What Will He Do With It? (Belford)/Book 1/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
Sophy could not sleep. At first she was too happy. Without being conscious of any degradation in her lot among the itinerant artists of Mr. Rugge's exhibition (how could she, when her beloved and revered protector had been one of those artists for years?), yet, instinctively, she shrunk from their contact. Doubtless, while absorbed in some stirring part, she forgot companions, audience, all, and enjoyed what she performed—necessarily enjoyed, for her acting was really excellent, and where no enjoyment there no excellence; but when the histrionic enthusiasm was not positively at work, she crept to her grandfather with something between loathing and terror of the "painted creatures" and her own borrowed tinsel.
But more than all, she felt acutely every indignity or affront offered to Gentleman Waife. Heaven knows these were not few; and to escape from such a life—to be with her grandfather alone, have him all to herself to tend and to pet, to listen to, and to prattle with, seemed to her the consummation of human felicity. Ah, but should she be all alone? Just as she was lulling herself into a doze, that question seized and roused her. And then it was not happiness that kept her waking—it was what is less rare in the female breast—curiosity. Who was to be the mysterious third, to whose acquisition the three pounds were evidently to be devoted? What new face had she purchased by the loan of her own? Not the Pig-faced Lady, nor the Spotted Boy. Could it be the Norfolk Giant, or the Calf with Two Heads? Horrible idea! Monstrous phantasmagoria began to stalk before her eyes; and, to charm them away, with great fervor she fell to saying her prayers—an act of devotion which she had forgotten, in her excitement, to perform before resting her head on her pillow—but, could we peep into the soft spirit-world around us, we might find the omission not noted down in very dark characters by the recording angel.
That act over, her thoughts took a more comely aspect than had been worn by the preceding phatasies, reflected Lionel's kind looks, and repeated his gentle words. "Heaven bless him!" she said, with emphasis, as a supplement to the habitual prayers; and then tears gathered to her grateful eyelids for she was one of those beings whose tears come slow from sorrow, quick from affection. And so the gray dawn found her still wakeful, and she rose, bathed her cheeks in cold fresh water, and drew them forth with a glow like Hebe's. Dressing herself with the quiet activity which characterized all her movements, she then opened the casement and inhaled the air. All was still in the narrow lane, the shops yet unclosed. But on the still trees behind the shops, the birds were beginning to stir and chirp. Chanticleer, from some neighboring yard, rung out his brisk reveillée, Pleasant English summer dawn in the pleasant English country village. She stretched her graceful neck far from the casement, trying to catch a glimpse of the blue river. She had seen its majestic flow on the day they had arrived at the fair, and longed to gain its banks; then her servitude to the stage forbade her. Now she was to be free! Oh, joy! Now she might have her careless hours of holiday; and, forgetful of Waife's warning that their vocation must be plied in towns, she let her fancy run riot amidst visions of green fields and laughing waters, and in fond delusion gathered the daisies and butterflies. Changeling transferred into that lowest world of Art from the cradle of simple Nature, her human child's heart yearned for the human child-like delights. All children love the country, the flowers, the sward, the birds, the butterflies, or, if some do not, despair, oh, Philanthropy, of their after-lives!
She closed the window, smiling to herself, stole through the adjoining door-way, and saw that her grandfather was still asleep. Then she busied herself in putting the little sitting-room to rights, reset the table for the morning meal, watered the stocks, and, finally, took up the crystal and looked into it with awe, wondering why the Cobbler could see so much, and she only the distorted reflection of her own face. So interested, however, for once, did she become in the inspection of this mystic globe that she did not notice the dawn pass into broad daylight, nor hear a voice at the door below—nor, in short, take into cognition the external world, till a heavy tread shook the floor, and then, starting, she beheld the Remorseless Baron, with a face black enough to have darkened the crystal of Dr. Dee himself.
"Ho, ho!" said Mr. Rugge, in hissing accents, which had often thrilled the threepenny gallery with anticipative horror. "Rebellious, eh?—won't come? Where's your grandfather, baggage?"
Sophy let fall the crystal—a mercy it was not broken—and gazed vacantly on the Baron.
"Your vile scamp of a grandfather?"
Sophy (with spirit). "He is not vile. You ought to be ashamed of yourself speaking so, Mr. Rugge!"
Here simultaneously Mr. Waife hastily, endued in his gray dressing-grown, presented himself at the aperture of the bedroom door, and the Cobbler on the threshold of the sitting-room. The Comedian stood mute, trusting, perhaps, to the imposing effect of his attitude. The Cobbler, yielding to the impulse of untheatric man, put his head doggedly on one side, and, with both hands on his hips, said,
"Civil words to my lodgers, master, or out you go!"
The Remorseless Baron glared vindictively first at one, and then at the other; at length he strode up to Waife, and said, with a withering grin, "I have something to say to you; shall I say it before your landlord?"
The Comedian waved his hand to the Cobbler.
"Leave us, my friend; I shall not require you. Step this way, Mr. Rugge." Rugge entered the bedroom, and Waife closed the door behind them,
"Anan," quoth the Cobbler, scratching his head. "I don't quite take your grandfather's giving in. British ground here! But your ascendant can not surely be in such malignant conjunction with that obstreperous tyrant as to bind you to him hand and foot. Let's see what the Crystal thinks of it. Take it up gently, and come down stairs with me."
"Please, no; I'll stay near grandfather," said Sophy, resolutely. "He shan't be left helpless with that rude man."
The Cobbler could not help smiling. "Lord love you," said he; "you have a spirit of your own, and, if you were my wife, I should be afraid of you. But I won't stand here eavesdropping; mayhap your grandfather has secrets I'm not to hear; call me if 'm wanted." He descended. Sophy, with less noble disdain of eavesdropping, stood in the center of the room, holding her breath to listen. She heard no sound—she had half a mind to put her ear to the key-hole, but that seemed, even to her, a mean thing, if not absolutely required by the necessity of the case. So there she still stood, her head bent down, her finger raised: oh that Vance could have so painted her!