Mr. Waife, being by nature unlucky, considers that, in proportion as
fortune brings him good luck, nature converts it into bad. He
suffers Mr. George Morley to go away in his debt, and Sophy fears
that he will be dull in consequence.
George Morley, a few weeks after the conversation last recorded, took his
departure from Montfort Court, prepared, without a scruple, to present
himself for ordination to the friendly bishop. From Waife he derived
more than the cure of a disabling infirmity; he received those hints
which, to a man who has the natural temperament of an orator, so rarely
united with that of the scholar, expedite the mastery of the art that
makes the fleeting human voice an abiding, imperishable power. The
grateful teacher exhausted all his lore upon the pupil whose genius he
had freed, whose heart had subdued himself. Before leaving, George was
much perplexed how to offer to Waife any other remuneration than that
which, in Waife's estimate, had already overpaid all the benefits he had
received; namely, unquestioning friendship and pledged protection. It
need scarcely be said that George thought the man to whom he owed fortune
and happiness was entitled to something beyond that moral recompense.
But he found, at the first delicate hint, that Waife would not hear of
money, though the ex-Comedian did not affect any very Quixotic notion on
that practical subject. "To tell you the truth, sir, I have rather a
superstition against having more money in my hands than I know what to do
with. It has always brought me bad luck. And what is very hard,--the
bad luck stays, but the money goes. There was that splendid sum I made
at Gatesboro'. You should have seen me counting it over. I could not
have had a prouder or more swelling heart if I had been, that great man
Mr. Elwes the miser. And what bad luck it brought me, and how it all
frittered itself away! Nothing to show for it but a silk ladder and an
old hurdy-gurdy, and I sold them at half price. Then when I had the
accident, which cost me this eye, the railway people behaved so
generously, gave me L120,--think of that! And before three days the
money was all gone!"
"How was that?" said George, half-amused, half-pained,--"stolen perhaps?"
"Not so," answered Waife, somewhat gloomily, "but restored. A poor dear
old man, who thought very ill of me, and I don't wonder at it,--was
reduced from great wealth to great poverty. While I was laid up, my
landlady read a newspaper to me, and in that newspaper was an account of
his reverse and destitution. But I was accountable to him for the
balance of an old debt, and that, with the doctor's bills, quite covered
my L120. I hope he does not think quite so ill of ine now. But the
money brought good luck to him, rather than to me. Well, sir, if you
were now to give me money, I should be on the look-out for some mournful
calamity. Gold is not natural to me. Some day, however, by and by, when
you are inducted into your living, and have become a renowned preacher,
and have plenty to spare, with an idea that you will feel more
comfortable in your mind if you had done something royal for the
basketmaker, I will ask you to help me to make up a sum, which I am
trying by degrees to save,--an enormous sum, almost as much as I paid
away from my railway compensation: I owe it to the lady who lent it to
release Sophy from an engagement which I--certainly without any remorse
of conscience--made the child break."
"Oh, yes! What is the amount? Let me at least repay that debt."
"Not yet. The lady can wait; and she would be pleased to wait, because
she deserves to wait: it would be unkind to her to pay it off at once.
But in the meanwhile if you could send me a few good books for Sophy,--
instructive, yet not very, very dry,-and a French dictionary, I can teach
her French when the winter days close in. You see I am not above being
paid, sir. But, Mr. Morley, there is a great favour you can do me."
"What is it? Speak."
"Cautiously refrain from doing me a great disservice! You are going back
to your friends and relations. Never speak of me to them. Never
describe me and my odd ways. Name not the lady, nor--nor--nor--the man
who claimed Sophy.
"Your friends might not hurt me; others might. Talk travels. The hare is
not long in its form when it has a friend in a hound that gives tongue.
Promise what I ask. Promise it as 'man and gentleman.'"
"Certainly. Yet I have one relation to whom I should like, with your
permission, to speak of you, with whom I could wish you acquainted. He
is so thorough a man of the world, that he might suggest some method to
clear your good name, which you yourself would approve. My uncle,
Colonel Morley--"
"On no account!" cried Waife, almost fiercely, and he evinced so much
anger and uneasiness that it was long before George could pacify him by
the most earnest assurances that his secret should be inviolably kept,
and his injunctions faithfully obeyed. No men of the world consulted how
to force him back to the world of men that he fled from! No colonels to
scan him with martinet eyes, and hint how to pipeclay a tarnish! Waife's
apprehensions gradually allayed and his confidence restored, one fine
morning George took leave of his eccentric benefactor.
Waife and Sophy stood gazing after him from their garden-gate, the
cripple leaning lightly on the child's arm. She looked with anxious
fondness into the old man's thoughtful face, and clung to him more
closely as she looked.
"Will you not be dull, poor Grandy? will you not miss him?"
"A little at first," said Waife, rousing himself. "Education is a great
thing. An educated mind, provided that it does us no mischief,--which is
not always the case,--cannot be withdrawn from our existence without
leaving a blank behind. Sophy, we must seriously set to work and educate
ourselves!"
"We will, Grandy dear," said Sophy, with decision; and a few minutes
afterwards, "If I can become very, very clever, you will not pine so much
after that gentleman,--will you, Grandy?"