What Will He Do with It? — Complete

CHAPTER XI.

   Progress of the Fine Arts.—Biographical anecdotes.—Fluctuations in
   the value of money.—Speculative tendencies of the time.

Whatever the shock which the brutality of the Remorseless Baron inflicted on the nervous system of the persecuted but triumphant Bandit, it had certainly subsided by the time Vance and Lionel entered Waife’s apartment; for they found grandfather and grandchild seated near the open window, at the corner of the table (on which they had made room for their operations by the removal of the carved cocoanut, the crystal egg, and the two flower-pots), eagerly engaged, with many a silvery laugh from the lips of Sophy, in the game of dominos.

Mr. Waife had been devoting himself, for the last hour and more, to the instruction of Sophy in the mysteries of that intellectual amusement; and such pains did he take, and so impressive were his exhortations, that his happy pupil could not help thinking to herself that this was the new art upon which Waife depended for their future livelihood. She sprang up, however, at the entrance of the visitors, her face beaming with grateful smiles; and, running to Lionel and taking him by the hand, while she courtesied with more respect to Vance, she exclaimed, “We are free! thanks to you, thanks to you both! He is gone! Mr. Rugge is gone!”

“So I saw on passing the green; stage and all,” said Vance, while Lionel kissed the child and pressed her to his side. It is astonishing how paternal he felt,—how much she had crept into his heart.

“Pray, sir,” asked Sophy, timidly, glancing to Vance, “has the Norfolk Giant gone too?”

VANCE.—“I fancy so—all the shows were either gone or going.”

SOPHY.—“The Calf with Two Heads?”

VANCE.—“Do you regret it?”

SOPHY.—“Oh, dear, no.”

Waife, who after a profound bow, and a cheery “Good day, gentlemen,” had hitherto remained silent, putting away the dominoes, now said, “I suppose, sir, you would like at once to begin your sketch?”

VANCE.—“Yes; I have brought all my tools; see, even the canvas. I wish it were larger, but it is all I have with me of that material: ‘t is already stretched; just let me arrange the light.”

WAIFE.—“If you don’t want me, gentlemen, I will take the air for half-an-hour or so. In fact, I may now feel free to look after my investment.”

SOPHY (whispering Lionel).—“You are sure the Calf has gone as well as the Norfolk Giant?”

Lionel wonderingly replied that he thought so; and Waife disappeared into his room, whence he soon emerged, having doffed his dressing-gown for a black coat, by no means threadbare, and well brushed. Hat, stick, and gloves in hand, he really seemed respectable,—more than respectable,—Gentleman Waife every inch of him; and saying, “Look your best, Sophy, and sit still, if you can,” nodded pleasantly to the three, and hobbled down the stairs. Sophy—whom Vance had just settled into a chair, with her head bent partially down (three-quarters), as the artist had released

        “The loose train of her amber-dropping hair,”
 

and was contemplating aspect and position with a painter’s meditative eye-started up, to his great discomposure, and rushed to the window. She returned to her seat with her mind much relieved. Waife was walking in an opposite direction to that which led towards the whilolm quarters of the Norfolk Giant and the Two-headed Calf.

“Come, come,” said Vance, impatiently, “you have broken an idea in half. I beg you will not stir till I have placed you; and then, if all else of you be still, you may exercise your tongue. I give you leave to talk.”

SOPHY (penitentially).—“I am so sorry—I beg pardon. Will that do, sir?”

VANCE.—“Head a little more to the right,—so, Titania watching Bottom asleep. Will you lie on the floor, Lionel, and do Bottom?”

LIONEL (indignantly).—“Bottom! Have I an ass’s head?”

VANCE.—“Immaterial! I can easily imagine that you have one. I want merely an outline of figure,—something sprawling and ungainly.”

LIONEL (sulkily).—“Much obliged to you; imagine that too.”

VANCE.—“Don’t be so disobliging. It is necessary that she should look fondly at something,—expression in the eye.” Lionel at once reclined himself incumbent in a position as little sprawling and ungainly as he could well contrive.

VANCE.—“Fancy, Miss Sophy, that this young gentleman is very dear to you. Have you got a brother?”

SOPHY.—“Ah, no, sir.”

VANCE.—“Hum. But you have, or have had, a doll?”

SOPHY.—“Oh, yes; Grandfather gave me one.”

VANCE.—“And you were fond of that doll?”

SOPHY.—“Very.”

VANCE.—“Fancy that young gentleman is your doll grown big, that it is asleep, and you are watching that no one hurts it; Mr. Rugge, for instance. Throw your whole soul into that thought,—love for doll, apprehension of Rugge. Lionel, keep still, and shut your eyes; do.”

LIONEL (grumbling).—“I did not come here to be made a doll of.”

VANCE.—“Coax him to be quiet, Miss Sophy, and sleep peaceably, or I shall do him a mischief. I can be a Rugge, too, if I am put out.”

SOPHY (in the softest tones).—“Do try and sleep, sir: shall I get you a pillow?”

LIONEL.—“No, thank you: I’m very comfortable now,” settling his head upon his arm; and after one upward glance towards Sophy, the lids closed reluctantly over his softened eyes. A ray of sunshine came aslant through the half-shut window, and played along the boy’s clustering hair and smooth pale cheek. Sophy’s gaze rested on him most benignly.

“Just so,” said Vance; “and now be silent till I have got the attitude and fixed the look.”

The artist sketched away rapidly with a bold practised hand, and all was silent for about half-an-hour, when he said, “You May get up, Lionel; I have done with you for the present.”

SOPHY.—“And me too—may I see?”

VANCE.—“No, but you may talk now. So you had a doll? What has become of it?”

SOPHY.—“I left it behind, sir. Grandfather thought it would distract me from attending to his lessons and learning my part.”

VANCE.—“You love your grandfather more than the doll?”

SOPHY.—“Oh! a thousand million million times more.”

VANCE.—“He brought you up, I suppose? Have you no father,—no mother?”

SOPHY.—“I have only Grandfather.”

LIONEL.—“Have you always lived with him?”

SOPHY.—“Dear me, no; I was with Mrs. Crane till Grandfather came from abroad, and took me away, and put me with some very kind people; and then, when Grandfather had that bad accident, I came to stay with him, and we have been together ever since.”

LIONEL.—“Was Mrs. Crane no relation of yours?”

SOPHY.—“No, I suppose not, for she was not kind; I was so miserable: but don’t talk of it; I forget that now. I only wish to remember from the time Grandfather took me in his lap, and told me to be a good child and love him; and I have been happy ever since.”

“You are a dear good child,” said Lionel, emphatically, “and I wish I had you for my sister.”

VANCE.—“When your grandfather has received from me that exorbitant—not that I grudge it—sum, I should like to ask, What will he do with it? As he said it was a secret, I must not pump you.”

SOPHY.—“What will he do with it? I should like to know, too, sir; but whatever it is I don’t care, so long as I and Grandfather are together.”

Here Waife re-entered. “Well, how goes on the picture?”

VANCE.—“Tolerably, for the first sitting; I require two more.”

WAIFE.—“Certainly; only—only” (he drew aside Vance, and whispered), “only the day after to-morrow, I fear I shall want the money. It is an occasion that never will occur again: I would seize it.”

VANCE.—“Take the money now.”

WAIFE.—“Well, thank you, sir; you are sure now that we shall not run away; and I accept your kindness; it will make all safe.”

Vance, with surprising alacrity, slipped the sovereigns into the old man’s hand; for truth to say, though thrifty, the artist was really generous. His organ of caution was large, but that of acquisitiveness moderate. Moreover, in those moments when his soul expanded with his art, he was insensibly less alive to the value of money. And strange it is that, though States strive to fix for that commodity the most abiding standards, yet the value of money to the individual who regards it shifts and fluctuates, goes up and down half-a-dozen times a day. For any part, I honestly declare that there are hours in the twenty-four—such, for instance, as that just before breakfast, or that succeeding a page of this History in which I have been put out of temper with my performance and myself—when any one in want of five shillings at my disposal would find my value of that sum put it quite out of his reach; while at other times—just after dinner, for instance, or when I have effected what seems to me a happy stroke, or a good bit of colour, in this historical composition—the value of those five shillings is so much depreciated that I might be,—I think so, at least,—I might be almost tempted to give them away for nothing. Under some such mysterious influences in the money-market, Vance therefore felt not the loss of his three sovereigns; and returning to his easel, drove away Lionel and Sophy, who had taken that opportunity to gaze on the canvas.

“Don’t do her justice at all,” quoth Lionel; “all the features exaggerated.”

“And you pretend to paint!” returned Vance, in great scorn, and throwing a cloth over his canvas. “To-morrow, Mr. Waife, the same hour. Now, Lionel, get your hat, and come away.”

Vance carried off the canvas, and Lionel followed slowly. Sophy gazed at their departing forms from the open window; Waife stumped about the room, rubbing his hands, “He’ll do; he ‘ll do: I always thought so.” Sophy turned: “Who’ll do?—the young gentleman? Do what?”

WAIFE.-“The young gentleman?-as if I was thinking of him! Our new companion; I have been with him this last hour. Wonderful natural gifts.”

SOPHY (ruefully).—“It is alive, then?”

WAIFE.—“Alive! yes, I should think so.”

SOPHY (half-crying.)—“I am very sorry; I know I shall hate it.”

WAIFF.—“Tut, darling: get me my pipe; I’m happy.”

SOPHY (cutting short her fit of ill-humour).—“Are you? then I am, and I will not hate it.”