of
the times, a Briton is not permitted, without an effort, "to
progress" according to his own inclinations.
Sophy could not sleep. At first she was too happy. Without being
conscious of any degradation in her lot amongst the itinerant artists
of Mr. Rugge's exhibition,--how could she, when her beloved and revered
protector had been one of those artists for years?--yet instinctively
she shrank from their contact. Doubtless, while absorbed in some
stirring part, she forgot companions, audience, all, and enjoyed
what she performed,--necessarily enjoyed, for her acting was really
excellent, and where no enjoyment there no excellence; but when the
histrionic enthusiasm was not positively at work, she crept to her
grandfather with something between loathing and terror of the "painted
creatures" and her own borrowed tinsel.
But, more than all, she felt acutely every indignity or affront offered
to Gentleman Waife. Heaven knows, these were not few; and to escape from
such a life--to be with her grandfather alone, have him all to herself
to tend and to pet, to listen to and to prattle with--seemed to her the
consummation of human felicity. Ah, but should she be all alone? Just
as she was lulling herself into a doze, that question seized and roused
her. And then it was not happiness that kept her waking: it was what is
less rare in the female breast, curiosity. Who was to be the mysterious
third, to whose acquisition the three pounds were evidently to be
devoted? What new face had she purchased by the loan of her own? Not the
Pig-faced Lady nor the Spotted Boy. Could it be the Norfolk Giant or the
Calf with two Heads? Horrible idea! Monstrous phantasmagoria began to
stalk before her eyes; and to charm them away, with great fervour she
fell to saying her prayers,--an act of devotion which she had forgotten,
in her excitement, to perform before resting her head on the pillow,--an
omission, let us humbly hope, not noted down in very dark characters by
the recording angel.
That act over, her thoughts took a more comely aspect than had been worn
by the preceding phantasies, reflected Lionel's kind looks and repeated
his gentle words. "Heaven bless him!" she said with emphasis, as a
supplement to the habitual prayers; and then tears gathered to her
grateful eyelids, for she was one of those beings whose tears come
slow from sorrow, quick from affection. And so the gray dawn found her
still-wakeful, and she rose, bathed he
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