What Will He Do with It? — Complete

CHAPTER VIII

Mr. Waife excites the admiration, and benignly pities the infirmity, of an Oxford scholar.

“You are str-str-strangers?” said the Oxonian, after a violent exertion to express himself, caused by an impediment in his speech.

WAIFE.—“Yes, sir, travellers. I trust we are not trespassing: this is not private ground, I think?”

OXONIAN.—“And if-f-f-f—it were, my f-f-father would not war-n-n you off-ff—f.”

“Is it your father’s ground, then? Sir, I beg you a thousand pardons.”

The apology was made in the Comedian’s grandest style: it imposed greatly on the young scholar. Waife might have been a duke in disguise; but I will do the angler the justice to say that such discovery of rank would have impressed him little more in the vagrant’s favour. It had been that impromptu “grace”—that thanksgiving which the scholar felt was for something more than the carnal food—which had first commanded his respect and wakened his interest. Then that innocent careless talk—part uttered to dog and child, part soliloquized, part thrown out to the ears of the lively teeming Nature—had touched a somewhat kindred chord in the angler’s soul; for he was somewhat of a poet and much of a soliloquist, and could confer with Nature, nor feel that impediment in speech which obstructed his intercourse with men. Having thus far indicated that oral defect in our new acquaintance, the reader will cheerfully excuse me for not enforcing it over much. Let it be among the things subaudita, as the sense of it gave to a gifted and aspiring nature, thwarted in the sublime career of Preacher, an exquisite mournful pain. And I no more like to raise a laugh at his infirmity behind his back, than I should before his pale, powerful, melancholy face; therefore I suppress the infirmity in giving the reply.

OXONIAN.—“On the other side the lane, where the garden slopes downward, is my father’s house. This ground is his property certainly, but he puts it to its best use, in lending it to those who so piously acknowledge that Father from whom all good comes. Your child, I presume, sir?”

“My grandchild.”

“She seems delicate: I hope you have not far to go?”

“Not very far, thank you, sir. But my little girl looks more delicate than she is. You are not tired, darling?”

“Oh, not at all!” There was no mistaking the looks of real love interchanged between the old man and the child; the scholar felt much interested and somewhat puzzled.

“Who and what could they be? so unlike foot wayfarers!” On the other hand, too, Waife took a liking to the courteous young man, and conceived a sincere pity for his physical affliction. But he did not for those reasons depart from the discreet caution he had prescribed to himself in seeking new fortunes and shunning old perils, so he turned the subject.

“You are an angler, sir? I suppose the trout in the stream run small?”

“Not very: a little higher up I have caught them at four pounds weight.”

WAIFE.—“There goes a fine fish yonder,—see! balancing himself between those weeds.”

OXONIAN.—“Poor fellow, let him be safe to-day. After all, it is a cruel sport, and I should break myself of it. But it is strange that whatever our love for Nature we always seek some excuse for trusting ourselves alone to her. A gun, a rod, a sketch-book, a geologist’s hammer, an entomologist’s net, a something.”

WAIFE.—“Is it not because all our ideas would run wild if not concentrated on a definite pursuit? Fortune and Nature are earnest females, though popular beauties; and they do not look upon coquettish triflers in the light of genuine wooers.”

The Oxonian, who, in venting his previous remark, had thought it likely he should be above his listener’s comprehension, looked surprised. What pursuits, too, had this one-eyed philosopher?

“You have a definite pursuit, sir?”

“I—alas! when a man moralizes, it is a sign that he has known error: it is because I have been a trifler that I rail against triflers. And talking of that, time flies, and we must be off and away.”

Sophy re-tied the bundle. Sir Isaac, on whom, meanwhile, she had bestowed the remains of the chicken, jumped up and described a circle.

“I wish you success in your pursuit, whatever it be,” stuttered out the angler.

“And I no less heartily, sir, wish you success in yours.”

“Mine! Success there is beyond my power.”

“How, sir? Does it rest so much with others?”

“No, my failure is in myself. My career should be the Church, my pursuit the cure of souls, and—and—this pitiful infirmity! How can I speak the Divine Word—I—I—a stutterer!”

The young man did not pause for an answer, but plunged through the brushwood that bespread the banks of the rill, and his hurried path could be traced by the wave of the foliage through which he forced his way.

“We all have our burdens,” said Gentleman Waife, as Sir Isaac took up the bundle and stalked on, placid and refreshed.

CHAPTER IX

The nomad, entering into civilized life, adopts its arts, shaves his poodle, and puts on a black coat.—Hints at the process by which a Cast-off exalts himself into a Take-in.

At twilight they stopped at a quiet inn within eight miles of Gatesboro’. Sophy, much tired, was glad to creep to bed. Waife sat up long after her; and, in preparation for the eventful morrow, washed and shaved Sir Isaac. You would not have known the dog again; he was dazzling. Not Ulysses, rejuvenated by Pallas Athene, could have been more changed for the better. His flanks revealed a skin most daintily mottled; his tail became leonine, with an imperial tuft; his mane fell in long curls like the beard of a Ninevite king; his boots were those of a courtier in the reign of Charles II.; his eyes looked forth in dark splendour from locks white as the driven snow. This feat performed, Waife slept the sleep of the righteous, and Sir Isaac, stretched on the floor beside the bed, licked his mottled flanks and shivered: “il faut souffrir pour etre beau.” Much marvelling, Sophy the next morning beheld the dog; but, before she was up, Waife had paid the bill and was waiting for her on the road, impatient to start. He did not heed her exclamation, half compassionate, half admiring; he was absorbed in thought. Thus they proceeded slowly on till within two miles of the town, and then Waife turned aside, entered a wood, and there, with the aid of Sophy, put the dog upon a deliberate rehearsal of the anticipated drama. The dog was not in good spirits, but he went through his part with mechanical accuracy, though slight enthusiasm.

“He is to be relied upon, in spite of his French origin,” said Waife. “All national prejudice fades before the sense of a common interest. And we shall always find more genuine solidity of character in a French poodle than in an English mastiff, whenever a poodle is of use to us and the mastiff is not. But oh, waste of care! oh, sacrifice of time to empty names! oh, emblem of fashionable education! It never struck me before,—does it not, child though thou art, strike thee now,—by the necessities of our drama, this animal must be a French dog?”

“Well, Grandfather?”

“And we have given him an English name! Precious result of our own scholastic training, taught at preparatory academies precisely that which avails us naught when we are to face the world! What is to be done? Unlearn him his own cognomen,—teach him another name,—too late, too late. We cannot afford the delay.”

“I don’t see why he should be called any name at all. He observes your signs just as well without.”

“If I had but discovered that at the beginning. Pity! Such a fine name too. Sir Isaac! Vanitas vanitatum! What desire chiefly kindles the ambitious? To create a name, perhaps bequeath a title,—exalt into Sir Isaacs a progeny of slops! And, after all, it is possible (let us hope it in this instance) that a sensible young dog may learn his letters and shoulder his musket just as well, though all the appellations by which humanity knows him be condensed into a pitiful monosyllable. Nevertheless (as you will find when you are older), people are obliged in practice to renounce for themselves the application of those rules which they philosophically prescribe for others. Thus, while I grant that a change of name for that dog is a question belonging to the policy of Ifs and Buts, commonly called the policy of Expediency, about which one may differ from others and one’s own self every quarter of an hour, a change of name for me belongs to the policy of Must and Shall; namely the policy of Necessity, against which let no dog bark,—though I have known dogs howl at it! William Waife is no more: he is dead; he is buried; and even Juliet Araminta is the baseless fabric of a vision.”

Sophy raised inquiringly her blue guileless eyes.

“You see before you a man who has used up the name of Waife, and who on entering the town of Gatesboro’ becomes a sober, staid, and respectable personage, under the appellation of Chapman. You are Miss Chapman. Rugge and his Exhibition ‘leave not a wrack behind.’”

Sophy smiled, and then sighed,—the smile for her grandfather’s gay spirits; wherefore the sigh? Was it that some instinct in that fresh, loyal nature revolted from the thought of these aliases, which, if requisite for safety, were still akin to imposture? If so, poor child, she had much yet to set right with her conscience! All I can say is, that after she had smiled she sighed. And more reasonably might a reader ask his author to subject a zephyr to the microscope than a female’s sigh to analysis.

“Take the dog with you, my dear, back into the lane; I will join you in a few minutes. You are neatly dressed, and, if not, would look so. I, in this old coat, have the air of a pedler, so I will change it, and enter the town of Gatesboro’ in the character of—a man whom you will soon see before you. Leave those things alone, de-Isaacized Sir Isaac! Follow your mistress,—go!”

Sophy left the wood, and walked on slowly towards the town, with her hand pensively resting on Sir Isaac’s head. In less than ten minutes she was joined by Waife, attired in respectable black; his hat and shoes well brushed; a new green shade to his eye; and with his finest air of Pere noble. He was now in his favourite element. HE WAS ACTING: call it not imposture. Was Lord Chatham an impostor when he draped his flannels into the folds of the toga, and arranged the curls of his wig so as to add more sublime effect to the majesty of his brow and the terrors of its nod? And certainly, considering that Waife, after all, was but a professional vagabond, considering all the turns and shifts to which he has been put for bread and salt, the wonder is, not that he is full of stage tricks and small deceptions, but that he has contrived to retain at heart so much childish simplicity. When a man for a series of years has only had his wits to live by, I say not that he is necessarily a rogue,—he may be a good fellow; but you can scarcely expect his code of honour to be precisely the same as Sir Philip Sidney’s. Homer expresses through the lips of Achilles that sublime love of truth which even in those remote times was the becoming characteristic of a gentleman and a soldier. But then, Achilles is well off during his whole life, which, though distinguished, is short. On the other hand Ulysses, who is sorely put to it, kept out of his property in Ithaca, and, in short, living on his wits, is not the less befriended by the immaculate Pallas because his wisdom savours somewhat of stage trick and sharp practice. And as to convenient aliases and white fibs, where would have been the use of his wits, if Ulysses had disdained such arts, and been magnanimously munched up by Polyphemus? Having thus touched on the epic side of Mr. Waife’s character with the clemency due to human nature, but with the caution required by the interests of society, permit him to resume a “duplex course,” sanctioned by ancient precedent, but not commended to modern imitation.

Just as our travellers neared the town, the screech of a railway whistle resounded towards the right,—a long train rushed from the jaws of a tunnel and shot into the neighbouring station.

“How lucky!” exclaimed Waife; “make haste, my dear!”

Was he going to take the train? Pshaw! he was at his journey’s end. He was going to mix with the throng that would soon stream through those white gates into the town; he was going to purloin the respectable appearance of a passenger by the train. And so well did he act the part of a bewildered stranger just vomited forth into unfamiliar places by one of those panting steam monsters,—so artfully, amidst the busy competition of nudging elbows, over-bearing shoulders, and the impedimenta of carpet-bags, portmanteaus, babies in arms, and shin-assailing trucks, did he look round, consequentially, on the qui vive, turning his one eye, now on Sophy, now on Sir Isaac, and griping his bundle to his breast as if he suspected all his neighbours to be Thugs, condottieri, and swellmob,—that in an instant fly-men, omnibus drivers, cads, and porters marked him for their own. “Gatesboro’ Arms,” “Spread Eagle,” “Royal Hotel,” “Saracen’s Head; very comfortable, centre of High Street, opposite the Town Hall,”—were shouted, bawled, whispered, or whined into his ear.

“Is there an honest porter?” asked the Comedian, piteously. An Irishman presented himself. “And is it meself can serve your honour?”—“Take this bundle, and walk on before me to the High Street.”—“Could not I take the bundle, Grandfather? The man will charge so much,” said the prudent Sophy. “Hush! you indeed!” said the Pere Noble, as if addressing an exiled Altesse royale,—“you take a bundle—Miss—Chapman!”

They soon gained the High Street. Waife examined the fronts of the various inns which they passed by with an eye accustomed to decipher the physiognomy of hostelries. The Saracen’s Head pleased him, though its imposing size daunted Sophy. He arrested the steps of the porter, “Follow me close,” and stepped across the open threshold into the bar. The landlady herself was there, portly and imposing, with an auburn toupet, a silk gown, a cameo brooch, and an ample bosom.

“You have a private sitting-room, ma’am?” said the Comedian, lifting his hat. There are so many ways of lifting a hat,-for instance, the way for which Louis XIV. was so renowned. But the Comedian’s way on the present occasion rather resembled that of the late Duke of B————, not quite royal, but as near to royalty as becomes a subject. He added, recovering his head,—“And on the first floor?” The landlady did not courtesy, but she bowed, emerged from the bar, and set foot on the broad stairs; then, looking back graciously, her eyes rested on Sir Isaac, who had stalked forth in advance and with expansive nostrils sniffed. She hesitated. “Your dog, sir! shall Boots take it round to the stables?”

“The stables, ma’am—the stables, my dear,” turning to Sophy, with a smile more ducal than the previous bow; “what would they say at home if they heard that noble animal was consigned to-stables? Ma’am, my dog is my companion, and as much accustomed to drawing-rooms as I am myself.” Still the landlady paused. The dog might be accustomed to drawing-rooms, but her drawing-room was not accustomed to dogs. She had just laid down a new carpet. And such are the strange and erratic affinities in nature, such are the incongruous concatenations in the cross-stitch of ideas, that there are associations between dogs and carpets, which, if wrongful to the owners of dogs, beget no unreasonable apprehensions in the proprietors of carpets. So there stood the landlady, and there stood the dog! and there they might be standing to this day had not the Comedian dissolved the spell. “Take up my effects again,” said he, turning to the porter; “doubtless they are more habituated to distinguish between dog and dog at the Royal Hotel.”

The landlady was mollified in a moment. Nor was it only the rivalries that necessarily existed between the Saracen’s Head and the Royal Hotel that had due weight with her. A gentleman who could not himself deign to carry even that small bundle must be indeed a gentleman! Had he come with a portmanteau—even with a carpet-bag—the porter’s service would have been no evidence of rank; but accustomed as she was chiefly to gentlemen engaged in commercial pursuits, it was new to her experience,—a gentleman with effects so light, and hands so aristocratically helpless. Herein were equally betokened the two attributes of birth and wealth; namely, the habit of command and the disdain of shillings. A vague remembrance of the well-known story how a man and his dog had arrived at the Granby Hotel, at Harrowgate, and been sent away roomless to the other and less patrician establishment, because, while he had a dog, he had not a servant; when, five minutes after such dismissal, came carriages and lackeys and an imperious valet, asking for his grace the Duke of A————, who had walked on before with his dog, and who, oh, everlasting thought of remorse! had been sent away to bring the other establishment into fashion,—a vague reminiscence of that story, I say, flashed upon the landlady’s mind, and she exclaimed, “I only thought, sir, you might prefer the stables; of course, it is as you please. This way, sir. He is a fine animal, indeed, and seems mild.”

“You may bring up the bundle, porter,” quoth the Pere Noble. “Take my arm, my dear; these steps are very steep.”

The landlady threw open the door of a handsome sitting-room,—her best: she pulled down the blinds to shut out the glare of the sun; then retreating to the threshold awaited further orders.

“Rest yourself, my dear,” said the Actor, placing Sophy on a couch with that tender respect for sex and childhood which so specially belongs to the high-bred. “The room will do, ma’am. I will let you know later whether we shall require beds. As to dinner, I am not particular,—a cutlet, a chicken, what you please, at seven o’clock. Stay, I beg your pardon for detaining you, but where does the Mayor live?”

“His private residence is a mile out of the town, but his counting-house is just above the Town Hall,—to the right, sir.”

“Name?”

“Mr. Hartopp!”

“Hartopp! Ah! to be sure! Hartopp. His political opinions, I think, are” (ventures at a guess) “enlightened?”

LANDLADY.—“Very much so, sir. Mr. Hartopp is highly respected.”

WAIFE.—“The chief municipal officer of a town so thriving—fine shops and much plate glass—must march with the times. I think I have heard that Mr. Hartopp promotes the spread of intelligence and the propagation of knowledge.”

LANDLADY (rather puzzled).—“I dare say, sir. The Mayor takes great interest in the Gatesboro’ Athemeum and Literary Institute.”

WAIFE.—“Exactly what I should have presumed from his character and station. I will detain you no longer, ma’am” (ducal bow). The landlady descended the stairs. Was her guest a candidate for the representation of the town at the next election? March with the times!—spread of intelligence! All candidates she ever knew had that way of expressing themselves,—“March” and “Spread.” Not an address had parliamentary aspirant put forth to the freemen and electors of Gatesboro’ but what “March” had been introduced by the candidate, and “Spread” been suggested by the committee. Still she thought that her guest, upon the whole, looked and bowed more like a member of the Upper House,—perhaps one of the amiable though occasionally prosy peers who devote the teeth of wisdom to the cracking of those very hard nuts, “How to educate the masses,” “What to do with our criminals,” and such like problems, upon which already have been broken so many jawbones tough as that with which Samson slew the Philistines.

“Oh, Grandfather!” sighed Sophy, “what are you about? We shall be ruined, you, too, who are so careful not to get into debt. And what have we left to pay the people here?”

“Sir Isaac! and THIS!” returned the Comedian, touching his forehead. “Do not alarm yourself: stay here and repose; and don’t let Sir Isaac out of the room on any account!”

He took off his hat, brushed the nap carefully with his sleeve, replaced it on his head,—not jauntily aside, not like a jeune premier, but with equilateral brims, and in composed fashion, like a pere noble; then, making a sign to Sir Isaac to rest quiet, he passed to the door; there he halted, and turning towards Sophy, and, meeting her wistful eyes, his own eye moistened. “Ah!” he murmured, “Heaven grant I may succeed now, for if I do, then you shall indeed be a little lady!”

He was gone.

CHAPTER X

Showing with what success Gentleman Waife assumes the pleasing part of friend to the enlightenment of the age and the progress of the people.

On the landing-place, Waife encountered the Irish porter, who, having left the bundle in the drawing-room, was waiting patiently to be paid for his trouble.

The Comedian surveyed the good-humoured shrewd face, on every line of which was writ the golden maxim, “Take things asy.” “I beg your pardon, my friend; I had almost forgotten you. Have you been long in this town?”

“Four years, and long life to your honour!”

“Do you know Mr. Hartopp, the Mayor?”

“Is it his worship the Mayor? Sure and it is the Mayor as has made a man o’ Mike Callaghan.”

The Comedian evinced urbane curiosity to learn the history of that process, and drew forth a grateful tale. Four summers ago Mike had resigned the “first gem of the sea” in order to assist in making hay for a Saxon taskmaster.

Mr. Hartopp, who farmed largely, had employed him in that rural occupation. Seized by a malignant fever, Mr. Hartopp had helped him through it, and naturally conceived a liking for the man he helped. Thus, as Mike became convalescent, instead of passing the poor man back to his own country, which at that time gave little employment to the surplus of its agrarian population beyond an occasional shot at a parson,—an employment, though animated, not lucrative, he exercised Mike’s returning strength upon a few light jobs in his warehouse; and finally, Mike marrying imprudently the daughter of a Gatesboro’ operative, Mr. Hartopp set him up in life as a professional messenger and porter, patronized by the Corporation. The narrative made it evident that Mr. Hartopp was a kind and worthy man, and the Comedian’s heart warmed towards him.

“An honour to our species, this Mr. Hartopp!” said Waife, striking his staff upon the floor; “I covet his acquaintance. Would he see you if you called at his counting-house?”

Mike replied in the affirmative with eager pride. “Mr. Hartopp would see him at once. Sure, did not the Mayor know that time was money? Mr. Hartopp was not a man to keep the poor waiting.”

“Go down and stay outside the hall door; you shall take a note for me to the Mayor.”

Waife then passed into the bar, and begged the favour of a sheet of note-paper. The landlady seated him at her own desk, and thus wrote the Comedian:

“Mr. Chapman presents his compliments to the Mayor of Gatesboro’, and requests the Honour of a very short interview. Mr. Chapman’s deep interest in the permanent success of those literary institutes which are so distinguished a feature of this enlightened age, and Mr. Mayor’s well-known zeal in the promotion of those invaluable societies, must be Mr. Chapman’s excuse for the liberty he ventures to take in this request. Mr. C. may add that of late he has earnestly directed his attention to the best means of extracting new uses from those noble but undeveloped institutions.

“Saracens Head, &c.”

This epistle, duly sealed and addressed, Waife delivered to the care of Mike Callaghan; and simultaneously he astounded that functionary with no less a gratuity than half a crown. Cutting short the fervent blessings which this generous donation naturally called forth, the Comedian said, with his happiest combination of suavity and loftiness, “And should the Mayor ask you what sort of person I am,—for I have not the honour to be known to him, and there are so many adventurers about, that he might reasonably expect me to be one, perhaps you can say that I don’t look like a person he need be afraid to admit. You know a gentleman by sight! Bring back an answer as soon as may be; perhaps I sha’n’t stay long in the town. You will find me in the High Street, looking at the shops.”