Vance, though much moved, pretended to scold his friend, but finding that ineffectual, fairly rose, wound his arm brother-like round him, and drew him from the arbour to the shelving margin of the river. Comfort, then said the Artist, almost solemnly, as here, from the inner depths of his character, the true genius of the man came forth and spoke,comfort, and look round; see where the islet interrupts the tide, and how smilingly the stream flows on. See, just where we stand, how the slight pebbles are fretting the wave would the wave if not fretted make that pleasant music? A few miles farther on, and the river is spanned by a bridge, which busy feet now are crossing: by the side of that bridge now is rising a palace; all the men who rule England have room in that palace. At the rear of the palace soars up the old Abbey where kings have their tombs in right of the names they inherit; men, lowly as we, have found tombs there, in right of the names which they made. Think, now, that you stand on that bridge with a boys lofty hope, with a mans steadfast courage; then turn again to that stream, calm with starlight, flowing on towards the bridge,spite of islet and pebbles.
Lionel made no audible answer, though his lips murmured, but he pressed closer and closer to his friends side; and the tears were already dried on his cheek, though their dew still glistened in his eyes.
CHAPTER V
Speculations on the moral qualities of the Bandit.Mr. Vance, with mingled emotions, foresees that the acquisition of the Bandits acquaintance may be attended with pecuniary loss.
Vance loosened the boat from its moorings, stepped in, and took up the oars. Lionel followed, and sat by the stern. The Artist rowed on slowly, whistling melodiously in time to the dash of the oars. They soon came to the bank of garden-ground surrounding with turf on which fairies might have danced one of those villas never seen out of England. From the windows of the villa the lights gleamed steadily; over the banks, dipping into the water, hung large willows breathlessly; the boat gently brushed aside their pendent boughs, and Vance rested in a grassy cove.
And faith, said the Artist, gayly,faith, said he, lighting his third cigar, it is time we should bestow a few words more on the Remorseless Baron and the Bandits Child! What a cock-and-a-bull story the Cobbler told us! He must have thought us precious green.
LIONEL (roused).Nay, I see nothing so wonderful in the story, though much that is sad. You must allow that Waife may have been a good actor: you became quite excited merely at his attitude and bow. Natural, therefore, that he should have been invited to try his chance on the London stage; not improbable that he may have met with an accident by the train, and so lost his chance forever; natural, then, that he should press into service his poor little grandchild, natural, also, that, hardly treated and his pride hurt, he should wish to escape.
VANCE.And more natural than all that he should want to extract from our pockets three pounds, the Bandit! No, Lionel, I tell you what is not probable, that he should have disposed of that clever child to a vagabond like Rugge: she plays admirably. The manager who was to have engaged him would have engaged her if he had seen her. I am puzzled.
LIONEL.True, she is an extraordinary child. I cannot say how she has interested me. He took out his purse, and began counting its contents. I have nearly three pounds left, he cried joyously. L2. 18s. if I give up the thought of a longer excursion with you, and go quietly home
VANCE.And not pay your share of the bill yonder?
LIONEL.Ah, I forgot that! But come, I am not too proud to borrow from you: it is not for a selfish purpose.
VANCE.Borrow from me, Cato! That comes of falling in with bandits and their children. No; but let us look at the thing like men of sense. One story is good till another is told. I will call by myself on Rugge to-morrow, and hear what he says; and then, if we judge favourably of the Cobblers version, we will go at night and talk with the Cobblers lodgers; and I dare say, added Vance, kindly, but with a sigh,I daresay the three pounds will be coaxed out of me! After all, her head is worth it. I want an idea for Titania.
LIONEL (joyously).My dear Vance, you are the best fellow in the world.
VANCE.Small compliment to humankind! Take the oars: it is your turn now.
Lionel obeyed; the boat once more danced along the tidethoro reeds,-thoro waves, skirting the grassy isletout into pale moonlight. They talked but by fits and starts. What of?a thousand things! Bright young hearts, eloquent young tongues! No sins in the past; hopes gleaming through the future. O summer nights, on the glass of starry waves! O Youth, Youth!
CHAPTER VI
Wherein the historian tracks the public characters that fret their hour on the stage, into the bosom of private life.The reader is invited to arrive at a conclusion which may often, in periods of perplexity, restore ease to his mind; namely, that if man will reflect on all the hopes he has nourished, all the fears he has admitted, all the projects he has formed, the wisest thing he can do, nine times out of ten, with hope, fear, and project, is to let them end with the chapterin smoke.
It was past nine oclock in the evening of the following day. The exhibition at Mr. Rugges theatre had closed for the season in that village, for it was the conclusion of the fair. The final performance had been begun and ended somewhat earlier than on former nights. The theatre was to be cleared from the ground by daybreak, and the whole company to proceed onward betimes in the morning. Another fair awaited them in an adjoining county, and they had a long journey before them.
Gentleman Waife and his Juliet Araminta had gone to their lodgings over the Cobblers stall. Their rooms were homely enough, but had an air not only of the comfortable, but the picturesque. The little sitting-room was very old-fashioned,panelled in wood that had once been painted blue, with a quaint chimney-piece that reached to the ceiling. That part of the house spoke of the time of Charles I., it might have been tenanted by a religious Roundhead; and, framed-in over the low door, there was a grim, faded portrait of a pinched-faced saturnine man, with long lank hair, starched band, and a length of upper lip that betokened relentless obstinacy of character, and might have curled in sullen glee at the monarchs scaffold, or preached an interminable sermon to the stout Protector. On a table, under the deep-sunk window, were neatly arrayed a few sober-looking old books; you would find amongst them Colleys Astrology, Owen Felthams Resolves, Glanville On Witches, the Pilgrims Progress, an early edition of Paradise Lost, and an old Bible; also two flower-pots of clay brightly reddened, and containing stocks; also two small worsted rugs, on one of which rested a carved cocoa-nut, on the other an egg-shaped ball of crystal,that last the pride and joy of the cobblers visionary soul. A door left wide open communicated with an inner room (very low was its ceiling), in which the Bandit slept, if the severity of his persecutors permitted him to sleep. In the corner of the sitting-room, near that door, was a small horsehair sofa, which, by the aid of sheets and a needlework coverlid, did duty for a bed, and was consigned to the Bandits child. Here the tenderness of the Cobblers heart was visible, for over the coverlid were strewed sprigs of lavender and leaves of vervain; the last, be it said, to induce happy dreams, and scare away witchcraft and evil spirits. On another table, near the fireplace, the child was busied in setting out the tea-things for her grandfather. She had left in the property-room of the theatre her robe of spangles and tinsel, and appeared now in a simple frock. She had no longer the look of Titania, but that of a lively, active, affectionate human child; nothing theatrical about her now, yet still, in her graceful movements, so nimble but so noiseless, in her slight fair hands, in her transparent colouring, there was Natures own lady,that SOMETHING which strikes us all as well-born and high-bred: not that it necessarily is so; the semblances of aristocracy, in female childhood more especially, are often delusive. The souvenance flower, wrought into the collars of princes, springs up wild on field and fell.