_ BOOK I CHAPTER IX
The historian shows that, notwithstanding the progressive spirit of
the times, a Briton is not permitted, without an effort, "to
progress" according to his own inclinations. Sophy could not sleep. At first she was too happy. Without being
conscious of any degradation in her lot amongst 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 shrank 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 fervour she
fell to saying her prayers,--an act of devotion which she had forgotten,
in her excitement, to perform before resting her head on the pillow,--an
omission, let us humbly hope, 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 phantasies, 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 the 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 neighbouring
yard, rang out his brisk rereillee. 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! O 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 chased the butterflies. Changeling transferred into that lowest
world of Art from the cradle of civil Nature, her human child's heart
yearned for the human childlike delights. All children love the country,
the flowers, the sward, the birds, the butterflies; or if some do not,
despair, O Philanthropy, of their afterlives!
She closed the window, smiling to herself, stole through the adjoining
doorway, 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 brokenand 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 indued in his gray
dressing-gown, 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 him.
"Anan," quoth the Cobbler, scratching his head. "I don't quite take your
grandfather's giving in. British ground here! But your Ascendant cannot
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 downstairs with me."
"Please, no; I'll stay near Grandfather," said Sophy, resolutely. "He
sha'n'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 I'm wanted." He descended. Sophy,
with less noble disdain of eavesdropping, stood in the centre of the
room, holding her breath to listen. She heard no sound; she had half a
mind to put her ear to the keyhole, 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! _