What Will He Do With It? (Belford)/Book 3/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX.
Sophy hides heart and shows temper.
Sophy was lying on a sofa drawn near the window in her own room, and on her lap was the doll Lionel had given to her. Carried with her in her wanderings, she had never played with it; never altered a ribbon in its yellow tresses; but at least once a day she had taken it forth and looked at it in secret. And all that morning, left much to herself, it had been her companion. She was smoothing down its frock, which she fancied had got ruffled—smoothing it down with a sort of fearful tenderness, the doll all the while staring her full in the face with its blue bead eyes. Waife, seated near her, was trying to talk gayly; to invent fairy tales blithe with sport and fancy, but his invention flagged, and the fairies prosed awfully. He had placed the dominos before Sir Isaac, but Sophy had scarcely looked at them, from the languid, heavy eyes on which the doll so stupidly fixed its own. Sir Isaac himself seemed spiritless; he was aware that something was wrong. Now and then he got up restlessly, sniffed the dominos, and placed a paw gently, very gently, on Sophy's knee. Not being encouraged, he lay down again uneasily, often shifting his position as if the floor was grown too hard for him. Thus the Mayor found the three. He approached Sophy with the step of a man accustomed to sick-rooms and ailing children,—step light as if shod with felt,—put his hand on her shoulder, kissed her forehead, and then took the doll. Sophy started, and took it back from him quickly, but without a word; then she hid it behind her pillow. The Mayor smiled. "My dear child, do you think I should hurt your doll?"
Sophy coloured and said murmuringly, "No, sir, not hurt it, but—" she stopped short.
"I have been talking to your grandpapa about you, my dear, and we both wish to give you a little holiday. Dolls are well enough for the winter, but green fields and daisy chains for the summer."
Sophy glanced from the Mayor to her grandfather, and back again to the Mayor, shook her curls from her eyes, and looked seriously inquisitive.
The Mayor, observing her quietly, stole her hand into his own, feeling the pulse as if merely caressing the slender wrist. Then he began to describe his bailiff's cottage, with woodbine round the porch, the farm-yard, the bee-hives, the pretty duck-pond with an osier island, and the great China gander who had a pompous strut, which made him the droll est creature possible. And Sophy should go there in a day or two, and be as happy as one of the bees, but not so busy. Sophy listened very earnestly, very gravely, and then sliding her hand from the Mayor, caught hold of her grandfather's arm firmly, and said, "And you, Grandy,—will you like it? won't it be dull for you, Grandy dear?"
"Why, my darling," said Waife, "I and Sir Isaac will go and take a stroll about the country for a few weeks, and—"
Sophy (passionately). "I thought so; I thought he meant that. I tried not to believe it; go away,—you? and who's to take care of you? who'll understand you? I want care! I! I! No, no, it is you,—you who want care. I shall be well to-morrow,—quite well, don't fear. He shall not be sent away from me; he shall not, sir. Oh, Grandfather, Grandfather, how could you?" She flung herself on his breast, clinging there,—clinging as if infancy and age were but parts of the same whole.
"But," said the Mayor, "it is not as if you were going to school, my dear; you are going for a holiday. And your grandfather must leave you,—must travel about; 'tis his calling. If you fell ill and were with him, think how much you would be in his way. Do you know," he added, smiling, "I shall begin to fear that you are selfish."
"Selfish!" exclaimed Waife, angrily.
"Selfish!" echoed Sophy, with a melancholy scorn that came from a sentiment so deep that mortal eye could scarce fathom it. "Oh, no, sir! can you say it is for his good, not for what he supposes mine that you want us to part? The pretty cottage, and all for me; and what for him?—tramp, tramp along the hot dusty roads. Do you see that he is lame? Oh, Sir, I know him; you don't. Selfish! he would have no merry ways that make you laugh without me; would you, Grandy dear? Go away, you are a naughty man,—go, or I shall hate you as much as that dreadful Mr. Rugge."
"Rugge,—who is he?" said the Mayor, curiously, catching at any clew.
"Hush, my darling!—hush!" said Waife, fondling her on his breast. "Hush! What is to be done, sir?"
Hartopp made a sly sign to him to say no more before Sophy, and then replied, addressing himself to her, "What is to be done? Nothing shall be done, my dear child, that you dislike. I don't wish to part you two. Don't hate me; lie down again; that's a dear. There, I have smoothed your pillow for you. Oh, here's your pretty doll again." Sophy snatched at the doll petulantly, and made what the French call a moue at the good man as she suffered her grandfather to replace her on the sofa.
"She has a strong temper of her own," muttered the Mayor; "so has Anna Maria a strong temper!"
Now, if I were anyway master of my own pen, and could write as I pleased, without being hurried along helter-skelter by the tyrannical exactions of that "young Rapid" in buskins and chiton called "THE HISTORIC MUSE," I would break off this chapter, open my window, rest my eyes on the green lawn without, and indulge in a rhapsodical digression upon that beautifier of the moral life which is called "Good Temper." Ha! the Historic Muse is dozing. By her leave!—Softly.