As they descended the stairs, the old woman-servant stood at the street door. Rugge went out first; the woman detained Losely. "Do you find her altered?"
"Whom? Mrs. Crane?—why, years will tell. But you seem to have known me; I don't remember you."
"Not Bridget Greggs?"
"Is it possible? I left you a middle-aged, rosy-faced woman. True, I recognize you now. There's a crown for you. I wish I had more to spare!"
Bridget pushed back the silver.
"No; I dare not! Take money from you, Jasper Losely! Mistress would not forgive me!"
Losely, not unreluctantly, restored the crown to his pocket; and, with a snort rather than sigh of relief, stepped into open daylight. As he crossed the street to join Rugge, who was waiting for him on the shady side, he mechanically turned to look back at the house, and, at the open window of an upper story, he beheld again those shining eyes which had glared down on him from the stairs. He tried to smile, and waved his hand feebly. The eyes seemed to return the smile; and as he walked down the street, arm-in-arm with the ruffian manager, slowly recovering his springy step, and in the gloss of the new garments that set forth his still symmetrical proportions, the eyes followed him watchfully, steadfastly, till his form had vanished, and the dull street was once more a solitude.
Then Arabella Crane turned from the window. Putting her hand to her heart, "How it beats!" she muttered; "if in love or in hate, in scorn or in pity, beats once more with a human emotion. He will come again; whether for money or for woman's wit, what care I?—he will come. I will hold, I will cling to him, no more to part; for better for worse, as it should have been once at the altar. And the child?" she paused; was it in compunction? "The child!" she continued fiercely, and as if lashing herself into rage, "the child of that treacherous, hateful mother,—yes! I will help him to sell her back as a stage-show,—help him in all that does not lift her to a state from which she may look down with disdain on me. Revenge on her, on that cruel house: revenge is sweet. Oh! that it were revenge alone that bids me cling to him who deserves revenge the most." She closed her burning eyes, and sat down droopingly, rocking herself to and fro like one in pain.
CHAPTER XVII
In life it is difficult to say who do you the most mischief—enemies with the worst intentions, or friends with the best.
The conference between Mr. Rugge and Mr. Losely terminated in an appointment to meet, the next day, at the village in which this story opened. Meanwhile Mr. Rugge would return to his "orphans," and arrange performances in which for some days they might dispense with a father's part. Losely, on his side, undertook to devote the intervening hours to consultation with a solicitor to whom Mr. Rugge recommended him as to the prompt obtaining of legal powers to enforce the authority he asserted himself to possess. He would also persuade Mrs. Crane to accompany him to the village and aid in the requisite investigations; entertaining a tacit but instinctive belief in the superiority of her acuteness. "Set a female to catch a female," quoth Mr. Rugge.
On the day and in the place thus fixed the three hunters opened their chase. They threw off at the Cobbler's stall. They soon caught the same scent which had been followed by the lawyer's clerk. They arrived at Mrs. Saunders's; there the two men would have been at fault like their predecessor. But the female was more astute. To drop the metaphor Mrs. Saunders could not stand the sharp cross-examination of one of her own sex. "That woman deceives us," said Mrs. Crane on leaving the house." They have not gone to London. What could they do there? Any man with a few stage juggling tricks can get on in country villages but would be lost in cities. Perhaps, as it seems he has got a dog,—we have found out that from Mrs. Saunders,—he will make use of it for an itinerant puppet-show."
"Punch!" said Mr. Rugge; "not a doubt of it."
"In that case," observed Mrs. Crane, "they are probably not far off. Let us print handbills, offering a reward for their clew, and luring the old man himself by an assurance that the inquiry is made in order that he may learn of something to his advantage."
In the course of the evening the handbills were printed. The next day they were posted up on the walls, not only of that village, but on those of the small towns and hamlets for some miles round. The handbills ran invitingly thus, "If William Waife, who left—on the 20th ult., will apply at the Red Lion Inn at ———-, for X. X., he will learn of something greatly to his advantage. A reward of L5 will be given to any one who will furnish information where the said William Waife and the little girl who accompanies him may be found. The said William Waife is about sixty years of age, of middle stature, strongly built, has lost one eye, and is lame of one leg. The little girl, called Sophy, is twelve years old, but looks younger; has blue eyes and light brown hair. They had with them a white French poodle dog. This bill is printed by the friends of the missing party." The next day passed; no information: but on the day following, a young gentleman of good mien, dressed in black, rode into the town, stopped at the Red Lion Inn, and asked to see X. X. The two men were out on their researches; Mrs. Crane stayed at home to answer inquiries.
The gentleman was requested to dismount, and walk in. Mrs. Crane received him in the inn parlour, which swarmed with flies. She stood in the centre,—vigilant, grim spider of the place.
"I c-ca-call," said the gentleman, stammering fearfully, in con- consequence of a b-b-bill—I—ch-chanced to see in my ri-ri-ri-ride yesterday—on a wa-wa-wall. You-you, I—sup-sup—"
"Am X. X.," put in Mrs. Crane, growing impatient, "one of the friends of Mr. Waife, by whom the handbill has been circulated; it will indeed be a great relief to us to know where they are,—the little girl more especially."
Mrs. Crane was respectably dressed,—in silk iron-gray; she had crisped her flaky tresses into stiff hard ringlets, that fell like long screws from under a black velvet band. Mrs. Crane never wore a cap, nor could you fancy her in a cap; but the velvet band looked as rigid as if gummed to a hoop of steel. Her manner and tone of voice were those of an educated person, not unused to some society above the vulgar; and yet the visitor, in whom the reader recognizes the piscatorial Oxonian, with whom Waife had interchanged philosophy on the marge of the running brooklet, drew back as she advanced and spoke; and, bent on an errand of kindness, he was seized with a vague misgiving.
MRS. CRANE (blandly).—"I fear they must be badly off. I hope they are not wanting the necessaries of life. But pray be seated, sir." She looked at him again, and with more respect in her address than she had before thrown into it, added, with a half courtesy, as she seated herself by his side, "A clergyman of the Established Church, I presume, sir?"
OXONIAN (stammer, as on a former occasion, respectfully omitted).—"With this defect, ma'am!—But to the point. Some days ago I happened to fall in with an elderly person, such as is described, with a very pretty female child and a French dog. The man—gentleman, perhaps I may call him, judging from his conversation—interested me much; so did the little girl. And if I could be the means of directing real friends anxious to serve them—"
Mrs. CRANE.—"You would indeed be a benefactor. And where are they now, sir?"
OXONIAN.—"That I cannot positively tell you. But before I say more, will you kindly satisfy my curiosity? He is perhaps an eccentric person,—this Mr. Waife?—a little—" The Oxonian stopped, and touched his forehead. Mrs. Crane made no prompt reply: she was musing. Unwarily the scholar continued: "Because, in that case, I should not like to interfere."
MRS. CRANE.—"Quite right, sir. His own friends would not interfere with his roving ways, his little whims on any account. Poor man, why should they? He has no property for them to covet. But it is a long story. I had the care of that dear little girl from her infancy, sweet child!"
OXONIAN.—"So she seems."
MRS. CRANE.—"And now she has a most comfortable home provided for her; and a young girl, with good friends, ought not to be tramping about the country, whatever an old man may do. You must allow that, sir?"
OXONIAN.—"Well,—yes, I allow that; it occurred to me. But what is the man?—the gentleman?"
MRS. CRANE.—"Very 'eccentric,' as you say, and inconsiderate, perhaps, as to the little girl. We will not call it insane, sir. But—are you married?"
OXONIAN (blushing).—"No, ma'am."
MRS. CRANE.—"But you have a sister, perhaps?"
OXONIAN.—"Yes; I have one sister."
MRS. CRANE.—"Would you like your sister to be running about the country in that way,—carried off from her home, kindred, and friends?"
OXONIAN.—"Ah! I understand. The poor little girl is fond of the old man,—a relation, grandfather perhaps? and he has taken her from her home; and though not actually insane, he is still—"
MRS. CRANE.—"An unsafe guide for a female child, delicately reared. I reared her; of good prospects, too. O sir, let us save the child! Look—" She drew from a sidepocket in her stiff iron-gray apron a folded paper; she placed it in the Oxonian's hand; he glanced over and returned it.
"I see, ma'am. I cannot hesitate after this. It is a good many miles off where I met the persons whom I have no doubt that you seek; and two or three days ago my father received a letter from a very worthy, excellent man, with whom he is often brought into communication upon benevolent objects,—a Mr. Hartopp, the Mayor of Gatesboro', in which, among other matters, the Mayor mentioned briefly that the Literary Institute of that town had been much delighted by the performance of a very remarkable man with one eye, about whom there seemed some mystery, with a little girl and a learned dog; and I can't help thinking that the man, the girl, and the dog, must be those whom I saw and you seek."
MRS. CRANE.—"At Gatesboro'? is that far?"
OXONIAN.—"Some way; but you can get a cross train from this village. I hope that the old man will not be separated from the little girl; they seemed very fond of each other."
MRS. CRANE.—"No doubt of it; very fond: it would be cruel to separate them. A comfortable home for both. I don't know, sir, if I dare offer to a gentleman of your evident rank the reward,—but for the poor of your parish."
OXONIAN.—"Oh, ma'am, our poor want for nothing: my father is rich. But if you would oblige me by a line after you have found these interesting persons; I am going to a distant part of the country to-morrow,—to Montfort Court, in ———-shire."
MRS. CRANE.—"To Lord Montfort, the head of the noble family of Vipont?"
OXONIAN.—"Yes; do you know any of the family, ma'am? If you could refer me to one of them, I should feel more satisfied as to—"
MRS. CRANE (hastily).—"Indeed, sir, every one must know that great family by name and repute. I know no more. So you are going to Lord Montfort's! The Marchioness, they say, is very beautiful."
OXONIAN.—"And good as beautiful. I have the honour to be connected both with her and Lord Montfort; they are cousins, and my grandfather was a Vipont. I should have told you my name,—Morley; George Vipont Morley."
Mrs. Crane made a profound courtesy, and, with an unmistakable smile of satisfaction, said, as if half in soliloquy, "So it is to one of that noble family—to a Vipont—that the dear child will owe her restoration to my embrace! Bless you, sir!"
"I hope I have done right," said George Vipont Morley, as he mounted his horse. "I must have done right, surely!" he said again, when he was on the high road. "I fear I have not done right," he said a third time, as the face of Mrs. Crane began to haunt him; and when at sunset he reached his home, tired out, horse and man, with an unusually long ride, and the green water-bank on which he had overheard poor Waife's simple grace and joyous babble came in sight, "After all," he said dolefully, "it was no business of mine."
"I meant well; but—" His little sister ran to the gate to greet him. "Yes, I did quite right. How should I like my sister to be roving the country, and acting at Literary Institutes 'with a poodle dog? Quite right; kiss me, Jane!"
CHAPTER XVIII
Let a king and a beggar converse freely together, and it is the beggar's fault if he does not say something which makes the king lift his hat to him.
The scene shifts back to Gatesboro', the forenoon of the day succeeding the memorable exhibition at the Institute of that learned town. Mr. Hartopp was in the little parlour behind his country-house, his hours of business much broken into by those intruders who deem no time unseasonable for the indulgence of curiosity, the interchange of thought, or the interests of general humanity and of national enlightenment. The excitement produced on the previous evening by Mr. Chapman, Sophy, and Sir Isaac was greatly on the increase. Persons who had seen them naturally called on the Mayor to talk over the exhibition. Persons who had not seen them, still more naturally dropped in just to learn what was really Mr. Mayor's private opinion. The little parlour was thronged by a regular levee There was the proprietor of a dismal building, still called "The Theatre," which was seldom let except at election time, when it was hired by the popular candidate for the delivery of those harangues upon liberty and conscience, tyranny and oppression, which furnish the staple of declamation equally to the dramatist and the orator. There was also the landlord of the Royal Hotel, who had lately built to his house "The City Concert-Room,"—a superb apartment, but a losing speculation. There, too, were three highly respectable persons, of a serious turn of mind, who came to suggest doubts whether an entertainment of so frivolous a nature was not injurious to the morality of Gatesboro'. Besides these notables, there were loungers and gossips, with no particular object except that of ascertaining who Mr. Chapman was by birth and parentage, and suggesting the expediency of a deputation, ostensibly for the purpose of asking him to repeat his performance, but charged with private instructions to cross-examine him as to his pedigree. The gentle Mayor kept his eyes fixed on a mighty ledger-book, pen in hand. The attitude was a rebuke on intruders, and in ordinary times would have been so considered. But mildness, however majestic, is not always effective in periods of civic commotion. The room was animated by hubbub. You caught broken sentences here and there crossing each other, like the sounds that had been frozen in the air, and set free by a thaw, according to the veracious narrative of Baron Munchausen.
PLAYHOUSE PROPRIETOR.—"The theatre is the—"
SERIOUS GENTLEMAN.—"Plausible snare by which a population, at present grave and well-disposed, is decoyed into becoming—"
EXCITED ADMIRER.—"A French poodle, sir, that plays at dominos like a—"
CREDULOUS CONJECTURER.—"Benevolent philanthropist, condescending to act for the benefit of some distressed brother who is—"
PROPRIETOR of CITY CONCERT-ROOM.—"One hundred and twenty feet long by forty, Mr. Mayor! Talk of that damp theatre, sir, you might as well talk of the—"
Suddenly the door flew open, and pushing aside a clerk who designed to announce him, in burst Mr. Chapman himself.
He had evidently expected to find the Mayor alone, for at the sight of that throng he checked himself, and stood mute at the threshold. The levee for a moment was no less surprised, and no less mute. But the good folks soon recovered themselves. To many it was a pleasure to accost and congratulate the man who the night before had occasioned to them emotions so agreeable. Cordial smiles broke out; friendly hands were thrust forth. Brief but hearty compliments, mingled with entreaties to renew the performance to a larger audience, were showered round. The Comedian stood hat in hand, mechanically passing his sleeve over its nap, muttering half inaudibly, "You see before you a man," and turning his single eye from one face to the other, as if strug gling to guess what was meant, or where he was. The Mayor rose and came forward,—"My dear friends," said he, mildly, "Mr. Chapman calls by appointment. Perhaps he may have something to say to me confidentially."
The three serious gentlemen, who had hitherto remained aloof, eying Mr. Chapman much as three inquisitors might have eyed a Jew, shook three solemn heads, and set the example of retreat. The last to linger were the rival proprietors of the theatre and the city concert-room. Each whispered the stranger,—one the left ear, one the right. Each thrust into his hand a printed paper. As the door closed on them the Comedian let fall the papers: his arm drooped to his side; his whole frame seemed to collapse. Hartopp took him by the hand, and led him gently to his own armchair beside the table. The Comedian dropped on the chair, still without speaking.
MR. HARTOPP.—"What is the matter? What has happened?"
WAIFE.—"She is very ill,—in a bad way; the doctor says so,—Dr. Gill."
MR. HARTOPP (feelingly).—"Your little girl in a bad way! Oh, no; doctors always exaggerate in order to get more credit for the cure. Not that I would disparage Dr. Gill, fellow-townsman, first-rate man. Still 't is the way with doctors to talk cheerfully if one is in danger, and to look solemn if there is nothing to fear."
WAIFE.—"DO you think so: you have children of your own, sir?—of her age, too?—Eh! eh!"
MR. HARTOPP.—"Yes; I know all about children,—better, I think, than Mrs. H. does. What is the complaint?"
WAIFE.—"The doctor says it is low fever."
MR. HARTOPP.—"Caused by nervous excitement, perhaps."
WAIFE (looking up).—"Yes: that's what he says,—nervous excitement."
MR. HARTOPP.—"Clever sensitive children, subjected precociously to emulation and emotion, are always liable to such maladies. My third girl, Anna Maria, fell, into a low fever, caused by nervous excitement in trying for school prizes."
WATFE.—"Did she die of it, sir?"
MR. HARTOPP (shuddering).—"Die! no! I removed her from school, set her to take care of the poultry, forbade all French exercises, made her take English exercises instead, and ride on a donkey. She's quite another thing now, cheeks as red as an apple, and as firm as a cricket-ball."
WAIFE.—"I will keep poultry; I will buy a donkey. Oh, sir! you don't think she will go to heaven yet, and leave me here?"
MR. HARTOPP.—"Not if you give her rest and quiet. But no excitement, no exhibitions."
WAIFE (emptying his pockets on the table).—"Will you kindly count that money, sir? Don't you think that would be enough to find her some pretty lodgings hereabouts till she gets quite strong again? With green fields,—she's fond of green fields and a farm-yard with poultry,—though we were lodging a few days ago with a good woman who kept hens, and Sophy did not seem to take to them much. A canary bird is more of a companion, and—"
HARTOPP (interrupting).—"Ay—ay—and you! what would you do?"
WAIFE.—"Why, I and the dog would go away for a little while about the country."
HARTOPP.—"Exhibiting?"
WAIFE.—"That money will not last forever, and what can we do, I and the dog, in order to get more for her?"
HARTOPP (pressing his hand warmly).—"You are a good man, sir. I am sure of it; you cannot have done things which you should be afraid to tell me. Make me your confidant, and I may then find some employment fit for you, and you need not separate yourself from your little girl."
WAIFE.—"Separate from her! I should only leave her for a few days at a time till she gets well. This money would keep her,—how long? Two months? three? how long? the doctor would not charge much."
HARTOPP.—"YOU will not confide in me then? At your age,—have you no friends,—no one to speak a good word for you?"
WAIFE (jerking up his head with a haughty air).—"So—so! Who talks to you about me, sir? I am speaking of my innocent child. Does she want a good word spoken for her? Heaven has written it in her face."
Hartopp persisted no more; the excellent man was sincerely grieved at his visitor's obstinate avoidance of the true question at issue; for the Mayor could have found employment for a man of Waife's evident education and talent. But such employment would entail responsibilites and trust. How recommend to it a man of whose life and circumstances nothing could be known,—a man without a character? And Waife interested him deeply. We have all felt that there are some persons towards whom we are attracted by a peculiar sympathy not to be explained,—a something in the manner, the cut of the face, the tone of the voice. If there are fifty applicants for a benefit in our gift, one of the fifty wins his way to our preference at first sight, though with no better right to it than his fellows. We can no more say why we like the man than we can say why we fall in love with a woman in whom no one else would discover a charm. "There is," says a Latin love-poet, "no why or wherefore in liking." Hartopp, therefore, had taken, from the first moment, to Waife,—the staid, respectable, thriving man, all muffled up from head to foot in the whitest lawn of reputation,—to the wandering, shifty, tricksome scatterling, who had not seemingly secured, through the course of a life bordering upon age, a single certificate for good conduct. On his hearthstone, beside his ledger-book, stood the Mayor, looking with a respectful admiration that puzzled himself upon the forlorn creature, who could give no reason why he should not be rather in the Gatesboro' parish stocks than in its chief magistrate's easy-chair. Yet, were the Mayor's sympathetic liking and respectful admiration wholly unaccountable? Runs there not between one warm human heart and another the electric chain of a secret understanding? In that maimed outcast, so stubbornly hard to himself, so tremulously sensitive for his sick child, was there not the majesty to which they who have learned that Nature has her nobles, reverently bow the head! A man true to man's grave religion can no more despise a life wrecked in all else, while a hallowing affection stands out sublime through the rents and chinks of fortune, than he can profane with rude mockery a temple in ruins,—if still left there the altar.