BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
Certes, the lizard is a shy and timorous creature. He runs into
chinks and crannies if you come too near to him, and sheds his very
tail for fear, if you catch it by the tip. He has not his being in
good society: no one cages him, no one pets. He is an idle vagrant.
But when he steals through the green herbage, and basks unmolested
in the sun, he crowds perhaps as much enjoyment into one summer hour
as a parrot, however pampered and erudite, spreads over a whole
drawing-room life spent in saying "How dye do" and "Pretty Poll."
ON that dull and sombre summer morning in which the grandfather and
grandchild departed from the friendly roof of Mr. Merle, very dull and
very sombre were the thoughts of little Sophy. She walked slowly behind
the gray cripple, who had need to lean so heavily on his staff, and her
eye had not even a smile for the golden buttercups that glittered on dewy
meads alongside the barren road.
Thus had they proceeded apart and silent till they had passed the second
milestone. There, Waife, rousing from his own reveries, which were
perhaps yet more dreary than those of the dejected child, halted
abruptly, passed his hand once or twice rapidly over his forehead, and,
turning round to Sophy, looked into her face with great kindness as she
came slowly to his side.
"You are sad, little one?" said he.
"Very sad, Grandy."
"And displeased with me? Yes, displeased that I have taken you suddenly
away from the pretty young gentleman, who was so kind to you, without
encouraging the chance that you were to meet with him again."
"It was not like you, Grandy," answered Sophy; and her under-lip slightly
pouted, while the big tears swelled to her eye.
"True," said the vagabond; "anything resembling common-sense is not like
me. But don't you think that I did what I felt was best for you? Must I
not have some good cause for it, whenever I have the heart deliberately
to vex you?"
Sophy took his hand and pressed it, but she could not trust herself to
speak, for she felt that at such effort she would have burst out into
hearty crying. Then Waife proceeded to utter many of those wise sayings,
old as the hills, and as high above our sorrows as hills are from the
valley in which we walk. He said how foolish it was to unsettle the mind
by preposterous fancies and impossible hopes. The pretty young gentleman
could never be anything to her, nor she to the pretty young gentleman.
It might be very well for the pretty young gentleman to promise to
correspond with her, but as soon as he returned to his friends he would
have other things to think of, and she would soon be forgotten; while
she, on the contrary, would be thinking of him, and the Thames and the
butterflies, and find hard life still more irksome. Of all this, and
much more, in the general way of consolers who set out on the principle
that grief is a matter of logic, did Gentleman Waife deliver himself with
a vigour of ratiocination which admitted of no reply, and conveyed not a
particle of comfort. And feeling this, that great actor--not that he was
acting then-suddenly stopped, clasped the child in his arms, and murmured
in broken accents,--"But if I see you thus cast down, I shall have no
strength left to hobble on through the world; and the sooner I lie down,
and the dust is shovelled over me, why, the better for you; for it seems
that Heaven sends you friends, and I tear you from them."
And then Sophy fairly gave way to her sobs: she twined her little arms
round the old man's neck convulsively, kissed his rough face with
imploring pathetic fondness, and forced out through her tears, "Don't
talk so! I've been ungrateful and wicked. I don't care for any one but
my own dear, dear Grandy."
After this little scene, they both composed themselves, and felt much
lighter of heart. They pursued their journey, no longer apart, but side
by side, and the old man leaning, though very lightly, on the child's
arm. But there was no immediate reaction from gloom to gayety. Waife
began talking in softened undertones, and vaguely, of his own past
afflictions; and partial as was the reference, how vast did the old man's
sorrows seem beside the child's regrets; and yet he commented on them as
if rather in pitying her state than grieving for his own.
"Ah, at your age, my darling, I had not your troubles and hardships. I
had not to trudge these dusty roads on foot with a broken-down good-for-
nothing scatterling; I trod rich carpets, and slept under silken
curtains. I took the air in gay carriages,--I such a scapegrace; and
you, little child, you so good! All gone, all melted away from me, and
not able now to be sure that you will have a crust of bread this day
week."
"Oh, yes! I shall have bread, and you too, Grandy," cried Sophy, with
cheerful voice. "It was you who taught me to pray to God, and said that
in all your troubles God had been good to you: and He has been so good to
me since I prayed to Him; for I have no dreadful Mrs. Crane to beat me
now, and say things more hard to bear than beating; and you have taken me
to yourself. How I prayed for that! And I take care of you too,
Grandy,--don't I? I prayed for that too; and as to carriages," added
Sophy, with superb air, "I don't care if I am never in a carriage as long
as I live; and you know I have been in a van, which is bigger than a
carriage, and I didn't like that at all. But how came people to behave
so ill to you, Grandy?"
"I never said people behaved ill to me, Sophy."
"Did not they take away the carpets and silk curtains, and all the fine
things you had as a little boy?"
"I don't know," replied Waife, with a puzzled look, "that people actually
took them away; but they melted away.
"However, I had much still to be thankful for: I was so strong, and had
such high spirits, Sophy, and found people not behaving ill to me,--quite
the contrary, so kind. I found no Crane (she monster) as you did, my
little angel. Such prospects before me, if I had walked straight towards
them! But I followed my own fancy, which led me zigzag; and now that I
would stray back into the high road, you see before you a man whom a
Justice of the Peace could send to the treadmill for presuming to live
without a livelihood."
SOPHY.--"Not without a livelihood!--the what did you call it?--
independent income,--that is, the Three Pounds, Grandy?"
WAIFE (admiringly).--"Sensible child. That is true. Yes, Heaven is very
good to me still. Ah! what signifies fortune? How happy I was with my
dear Lizzy, and yet no two persons could live more from hand to mouth."
SOPHY (rather jealously).--"tizzy?"
WAIFE (with moistened eyes, and looking down).--"My wife. She was only
spared to me two years: such sunny years! And how grateful I ought to be
that she did not live longer. She was saved--such--such--such shame and
misery!" A long pause.
Waife resumed, with a rush from memory, as if plucking himself from the
claws of a harpy,--"What's the good of looking back? A man's gone self
is a dead thing. It is not I--now tramping this road, with you to lean
upon--whom I see, when I would turn to look behind on that which I once
was: it is another being, defunct and buried; and when I say to myself,
'that being did so and so,' it is like reading an epitaph on a tombstone.
So, at last, solitary and hopeless, I came back to my own land; and I
found you,--a blessing greater than I had ever dared to count on. And
how was I to maintain you, and take you from that long-nosed alligator
called Crane, and put you in womanly gentle hands; for I never thought
then of subjecting you to all you have since undergone with me,--I who
did not know one useful thing in life by which a man can turn a penny.
And then, as I was all alone in a village ale-house, on my way back from-
it does not signify from what, or from whence, but I was disappointed and
despairing, Providence mercifully threw in my way--Mr. Rugge, and
ordained me to be of great service to that ruffian, and that ruffian of
great use to me."
Sorfiy.--"Ah, how was that?"
WAIFE.--"It was fair time in the village wherein I stopped, and Rugge's
principal actor was taken off by delirium tremens, which is Latin for a
disease common to men who eat little and drink much. Rugge came into the
alehouse bemoaning his loss. A bright thought struck me. Once in my day
I had been used to acting. I offered to try my chance on Mr. Rugge's
stage: he caught at me, I at him. I succeeded: we came to terms, and my
little Sophy was thus taken from that ringleted crocodile, and placed
with Christian females who wore caps and read their Bible. Is not Heaven
good to us, Sophy; and to me too--me, such a scamp?"
"And you did all that,--suffered all that for my sake?"
"Suffered, but I liked it. And, besides, I must have done something; and
there were reasons--in short, I was quite happy; no, not actually happy,
but comfortable and merry. Providence gives thick hides to animals that
must exist in cold climates; and to the man whom it reserves for sorrow,
Providence gives a coarse, jovial temper. Then, when by a mercy I was
saved from what I most disliked and dreaded, and never would have thought
of but that I fancied it might be a help to you,--I mean the London
stage,--and had that bad accident on the railway, how did it end? Oh!
in saving you" (and Waife closed his eyes and shuddered), "in saving your
destiny from what might be much worse for you, body and soul, than the
worst that has happened to you with me. And so we have been thrown
together; and so you have supported me; and so, when we could exist
without Mr. Rugge, Providence got rid of him for us. And so we are now
walking along the high road; and through yonder trees you can catch a
peep of the roof under which we are about to rest for a while; and there
you will learn what I have done with the Three Pounds!"
"It is not the Spotted Boy, Grandy?"
"No," said Waife, sighing; "the Spotted Boy is a handsome income; but let
us only trust in Providence, and I should not wonder if our new
acquisition proved a monstrous--"
"Monstrous!"
"Piece of good fortune."
