Laugh at forebodings of evil, but tremble after day-dreams of
happiness.
Waife left behind him at the cottage two letters,--one entrusted to the
bailiff, with a sealed bag, for Mr. Hartopp; one for Sophy, placed on a
chair beside her bed.
The first letter was as follows:--
"I trust, dear and honoured sir, that I shall come back safely; and when
I do, I may have found perhaps a home for her, and some way of life such
as you would not blame. But, in case of accident, I have left with Mr.
Gooch, sealed up, the money we made at Gatesboro', after paying the inn
bill, doctor, etc., and retaining the mere trifle I need in case I and
Sir Isaac fail to support ourselves. You will kindly take care of it.
I should not feel safe with more money about me, an old man.
"I might be robbed; besides, I am careless. I never can keep money; it
slips out of my hands like an eel. Heaven bless you, sir; your kindness
seems like a miracle vouchsafed to me for that child's dear sake. No
evil can chance to her with you; and if I should fall ill and die, even
then you, who would have aided the tricksome vagrant, will not grudge the
saving hand to the harmless child."
The letter to Sophy ran thus:--
"Darling, forgive me; I have stolen away from you, but only for a few
days, and only in order to see if we cannot gain the magic home where I
am to be the Genius, and you the Princess. I go forth with such a light
heart, Sophy dear, I shall be walking thirty miles a day, and not feel an
ache in the lame leg: you could not keep up with me; you know you could
not. So think over the cottage and the basket-work, and practise at
samplers and pincushions, when it is too hot to play; and be stout and
strong against I come back. That, I trust, will be this day week,---'t
is but seven days; and then we will only act fairy dramas to nodding
trees, with linnets for the orchestra; and even Sir Isaac shall not be
demeaned by mercenary tricks, but shall employ his arithmetical talents
in casting up the weekly bills, and he shall never stand on his hind legs
except on sunny days, when he shall carry a parasol to shade an enchanted
princess. Laugh; darling,--let me fancy I see you laughing; but don't
fret,--don't fancy I desert you. Do try and get well,--quite, quite
well; I ask it of you on my knees."
The letter and the bag were taken over at sunrise to Mr. Hartopp's villa.
Mr. Hartopp was an early man. Sophy overslept herself: her room was to
the west; the morning beams did not reach its windows; and the cottage
without children woke up to labour noiseless and still. So when at last
she shook off sleep, and tossing her hair from her blue eyes, looked
round and became conscious of the strange place, she still fancied the
hour early. But she got up, drew the curtain from the window, saw the
sun high in the heavens, and, ashamed of her laziness, turned, and lo!
the letter on the chair! Her heart at once misgave her; the truth
flashed upon a reason prematurely quick in the intuition which belongs to
the union of sensitive affection and active thought. She drew a long
breath, and turned deadly pale. It was some minutes before she could
take up the letter, before she could break the seal. When she did, she
read on noiselessly, her tears dropping over the page, without effort or
sob. She had no egotistical sorrow, no grief in being left alone with
strangers: it was the pathos of the old man's lonely wanderings, of his
bereavement, of his counterfeit glee, and genuine self-sacrifice; this it
was that suffused her whole heart with unutterable yearnings of
tenderness, gratitude, pity, veneration. But when she had wept silently
for some time, she kissed the letter with devout passion, and turned to
that Heaven to which the outcast had taught her first to pray.
Afterwards she stood still, musing a little while, and the sorrowful
shade gradually left her face. Yes; she would obey him: she would not
fret; she would try and get well and strong. He would feel, at the
distance, that she was true to his wishes; that she was fitting herself
to be again his companion: seven days would soon pass. Hope, that can
never long quit the heart of childhood, brightened over her meditations,
as the morning sun over a landscape that just before had lain sad amidst
twilight and under rains.
When she came downstairs, Mrs. Gooch was pleased and surprised to observe
the placid smile upon her face, and the quiet activity with which, after
the morning meal, she moved about by the good woman's side assisting her
in her dairywork and other housewife tasks, talking little, comprehending
quickly,--composed, cheerful.
"I am so glad to see you don't pine after your good grandpapa, as we
feared you would."
"He told me not to pine," answered Sophy, simply, but with a quivering
lip.
When the noon deepened, and it became too warm for exercise, Sophy
timidly asked if Mrs. Gooch had any worsted and knitting-needles, and
being accommodated with those implements and materials, she withdrew to
the arbour, and seated herself to work,--solitary and tranquil.
What made, perhaps, the chief strength in this poor child's nature was
its intense trustfulness,--a part, perhaps, of its instinctive
appreciation of truth. She trusted in Waife, in the future, in
Providence, in her own childish, not helpless, self.
Already, as her slight fingers sorted the worsteds and her graceful taste
shaded their hues into blended harmony, her mind was weaving, not less
harmoniously, the hues in the woof of dreams,--the cottage home, the
harmless tasks, Waife with his pipe in the armchair under some porch,
covered like that one yonder,--why not?--with fragrant woodbine, and life
if humble, honest, truthful, not shrinking from the day, so that if
Lionel met her again she should not blush, nor he be shocked. And if
their ways were so different as her grandfather said, still they might
cross, as they had crossed before, and--the work slid from her hand--
the sweet lips parted, smiling: a picture came before her eyes,--her
grandfather, Lionel, herself; all three, friends, and happy; a stream,
fair as the Thames had seemed; green trees all bathed in summer; the boat
gliding by; in that boat they three, borne softly on,--away, away,--what
matters whither?--by her side the old man; facing her, the boy's bright
kind eyes. She started. She heard noises,--a swing ing gate, footsteps.
She started,--she rose,--voices; one strange to her,--a man's voice,--
then the Mayor's. A third voice,--shrill, stern; a terrible voice,-heard
in infancy, associated with images of cruelty, misery, woe. It could not
be! impossible! Near, nearer, came the footsteps. Seized with the
impulse of flight, she sprang to the mouth of the arbour. Fronting her
glared two dark, baleful eyes. She stood,--arrested, spellbound, as a
bird fixed rigid by the gaze of a serpent.
"Yes, Mr. Mayor; all right! it is our little girl,--our dear Sophy. This
way, Mr. Losely. Such a pleasant surprise for you, Sophy, my love!"
said Mrs. Crane.