What Will He Do with It? — Complete

CHAPTER XII

In which it is shown that a man does this or declines to do that for reasons best known to himself,—a reserve which is extremely conducive to the social interests of a community, since the conjecture into the origin and nature of those reasons stimulates the inquiring faculties, and furnishes the staple of modern conversation. And as it is not to be denied that, if their neighbours left them nothing to guess at, three-fourths of civilized humankind, male or female, would have nothing to talk about; so we cannot too gratefully encourage that needful curiosity termed by the inconsiderate tittle-tattle or scandal, which saves the vast majority of our species from being reduced to the degraded condition of dumb animals.

The next day the sitting was renewed: but Waife did not go out, and the conversation was a little more restrained; or rather, Waife had the larger share in it. The Comedian, when he pleased, could certainly be very entertaining. It was not so much in what he said as his manner of saying it. He was a strange combination of sudden extremes, at one while on a tone of easy but not undignified familiarity with his visitors, as if their equal in position, their superior in years; then abruptly, humble, deprecating, almost obsequious, almost servile; and then again, jerked as it were into pride and stiffness, falling back, as if the effort were impossible, into meek dejection. Still the prevalent character of the man’s mood and talk was social, quaint, cheerful. Evidently he was by original temperament a droll and joyous humourist, with high animal spirits; and, withal, an infantine simplicity at times, like the clever man who never learns the world and is always taken in.

A circumstance, trifling in itself, but suggestive of speculation either as to the character or antecedent circumstances of Gentleman Waife, did not escape Vance’s observation. Since his rupture with Mr. Rugge, there was a considerable amelioration in that affection of the trachea, which, while his engagement with Rugge lasted, had rendered the Comedian’s dramatic talents unavailable on the stage. He now expressed himself without the pathetic hoarseness or cavernous wheeze which had previously thrown a wet blanket over his efforts at discourse. But Vance put no very stern construction on the dissimulation which his change seemed to denote. Since Waife was still one-eyed and a cripple, he might very excusably shrink from reappearance on the stage, and affect a third infirmity to save his pride from the exhibition of the two infirmities that were genuine.

That which most puzzled Vance was that which had most puzzled the Cobbler,—What could the man once have been? how fallen so low?—for fall it was, that was clear. The painter, though not himself of patrician extraction, had been much in the best society. He had been a petted favourite in great houses. He had travelled. He had seen the world. He had the habits and instincts of good society.

Now, in what the French term the beau monde, there are little traits that reveal those who have entered it,—certain tricks of phrase, certain modes of expression,—even the pronunciation of familiar words, even the modulation of an accent. A man of the most refined bearing may not have these peculiarities; a man, otherwise coarse and brusque in his manner, may. The slang of the beau monde is quite apart from the code of high breeding. Now and then, something in Waife’s talk seemed to show that he had lighted on that beau-world; now and then, that something wholly vanished. So that Vance might have said, “He has been admitted there, not inhabited it.”

Yet Vance could not feel sure, after all; comedians are such takes in. But was the man, by the profession of his earlier life, a comedian? Vance asked the question adroitly.

“You must have taken to the stage young?” said he.

“The stage!” said Waife; “if you mean the public stage, no. I have acted pretty often in youth, even in childhood, to amuse others, never professionally to support myself, till Mr. Rugge civilly engaged me four years ago.”

“Is it possible,—with your excellent education! But pardon me; I have hinted my surprise at your late vocation before, and it displeased you.”

“Displeased me!” said Waife, with an abject, depressed manner; “I hope I said nothing that would have misbecome a poor broken vagabond like me. I am no prince in disguise,—a good-for-nothing varlet who should be too grateful to have something to keep himself from a dunghill.”

LIONEL.—“Don’t talk so. And but for your accident you might now be the great attraction on the metropolitan stage. Who does not respect a really fine actor?”

WAIFE (gloomily).—“The metropolitan stage! I was talked into it: I am glad even of the accident that saved me; say no more of that, no more of that. But I have spoiled your sitting. Sophy, you see, has left her chair.”

“I have done for to-day,” said Vance; “to-morrow, and my task is ended.”

Lionel came up to Vance and whispered him; the painter, after a pause, nodded silently, and then said to Waife,

“We are going to enjoy the fine weather on the Thames (after I have put away these things), and shall return to our inn—not far hence—to sup, at eight o’clock. Supper is our principal meal; we rarely spoil our days by the ceremonial of a formal dinner. Will you do us the favour to sup with us? Our host has a wonderful whiskey, which when raw is Glenlivat, but refined into toddy is nectar. Bring your pipe, and let us hear John Kemble again.”

Waife’s face lighted up. “You are most kind; nothing I should like so much. But—” and the light fled, the face darkened—“but no; I cannot—you don’t know—that is—I—I have made a vow to myself to decline all such temptations. I humbly beg you’ll excuse me.”

VANCE.—“Temptations! of what kind,—the whiskey toddy?”

WAIFE (puffing away a sigh).—“Ah, yes; whiskey toddy, if you please. Perhaps I once loved a glass too well, and could not resist a glass too much now; and if I once broke the rule and became a tippler, what would happen to Juliet Araminta? For her sake don’t press me.”

“Oh, do go, Grandy; he never drinks,—never anything stronger than tea, I assure you, sir: it can’t be that.”

“It is, silly child, and nothing else,” said Waife, positively, drawing himself up,—“excuse me.”

Lionel began brushing his hat with his sleeve, and his face worked; at last he said, “Well, sir, then may I ask another favour? Mr. Vance and I are going to-morrow, after the sitting, to see Hampton Court; we have kept that excursion to the last before leaving these parts. Would you and little Sophy come with us in the boat? We will have no whiskey toddy, and we will bring you both safe home.”

WAIFE.—“What—I! what—I! You are very young, sir,—a gentleman born and bred, I’ll swear; and you to be seen, perhaps by some of your friends or family, with an old vagrant like me, in the Queen’s palace,—the public gardens! I should be the vilest wretch if I took such advantage of your goodness. ‘Pretty company,’ they would say, ‘you had got into.’ With me! with me! Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Vance not to be thought of.”

The young men were deeply affected.

“I can’t accept that reason,” said Lionel, tremulously, “though I must not presume to derange your habits. But she may go with us, mayn’t she? We’ll take care of her, and she is dressed so plainly and neatly, and looks such a little lady” (turning to Vance).

“Yes, let her come with us,” said the artist, benevolently; though he by no means shared in Lionel’s enthusiastic desire for her company. He thought she would be greatly in their way.

“Heaven bless you both!” answered Waife; “and she wants a holiday; she shall have it.”

“I’d rather stay with you, Grandy: you’ll be so lone.”

“No, I wish to be out all to-morrow,-the investment! I shall not be alone; making friends with our future companion, Sophy.”

“And can do without me already? heigh-ho!”

VANCE.—“So that’s settled; good-by to you.”

CHAPTER XIII

Inspiring effect of the Fine Arts: the vulgar are moved by their exhibition into generous impulses and flights of fancy, checked by the ungracious severities of their superiors, as exemplified in the instance of Cobbler Merle and his servant of-all-work.

The next day, perhaps with the idea of removing all scruple from Sophy’s mind, Waife had already gone after his investment when the friends arrived. Sophy at first was dull and dispirited, but by degrees she brightened up; and when, the sitting over and the picture done (save such final touches as Vance reserved for solitary study), she was permitted to gaze at her own effigy, she burst into exclamations of frank delight. “Am I like that! is it possible? Oh, how beautiful! Mr. Merle, Mr. Merle, Mr. Merle!” and running out of the room before Vance could stop her, she returned with the Cobbler, followed, too, by a thin gaunt girl, whom he pompously called his housekeeper, but who in sober truth was servant-of-all-work. Wife he had none: his horoscope, he said, having Saturn in square to the Seventh House, forbade him to venture upon matrimony. All gathered round the picture; all admired, and with justice: it was a chef-d’oeuvre. Vance in his maturest day never painted more charmingly. The three pounds proved to be the best outlay of capital he had ever made. Pleased with his work, he was pleased even with that unsophisticated applause.

“You must have Mercury and Venus very strongly aspected,” quoth the Cobbler; “and if you have the Dragon’s Head in the Tenth House, you may count on being much talked of after you are dead.”

“After I am dead!—sinister omen!” said Vance, discomposed. “I have no faith in artists who count on being talked of after they are dead. Never knew a dauber who did not! But stand back: time flies; tie up your hair; put on your bonnet, Titania. You have a shawl?—not tinsel, I hope! quieter the better. You stay and see to her, Lionel.”

Said the gaunt servant-of-all-work to Mr. Merle, “I’d let the gentleman paint me, if he likes: shall I tell him, master?”

“Go back to the bacon, foolish woman. Why, he gave L3 for her likeness, ‘cause of her Benefics! But you’d have to give him three years’ wages afore he’d look you straight in the face, ‘cause, you see, your Aspects are crooked. And,” added the Cobbler, philosophizing, “when the Malefics are dead agin a girl’s mug, man is so constituted by natur’ that he can’t take to that mug unless it has a golden handle. Don’t fret, ‘t is not your fault: born under Scorpio,—coarse-limbed,—dull complexion; and the Head of the Dragon aspected of Infortunes in all your Angles.”

CHAPTER XIV

The historian takes advantage of the summer hours vouchsafed to the present life of Mr. Waife’s grandchild, in order to throw a few gleams of light on her past.—He leads her into the palace of our kings, and moralizes thereon; and, entering the Royal Gardens, shows the uncertainty of human events, and the insecurity of British laws, by the abrupt seizure and constrained deportation of an innocent and unforeboding Englishman.

Such a glorious afternoon! The capricious English summer was so kind that day to the child and her new friends! When Sophy’s small foot once trod the sward, had she been really Queen of the Green People, sward and footstep could not more joyously have met together. The grasshopper bounded in fearless trust upon the hem of her frock; she threw herself down on the grass and caught him, but, oh, so tenderly! and the gay insect, dear to poet and fairy, seemed to look at her from that quaint sharp face of his with sagacious recognition, resting calmly on the palm of her pretty hand; then when he sprang off, little moth-like butterflies peculiar to the margins of running waters quivered up from the herbage, fluttering round her. And there, in front, lay the Thames, glittering through the willows, Vance getting ready the boat, Lionel seated by her side, a child like herself, his pride of incipient manhood all forgotten; happy in her glee; she loving him for the joy she felt, and blending his image evermore in her remembrance with her first summer holiday,—with sunny beams, glistening leaves, warbling birds, fairy wings, sparkling waves. Oh, to live so in a child’s heart,—innocent, blessed, angel-like,—better, better than the troubled reflection upon woman’s later thoughts, better than that mournful illusion, over which tears so bitter are daily shed,—better than First Love! They entered the boat. Sophy had never, to the best of her recollection, been in a boat before. All was new to her: the lifelike speed of the little vessel; that world of cool green weeds, with the fish darting to and fro; the musical chime of oars; those distant stately swans. She was silent now—her heart was very full.

“What are you thinking of, Sophy?” asked Lionel, resting on the oar.

“Thinking!—I was not thinking.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know,—feeling, I suppose.”

“Feeling what?”

“As if between sleeping and waking; as the water perhaps feels, with the sunlight on it!”

“Poetical,” said Vance, who, somewhat of a poet himself, naturally sneered at poetical tendencies in others; “but not so bad in its way. Ah, have I hurt your vanity? there are tears in your eyes.”

“No, sir,” said Sophy, falteringly. “But I was thinking then.”

“Ah,” said the artist, “that’s the worst of it; after feeling ever comes thought; what was yours?”