What Will He Do With It | Page 8

about you, you might see that we want to sup."
"What happened?" asked Lionel, more blandly, for he saw the Cobbler,
who had meant to make a great effect by the introduction of the crystal,
was offended.
"What happened? why, just what I foreseed. There was an accident in
the railway 'tween this and Lunnon, and poor Waife lost an eye, and
was a cripple for life: so he could not go on the Lunnon stage at all; and
what was worse, he was a long time atwixt life and death, and got
summat bad on his chest wi' catching cold, and lost his voice, and
became the sad object you have gazed on, young happy things that ye
are."
"But he got some compensation from the railway, I suppose?" said
Vance, with the unfeeling equanimity of a stoical demon.
"He did, and spent it. I suppose the gentleman broke out in him as soon
as he had money, and, ill though he was, the money went. Then it
seems he had no help for it but to try and get back to Mr. Rugge. But
Mr. Rugge was sore and spiteful at his leaving; for Rugge counted on

him, and had even thought of taking the huge theatre at York, and
bringing out Gentleman Waife as his trump card. But it warn't fated,
and Rugge thought himself ill-used, and so at first he would have
nothing more to say to Waife. And truth is, what could the poor man do
for Rugge? But then Waife produces little Sophy."
"You mean Juliet Araminta?" said Vance.
"Same--in private life she be Sophy. And Waife taught her to act, and
put together the plays for her. And Rugge caught at her; and she
supports Waife with what she gets; for Rugge only gives him four
shillings a week, and that goes on 'baccy and such like."
"Such like--drink, I presume?" said Vance.
"No--he don't drink. But he do smoke, and he has little genteel ways
with him, and four shillings goes on 'em. And they have been about the
country this spring, and done well, and now they be here. But Rugge
behaves shocking hard to both on 'em: and I don't believe he has any
right to her in law, as he pretends,--only a sort of understanding which
she and her grandfather could break if they pleased; and that's what
they wish to do, and that's why little Sophy wants the three pounds."
"How?" cried Lionel, eagerly. "If they had three pounds could they get
away? and if they did, how could they live? Where could they go?"
"That's their secret. But I heard Waife say--the first night they came
here--I that if he could get three pounds, he had hit on a plan to be
independent like. I tell you what put his back up: it was Rugge insisting
on his coming on the stage agin, for he did not like to be seen such a
wreck. But he was forced to give in; and so he contrived to cut up that
play-story, and appear hisself at the last without speaking."
"My good friend," cried young Lionel, "we are greatly obliged to you
for your story; and we should much like to see little Sophy and her
grandfather at your house to-morrow,--can we?"
"Certain sure you can, after the play's over; to-night, if you like."

"No, to-morrow: you see my friend is impatient to get back now; we
will call to-morrow."
"'T is the last day of their stay," said the Cobbler. "But you can't be sure
to see them safely at my house afore ten o'clock at night; and not a
word to Rugge! mum!"
"Not a word to Rugge," returned Lionel; "good-night to you."
The young men left the Cobbler still seated on the milestone, gazing on
the stars and ruminating. They walked briskly down the road.
"It is I who have had the talk now," said Lionel, in his softest tone. He
was bent on coaxing three pounds out of his richer friend, and that
might require some management. For amongst the wild youngsters in
Mr. Vance's profession, there ran many a joke at the skill with which he
parried irregular assaults on his purse; and that gentleman, with his
nose more than usually in the air, having once observed to such scoffers
"that they were quite welcome to any joke at his expense," a wag had
exclaimed, "At your expense! Don't fear; if a joke were worth a
farthing, you would never give that permission."
So when Lionel made that innocent remark, the softness of his tone
warned the artist of some snake in the grass, and he prudently remained
silent. Lionel, in a voice still sweeter, repeated,--"It is I who have all
the talk now!"
"Naturally," then