.”

“I am at school now for the first time,” answered Leonard, dryly.

“Experience is the best schoolmistress,” said Burley; “and that was the maxim of Goethe, who had book-learning enough, in all conscience.”

Randal slightly shrugged his shoulders, and without wasting another thought on Leonard, peasant-born and self-taught, took his seat, and began to talk to Burley upon a political question, which made then the war-cry between the two great parliamentary parties. It was a subject in which Burley showed much general knowledge; and Randal, seeming to differ from him, drew forth alike his information and his argumentative powers. The conversation lasted more than an hour.

“I can’t quite agree with you,” said Randal, taking his leave; “but you must allow me to call again,—will the same hour tomorrow suit you?”

“Yes,” said Burley.

Away went the young man in his cabriolet. Leonard watched him from the window.

For five days, consecutively, did Randal call and discuss the question in all its bearings; and Burley, after the second day, got interested in the matter, looked up his authorities, refreshed his memory, and even spent an hour or two in the Library of the British Museum.

By the fifth day, Burley had really exhausted all that could well be said on his side of the question.

Leonard, during these colloquies, had sat apart seemingly absorbed in reading, and secretly stung by Randal’s disregard of his presence. For indeed that young man, in his superb self-esteem, and in the absorption of his ambitious projects, scarce felt even curiosity as to Leonard’s rise above his earlier station, and looked on him as a mere journeyman of Burley’s.

But the self-taught are keen and quick observers; and Leonard had remarked that Randal seemed more as one playing a part for some private purpose, than arguing in earnest; and that, when he rose, and said, “Mr. Burley, you have convinced me,” it was not with the modesty of a sincere reasoner, but the triumph of one who has gained his end. But so struck, meanwhile, was our unheeded and silent listener with Burley’s power of generalization and the wide surface over which his information extended, that when Randal left the room the boy looked at the slovenly, purposeless man, and said aloud, “True; knowledge is not power.”

“Certainly not,” said Burley, dryly,—“the weakest thing in the world.”

“Knowledge is power,” muttered Randal Leslie, as, with a smile on his lip, he drove from the door.

Not many days after this last interview there appeared a short pamphlet; anonymous, but one which made a great impression on the town. It was on the subject discussed between Randal and Burley. It was quoted at great length in the newspapers. And Burley started to his feet one morning, and exclaimed, “My own thoughts! my very words! Who the devil is this pamphleteer?”

Leonard took the newspaper from Burley’s hand. The most flattering encomiums preceded the extracts, and the extracts were as stereotypes of Burley’s talk.

“Can you doubt the author?” cried Leonard, in deep disgust and ingenuous scorn. “The young man who came to steal your brains, and turn your knowledge—”

“Into power,” interrupted Burley, with a laugh,—but it was a laugh of pain. “Well, this was very mean; I shall tell him so when he comes.”

“He will come no more,” said Leonard. Nor did Randal come again. But he sent Mr. Burley a copy of the pamphlet with a polite note, saying, with candid but careless acknowledgment, that he “had profited much by Mr. Burley’s hints and remarks.”

And now it was in all the papers that the pamphlet which had made so great a noise was by a very young man, Mr. Audley Egerton’s relation. And high hopes were expressed of the future career of Mr. Randal Leslie.

Burley still attempted to laugh, and still his pain was visible. Leonard most cordially despised and hated Randal Leslie, and his heart moved to Burley with noble but perilous compassion. In his desire to soothe and comfort the man whom he deemed cheated out of fame, he forgot the caution he had hitherto imposed on himself, and yielded more and more to the charm of that wasted intellect. He accompanied Burley now to the haunts to which his friend went to spend his evenings; and more and more—though gradually, and with many a recoil and self-rebuke—there crept over him the cynic’s contempt for glory, and miserable philosophy of debased content.

Randal had risen into grave repute upon the strength of Burley’s knowledge. But, had Burley written the pamphlet, would the same repute have attended him? Certainly not. Randal Leslie brought to that knowledge qualities all his own,—a style simple, strong, and logical; a certain tone of good society, and allusions to men and to parties that showed his connection with a Cabinet minister, and proved that he had profited no less by Egerton’s talk than Burley’s.

Had Burley written the pamphlet, it would have showed more genius, it would have had humour and wit, but have been so full of whims and quips, sins against taste, and defects in earnestness, that it would have failed to create any serious sensation. Here, then, there was something else be sides knowledge, by which knowledge became power. Knowledge must not smell of the brandy-bottle.

Randal Leslie might be mean in his plagiarism, but he turned the useless into use. And so far he was original. But one’s admiration, after all, rests where Leonard’s rested,—with the poor, riotous, lawless, big, fallen man. Burley took himself off to the Brent, and fished again for the one-eyed perch. Leonard accompanied him. His feelings were indeed different from what they had been when he had reclined under the old tree, and talked with Helen of the future. But it was almost pathetic to see how Burley’s nature seemed to alter, as he strayed along the banks of the rivulet, and discoursed of his own boyhood. The man then seemed restored to something of the innocence of the child. He cared, in truth, little for the perch, which continued intractable, but he enjoyed the air and the sky, the rustling grass and the murmuring waters. These excursions to the haunts of youth seemed to rebaptize him, and then his eloquence took a pastoral character, and Izaak Walton himself would have loved to hear him. But as he got back into the smoke of the metropolis, and the gas-lamps made him forget the ruddy sunset and the soft evening star, the gross habits reassumed their sway; and on he went with his swaggering, reckless step to the orgies in which his abused intellect flamed forth, and then sank into the socket quenched and rayless.

CHAPTER VIII

Helen was seized with profound and anxious sadness. Leonard had been three or four times to see her, and each time she saw a change in him that excited all her fears. He seemed, it is true, more shrewd, more worldly-wise, more fitted, it might be, for coarse daily life; but, on the other hand, the freshness and glory of his youth were waning slowly. His aspirings drooped earthward. He had not mastered the Practical, and moulded its uses with the strong hand of the Spiritual Architect, of the Ideal Builder; the Practical was overpowering himself. She grew pale when he talked of Burley, and shuddered, poor little Helen? when she found he was daily, and almost nightly, in a companionship which, with her native honest prudence, she saw so unsuited to strengthen him in his struggles, and aid him against temptation. She almost groaned when, pressing him as to his pecuniary means, she found his old terror of debt seemed fading away, and the solid healthful principles he had taken from his village were loosening fast. Under all, it is true, there was what a wiser and older person than Helen would have hailed as the redeeming promise. But that something was grief,—a sublime grief in his own sense of falling, in his own impotence against the Fate he had provoked and coveted. The Sublimity of that grief Helen could not detect; she saw only that it was grief, and she grieved with it, letting it excuse every fault,—making her more anxious to comfort, in order that she might save. Even from the first, when Leonard had exclaimed, “Ah, Helen, why did you ever leave me?” she had revolved the idea of return to him; and when in the boy’s last visit he told her that Burley, persecuted by duns, was about to fly from his present lodgings, and take his abode with Leonard, in the room she had left vacant, all doubt was over. She resolved to sacrifice the safety and shelter of the home assured her. She resolved to come back and share Leonard’s penury and struggles, and save the old room, wherein she had prayed for him, from the tempter’s dangerous presence. Should she burden him? No; she had assisted her father by many little female arts in needle and fancy work. She had improved herself in these during her sojourn with Miss Starke. She could bring her share to the common stock. Possessed with this idea, she determined to realize it before the day on which Leonard had told her Burley was to move his quarters. Accordingly she rose very early one morning; she wrote a pretty and grateful note to Miss Starke, who was fast asleep, left it on the table, and before any one was astir, stole from the house, her little bundle on her arm.

She lingered an instant at the garden-gate, with a remorseful sentiment,—a feeling that she had ill-repaid the cold and prim protection that Miss Starke had shown her. But sisterly love carried all before it. She closed the gate with a sigh, and went on.

She arrived at the lodging-house before Leonard was up, took possession of her old chamber, and presenting herself to Leonard, as he was about to go forth, said (story-teller that she was), “I am sent away, brother, and I have come to you to take care of me. Do not let us part again. But you must be very cheerful and very happy, or I shall think that I am sadly in your way.”

Leonard at first did look cheerful, and even happy; but then he thought of Burley, and then of his own means of supporting Helen, and was embarrassed, and began questioning her as to the possibility of reconciliation with Miss Starke. And Helen said gravely, “Impossible,—do not ask it, and do not go near her.”

Then Leonard thought she had been humbled and insulted, and remembered that she was a gentleman’s child, and felt for her wounded pride, he was so proud himself. Yet still he was embarrassed.

“Shall I keep the purse again, Leonard?” said Helen, coaxingly.

“Alas!” replied Leonard, “the purse is empty.”

“That is very naughty in the purse,” said Helen, “since you put so much into it.”

“Did not you say that you made, at least, a guinea a week?”

“Yes; but Burley takes the money; and then, poor fellow! as I owe all to him, I have not the heart to prevent him spending it as he likes.”

“Please, I wish you could settle the month’s rent,” said the landlady, suddenly showing herself. She said it civilly, but with firmness.

Leonard coloured. “It shall be paid to-day.”

Then he pressed his hat on his head, and putting Helen gently aside, went forth.

“Speak to me in future, kind Mrs. Smedley,” said Helen, with the air of a housewife. “He is always in study, and must not be disturbed.”

The landlady—a good woman, though she liked her rent—smiled benignly. She was fond of Helen, whom she had known of old.

“I am so glad you are come back; and perhaps now the young man will not keep such late hours. I meant to give him warning, but—”

“But he will be a great man one of these days, and you must bear with him now.” And Helen kissed Mrs. Smedley, and sent her away half inclined to cry.

Then Helen busied herself in the rooms. She found her father’s box, which had been duly forwarded. She re-examined its contents, and wept as she touched each humble and pious relic. But her father’s memory itself thus seemed to give this home a sanction which the former had not; and she rose quietly and began mechanically to put things in order, sighing as she saw all so neglected, till she came to the rosetree, and that alone showed heed and care. “Dear Leonard!” she murmured, and the smile resettled on her lips.

CHAPTER IX

Nothing, perhaps, could have severed Leonard from Burley but Helen’s return to his care. It was impossible for him, even had there been another room in the house vacant (which there was not), to install this noisy, riotous son of the Muse by Bacchus, talking at random and smelling of spirits, in the same dwelling with an innocent, delicate, timid, female child. And Leonard could not leave her alone all the twenty-four hours. She restored a home to him and imposed its duties. He therefore told Mr. Burley that in future he should write and study in his own room, and hinted, with many a blush, and as delicately as he could, that it seemed to him that whatever he obtained from his pen ought to be halved with Burley, to whose interest he owed the employment, and from whose books or whose knowledge he took what helped to maintain it; but that the other half, if his, he could no longer afford to spend upon feasts or libations. He had another life to provide for.

Burley pooh-poohed the notion of taking half his coadjutor’s earning with much grandeur, but spoke very fretfully of Leonard’s sober appropriation of the other half; and though a good-natured, warm-hearted man, felt extremely indignant at the sudden interposition of poor Helen. However, Leonard was firm; and then Burley grew sullen, and so they parted. But the rent was still to be paid. How? Leonard for the first time thought of the pawnbroker. He had clothes to spare, and Riccabocca’s watch. No; that last he shrank from applying to such base uses.

He went home at noon, and met Helen at the street-door. She too had been out, and her soft cheek was rosy red with unwonted exercise and the sense of joy. She had still preserved the few gold pieces which Leonard had taken back to her on his first visit to Miss Starke’s. She had now gone out and bought wool and implements for work; and meanwhile she had paid the rent.

Leonard did not object to the work, but he blushed deeply when he knew about the rent, and was very angry. He paid back to her that night what she had advanced; and Helen wept silently at his pride, and wept more when she saw the next day a woful hiatus in his wardrobe.

But Leonard now worked at home, and worked resolutely; and Helen sat by his side, working too; so that next day, and the next, slipped peacefully away, and in the evening of the second he asked her to walk out in the fields. She sprang up joyously at the invitation, when bang went the door, and in reeled John Burley,—drunk,—and so drunk!

CHAPTER X

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 button-hole—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 hiccoughy broken treble. Hour after hour this 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 stairs. The morning looked through the shutterless panes in Leonard’s garret, and the birds began to chirp from the elmtree, 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 manuscripts, peeped into the drawers, wondered where the devil Leonard himself had gone to, and finally amused himself by throwing down the fireirons, 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 Pettyman, and a great many others not to be found in ‘Mother Goose.’ Meanwhile, my dear little girl, here’s sixpence,—just run out and change this for its worth in rum.”