Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - What Will He Do with It? — Complete

Lionel struck in with that youthful boldness which plays the deuce with all dignified strategical science.

“You must be aware why we come, sir; Mr. Merle will have explained. My friend, a distinguished artist, wished to make a sketch, if you do not object, of this young lady’s very”—

“Pretty little face,” quoth Vance, taking up the dis course. “Mr. Rugge, this morning, was willing,—I understand that your grandchild refused. We are come here to see if she will be more complaisant under your own roof, or Under Mr. Merle’s, which, I take it, is the same thing for the present.”—Sophy had sidled up to Lionel. He might not have been flattered if he knew why she preferred him to Vance. She looked on him as a boy, a fellow-child; and an instinct, moreover, told her, that more easily through him than his shrewd-looking bearded guest could she attain the object of her cupidity,—“three pounds!”

“Three pounds!” whispered Sophy, with the tones of an angel, into Lionel’s thrilling ear.

MR. WAIFE.—“Sir, I will be frank with you.” At that ominous commencement, Mr. Vance recoiled, and mechanically buttoned his trousers pocket. Mr. Waife noted the gesture with his one eye, and proceeded cautiously, feeling his way, as it were, towards the interior of the recess thus protected. “My grandchild declined your flattering proposal with my full approbation. She did not consider—neither did I—that the managerial rights of Mr. Rugge entitled him to the moiety of her face—off the stage.” The Comedian paused, and with a voice, the mimic drollery of which no hoarseness could altogether mar, chanted the old line,—

Vance smiled; Lionel laughed; Sophy nestled still nearer to the boy.

GENTLEMAN WAIFE (with pathos and dignity).—“You see before you an old man: one way of life is the same to me as another. But she,—do you think Mr. Rugge’s stage the right place for her?”

VANCE.—“Certainly not. Why did you not introduce her to the London Manager who would have engaged yourself?”

Waife could not conceal a slight change of countenance. “How do I know she would have succeeded? She had never then trod the boards. Besides, what strikes you as so good in a village show may be poor enough in a metropolitan theatre. Gentlemen, I do my best for her; you cannot think otherwise, since she maintains me! I am no OEdipus, yet she is my Antigone.”

VANCE.—“You know the classics, sir. Mr. Merle said you were a scholar!—read Sophocles in his native Greek, I presume, sir?”

MR. WAIFE.—“You jeer at the unfortunate: I am used to it.”

VANCE (confused).—“I did not mean to wound you: I beg pardon. But your language and manner are not what—what one might expect to find in a—in a—Bandit persecuted by a remorseless Baron.”

MR. WAIFE.—“Sir, you say you are an artist. Have you heard no tales of your professional brethren,—men of genius the highest, who won fame, which I never did, and failed of fortunes, as I have done? Their own fault, perhaps,—improvidence, wild habits, ignorance of the way how to treat life and deal with their fellow-men; such fault may have been mine too. I suffer for it: no matter; I ask none to save me. You are a painter: you would place her features on your canvas; you would have her rank amongst your own creations. She may become a part of your immortality. Princes may gaze on the effigies of the innocent happy childhood, to which your colours lend imperishable glow. They may ask who and what was this fair creature? Will you answer, ‘One whom I found in tinsel, and so left, sure that she would die in rags!’—Save her!”

Lionel drew forth his purse, and poured its contents on the table. Vance covered them with his broad hand, and swept them into his own pocket! At that sinister action Waife felt his heart sink into his shoes; but his face was as calm as a Roman’s, only he resumed his pipe with a prolonged and testy whiff.

“It is I who am to take the portrait, and it is I who will pay for it,” said Vance. “I understand that you have a pressing occasion for”—

“Three pounds!” muttered Sophy, sturdily, through the tears which her grandfather’s pathos had drawn forth from her downcast eyes, “Three pounds—three—three.”

“You shall have them. But listen: I meant only to take a sketch; I must now have a finished portrait. I cannot take this by candlelight. You must let me come here to-morrow; and yet to-morrow, I understand, you meant to leave?”

WAIFE.—“If you will generously bestow on us the sum you say, we shall not leave the village till you have completed your picture. It is Mr. Rugge and his company we will leave.”

VANCE.—“And may I venture to ask what you propose to do, towards a new livelihood for yourself and your grandchild, by the help of a sum which is certainly much for me to pay,—enormous, I might say, quoad me,—but small for a capital whereon to set up a business?”

WAIFE.—“Excuse me if I do not answer that very natural question at present. Let me assure you that that precise sum is wanted for an investment which promises her and myself an easy existence. But to insure my scheme, I must keep it secret. Do you believe me?”

“I do!” cried Lionel; and Sophy, whom by this time he had drawn upon his lap, put her arm gratefully round his neck.

“There is your money, sir, beforehand,” said Vance, declining downward his betrayed and resentful nose, and depositing three sovereigns on the table.

“And how do you know,” said Waife, smiling, “that I may not be off to-night with your money and your model!”

“Well,” said Vance, curtly, “I think it is on the cards. Still, as John Kemble said when rebuked for too large an alms,

“Well applied, and well delivered, sir,” said the Comedian, “only you should put a little more emphasis on the word do.”

“Did I not put enough? I am sure I felt it strongly; no one can feel the do more!”

Waife’s pliant face relaxed into a genial brightness. The equivoque charmed him. However, not affecting to comprehend it, he thrust back the money, and said,—“No, sir, not a shilling till the picture is completed. Nay, to relieve your mind, I will own that, had I no scruple more delicate, I would rather receive nothing till Mr. Rugge is gone. True, he has no right to any share in it. But you see before you a man who, when it comes to arguing, could never take a wrangler’s degree,—never get over the Asses’ Bridge, sir. Plucked at it scores of times clean as a feather. But do not go yet. You came to give us money: give us what, were I rich, I should value more highly,—a little of your time. You, sir, are an artist; and you, young gentleman?” addressing Lionel.

LIONEL (colouring).—“I—am nothing as yet.”

WAIFE.—“You are fond of the drama, I presume, both of you? Apropos of John Kemble, you, sir, said that you have never heard him. Allow me, so far as this cracked voice can do it, to give you a faint idea of him.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Vance, drawing nearer to the table, and feeling more at his ease. “But since I see you smoke, may I take the liberty to light my cigar?”

“Make yourself at home,” said Gentleman Waife, with the good-humour of a fatherly host. And, all the while, Lionel and Sophy were babbling together, she still upon his lap.

Waife began his imitation of John Kemble. Despite the cracked voice, it was admirable. One imitation drew on another; then succeeded anecdotes of the Stage, of the Senate, of the Bar. Waife had heard great orators, whom every one still admires for the speeches which nobody nowadays ever reads; he gave a lively idea of each. And then came sayings of dry humour and odd scraps of worldly observation; and time flew on pleasantly till the clock struck twelve, and the young guests tore themselves away.